February 1: Cardinal in the Backyard

Years ago, my taught me that the sight of a cardinal was a visit from a loved one who had passed; a sign that all was well in the great beyond.  When I saw this cardinal on the fencepost in my yard a few weeks ago, I was glad.  

Tomorrow will be a year since my Dad’s passing.  I miss him.  I miss his voice on the phone; I miss his to-the-point e-mails; I miss his jokes and his laugh.  It’s hard to believe that we’ve been a full season of life without him in this world.   I can hear his political commentary in my mind, see him in my growing plants and garden plans, think of his outsized joy in his grandsons. I remember him by telling stories about him or using a patented dad-phrase.  It’s not enough - it never will be - but the memories are of a  man who loved and was loved; who had a good life.  That’s happy.

Sister Act

Today is my sister’s birthday.  I’m the oldest and when we were little girls, she used to threaten that one day she would be older.  I like to think that I was gracious about this - confident that time and space were on my side - but we’ll need KO to confirm that.  As adults, I joke that there was a screw up in the birth order continuum, because she’s the level-headed family general and we march to her orders.  That’s fine by me: she’s smart and funny, sensible and loyal and when my hip went suddenly south in August, she was unfailingly the solid rock that I needed. She put up with endless whiny texts and phone calls and was supportive and sympathetic, whatever the circumstances required.  The harder things got, the more she stepped up.  It is no exaggeration to say that I wouldn’t have made it this far into the journey without her good cheer and good sense.  Before I could summon the courage to ask, she volunteered to come East and look after me post-surgery.  That right there is KO in a nutshell: she knows what you need and she will get it done.  She is the very best sister a woman could ask for and I love her beyond measure.  

Happy Birthday, KO!

January 1: A Cardinal Year

It’s no secret that my Dad was a huge fan of the St. Louis Cardinals and his love of a team with a scrappy, mean bird as a mascot is rather a funny thing.  My Dad could be scrappy but he was never mean.  His affection for the team dated back to his childhood and it never wavered.  Even when his team was struggling, Dad maintained hope that the game - and the season - could be turned around.  Some of my greatest joy in life is found in memories of the conversations he and JT had as the Cardinals - by then JT’s team - won an improbable pennant and then World Series in 2011.  The sight of a cardinal has always reminded me of my dad and all his best qualities: his liberal politics, his sense of humor (and exquisite timing), his skill with profanity, his joy in his grandsons.  With his passing in 2023, the sight of a cardinal feels like my Dad is at hand, counseling patience as I wait for my new hip, condemning ignorance and stupidity, or shouting “Jocko” when there is flubbed play at sport.  In 2024, the first of each month will be devoted to cardinals in all their forms in my world.  First up is this Christmas gift from my sister.  

It will be hung over the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, keeping watch over my home and reminding me of my dad.

Christmas Cardinals

My dad was a baseball fan and the St Louis Cardinals were his team.  He passed on the love of baseball to both my sister and me.  In turn, I passed it on to my son.  Via Grandpa, JT became a Cardinals fan.  Some of my fondest memories are the sound of the two of them on the phone, dissecting their team’s prospects and celebrating their triumphs.   My Dad’s passing earlier this year made the 2023 baseball season bittersweet for me.  But I’ve found comfort in memories of Dad brought on by cardinals.  This set reminds me of the joy he found in his three grandsons.  It’s made me happy all of the holiday season, a reminder that Dad is still here to celebrate his boys, cheer on his team, condemn Republican stupidity, and look after us.

Cooking Journal: Thanksgiving Supper

Normally, I post a Cooking Journal reflection on the 20th of the month.  But I am behind with everything these days, and this blog is no exception.  I figured a few days late with a Thanksgiving supper post was perfectly acceptable and so here we are.  I am deeply enmeshed in food restriction these days, looking to achieve the arbitrary BMI number that will get me the new hip I so desperately need.  I took a break from that on Thanksgiving and allowed myself to eat for the day.  

So it was that JT and I had a delicious Thanksgiving supper.

There was turkey and a potato casserole (neither of us loves mashed potatoes).  I roasted Brussels sprouts and made a posh cheese tray.  There was homemade cranberry sauce and  hot yeast rolls with butter.  We had pumpkin pie for dessert - JT loves pumpkin pie and I’ve also been known to enjoy a slice or two.  Mostly, we enjoyed the day and felt gratitude for the time off this week, the company of one another, and the happy home that we share.    

Disabling

My hip has grown worse in the past month and now I mostly get around with the aid of a cane.  Pain is my daily companion and pain relief is not effective.  Sleeping continues to be a significant challenge.  Though I am physically and mentally exhausted, I can rarely rest.  At night, I require narcotics to have shot at two hour windows of sleep, mostly managed when I sit up.  Being in constant pain has a way of fraying neatly all of my patience for myself and dimming my coping skills to a mere shadow of their former self. I’ve struggled mightily to be in good temper about the situation.  I cry on a daily basis.  

The only solution is a total hip replacement.  I’ve read volumes of medical research and by all accounts, a new hip will work and find me right as rain.  I’ve seen several surgeons but none are willing to operate until I lose weight.  Some are murky about the target; others use the discredited BMI standard.  Ultimately, I lack the emotional bandwidth to keep trying to find a surgeon who will operate now.  And so I’ve yielded to deliberate weight loss - dieting - as the avenue to relief.  It’s a dangerous road for me.  I am eating a daily calorie diet of 800-1200 calories; once a week I mix it up and approach 1800 calories.  A combination of self-loathing and pain seems to dim my appetite, so I’m not as hungry as I feared.  Food restriction has been made weirdly easier because of my long-standing body dysmorphia, a condition that fills me with self-loathing.   For many years, I have managed the worst side effects of dysmorphia by using body positivity and intuitive eating.  Neither of those tools are available to me while I restrict food to reach an arbitrary BMI standard.  Most doctors know that BMI is bullshit and, rather than defend it, they use the insurance companies as their excuse.  In some ways, that’s neither here nor there as I am now stuck: forced to restrict food and contend with a dysmorphia that is in full command.  I assume that everyone who sees me is filled with loathing for my body, as I am.  Though I do my best to compartmentalize that sentiment, it’s still in command more than I would like, as I knew would be the case once I started restricting food.  I put on a brave face for everyone but my son and my sister; both have been incredibly good to me.  My sister is both a kind and patient advocate as I lose weight while gripping tightly to the shards of my sanity. She’ll come East to help when I have the surgery and is basically a candidate for sainthood for dealing with my bullshit.  The only good news in this fucked up situation is that food restriction is working. I am close to the BMI goal for surgery set by one of the surgeons.  I hope like hell he'll stick to that proposal because in this strange race to exchange one crippling disability for another, I'm at risk for losing it all together.

Cooking Journal: The Pleasures of Outdoor Dining

Since the weather became warm enough to eat outside, JT and I always have supper on the back deck.  Summer suppers are cooked on the grill or are salads and sandwiches that come together easily.  Most evenings, we don’t eat until after 7, when the fiercest heat has begun to fade.  We soak up the twilight, the growing zinnia and canna blooms, some music, and the time to relax.  We share details about our days and enjoy one another’s company. Even when JT is away for the night, I eat outside, with a book and music to keep me company. Al fresco supper has become one of the nicest parts of the Summer and that’s happy.

Dad

The Backstory: My Dad passed away in February.  Later today, we'll have a celebration of his life and this is the obituary that my sister and I wrote for the celebration.

In the last 20 years of life, pressed to generate a Christmas list, Wayne McMillen sat down at his computer and made some very specific requests.  The things he sought would vary, but often included items like “a small farm in Grafton, Vermont, for Summer living.”  Frequently, he required “effective relief pitching for the St. Louis Cardinals.”  Nearly as often, he advised that he needed “a Democratic victory in the next election.”  On a regular basis, he needed a “headband to keep his hair out of his eyes when gardening.”  The list was a holiday tradition worth opening your e-mail to read.

It was a collection of impossible, intangible, often funny items.  And the intangibles were the point.  Wayne McMillen knew that he was blessed and lucky in this world.  He never forgot that and was forever grateful for it.  His chief blessing came in the form of his grandsons, Cole, Spencer, and JT.  If you asked about those boys, you’d better have some time on your hands.  Wayne was a fiercely, ridiculously proud grandfather and his grandsons know they were loved beyond measure.

With his wife of 58 years, Carol, who spent a good deal of her life being greeted as “his chickadee or his old crow…I can never remember which”, he raised two daughters, Stacy and Kristin.   Born in Louisiana, Missouri, he came west with his family at age 12 and settled in Oak View, California.  He met his wife Carol at Sacramento State – stories vary, but it may very well be that they met when she kicked him out of the women’s dormitory after hours – and they married in 1964.  Together, they lived in Eureka, Hanford, Sacramento, Clovis, and Martinez, California, before settling for good in Clovis in 1975.  Wayne had a fierce affection for Clovis and would hear no words against his adopted hometown.  His family came to believe that he even enjoyed the sweltering heat of a Central Valley summer.  “Good for the tomatoes,” he would remind you.  Wayne had a hobby farm and over the years Carol put up with chickens, an old Alice Chalmers tractor, orange trees, almond groves, and a flock of geese who imprinted on Wayne’s voice and would quack to him when they heard him call “Geese!” in the mornings.  As he spent his first years of life on his grandparents’ farm, his various farming endeavors were a tribute to his true roots.  Wayne loved life on the farm, even the lack of indoor plumbing and electricity.  He did his best to recreate his own, smaller version and we thank Carol for keeping his little farms modern.*In his retirement, Wayne gardened, travelled with Carol, cheered on his grandsons at endless sporting events, and volunteered at HiCAP and the Clovis Senior Center.  He enjoyed his barbeque and smoker, and watched a whole lot of sports and political news.  It is believed that he actually liked to listen to Willie’s Road House on the Sirius XM radio.  Saturday nights were reserved for Molly B’s Polka Party.

Wayne worked in the insurance and risk-management fields for most of his life and had an encyclopedic knowledge of co-pays, co-insurance, deductibles, and all things insurance.  If you had an insurance or Medicare question, he had the answer and he’d happily - and patiently - help you to navigate the red tape.  He never stopped pointing out the errant cord that might trip people, or the poor choices that might expose people to lawsuits.

Wayne passed away in February 2023 after a short illness. He is survived by his wife Carol and daughters Stacy and Kristin and her husband Martin.  His true legacy exists in the form of grandsons JT, Cole and girlfriend Lauren, and Spencer and girlfriend Shyanne.  Also surviving him are his brother John and his sister-in-law Chris, his sister-in-law Valerie, and several nieces and nephews.

Soon after his passing, some peach trees he’d ordered were delivered to the house, additions for this year’s garden.  They were a welcome reminder of the things that mattered to Wayne.  In his memory, his family encourages you to eat a fresh peach, slice a warm tomato, and tell the people you love how much they matter to you.  Wayne would want it that way.

 

Monthly Book Report: Emma, by Jane Austen

There is a new book group among some of the women in my family and our first read was Emma.  I’ve read Emma before - on many occasions actually - and I am always down with the classics, so I happily picked up Emma and, as expected, it proved a lovely read for the month. 

Emma is not my favorite Austen novel but I enjoyed this reading a great deal.  For starters, the characters - like all Austen books - are well-drawn and amusing.  The narrator is an honest broker with a keen observation skills and a sarcastic sense of humor, also a durable feature of many an Austen novel.  In the case of Emma, the narrator is nearly a character of her own and is a big part of the pleasure I get from reading the novel.

Emma herself is not the most sympathetic of Austen heroines but I even like that about her.  She’s well-off and snobbish and Austen - and Emma herself - makes no apologies for that.  Emma is happy in her world, circumspect though it is, and I admire that about her.  Austen’s writings are deeply invested in the lives of the women.  They live in the early 19th century and I am always struck by the ways in which meaning for women is relational - not about who they are for themselves but about whom they are for others.  I’d like to think that in the 21st century, we are past this view of women.  Experience tells me that we are not  and that makes this 200 year old novel a rather timely read.

My Dad

 

My father died on Wednesday, February 1.  If you knew Wayne McMillen, you knew…. 

His grandsons hung the moon.

His wife Carol was his little chickadee or his old crow….he could never remember which. 

He looked out for people who needed help - always -  and he thought you should do the same. 

His work ethic was strong and believed that a job worth doing was worth doing well. 

He was unmatched in his mastery of profanity. 

He told a great story and laughed often. 

He shot the moon - successfully - every damn time he played Hearts with you. 

His garden was beautiful, always, but his tomatoes will be better next year. 

He had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball and thought St. Louis would win it all this year.

He advised that you "don't take any wooden nickels."

He called you Jocko if you made an error on the sporting field and he was not amused. 

That “can’t never does”. 

That he cared deeply and was much beloved.

That his daughters are loud and bossy and now you know why. 

Think of him when you admire a flower in the garden, enjoy a tomato still warm from the sun, set up a tent in the woods, and laugh at good story.  He’d want it that way. 

Gratitude: Playing Hearts

I love to play games - especially card games - and during Christmas in California there were a lot of opportunities to play.  I enjoyed all of it but I especially enjoyed playing Hearts on Christmas Eve. 

I spent most of my tween years resenting my kid status and remember being allowed to play Hearts with the adults with great fondness.  Seated at the table with my grandparents and parents made me feel like I was being taken seriously, the singular goal of my adolescence.  My Dad is a fiend at the game and, as I recall, he would “shoot the moon” with frequency; that he was often successful impressed me then.   

On Christmas Eve, my nephew C dealt out a game of Hearts and I played with him and my Mom and Dad.  True to my memory (and his history), Dad smoothly shot the moon on the first hand.  He did it the deadly certainty I remember from all those years ago.  My Mom saw it coming but, like the rest of us, she was powerless to stop it.  C was impressed and that was fun to see.  I haven’t played Hearts with my Dad for years but this game brought it all back.  It was one of the nicest hours I spent during my holiday and I am so grateful that C dealt me in.

Home'ish

I’ve come with JT to California for Christmas, to spend time with my family and to try something different as I am once again single at age 55.  Clovis feels like home in some ways —— my family; places and scenery that I recognize; stories and jokes that are familiar.  The neighborhoods where my family lives are all new but the tidy rows of new homes look familiar to me, even if they aren’t the neighborhoods I grew up in.  I find such streets comforting; the newest blocks of them tidy and matching in a Disney sort of fashion that I find charming.

I had forgotten the way holiday lights look in the misty fog, but the  sight is familiar from my childhood and it stills retains its magic all these years later.  I love the holidays and the traditions, even those that are different from my own, and I’m glad to feel included.  I’m thinking about the hard parts of 2022 - there were a lot of them - and the gratitude I feel now, as the year ends.  I’m thinking about the coming of 2023, not bringing expectations to that prospect, but with a reminder to be gentle and kind toward myself as I see what the universe brings for me.

There’s a blessing to be found in that, as I am in my hometown at peace.  Clovis is a world that often felt foreign to me when I was growing up here, where I didn’t often feel welcome or a part of it.  I feel at home with myself now and that is enough, good, even.  I am grateful to be here and look forward with confidence that I always manage to locate hope when I need it.

The Light of a New Year

As twilight settled on the evening of the 31st, I lit two luminaries to light the path for the new year.  They burned brightly through the night as T, JT, and I played card games, listened to a playlist of music curated by the boy, and laughed together.

The laughter was especially nice.  

As T and I prepared to climb the stairs and tuck into bed, JT told us that if someone had told him at the start of the year that 2020’s last day would be spend in our company instead of with his friends, he would not have embraced that news.  Then he told us that the evening felt good and right; that’s he’d had a good time with is and wouldn’t have spent it any other way.

In a 2020 that brought fear and uncertainty, that found the three of us being cooped up for months and occasionally feeling a little too close with one another, my son was on the mark in that observation.  In this year of so much loss, I will be forever glad of the extra time to watch him grow up far more than just one year signifies.  The last night of 2020 was a good one for counting my blessings as we looked to the light.

Sending Out 2020

I won’t be the only person who is glad to say goodbye to this year.  I almost wrote dumpster fire of a year because, of course, it has been that.  At that same time, so many people lost their lives in this year of years and it seems callow to dismiss the passage of this time when so many people and families have lost someone for whom time truly has passed forever.  I am profoundly grateful for my blessings in this year and I hope that I will always be able to see that light in the darkness that is 2020.

As 2020 fades into 2021, I am glad of so very much: My family and friends and our ability to laugh together; the blessings of jobs that put food on our table and give us a chance to make the world better than we found it; the harbor of walks in the woods and stacks of good books to be read.  I am incredibly grateful to be here as 2020 fades into 2021.  With that gratitude is a brightly burning hope that 2021 brings us more of the things that make life good: steady, kind, and measured leadership; the promise of science and a vaccine; and enough laughter and good will to see us through the hard times.  For all the storm that 2020 has been, I have hope that this nation and this world will safely steer into a safer harbor for 2021.  And so, as I have done so many times, I live in hope for us all as we say hello to a new year.

Biscuit Magician

Though I’ve been making them for more than 30 years, I always love to stir together a batch of homemade biscuits.  My biscuit-making career started with the help of my now kitchen-stained Better Homes and Garden cookbook.  Using that recipe, I taught myself to make biscuits.  Over the years, I’ve read countless recipes and cooking magazine articles about the making of biscuits and then I’ve honed my technique accordingly.  I can make all sort of biscuits: sourdough, cheese, cornmeal, angel……but my favorite is the delicious old-fashioned basic: a buttermilk biscuit.

Buttermilk was not a regular part of my mother’s kitchen, but is was a part of my grandmother’s and it was certainly present in the Southern kitchens where I honed my biscuit-making skills.  I don’t always have fresh buttermilk on hand but when I do buy it at the market, usually to make fried chicken, blue cheese salad dressing, or chocolate cake, I always make sure to stir up some fresh buttermilk biscuits.

I

I measure the ingredients into a big bowl and as I stir together the dough, memories of previous biscuits flow through my mind.  Biscuits cut into a heart shape for an impromptu Valentine’s Day celebration; biscuits served with bacon, cream gravy, and scrambled eggs on a cold Winter morning; biscuits made in a hot Summer kitchen to slather with a batch of freshly-made jam; the batch I made at JT’s request in the fleeting days before we loaded up the car and drove him to college…..my memory fills with an steady parade of warm biscuits.  

I cut them out and line them up on the baking sheet, taking care that they lightly touch one another and then carefully dimpling each one with a slight press of my thumb before I slide the pan into a hot oven.

12 minutes later, there is a basket full of steamy hot biscuits, ready for hungry eaters and stirred together with memories and loves as the unspoken but magical ingredient.  

Tiger

Tiger and Lucy, our litter mate kittens, turned 14 at the start of this month.  Tiger is showing signs of his age.  He has begun to be confused; on some days and he stands in the living room and meows until he recognizes one of us.  

Earlier this month, he had a seizure in the morning.  His presence in our world has been a steady source of comfort and love since that day in October 2006 when we first went to the shelter and invited he and Lucy to join our family.  

Tiger and Lucy came into our family in a very hard year and these tiny creatures helped me teach JT to love unconditionally and without fear. They made our house a home again.

As Tiger lapses into what is clearly the last chapter of his life, I remind him that we won’t let him suffer, that we will honor the love and affection he has shown us, with care and love of our own.  Daily, I ask the universe for the knowledge to know when it’s time to say our last goodbye.  It’s a hard thing to do, to selflessly love a creature with no conditions and no reservations, but that is what Tiger reminded us to do.  So we will return the favor when the time comes.

Sunrise with JT

Last week, JT and I got up early to watch the Wednesday morning sunrise from Washington Rock, a historical site that is nearly a stone’s throw from our home.  The morning was a bit of a lark made lovelier by the company of the son I call my boy, a claim that is rather in defiance of the young man he clearly has become.He’s been home since March and though I know that we all long for a return to normal, I am grateful for the blessing of this time together.  Despite the anxiety, we’ve shared plenty of laughter and thoughtful talks.  I’ve had the chance to get to know (and like) the adult he is becoming.  The morning sunrise was a welcome reminder to appreciate to pause and appreciate the small blessings of this unexpected time together.

Food Friday: Grandma’s Carrot Cake

My Grandma Mac was an amazing cook and her carrot cake was to die for - filled with raisins, pineapple, and nuts and frosted with the richest cream cheese frosting.  The cake is a winner.  My mother has the recipe and mentioned last week that she was going to bake it.  On Wednesday, I set to baking the cake.  The cinnamon-rich batter came together easily.

The cake baked up well and the frosting was amazing.

JT and I declared it health food and may very well have enjoyed a slice for breakfast the next morning.  

The Family Iris Patch

This patch of iris bulbs are transplants from my dad’s garden.  His bulbs came from his father’s garden.  My grandfather came by the bulbs by way of his mother-in-law.  For that reason, these plants are  special to me.  I like to think of them growing in Missouri, then California, and now New Jersey.  

For several years, though I got lush green stems, no flowers emerged.  But two years ago, lovely purple irises emerged.  Since then, each April,  I eagerly check the patch for signs of flowers.  Last Sunday, I was rewarded.

Three flowers are preparing to bloom.  I expect that the coming days will bring more.  I will keep watch for all the changes.  That’s happy!

Easter

Easter is my most favorite cooking holiday and pandemic or not, I was ready.  

There was ham, mac & cheese, potato casserole, Spring salad, hot rolls, deviled eggs, and bread & butter pickles.  For dessert, I made lemon cakelets in the shape of bunnies. 

We had a delicious supper and ate with the windows open so that we could hear the birds chirping.  All the leftovers fit in the fridge for a second meal later this week.  Last year, JT wasn’t home for Easter and I missed him.  This year, circumstances being what they are, he is home. We are well and very aware of all the blessings in our lives.  This year, that feels like an abundance  and I can't help but think that there is a lesson in that reality.  Happy Easter, y'all!