Elizabeth Wilder's Blog

Purr-fect

I am sitting here laughing inside.  Over the past 18 years I would be sitting in my chair with my cats on my lap.  But now, rather than having a warm black lap cat - I have a warm black lap top.  I love the way the senior mind has permission to wander and if some folks think that crazy - I can just blame it on my senior  mind.

My cat Sheba was the light of my life.  She and I had a bond that most cats don't allow in their aloof ways   The only other one in her life more important to her was our dog or as she would think - her dog, Elvis.  The minute I would sit, Sheba would be up in my lap purring stories as I was watching TV, listening to music, reading and I had to be the first to move.  Knitting was a problem as she thought all the yarn was for her pleasure to tangle.  At that knot in my string of occupations, I was crafting for 3-5 group shops.  One of my projects was weaving baskets and then painting decorations on the reed.  At every step from measuring, cutting, soaking, weaving and so on, she was in the middle of it as you can see.      I was heartbroken when we found her after being killed by a car and swore I would not put myself through that again.  But that didn't last long when we realized how much Elvis was grieving so IF we found an all black kitten we would --you know.

A friend's precious cat was having a litter and since she was white and her mate ginger, I felt I could commit to a taking a black kitten thinking that would be far from possible.  Guess what.  amongst all the white and ginger squirming mass was one pitch black very fuzzy blob.  (I didn't tell my friend that his precious one was a slut.)  Once the kitten was weaned, I put her in my pocketbook and brought her home.  I went to Elvis,opened the bag, out popped this little black head and with a happy wag of the tail, Elvis welcomed Samantha to the family with a bunch of sloppy kisses.

Sammy was part Maine Coon so grew large with lots of black fur except for one white toe and a few strands of white on her chest - remnants of Mom I guess.  She was far from the affectionate Sheba - as a matter of fact our children felt her a beast and had the scratches to prove it.   Her loyalty was for Elvis - she loved that dog and the feeling was mutual.  When my husband took his dog (was a gift from our daughter) for a walk on the leash, Sam would walk the neighborhood with them.  She never jumped on my husbands lap but at her own schedule, she would favor me with a bit of cuddling in my chair every night and told her own sweet stories.  When she lost her Elvis she pined for nearly a year and slept in the dogs spot every night.  Then she started to favor her master with shared afternoon naps.  When my husband would head for the bedroom she would pop out of wherever, follow him down the hall and stretch full length against him while they slept.  At 15 years old Samantha once again joined her Elvis after losing her battle with diabetis and it was the first time in nearly 50 years that Cal and I did not have a pet.

In our new home only pets that come with you are allowed.  You are not suppose to bring new ones in after (although I have been thinking about a Beta fish - maybe black).  So I sit nightly with my warm lap top and fully enjoy having the world at my fingertips.  It hums a bit but I still miss my purrs.    

Want To - Not Have To

Well, I just had another little epiphany.  No, not from my addled Christmas cactus but from my husband (come to think of it he also gets a bit prickly once in a while).  We were grocery shopping - you do that a lot together once retired.  I saw him noticing things in the cart that are hardly ever there like sugar and shortening.  I told him that I was going to bake him his birthday cake from scratch using one of the old recipes he loved.  I have not made that chocolate cake in years.  He said, "You don't have to."  I answered, "But I want to".  Bam! I was hit with a flash of enlightenment.  Could this be part of the answer?   

I'm sure there are many out there that have had times when so much comes at you that you wonder "when will there be time to be me".  Awhile ago a dear friend was going through a period when pressure was hitting her from all sides.  Job, family, community, misunderstandings, etc were taking so much of her there was not much left.  Our favorite way to talk things out was over a hot fudge sundae.  Sometimes in an old fashioned shop other times sitting next to the ocean.  The number of scoops and fixings were in exact proportion to the problems.  This was a "Barn Roof" sundae issue - the big daddy of them all.  Unable to give any answers, I did what I tend to do - wrote about it and gave her the following poem:

 TIME TO BE ME

As life pulls me this way and that like a center flag over the pit of a Tug of War game, 

I wonder as I flap in the wind what side will pull me over to toss me back again. 

Just when will it be time to be be me?

To rest 'neath a tree with a cup of tea.

Or sit by the sea with a book on my knee.

Perhaps buzz around free like a bumble bee,

As it collects with glee from the lovely sweetpea. 

To shout, "I am she", this woman you see

Who is without plea just the best she can be!

Just when is it time to be me?

I just realized that time is mine when I want to do, not have to do. Sure quiet time alone with a book or watching a sunset or listening to waves on the rocks would truly be wonderful time for me but "want to' do's" will take the edge off "have to do's".  I am just going to have to have the wisdom to take enough deep breaths to recognize them.                                                                                   

 

    

Twisted Humor

Well - I just failed 4 security tests in an attempt to e-mail my daughter.  Our server ocassionally comes up with letter/number combos to prove I am not a conglomerate flooding the nation with SPAM.  Usually they are no problem - just lopsided 7's hanging over sideways a's with an L sliding under a squiggly X.  This morning however, I think the magic codes were designed by a devotee of Rorschach or some twisted geek that laughs over how many seniors he can drive crazy.  

Four times the laptop had the nerve to announce that I had failed the "human test".  Talk about adding insult to injury.  Listen buddy, I have the ultimate power and can pull out your cord.  Or better yet detach your battery pack and let you slowly lose your charge while I laugh maniacaly as you fade away.

BUT - as my Gramma use to say, "Betty Anne, that is just cutting off your nose to spite your face".

I must remember the words of George Bernard Shaw:  "Success covers a multitude of blunders". 

Breaking Free

I was watering my cactus this morning and saw that it is blossoming.  Now this Christmas cactus has a mind of its own as it usually blossoms at Halloween and now it looks like it wants to be an Easter cactus too.  I thought how I'd like to be like that cactus and just go along on my own schedule with occasional surprise spurts of brilliance.  I seem to have this built in schedule - you see the plants are being watered because it is Saturday.  Also the vacuum is out with the housecleaning supplies.  Now, I have not had a full time rigorous work schedule for twenty years - don't you think I could have broken the pattern by now?  Why in the world don't I clean house on another day or days?  Break it up without any sort of organized thought.

I tend to organize too much.  Always to the tiniest detail so I usually have a list of my lists.  It is the same with matching as shoes with clothes with pocketbook - flowers to furniture - to wall color.  You get the picture (make sure its straight).  Now this has to be an ingrained curse as the world tends to see me as a free thinker and doer. 

 I tried to break the matching thing once in high school.  In the early 50's, neon colored bobby socks were quite the fad.  One day I decided to wear two different ones - a bright pink on one foot and a bright green on the other with my penny loafers.  I did that one day as my dear grandmother nearly laughed herself to death.  I wouldn't want to be responsible for that.

A couple weeks ago my husband and I stayed a night with our grandchildren at their house so our daughter and SIL could get away for a night to celebrate their birthdays.  It was there that I got a glimpse of how my pattern was established.

We got along just great.  Our 16 year old grandson (nearly 17!) typically stayed pretty much in his room with an ocassional grunt on his way to the refrigerator.  He did however stop once in awhile for a really nice conversation, however short, and was not adverse to a nice big hug when I could grab him in his path.  Our 7 year old granddaughter (nearly 8!) was her usual magpie self with constant chattering combined with enough energy to power the town if it could be contained.  She is always up for a big hug but I think she has a goal to see how fast she can tire us out.  She usually succeeds as we go home weary but loving every minute of it.  The dog just loved us, the cat just ignored us (except at feeding time), the hamster abided our breaking into her all day naps so I can take her for a walk in my pocket, and the turtle didn't give a hoot.

Saturday AM I was helping my granddaughter gather her clothes to go to her basketball team's end of season pizza party making sure she remembered her jersey.  Suddenly I heard a panicked yell - Grammie!!  I didn't know I could go up a flight of stairs that fast .  She was in a state - "Grammie - you gave me Sunday's underpants - I need Saturday!"  Another flight of stairs - they have 3 flights and I really get my exercise.  I remembered that at 7 years old I had a set of day-of-the-week undies and would not think of mixing them up.  

SO THAT'S WHERE IT STARTED!  Those damn underpants.  Look how early structure sneaks into our very being. Well, it's about time I did something about that.  I soaked my beans all night Friday and they are baking now for Saturday's supper along with hot dogs.  Next time it will be sometime during the week whenever the spirit is moved.   The carpet doesn't care when its vacuumed and dusting can be done when I see it and if I don't see it for awhile - so what.  If they made Grandmother sized undies with embroidered days, I'd wear Sunday on Wednesday and I bet the world would not end.  I may even yank some tags off pillows.  I'll start living more like my cactus, unpredictable but with a bit more action.  And I'll start this as soon as I finish cleaning the bathrooms and ironing clothes for church tomorrow (Oh, dear!)

My hope is I can find the will to set myself free.

I also hope that my granddaughter never reads this blog.

REMEMBER - "All people smile in the same language" - author unknown

  

 

  

Chat and Snip

Am I the only one that has a problem communicating with a hairdresser?  You would think by now I would know their language.  I was just starting to get my stylist in Maine to give me "some lift" in the back and now I have to start over again.  I've been to 2 (so far) and their language seems to be universal.  I say light trim and they hear - crew cut!  This time I spoke slowly and said that I had waited a couple extra weeks so that the sides were longer and I wanted to keep them to the ear.  Then just a bit of thinning on the bangs and clean up around the neck.  Simply - right?  We started with just that with careful balancing of each side.  I heard "don't worry it looks like I'm taking off a lot but I'm just giving it a good shaping" - that means start to panic.  Then there is the distraction - an old friend walks in or worse yet a phone call where the cell is cradled between the shoulder and the ear and all you hear is chat-chat-snip-snip.  This is when I usually start my mantra "it will grow out, it will grow out".  

I've never had much luck with my hair.  It has mostly been short so at least it looks neat most of the time.  In the 50's I let it grow longer and used a package of at least 100 bobby pins carefully slid through the pin curls so that in the morning my hair would be light and bouncy.  This usually lasted until the high school bus opened the door if it had not lost the battle to wind or dampness on the walk to the bus - about a mile.  (Hear that kids - at least it was flat and not up hill both ways).  I've been permed and rolled and sat for hours under dryers.  Once I went back after a perm with straight hair and the hairdresser said what happened to you.  I don't know - you tell me!

One success was the chignon in the 60's.  My hair had grown enough to pull back (that's from being home taking care of 3 babies in 4 years).  They had a great mesh thing that looked like a donut - you pulled your hair back and into it and pulled the hair hopefully evenly around it and then tucked the ends in with another package of 100 bobby pins.  But like anything that works for me, it goes out of style or is discontinued.

Once my newest cut was finished and blow dried I looked at the pile of hair on the floor and wondered where in the world it all came from especially the bits of white.  My granddaughter recently remarked that Grammie look the youngest at the apartments as the other ladies all had gray or white hair.  Some day I'll tell her my hair color is actually 7 1/2A.

The stylist asked how I usually worked it.  I told her with a few rolls of the curling iron on top and a ruffle of my fingers.  She asked if was enough to work with.  I reached back and ruffled and said I can manage. (it will grow back - it will grow back)

I must admit though that this wash and wear cut only took 20 minutes to tame this morning.  Progress.  I just wish I had told her about my cowlick! 

A quote from Mark Twain: Wrinkles should merely indicate where the smiles have been.