Shopping Secrets (Monday Edition)

Thanks for waiting, denizens.  I took the weekend to put the past behind me.  TBG gave me a suggestion to improve my gait and I am now prancing around the house, lifting my knees and, miraculously, not rolling from side to side as I move. It's not fluid walking, but it will be.

Now, on to my real life.
*****
For the second installment of holiday shopping ideas, in an effort to get those gifts purchased, wrapped and ready before December rolls around,  I bring you the children of two of my friends.
 
I love talented offspring, especially those who are brave enough to strike out on an entreprenurial path.  I'm trying to stay away from suggestions which would send you to catalogs attached to international conglomerates; we're staying local this holiday season, trying to make a difference in small town economies all over America.

Travel to Chicago with me, where Matt Bercovitz, playgroup member and wedding guest, has, among his other start-ups, created Berco's Popcorn.   His mother has regaled me with tales of fires in the popper and kitchen locations gone awry as this talented twenty-something worked on creating the perfect snack food.  We both agree - it's awesome.

He considers marketing angles and coolness and, most of all, the taste.  Oh, yes, the tastes.  There's Way Too Expensive White Truffle, coated with white truffle butter.... which is not only costly but difficult to create. Perhaps this is under the tree for that person who looks at the price tag before thanking you for the gift?

 

There's Pretty and Skinny, with just a little bit of salt and a philosophical statement on the  "wholesome spiritual nature of every individual kernel of popcorn." Your yoga teacher, your shaman, your forever-on-a-diet pal is waiting for some of this.

 

Should you take issue with the naming of The Best Caramel Corn Ever,

Matt is glad to explain that "you’d be confident too if you went through 84 different ingredient combinations and survived almost burning down your kitchen (true story) to find the perfect 15-step recipe." I don't think he was in my girlfriend's kitchen at the time..... I'm sure I'd have heard the screams, even 10 states away.

 

You can buy caramel corn or white cheddar corn

 or a marriage of the two.

 There is "the middle child of popcorn," Big Time Butter,

but my favorite is the Billion Dollar Popcorn.

Have you ever eaten gold?  Have you ever spent $250 on a tin of popcorn?  Berco's Popcorn gives you the chance to do both at the same time. 

 

It's a gimmick, it's ridiculous, and it's delicious.

 

The stuff comes in 1, 2, and 6.5 gallon white tins, which can be reused for Leggo storage once the goodies are gone. Surely you know a family which would enjoy gourmet snacks for movie night on the couch... maybe even your own crew?

 

Once you've gotten to the bottom of the popcorn, butter and truffle oil coating your hands, what will you use to clean up?  Debby Wright at Genoa Soaps has the answer.  Our connection stretches back to the late 1970's and the generation above her; the reconnection has been sweet and wonderful... just like these soaps. (And if that's not the most awkward segue ever found in The Burrow......)

The soaps are environmentally friendly; Debby likes to talk about not polluting the groundwater with additives or tetracycline, which are part and parcel of most of the soap you find on the shelves. She has tea soaps and exfoliant soaps and seasonal soaps, like pumpkin soap

 and they are all beautiful, just sitting in the soap dish.

Barcelona Bars

She makes them in slabs, like this one for Cranberry

If that looks good to you, order some soon.  It's a new product and there were only 14 bars left on November 6th.  Who knew soap could be so trendy?

She sells bath soaks and massage oils (for $7.99) and fizzies, like these Ocean Rose balls.

I usually avoid these products, because the stench sticks to my skin and the walls of my bathroom for weeks after I've finished my bath.  Debby addressed that issue, unsolicited:

The other thing I feel strongly about is not overloading the soap (or fizzy or bath soak or massage oil) with so much fragrance that it knocks you out when you walk into the room.

Her email went on to recount being knocked over by the aroma emanating from one of the mall's purveyors of similar products.  I had to laugh.  TBG refuses to enter anyplace he can smell before he gets there.  I think these soaps will be just the right combination of fragrance-at-the-time-but-not-forever.

So, two weeks into November, my expectation is that your list is completed and you've begun to fill in the slots with some wonderful gifts.  After t-shirts and popcorn and soaps, we'll move on to hand-made goods on Friday.  If you keep up with the plan, you are now only eighteen days away from being finished with your holiday shopping before December.

Are you impressed with yourself?  I am!





Thank You

Dear Denizens,

I'm surrounded by love and warmth and caring.

I wrote two posts yesterday. If you missed the second one, scroll down.  I included my statement from the sentencing hearing.

Today, I am going to Pilates, and to Prince, and to dinner with friends. Life goes on.

I will be back, clear in mind and spirit, on Monday, with Shopping Secrets (mmmm... popcorn).

Til then, hug those you love and enjoy the fact that the sun came up today, and you were here to see it.

With LOVE,
a/b

The End

Regular readers will be surprised to read this. I never post twice in one day. 

Then, again, I've never had a day quite like today.

I'll be back on Monday with the post originally scheduled for Friday.

I need the weekend to clear my head.

*****

Commander Kelly and I ended our statements with the same thought: we are finished with you.

 

It's pretty cool to be on an astronaut's wavelength. That's about the only smile I can find right now. Justice ran its course.  The state will not be prosecuting.  The shooter will never be free.

 

It's not enough.  It's all there is.

 

I'm posting the words I spoke at the sentencing hearing in the Special Proceedings Courtroom in the Federal Courthouse in Tucson, Arizona this morning.  At a podium, thoughtfully askew so that I didn't have to turn my back on the defendant, with my husband beside me and Judge Larry Burns in front of me, I said my piece. 

 

I'd been warned to remember that this would be part of the public record.  I'd been warned to think of the long-term consequences of my words.  I'd been warned and advised and I listened and thought and procrastinated and then sat at the keyboard last night and began to type.... and cry... and shake.

 

Christina's parents don't want her mentioned in the same room with her murderer; I respected that.  I left out the description of her excitement, her enthusiasm, her pride.... but those of you who've been here before know all about that.  I didn't need to bring it up; she was in everyone's heart all morning. 

 

I'm not sure that I stormed away from the podium, nor that anger and resentment were my emotions, as a tweet suggested.  I will admit to being riled up, and to turning away from him with strength and power.  Resentment sounds so petty in this context; I know I was not small minded.

 

It's in the eye of the beholder, I suppose. 

 

What I know now is just what I knew twenty-two months ago: Gabby Giffords and I are married to very handsome, very passionate, very wonderful men.  I know that short, Jewish, girls from New York do get shot, and they do learn to live with the unthinkable.

 

They do it with the help of their families and their friends and their communities - in real life and on-line.  Thank you, each and every one of you, for being by my side.  I couldn't have done it without you.

*****

Victim Statement at Sentencing Hearing

 

I don't want to be standing here. I don't want to be here at all.

 

There is very little that is inspiring, or uplifting, or joyful here.

 

This is an awful situation for each and every one of us.

 

And it all revolves around you.

That Saturday morning was filled with sunshine and smiles and excitement. We were gathered to participate in the process. We had made time in our lives “to tell your Congresswoman how government could work better for you.”

For You. You were a part of society then.

Your Congresswoman.

For whom you could have voted.... or not.

For whom you could have campaigned..... or not.

It was an opportunity to witness democracy in action. We brought our wives, our husbands, our children, our friends' children.

You brought a gun.

We've been told about your demons, about the illness that skewed your thinking.

It's a painful saga, a tale of missed opportunities and lack of support, of the appalling absence of attention to your behavior. Your parents, your schools, your community – they all failed you.

That is all true, but it is not expiation. It is not enough. There are still those pesky facts.

You pointed a weapon at me... and shot me... three times. You turned a civics lesson into a nightmare.

For the last 22 months, in the hope that, somehow, I would feel better, I've wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you... and scream at you... as if that would help.

This is what I have, instead.

I have been privileged to watch justice in action.

I have a platform from which to do good, and I am using it.

I have connections, new and old, and they are deeper and lovelier than ever before.

And now, I will walk out of this courtroom and into the rest of my life.... and I will not think of you again.

You Can Just Wait

You'll just have to wait. That's all there is to it.  No, I will not go on television tonight to tell you what I'm going to say tomorrow.  No, I do not want to give you a peek inside my head.  No, I really do not.

I understand why you are asking; it's your job.  I appreciate the abashed tone of your voice and the reluctance with which you make the request.  I try not to wonder if it's a skill honed by practice. 

I remember when I'd turn on the computer and put in a load of laundry and return to the finally-booted-up-computer all those minutes later.  I was annoyed by the gap as I laughed at my annoyance - it was still lots faster than a snail mail letter. Now, in the race to be first, we have newscasters telling survivors in the ER Waiting Room that Gabby is dead.... untrue... terrifying to those still searching for information ... but first.

I get it. I like being first, too. However, I think there are difference of scale.

I liked getting the Sunday New York Times at Penn Station or South Ferry Terminal, late on a Saturday night, while waiting for my trip home.  I hover over my keyboard, ready to strike for an A boarding pass on Southwest. I'm preternaturally early to everything. SIR is the first car in line at the railroad station just as I was the first in line at middle school - Little Cuter expects it. And don't even think of getting in front of me at the buffet line; it just isn't going to happen, I promise.

First is okay, most of the time, in fact.  I'm just asking for a little consideration, given the circumstances and all......

Before the last hearing, leaks led to phone calls seeking comments on events which had yet to occur. I would not talk to you about something which had not happened, even though you had been told by another source that what you knew was true. You didn't flinch when I refused to get involved in reporters reporting on reporters' reports, didn't sense that I was judging you, that I found you profoundly egocentric and vaguely absurd. You didn't see the irony. 

You were wrapped up in the fact of the story rather than the facts of the story. Perhaps that's because you know from experience that the facts rarely matter.  What gets across is tone; substance is a distant second. 

Unfortunately for you and your day-before-it-happens-interview request, I care about both.  The substance with which you are toying is a fact of my life.  Bullets intersected with my body; that's a reality which cannot be denied.  The process attached to those bullets is precise. Speculation is futile; it's not real until the judge says it is.  I treat it with respect.  Amidst the emotional turbulence it was comforting to know that the wheels of justice were plodding along, step by step, inch by inch, no piece left unexamined, nothing dealt with out of turn.  The prosecutors deflected my what if's; each situation demanded its own resolution.  We didn't need to think beyond the next step.

So now, as we come to the end of the Federal case, you want me to jump out of line and narrate.  Sorry.... I just can't do it.  I've been waiting nearly two years to talk to the shooter; you can wait a day.

A Dislocated Hip?

Something made me check the missed calls section of the answering machine on the home phone yesterday.  I know, I know, it dates me that I still have a land line and an answering machine... but I do, and I use them,.

I'm still wondering what made me check back and see who hadn't left a message.  Most of the blank spaces on the machine's tape have been from political robo-calls which recognize the mechanized beep and fail to leave a message.  Those are not calls which need to be heard, let alone recorded.  Why I thought there might be something worthwhile hiding in there remains a mystery, and yet there it was.

There was a missed call from the pod castle. I dialed the number, and wondered if anyone knew why a call had been made to my house. In fact, she did.  Without skipping a beat, the worker bee informed me that G'ma had a dislocated hip. They had faxed the doctor but he hadn't called them back. They were just letting me know.

Frantic doesn't come close to what I felt.  A dislocated hip means pain and no ambulation nor comfort in any position.  It means surgery and hospitals and anesthesia and that's just not good for an elderly woman with dementia issues.  It means my mommy didn't feel well and I was sad.

Then, there was the furious part.  Why hadn't they left a message?  What was their long term plan?  Was my mother in agony in her apartment, not wanting to ask for pain relief?  Did they remember to give her an analgesic even if she didn't ask?  Did anyone recall that she never complains, that a wince from her is the equivalent of a shriek from anyone else?  Did anyone care?

TBG calmed me down.  Hollering wouldn't do any good, wouldn't solve any problems, wouldn't resolve the situation.  It might make me feel better by tapping into that Daddooooo piece of me which requires loud noises and much tumult in order to create a solution.  It's not functional, but it's comfortable.  

My more stoic mid-western husband assured me that I could get the message across without screeching.  I practiced lowering my voice several octaves, then I called back and tried to find some facts.  No, no one knew who had made the call.  No one knew why a message hadn't been left.  No one had called the doctor to follow up on the fax.  No one had any idea if she had fallen or bumped herself.

Unknown origin does nothing to make me feel happy.

A lengthy conversation with the Executive Director found her squarely on my side.  Yes, a message should have been left.  Yes, pain relief should have been offered.  Yes, someone should have some idea about why my mother hurts.  The fact that an in-home visit from the physician costs $275, most of which is non-reimbursable, was considered from all angles.  I'm here and they know that.  A medical appointment is an outing for my  mom and me; we fold in lunch and a stop at Walgreens for Hershey's Kisses and I take the long way around so that she can admire the mountains.  We didn't need a home visit; we needed to talk to the physician and make a plan.

I zoomed down the road and into the parking lot; I was in her apartment less than thirty minutes after I found the missed call.  She was, as always, in her electric recliner, watching TNT and eating chocolate.  She was glad to see me.

When I asked for a status report on her hip, she looked puzzled.

"Does it hurt?"

"Is it supposed to hurt?"

Such is her life.  She shifted in her seat, lifting one butt cheek and then the other, wincing when something didn't feel right.  "I know it's there," was her personal diagnosis.  From G'ma, that statement is tantamount to a scream.

I sat and worried and went over her absentee ballot and worried and talked to the Executive Director in person and I worried and then I watched her walk to the bathroom, reassured by the fact that she was moving as fluidly as she ever has... which isn't all that graceful but it gets the job done... and then I drove home and worried some more.

We didn't hear from the doctor. I was on the phone just after 9, and had an annoying conversation with the receptionist who kept telling me that with a dislocated hip my mother would need an ambulette to get to the office or the x-ray facility.  I kept reminding her that the diagnosis came from a girl with a high school diploma and a 3 month CNA certificate; it was not definitive.  It couldn't be, since she was walking and sitting and bending, albeit with discomfort.

Did the doctor want to see her?  No, I did not want her to send the doctor or the physician's assistant to the facility.  I could get her to the office, we could save the money, it would be an outing.... she wasn't hearing it at all.  The conversation dead ended at the need for an x-ray; they would be happy to send the portable machine out to the facility this afternoon, there was no reason for me to come by and pick up a prescription and drag my mother and her achy hip into the lab.

At that point, I was beaten.  I am sure that the portable x-ray is much more expensive than the x-ray she'd have gotten at the lab, but the doctor's office was pushing the stay-at-home method and I had plans for the afternoon and I was just so tired of arguing.  I gave in.

As I type, the machine is taking a picture of my mother's pelvis and the assorted bones and tendons and ligaments attached thereto.  If it's something really awful they will call the doctor immediately.  Otherwise, they'll call me when they get the report.

That's not very helpful.  That's not very thoughtful.  That is what it is.

G'ma's problem is that she is old.  Her parts are wearing out.  Her horizons are diminishing.  She still laughs about not remembering Little Cuter's wedding, but she's sure she had a great time.  My mantra remains the same: No Unhappy Days.

That works, for her at least.  Me?  I'm still frantic and anxious and plan-less. Gathering facts takes time.  I don't want to wait.  I want my mother to feel fine and to get around on her own and I don't want anything to interfere with that.

As Mick sings, though, you can't always get what you want.

Taking Out the Trash

I'm watching TBG collect the cans from the curb.  There's some detritus surrounding them; neatness doesn't count when the pick up is mechanical, I guess.  He's bending and replacing the spillage and now he's dragging them into the garage.

Yes, we keep the cans in the garage.  It's a long walk from the kitchen to the side of the house, the only other logical storage site, and there are always signs and sounds of small animals rustling around in the culvert which could be a space for them to rest.  The three car garage has room for them, and there's no chance of disturbing a pack rat or a snake or a racoon or anything else behind the closed doors.  At least, that's been our hope.  So far, we have not been surprised by anything larger than a big black beetle.

Daddooooo and G'ma had decorated metal cans when we were growing up.  Don't imagine flowers or Picasso-like faces. Daddoooo painted the family name and address in all the colors of the rainbow; using up left over paint must have been on the agenda when he began the project.  The cans were bumped and dented and scratched.  They had no wheels.  The lids lifted off with a handle on the top; flipping up an attached lid on a plastic, light-weight, easy to roll receptacle was far in the future. 

In the cold, those lids were a challenge.  So was getting the cans to the curb.

G'ma insisted on dragging them out to the street herself.  Living alone, walking with a cane, impaired shoulders and hips impinging on her physical abilities, she insisted that she was just fine and that no one should worry.  The thought of my mother slipping and falling on the slanted driveway, cans in hand, and then lying there all night until someone drove by in the morning led me to plead with her to take the cell phone in her pocket when she went out to do the chore. She agreed.  I'm not sure she really followed through with it, though.

The fact that her wonderful next door neighbors would have carried the damn things themselves was never mentioned.  She was independent and going to stay that way, for crying out loud.  Why didn't we find something else to worry about.  She was fine.

The neighbors did cart them back up the driveway after they were emptied in the morning.  They did it without asking.  She didn't have a chance to refuse the help.

When she moved to an apartment after selling the house (taking out the trash being only one of many reasons living there had become untenable) the trash closet was only across the hall.  The problem was remembering the location - of the chute and her apartment.  We developed a sing-song-y set of directions and we sang them for the weeks I stayed with her, organizing her move-in.  There were so many steps to be included - unlocking the door latch, exiting the apartment and crossing the hallway, ignoring the elevators (a major distraction... where am I going?.... oh, I have trash in my hand...) and then repeating the process to get her back home. 

Who knew that garbage could be so complicated?

In New York and Chicago, trash collection was part of our taxes. Imagine my surprise when we moved to California and found that we had to pay for private companies to do the dirty deed.  I never remembered a problem with the garbage men (nary a woman in my 60 years of watching) leaving a mess on the curb before I was responsible for a separate payment.  Once it was privatized, though, the situation changed.  Broken recyclables next to my driveway made me nutty; the dispatcher in Marin became familiar with my voice in a very short time.  If I had to pay for a service, that service would be done well. 

Apparently, that was a novel concept for them. Still, they always came back, with a broom and a dustpan and a scowl, and I always wondered why it was so much messier when the weather was so much better.  The answer still eludes me.

The kids were responsible for dragging the cans out to the curb, though in our first California house that was quite a challenge.  The driveway was as steep as it could be, and the kids were as little as they could be, and the cans were as heavy as they could be, and there was always the possibility of disaster.  How would I explain her injuries if Little Cuter were to be mowed down by the trash?  We moved after a year; that driveway was one of the main reasons we left.

And now, here in Tucson, there are many pick up options.  Amster opted for the tan cans from a less expensive company.  TBG and I, and all our neighbors, use Waste Management.  The recycling can is smaller than the garbage can, though we'd be better served if the sizes were reversed.  There's a perverse message there - we should be recycling more and the can should reflect that.  Our garbage is picked up twice a week; the can contains two or three small bags of plastic wrap, straws, and used tissues. Pretty much everything else goes in the tinier receptacle.  It's just not right.

SIR salvaged a dresser-with-perfectly-good-wood from the trash outside his college apartment, and built a media center out of the parts. Little Cuter and I rescued a couch from the dumpster after her real furniture had moved to Chicago but her graduation party required seating for adults.  An elderly woman picked up a swath of tire tread from the road this morning and placed it in my open trash bin before continuing on her way.  And then there's the way they recycle in Ann Arbor. 

There are so many restrictions, instructions, caveats and warnings one wonders why anyone would approach the container at all.

Who knew that trash could fill an entire post? 

Birdies and Butterflies

It was a beautiful party, sweetheart. Your mom looked svelte and your dad was beaming.  Your brother keeps getting taller and taller and he kept laughing, louder and louder, as we stood, back to back, measuring how small I am in comparison.

I squelched the tears that came, unbidden, as I flashed back to the times we've done this before, those times when you were laughing along with the rest of us.

We miss you.

There were stars in the sky and a golden cast to the moon and the patio at Marriott's Starr Pass was filled with casually elegant adults.  You'd have been impressed with the accessories and the shoes; oh, how you would have loved the shoes.  I did pretty well in my Taryn Rose black flats. You can't fault me for leaving my heels behind; I thought walking should trump style.  I can imagine you arguing the point, and it's making me smile.  Thanks, for that.

Janos Wilder was there, creating ceviche and looking extremely James Beard-y.  Award winning chefs get to do that, I guess.  The big shots were out last night, celebrating the good deeds being done in your name. More than five hundred people paid lots of money to share the love.  As your dad says, just look at the impact one nine year old girl has had.

As Tommy LaSorda reminded us last night, you never got to celebrate turning ten.

The night was filled with moments like these; pride and joy and crushing sorrow.  Standing below your butterfly, shadowed on the great big wall behind the party, no one seemed surprised by the tears running down my face. I buried my head in my cocktail, accepted the hugs, and then we moved on, because that's all you can do in a situation like this. 

What we want the most... to see your smile.... to share the outfits and the foodstuffs and the dancing with the girl with the big brown eyes.... we can't have any of that.  What we have is one another. We lean on the others who were there that day, all of us connected, forever, by bullets.  We cut to the chase when sharing our grief; there's no need to skirt the edges.  We know. 

"Why do you have your Blue Cross card?" Col. Bill's wife asked me, upon seeing that it, my license, and a credit card were all I had with me last night. "Because anything can happen any time..." I began, and I didn't have to go much further.  She and he had been there, too.  They know it's not hypervigilance.... it's an acceptance of reality.

I wish I'd never learned the lesson.

There were a lot of variations on that riff last night.  If if's were skiffs, we'd have a navy.  If my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a wagon... which is the PG version of the original yiddish If my grandmother had balls, she'd be my grandfather and then there was one I couldn't hear over the band.  The citizen heroes, the victims, the families.... if... if... if... we've learned that it gets us no where, fast.  It is what it is, and so we move on.

Your dad reminds us that you wouldn't want us to be sad, so I plaster a smile on my face and I shake Mark Kelly's hand and meet his fifteen year old daughter and, once again, I feel my throat tighten.  She had the same thoughtfulness behind her eyes that I found so appealing in you.  She was genuinely glad to make my acquaintance; you'd have liked her, I know.  Gabby wasn't there; neither were you.

The silent auction was a feast of baseball memorabilia.  I had fun imagining you trying out the bats, telling stories about the players, imagining yourself in one of those uniforms.  Your aunt Kim and your parents gave us hugs and smiles and we shared some more of the special CTG love and then it was time to take my achy hip and my broken heart home.

It was a beautiful party, Christina.  I wish that there had been no reason for it at all.

T-Shirts Galore

Welcome to the first of five shoppping guides, coming to you from the heart of Nannie, my gone-but-not-forgotten mother-in-law. She taught me everything I ever needed to know about creating the perfect holiday season; we started at her house for Thanksgiving and the joy went on through her son's birthday on January 2nd.  There were gifts by the hearth in the dining room when the kids arrived from the airport, and they were always exactly the right gift.

She listened.  She planned.  She bought when she found it and stashed it in the closet until it was time to wrap.  She kept only-used-once-or-twice sheets of gift paper in the closet under the front steps; the massive rolls for holiday use lived in the sun porch.  Unheated, the bed covered with detritus of the season, the room offered a quiet escape when the festivities got to be too much.  "I'm going up to wrap," could buy me an hour of peace and quiet. 

Nannie wrapped everything.  It took hours, broken up by breaks for breakfast and lunch, to open all the gifts for her first grandchild's first Christmas.  Tiny socks, each pair in its own separate box, bibs and bottles and toys and books, all lovingly and individually presented.

It was wonderful, in an overwhelming excessive way.  The new parents wouldn't have to buy anything during the coming year.  Nannie had released years of pent up purchasing.  Everyone was happy.

It is in that spirit, with that intention, carrying that attitude, that this series begins.  Obviously, unless you are a newborn, you could live the rest of your life with the clothes and toys you have right now.  You might replace underwear and shoes and the flat tennis ball or two, but nobody needs anything I'm going to suggest. I just need to buy you something.  That's all.  I will make brownies and I will send JibJab cards and I will have long and wonderful conversations on the phone, too, but I also want to shop.  I don't need to spend a lot.  I just have to find the gift that tells you that I've been paying attention, that I noticed when you noticed something that caught your eye, that engaged your mind.

I think about you when you are not with me, and this is a token to remind you of that fact.

You are important to me. 
*****
Everybody has too many t-shirts.  Everybody wants more. Megan mentioned Mental Floss in yesterday's comments, so we'll start there. If your family and friends run to snarky and profoundly obnoxious, this is the site for you.

For your mathlete, perhaps?

For one who can.... or can't.... spell?

Possibly being purchased for the yogi's in my life this year.

Mental Floss also has books and games and a wonderful magazine that might be a nice treat as a subscription.  But, we are focusing on t-shirts this week, so we move on.

Cafe Press is overwhelming to me.  There are just too many choices. I find myself clicking away before I find what I know must be in there but which is hiding amidst the dross.  And dross there is, though, to be fair, one woman's dross may be another's fantasy.  Still, some of my favorite tees have come from there.

 

This comes in kid sizes, too.

It's been making me laugh all afternoon.... 

as did this one:

Ok, ok, ok.

So, my sense of humor is somewhat puerile.

It still makes me laugh.

 

This bib has no business here in the t-shirt column, but I'm not doing a baby segment and I love it.

Does anyone else have a kid who wore a cape?

Cafe Press is known for customizations, too.

 

We will end with Red Bubble, another overwhelming site.  They are featuring Harry Potter and Dr. Who and some other pop culture icons which are unknown to me, but there are also funny and nerdy and geeky shirts, too. There are also pretty ones,  like this dandelion blowing floating people into the wind.  

 

*****

Next Friday we'll be featuring foodstuffs..... popcorn, local favorites, maybe a cook book or two.

 

 

Home Making

I kept summer alive until September 23rd this year; I wore bedazzled pink Converse to Little Cuter and SIR's wedding, and pink is definitely a summer color. True, their wedding day was the first day of Fall; we simply elected to honor the solstice on the morrow. The flowers were yellow and blue, the temperatures were in the 90's, there was no dissonance at all. I kept anything remotely seasonal locked away; the decor was wedding-centric and time had nothing to do with it.

Then it was October and we made the scarecrow and GRIN went to Prince for Trunk or Treat and now it's time to take down the goblins and the black cats and the jack-o'lanterns.  The pumpkins can stay; they are seasonal items and can be stored in either the Halloween or Thanksgiving box with impunity. 

I like to mix up the decor.  Now that I've streamlined it down to the essentials, switching the combinations and the candles keeps it fresh and new for me.  No one else notices, I'm sure.  This is something I do for me, and me alone. 

I made a contribution to a political campaign today and was asked for my occupation.  I wrote homemaker with a big grin and a contented sigh.  This time of year reminds me of the truth of that statement. I have made a home, over and over again, all I've done is put  by putting the same things together in different ways.

With every move, certain pieces of furniture have made the cut; the uncomfortable but beautiful purple chair, the kitchen chairs I found all by myself, the two small tables our first-ever-decorator bought for us, all have been with us for decades. In Chicago, Tiburon, Mill Valley and Tucson, Little Cuter's doggie menorah with the dislodged head, the laughing pumpkin, the softest blanket in the world, the turquoise rug, the fact of bookshelves and comfy places to watch tv... these things remain constant.

They make it home.

And yet......

Somewhere, I have a beautiful glass pumpkin which I bought last April on the one and only time I have ever been in Steinmart.  I vowed that I would return; I forgot both the promise and where I stashed the decoration. 

Sigh.

I even made room for it in the storage box.  Amster's kids will enjoy the skeleton lights more than I will, and the crepe paper had more fun with the 9 year olds than it did in a box in my garage, and I'm not sorry I gave it all to her, and no, thank you, I do not want it back under any circumstances. At this stage, less is more

It's just that I have the perfect spot for my misplaced put away safely lost forever the newest edition to my decor.

I know. I know. I'm the only one who cares.  But..... it's my home.......
*****
November ushers in Be Done By Thanksgiving posts.  Every Friday, I'll encourage you to visit stores and websites I love, to help my lovely readers find perfectly lovely physical manifestations of the love you feel for your loved ones.  Can you tell that I love this time of year?

See you tomorrow for t-shirts and more.

On Moms and Dads and Caregiving

Her message said she needed a place for her mom.

I'd been there.  I'd felt that.  My friends had shown me the way.  When she called, I wasted no time; I called her right back.  Telephone tag and two hours later I was wandering my house... my yard.... my kitchen as she brought me back to the days before G'ma was settled.  I couldn't sit still. I needed to do something, anything, because to do nothing was untenable yet there was nothing I could do.

I listened to her talk.

Her mom needed..... her dad was..... and then there was her own family... and a relationship-by-marriage... and she was just so tired. Her own kid was finally getting settled.  She was in charge of so much, and so little all at the same time.

So, I listened to her talk.

Her parents are there and she is here.  Should they move, she wondered?  Would they agree to move, I wondered right back at her. 

She didn't say anything for a while.

Making decisions is where it all begins, and ends, and around which it all revolves. No one wants to talk about it. She was no exception.

I know what that feels like.  I resisted making decisions for G'ma; I allowed her, perhaps, more independence than her cognition warranted.  The woman got lost one block from her home.  She was delivered to the concierge in her apartment building by a lovely young policeman who offered to drive me to the address on the card Brother gave me.  To my mind, it was a simple case of "no harm, no foul."  She had shown excellent problem solving skills, waving down a police car and asking them to point her in the right direction. She knew she was in trouble and she knew how to find help.  There was no reason for her to live in a more restrictive environment.  She was fine.  I knew it.  I had to know it.  The alternative was too confusing, too jumbled, too sad.

Also, she had the best attitude. She wasn't afraid; why should she be? She spoke the language. She was vaguely offended by the question.  I respected her and left her living alone in an apartment with a refrigerator filled with styrofoam containers of left-overs which was cleaned out by my sister and then the cleaning lady once a week.

And don't get me started on how she mismanaged her pills.  The day she wondered why she was living in ice and snow when I was in the desert, deadheading snapdragons and wearing shorts, was the happiest moment of this part of my life.  She moved here eight months later.

I am blessed, and I know it.  I am the luckiest daughter in the world.  My mom raised a person in whom she can put her trust,  who will keep her safe, on whom she can call in an emergency.  She wonders where she is and why, but "whatever you say, sweetheart" is her default position.  She has forgotten many things; she has not forgotten that she raised competent children.

Before me, she had my sister.  There was a little more of two-way-caring there than there is here, but she was younger, then. I know I can call on her in a pinch.  She may not remember my name, but she knows she's supposed to care for me... and she does.  She was never a very  an emotional person; she accepts, but does not seek out, hugs. But when faced with a teary face, her arms are open and ready.

In the same way, I decide for her based on what I think she would want.  Of course, she's not the same Mommy I knew when I was ten, or twenty, or forty.  Her desires have changed, her outlook has tilted, she's a new and improved version of the woman who always knew the right thing to do - for herself and others.  All that is locked away.  She can barely remember the question, let alone form an answer.  Deciding where to live and how much care she needs are things that are now on my shoulders.  Carrying the load without feeling the burden is made simpler by her acceptance of the situation.  So many of my friends' parents argue and stall and engage in verbal combat; G'ma just smiles and agrees.

So, I listened as my friend talked about her mom's physical needs and her dad's stoicism and listened as the reality began to sink in.  Memory care, bathing assistance, medication supervision, activities, food, quality of life issues.... they were everywhere and irrelevant at the same time.  She needs to visit and consider and consult and, if she wants my company, she won't have to do it alone.

This is a piece of adulthood for which none of us is prepared.  There is no cure for what is really wrong - they are just too old.  Different pieces wear out at different rates of speed.  The losses are asymmetrical and annoying and frightening and then they become dangerous.  That's where she is right now, on the cusp,in danger of drowning in the emotions. 

"I don't know what they need," was the recurring theme of the conversation, and the answer was beyond my ken.  She'll have to explore and gather facts and rely on her instincts and judgment.  What they need is available in a dozen places in a dozen pieces; the harsh reality is that no place will be perfect. She has high expectations and a good heart, both of which will be tested over the next few months.

I'm glad that I can be here for her.  "Been there.  Done that," feels pretty good right now.

And Now, The Music

As those of you who were dry enough to be here yesterday know,

Miss Margo and I were listening to some pretty fine tunes on Sunday. 

 We heard eight acts in six hours

There was very little down-time between sets.

Encores were allowed but not encouraged.

The early acts were amazed to be awake; "I didn't know that there were two 10:30's in a single day."

There was lots of gospel and a maddening urge to get up and boogie.

The music touches something in my soul; G'ma loved Woody Guthrie and I'm wondering if it's genetic.

 

There were contest winners

 like Desert Heart, who won a spot on the bill by coming in first in the Friday Night Band Contest.

Two are married, all were smiling.

The music was fine.  Margo and I enjoyed their joy.

 

Mark Phillips (in black) & IIIrd Generation

 got the crowd up and dancing.

A classically trained musician does have a smoother sound than someone who learned at Granpa's knee.I'm not being snobby; I'm stating facts. 

Daniel Foulks began playing classical music at the age of 4; can you see how tenderly he holds the bow in my fuzzy picture?  

Ned Luberecki entertained us on the ride down on Sirius radio;

he said he was in Tucson, and he was.

The guy on the radio was taped; who knew?

The live one took pictures of the crowd before he joined the Night Drivers and Chris Jones.

 

Superstition Ridge put on faux rock 'n roll hats.

They should've stuck to Gene Autry remixes. 

 And then there was Sierra Hull, who just turned twenty-one.

She went to Berklee instead of touring right out of high school.

The polish shows (cf David Foulks above).

She is "playing with a point to prove" and whatever that means to her it translated to talent married with confidence and a palpable sense that what we were hearing was only a part of what lives inside her soul.

She was part of her instrument; her outside mirrored her insides.

 

There were beautiful instruments, like this very thin bass

 and this very very thin and narrow bass.

And then there were all those banjos.

Though I love the sound,  I find the banjo to be a very silly looking instrument.

It's just too small to make all that noise.

 

Margo drew this.

One minute there was an unadorned program.

Next, there was a bass.

Then, there was a woman.

I love talent.

 

The Sonoran Dogs

 had the crowd singing and laughing about going to "see Alice in Nogales" .. which had nothing to do with any medication (say it out loud if you must)... and which rhymed, to groans, with aurora borealis and callous and digitalis. 

They referenced Bela Flek and the Grateful Dead.

I was in heaven.

You really ought to think about coming out next year.

 

What Would Bluegrass Be....

without the banjo?  Margo and I looked and smiled and said "Country."  Then we laughed.

It was that kind of a day at the lovely outdoor AVA Ampthitheater next to the Pascua Yaqui's aptly named Casino del Sol.

Look at all that sunshine, denizens. 

Why in the world are you living along the Eastern seaboard?  Have you not checked The Weather Channel?  You won't be seeing skies like this in the forseeable future. 

Margo and I sat outside, in shorts, for six wonderful hours today.  I wish you all could have been there, too.  There were plenty of empty seats.

Sponsored by the Desert Bluegrass Association (which deserves the shout out for putting on such a wonderful show at such a reasonable price), we saw eight acts, most of them from the front row.

And then there was the festival food.

Margo was trying to be healthy; there are veggies under the salsa.

My Sonoran Hot Dog (no beans, please) made me very happy.

 The sugar coated mini donuts made me happier still.

 In my defense, I tried to order this  

 from these guys

 but there were problems with the grill and then there was the issue of the absence of egg whites.

I really wish I had been able to have the eggs; I might have gotten one of these hinged sporks.

It was an older crowd, and, from the conversations we overheard, most of them knew one another.

 Some of them gave themselves away; who else but a mother would video the entire set?

 This fellow was introduced as an artist's 97 year old grandfather.

 Age didn't keep them from dancin', though.

 which inspired these two  at the other side of the stage.

 This fan asked her to dance; they twirled and laughed and twirled some more.

My family will be glad to know that I resisted the urge to be the fifth person on the floor.

There are times when an achy hip saves me from humiliation; my skills are not such that they should be on display.  I danced at the kids' wedding; that's enough for me.
 

There were generic tourists

 and a fan who was missing the same game as Margo.

Of course, there were children of all ages.

including the dancing fan who is wearing pajama material, isn't he?

I represented the long lost and much lamented Mature Landscaping blog.

 It is Southern Arizona, so there was some of this

 and that

and then there was Keith

Everyone knew him.

Everyone stopped by to say "Hi"

He was greeted from the stage.

We have no idea who he is, but we liked his suspenders a lot.

We really did hear some fabulous music.
I'll tell you about it tomorrow.