I Can Pencil You In At 2:00 P.M.

Marie using her Mom hand!

In November of 2017 I started a Facebook closed group to keep my mother-in-law's family informed of her health status. At one point she was very ill. My husband and I decided to share her huge accumulation of photos and memorabilia with her family on both sides; maiden and married. The three days of taking photos of photos of  her family and posting them I learned so much about them I actually felt like I knew more about his mom's family that she was born into than my husband did. What a legacy they left for future generations!
During this process I became Facebook friends with many of Marie's nieces and nephews. I also became aware of birthdays, anniversaries, and illnesses, births, and one death that I remember. I learned about their families, hobbies, sense of humors, and fur babies. I learned to love some of these folks that I had never even seen pictures of. Many folks use pictures of pets, cartoons, silhouettes or hobbies as profile pictures.
I knew some of Marie's grandchildren, but not well. I also knew some of her greats and great great grandchildren. Most of her grands, greats, and great greats live far away so getting to actually know them is not feasible.
This information is a lead in to what my nature is. I am a worrier. I have mentioned this before. If Marie gets sick, I worry. If my grandchildren get hurt or sick I worry. This trait skipped a generation to my maternal grandmother. She was the family worrier.
Well, one of Marie's nieces had an operation that went south. I worried. She had to have another operation to fix the first operation. I really worried. I like her. She has a sense of humor that just fits into my style; love it.
This is what I said to her the other day: "Should I worry about you? I have a couple of hours free this afternoon that I could do that for you." She didn't answer me directly, but I think I could hear her smile at me.

100 Years 100 degrees

Isn't worrying actually another word for caring? I care very much for my extended family. Marie's family love her as do I. Marie loves them very much. Therefore, since I am a member albeit by marriage, I can pencil people into my "worry schedule" as I wish.
Hopefully we will be celebrating Marie's 103rd birthday in a few days. I will have another opportunity to get to know more about some of her family. That will make my "worry" schedule with more folks to schedule.

My Order Of Operations!

I am seventy-four years old and fairly  very set in my ways.  When I was in school many many many okay enough years ago. I did fairly well in school. I got mostly A's and B's except in Math. I had to work for my grades in Math. It goes clear back to fourth grade in my memory. My poor teacher, Mrs. Fransisco, had the privilege of attempting to teach me long division. Of course, my mother always went to parent/teacher conferences. She told my teacher I almost committed Harakiri. I spell it Harry Carry when I got a C in Math that quarter.
Ok, I keep drifting away from the subject. I'm trying to confess my school day sins. I could easily memorize things for tests. I crammed the night before the test and Aced it the next day. And easily forgotten never to be thought of again.  Not happening with long division. It just did not compute. When Mom got home from the conference we had a chat. Oh, how I hated that word when it had to do with a quiet visit with my mother. She informed me that every day she would help me with my homework. I also was informed that my C would improve to at least a B because of my doing my homework and not playing piano etc. etc. She was very nice, but I knew she meant business. It was not about just my grade. She wanted me to understand what I was being taught, not just a "get it done" attitude which I may have had. She got the job done and I indeed understood what my teacher was saying. I now, years later can do and understand long division.
Along comes Facebook sixty plus years later with their silly little "tests" people enjoy taking. Oh, oh, I saw one that I knew the answer to, I was so proud. However, since I am seventy-four I read the comments before I put my comments down. What?? I did not understand why my "correct" answer did not match most of them. I read and reread the test and then I asked my husband what he thought the answer was. He agreed with me. Hmm, I still did not want to commit to stating my answer to the test. So, being logical, I sent the test to my daughter. I said, Why is the answer xxx according to many folks that took the test. She said that is correct. It is called the Order of Operations. Well, I"m sorry, I don't care if she has a PHD, I was not satisfied with her answer, and neither was Fran.
Google, being my right hand man explained to me in many different ways that my daughter and most of the people that took the test was correct.
You need to go to the beginning of this post and let my fourth grade C in long division sink in. Oops, I let my freshman Algebra get in my brain long enough to pass the test and promptly forgot it. Fran didn't take Algebra so at least he and I were on the same playing field. I still think if the Facebook test would have used parenthesis I would have come up with the correct answer. Oh well, like I always used to say, "When will I ever use this stupid subject?" Enter Facebook stage right sixty years later.

Miss Fransisco my favorite teacher!

I Was A Young Mom And Didn't Think

You know people joke about doctors practicing medicine. When you hear that most generally they aren't smiling. They are being sarcastic and say something to the effect that "I don't want them practicing on me." Well, I think that being a young mom is essentially the same thing. There are no manuals. Plus, you get advice on "how to do everything from A to Z. You get advice from your family and friends and no advice from your husband because he doesn't have a clue. I don't feel that I was any different in many ways. It was trial and error. I had had one child when the "accident" happened and had not had any major problems.

He was two!

We were replacing the furnace in our great big house. It was September in South Dakota which meant you needed a bit of heat to keep the chill out. I had a two year old daughter and a ten month old son. The furnace installation had been delayed for more than one reason and then another. I needed the kitchen to be warm for my crawling baby. He was a busy baby, but I was right beside him when in a flash he grabbed the hot bake element. Needless to say his father and every other person in the world it seemed was furious with me. No one ever said anything mean to me, however, they did question how in the world such a thing could happen. No one could say anything worse to me than what I was saying to myself.
Once at the hospital an E.R. nurse grabbed a harsh hospital wash cloth and started washing his hand. I screamed at her and yelled "get him a lollipop!"
She looked at me like I had lost my mind, but did just that; he quieted. I understood what she was attempting to do, but I couldn't stand his screaming in pain. In my eyes she was increasing his agony.

Joe has a cool laugh

My baby boy did not drink from a bottle. He had thrown that away some weeks before. In those days there weren't pacifiers abundantly popular like there are now. I tried giving him a bottle again, but he threw it in anger. It just seemed like there was nothing I could do to comfort him. He would not be soothed with anything but a very soft cloth that was very cold against his bandages. Thank you God for the rocking chair. His dad bought a big box of what they called in those days "dum dum suckers." I just realized that they still sell them by the bag. Those seemed to keep him busy and occupied from the pain.
The doctor told me what creams to use and what exercises to do with that poor little hand. As he got older the scars were more faint. However, when I last saw him I noticed the scars of my careless act were still very apparent on his hand.
Isn't it astounding that in one split second his whole life was changed. He had grabbed the bake element with his right hand. He was forever more left handed.
 Hopefully, my boy may read this and once again hear my apology.

The Miserable Life of Lu's Refrigerator

I was originally a beautiful black refrigerator. I was sitting on the Sears showroom floor beautifully polished and proud of my finish and working mechanisms. I was not a cheap floor model, I was something to have and behold in your home.
 Then it happened; I was sold to LuAnne and carted off to a home that has no pride in my surface. The first thing that happened is that LuAnne got sick and fell face first and dented my front. I felt sorry for her, but my goodness a dent? I was only a month or two old. Her glasses got the brunt of the damage. She had a headache for several days. Concussion was a word used a lot in those days.
The dent was going to be the least of my problems it seemed. In those first days LuAnne's son visited a lot. He was always opening and closing my doors looking for stuff to eat. Then he had the audacity to put beer in me. The worst thing about it was that LuAnne's husband didn't care! He kept offering beer to Mike. That meant opening and closing my big door. Then the ice cube maker decided to go crazy and made too many ice cubes. I got blamed for that! How could it possibly be my fault that the ice cube maker decided to go hay wire?
Mrs. LuAnne has a penchant for pictures; little pictures. She also loves magnets, and do-dads. One day I was horrified to see her just putting all kinds of grandkids pictures, friend's pictures, her pictures, her husband's picture, emergency numbers and even a picture frame her niece had given her. She at least polished my surface before she put all that stuff on my front. Don't forget to look at my top: freezer bags, apple peeler, foil, coozies, paper plates, the list goes on and on.
One day her cleaning lady came and started cleaning out my insides. She and Mrs. LuAnne talked about me the whole time like I had no feelings whatsoever.
They talked about how it was impossible for me to keep things from spoiling because I just wasn't big enough, didn't have enough crisper controls, didn't have big enough space in the door. I'm telling you what, I was wounded. But the day that Mrs. LuAnne started putting potholders and chip clips on me I felt just mortified. The days of being prideful are gone. Oh, how I miss the showroom. I was so beautiful. Just think it was only four years ago, what a way to live my life. Oh, you think I am spoiled? You should see the fingerprints that people leave on me. Oh! I could tell you stories that you just wouldn't believe.

LuAnne and her husband are having company soon. They need to clean me out so that I can perform at my highest efficiency. I wonder when that will happen. I'll tell you when. The day that they quit complaining about my color, the day that Grandma Lu quits putting graduation pictures on me. Don't forget the sunflower thermometer! It is never going to happen. Remember when you buy a beautiful refrigerator like me to be kind and gentle with it. I wonder if there is a support group for abused "fridges." There should be a law!!

Question Of The Day By My Daughter

Recently my daughter started something interesting on Facebook. She asks a fairly generic question most days. I'm always interested to see what her FB friends will have for answers. One day she asked what their favorite kitchen utensil was. I answered, "My husband!" I'm not sure if she wants humor, honesty, or something entirely interesting and not general. Well, most folks that know me, know that I have a tendency to inflect my humor into things like this.
Today's question was, "What was the greatest life lesson given to you by a family member and who." I immediately knew exactly what the lesson was and who.
When I first started taking care of Marie her mobile home

living room had a hospital bed, sofa, chair, dining room table and chairs. The television faced her chair. The sofa faced the hospital bed. Are you getting the picture? No where for me to sit and watch television! No where for me to be a companion to Marie. There has always been a wooden rocking chair that sat to one side of her electric organ. It had an afghan that she had crocheted on it. No one ever sat on it. I never gave it a thought.
I think that it was on the third day of not having anywhere to sit that I dragged the rocking chair over by her and sat down so we could watch television together. Oh, my gosh, all kinds of screaming and carrying on started happening!
Exact quotes were, "No, no, no! That's my grandfather's chair. No one can sit in that chair!"
That's when I knew that my rocking chair and footstool from the camper were coming to live at Marie's house. I would have some place to sit. Of course, I immediately put the rocking chair in the corner where no one could sit on it and informed my husband of the move.

Marie Rose Lizotte

One day when Marie was in bed I took that chair out and found a manufacturing sticker on the bottom of it. Well, I called the company. The chair was not her grandfather's chair. It may have been her father's or her husband's. The company had not been established in her grandfather's time frame. So the lesson that I learned was from my dear almost 103 year old mother-in-law. The lesson was never, ever sit on a chair that is empty unless someone invites you to have a seat that lives in that home.
Mercy on us that was a very "loud" lesson. My daughter didn't ask about a "Loud Lesson" (smiles)

I Would Like A Softly Padded Soap Box, Please

Every day Marie and I used to watch the Hallmark Channel. The show in the afternoon that she loved, Dr. Quinn M.D. is still on the air, but she is not able to stay up to watch it anymore. I would often change the channel for her to Seventh Heaven and Touched By An Angel. Those shows came on before her "doctor show."
I do not make my opinions known very often except to my poor husband. He is my sounding board. When I need to vent no matter how hard he tries to hide, I find him and do my thing;  get on my soap box!
Today I am going to get on a softly padded soap box. I had this wonderful idea. When I say "Fran, I have this cool idea," he literally disappears. For a big man his disappearing act is so smooth. I don't even know where he goes to hide. Unbelievable.
Okay, my idea is cool. Not just for Christians. I thought, "Wow, what if big corporations had Touched By An Angel or 7th Heaven break for their employees. They could only watch fifteen minutes at a time. See where I"m going with this? Efficiency that's where! I would work myself  into a dither so I could get to my break to finish the segment.
Oh, I know that there would be naysayers, but just think of the possibilities. There could be incentives for those that watched during their breaks. Possibly less hate for others, more empathy and sympathy for coworkers and neighbors. Maybe even lower gas prices. You just have to look at the big big pictures, folks.
My little idea could go across the ocean to include big oil companies.

Snake Oil salesman on his soap box

I hate the thought that Hallmark cancelled these shows because of low Neilson Ratings. I also hate to think that folks of any age wouldn't love these shows. I do and  because if them I am more efficient at Marie's house. I hurry to get my work done so I have time to watch the end of the story. Paul Harvey used to say, "and here is the rest of the story," I say Hallmark continue on with all of those stories. Oh, how we need to hear them and learn from them.
Okay, I just stepped off my little soap box. I just needed to say my piece after watching the news.

Marie, Egg Yolks, and Google

I have been taking care of my mother-in-law for about seven months. In those seven months there is one thing she does that drives me nuts! She has bacon and eggs plus other things for her breakfast every day. She has always had the same breakfast since I have known her.

Gotta grin!

When she finishes her breakfast she puts her coffee cup, or her sauce dish, and/or any other dish that seems to irritate her onto her empty plate. The thing is that her plate is not really empty. Her plate is covered from side to side with egg yolk.  I have asked her not to do that, but I guess it is a habit she formed long before I ever entered the picture. Marie likes her place mat to be empty except for her plate. I think that she is showing me that she is finished and that I should clear her dishes. I can be sitting right next to her and she will do the same exact same thing so fast that I can't catch her. Oh, my husband laughs. He'll say, "there she goes!" Once again, too late.
 I have often told him that someone along the way should have invented some kind of glue made from egg yolks, because if you don't wash a" egg yolkie" plate, fork, and cup it is there to stay unless soaked in hot sudsy water.
This morning I decided to see what Google had to say about uses for egg yolks other than in a hundred dozen recipes for custards, mayo, cakes, cookies, meat loaf, meatballs, etc. etc. etc. This was prompted by Marie, once again, putting her cups and sauce dish on to the "yolkie" plate.
You would just be amazed! I was not the first to realize the potential for this high protein food that the world's population consumes by the truck load every day.
You can use it to make your hair shine, your dog's fur shine. You can use it on your skin to make it nice and soft. You can even use it to make low grade silver jewelry shine. Egg yolks ARE used for craft glue. Aha! Boil eggs and save the water and water your plants with it. They said some first aide uses
with the membrane from boiled eggs, nah too much trouble; a Bandaid, thank you. You can clean leather ie, shoes, chairs, and purses. Nope, I will not do that either.
What I will do, is to continue to wash Marie's "egg yolkie" dishes and grin. She's not going to change, and really, who wants her to?

It Was 1972....

In 1972 The Vietnam War was raging. I was a mother of a four year old daughter and a two year old son. Our family of four was a small family that lived in a small town. My husband's large family was raised in this small town. Some of his brothers and one sister still lived there. We had lots of fun with them. I remember one day an elderly gentleman came to my door and asked, "Does this young man belong to you? I figured he did because he had red hair and he is a Grafing." That's how small the town was. The townsfolk also knew how busy he was.
In 1972 long distance was expensive. Folks on the low end of the salary ladder like us didn't use it unless it was necessary. We didn't just chat we had a purpose ie., "Hi mom, I need some help with my buttonholes." Go ahead and laugh, but in those days, when you made a coat, the buttonholes had to be "bound button holes" or some people call them French buttonholes. The reason that they "had" to be bound buttonholes is because they made the coats look very expensive. The last thing you wanted people to think was that your clothing looked"homemade".
My friends and family knew that I sewed. Other family members sewed also for themselves and/or their children. I used up the scraps of material from my clothes to make my kids clothing. It was fun. Of course, my husband was pleased that his children had nice clothing, and not hand-me-downs. He would not let me buy yard sale clothing because he had had  nothing but used clothing when he was a child and that "was not going to happen to my kids!"
The day I called Mom for help she was very nice. I think it pleased her to be able to help me. We lived about 2-3 hours apart. The more she talked, the more confused I got. The coats for Melanie and I were for Easter and I wanted them to be as perfect as I could get them. Finally I think Mom knew that telling me on the phone wasn't cutting it. She said, "I tell you what, I'll make one and send it to you. You can look at it, tear it apart if you need to. I will also send you the directions. It will be much easier if you can read and see the finished product at the same time." Little did she know.
Today, I turned to YouTube and watched a video with a lady showing us how to make bound buttonholes. She took her time. The video was 7 minutes long. Just watching the video made me antsy. Listening to my mother forty-eight years ago made me extremely antsy. I made those buttonholes and they looked pretty good. I wore the coat gingerly that Easter Sunday, fearful that there may be a wardrobe malfunction. There was none that showed.

 The elderly people at church told Melanie how pretty she looked in her pretty yellow coat with matching dress. Someone had given her a piece of candy and she had gotten sticky fingers. I reached in my coat pocket to get a tissue and discovered that I had forgotten to sew the pocket in my coat completely together. I wonder where those tissues went that I had put in there before we left. (Not a joke!)

Our No-Pay Renters Cry "Fowl!"

Yes, we are not known for our lenient rules and working indoor plumbing. Utilities are free, however, and the accommodations are spacious. The home interior decorating is done for the tenants before they move in and they don't have to sign a lease. We do occasionally, evict our tenants without notice. This rumor/fact has spread throughout the county. The future tenants know the facts, but they continue to move in without a care to their future living arrangements.
Our tenants generally choose the apartments that contain flowers and lots of leaves. That happens because we do not provide built in blinds on our rental windows.

fifty cent rental

It seems during the spring and summer months we have a lot of trouble with ongoing vandalism. We also experience tenants that have no couth probably due to the poor parenting that they experienced when they were young.
We also rent to all breeds, sizes and colors. All that we ask is that they make their
homes in the TREES!!
This morning a bird flew into my artificial basket of flowers that I paid fifty cents for several years ago with a feather in his beak. The basket started rocking back and forth. Yes, they have no care where or when they start remodeling our rentals. Oh, Fran laughed. There is another family in my birthday basket of begonias. There is a family of starlings in my artificial ferns in the patio at home. They have no class whatsoever!!
Marie loves that basket of flowers that I bought and will laugh when I tell her that my basket is going to be the home for probably a gazillion birds.
Our deadbeat renters will probably contact the Audubon Society for protection and better housing. Let us hope!

A Twenty One Cubic Foot Freezer And Four Yards Of Plaid

Before I start this story I need to tell you about my mother. She was not perfect, but so close to it in her sewing and baking she was a hard act to follow. She, in some ways had the same "I can do it better and cheaper attitude" as my mother-in-law used to. They would go to the department store shopping and absolutely pick apart the workmanship of the manufacturer of the clothing that the store had on their racks. I have heard Marie and my mother both say things like, "If I couldn't match plaids better than that I certainly wouldn't put it on my racks to sell." Not an exact quote of my mother's but really really close.

I'm the one with brown hair!

Mom used to love to wear plaids. In the Seventies plaids were very popular. Remember the men's leisure suits? Who could forget them. Women also wore a lot of plaid slacks and vests also.
My kids' dad and my two oldest children and I lived on a ten acre acreage with the perfect story book house from the outside. It was white with red lacy looking border that resembled a ginger bread house. The inside was fun also. The formal dining
room had an adjoining small room that housed our huge chest freezer. It took up the majority of one of the walls. There was a window that faced the north. Under that window was my sewing machine cabinet. To the left of that was a closet. As you circled that little room were baskets of materials, patterns and a sundry of much needed stuff for my hobby of sewing. I called it a hobby not a calling. I was not of the same school as my mother. The underside of my garment did NOT have to look just as good as the outside did. I really would like the proverbial nickel for every time she told me that when she looked at my handwork as a child.
In the seventies I was department manager of eleven departments of Sears Roebuck in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. In two of those departments were yard goods as well as notions; a seamstress's dream. A manager's nightmare. Those notions walked out the door as fast as a woman's purse could snap shut!
One day I decided that I would make myself a plaid pantsuit. It just couldn't be that difficult. My mother made several of them. I knew the rule about matching plaids. I even had watched my mother do it in our home. I also knew that I would have to add extra yardage according to the size of the plaid explicitly for the matching procedure.
The problem was I had no where else to do the layout of the material, pattern, instruction sheets, pins, pincushion, scissors, and my hands than on top of that 21 cubic foot  chest freezer. Well, if you can't imagine, I will tell you that the top of a nice clean freezer is slippery! It is also narrow. I quickly found that I indeed had a short fuse when it came to matching plaids.
I can hear you seamstresses in my head saying, "Why didn't she use her dining room table?" I will tell you why. Because I didn't want to mess with having material and all the "stuff" strewn all over the place. I wanted it all in one little room. No muss no fuss.
Well, I made the pant suit. The plaids were matched fairly well. I never did wear that outfit when I visited my mother. I hated that outfit and really only wore it a very few times. Perhaps it really isn't so bad to buy ready to wear garments which do not have matched prints/plaids. In actuality who cares?  I still care. She taught me well. I can spot the errors a mile away. Plain colors work well in my wardrobe. No worries!
Another story someday about "worked buttonholes" and my mother and I via USPS.

I Save Boxes

That is certainly a simple enough title isn't it? Sound pretty boring? Probably, however, this post is actually quite interesting. Since the state of motherhood began I started  saving boxes. One day the kids' dad brought home a big tissue box that was taller than they were. He cut the top off and before we knew it they had decided that that ordinary box was their plane ticket to imaginary lands such as Grandma's house, and Aunt Rosie's house. The car and truck noises were all that it took to make their vehicle real and most fun.
When Christmas arrived, the kids' gifts were in Pop Tart and cereal boxes. They had more fun trying to figure out what was in these wonderful mystery boxes. They just knew that they wouldn't be getting Pop Tarts or cereal for Christmas. Sometimes they did get their special sweetened cereal for a gag gift. It was so much fun!
Then the kids grew up and left home. They got gifts wrapped in Christmas wrapping. It wasn't nearly as much fun. A few years ago my youngest son used my windshield ice scraper and broke it. He said he would replace it but he did not. I didn't let him forget it either. About five years ago there was this five foot long skinny box all wrapped up with a big bow with the other gifts. I said, "Who is that for?" No answer, sure enough it was for me. I was made to open all my gifts except that one. The box was taped with duct tape, masking tape and impossible to open without a tool box. Finally, I had a brand new ice scraper about four years after I quit driving! So much laughter accompanied all that fun in those days.
The Saving Box Fetish started when I decided that if I bought something new and it didn't work that I should have the original box to send it back to Amazon. I saved and saved boxes and accused Fran of throwing away my boxes at times. Sometimes I threw the boxes out on the back porch/workshop/used to be sun porch, just because it was easier to do that than break them down and throw them away. The back porch has a door, but we don't use it. The doorway has a mesh magnetic door which makes it so easy for the dogs to go in and out without a human opening the door to the outside. You just have to be there. It's cool. lolThis habit came back to haunt me this week when Fran brought in a sack of hummingbird feeders that had been put in a box and buried in the piles of boxes that "I might need someday."
One day this week a bird came swooping in the porch and I yelled at Fran that there was a bird in the back porch. The next day he showed me why the bird had taken a swipe at me:
I saved that box because my new laptop came in it and I might have had to return it don't you know.

I'm A Stiklr For Kerekt Speling

Good morning! I had this complete post all finished. I turned around to check on Marie, hit the delete button and poof, it was gone. I'm not sure if my train of thought is the same as it was three hours ago, but I do have a message I want to tell. The message is that when I read posts, FB, letters, even ads in the mail, I can spot spelling errors in a flash. I write three blogs. I proof read each post that I write at least three to five times. I reread my posts sometimes a day or a week later and invariably I find spelling and/ or punctuation errors. How can that be? I was a good English student in school. I got all A's. I can't imagine how I can miss a to for a too, or an apostrophe for a comma. I do understand why my sentences are too long because I talk a mile a minute so therefore, I also type a mile a minute and seldom take a breath. Whew, See? And I have no emojis on the computer, so people cannot tell if I'm smiling, or frowning, or sad or glad. The written word on line will stay there forever. So after I'm dead and gone this will still be there. Now that is entirely stupid! Who made up that rule I wonder.
 I woke up in the middle of the night and wondered why my friend didn't answer my text. This is what it said: melanue wrd thurs  Next sentence: so he usnt coming hete. I have no idea what I told her. When I walked through the tech door I was not prepared to deal with computers that needed rebooting, cell phones needing McDonald french fry fingers and delete buttons that wipe out two hours of work.
I'm in a silly mood this morning. I've been cleaning and writing, and eating peanutbutter (oops swiggly red line x2) chocolate chip cookies.
I know that you realize a lot of the errors in this post have not been corrected on purpose. Just a fun day for me have a good one too!