Month: February 2022

My Grandma Minnie Bell was a tiny little thing who would not have been five feet tall even if she stood her her toes. She didn’t have an inch of fat on her body so I doubt that she ever weighed a hundred pounds. In spite of her smallness she was a tough women who would have been a successful contestant on the popular television hit Survivor. She could handle a river filled with snakes and bring home something for dinner with a fishing pole or a rifle. She knew which plants were edible and which were poison. She had the ability to make things grow even then they appeared to be dead. She found uses for everything, never wasting, never wanting. 

Grandma remembered going to school off and on for a very short time. She never learned how to read or write before she was called back home to take on family duties. She was illiterate but she had more common sense than anyone that I have ever known. She was a bonafide survivor, not just a television version of one and I found myself learning from her every single time we got together. She was a great teacher of the subject of life. 

My grandmother learned from experiences and she was an exceptional student in that regard. She was able to name every bird that flew her way with uncanny knowledge about their habits just from observing them. She knew how to communicate with them by making sounds that mimicked their calls. She showed us how to follow the tracks of animals and what we might learn about them just by noticing their strides and the depth of their footprints. She taught us how to be respectful and cautious in the wild places of nature. She even showed us how to dress to protect ourselves from the elements. Taking walks with her was like being in the presence of a world renowned botanist or a professor of animal sciences.

Grandma might have taught a course in agriculture. She had instincts and homegrown knowledge about when, where and how to plant everything from flowers to fruit trees. She created a Garden of Eden with her techniques, all of which she likely learned when she had to leave the formal classroom to stay home and help her family. She might easily have hosted a gardening program with all of her tips and experiences. There never seemed to be anything that she could not grow bigger and better than anyone had ever seen. 

Grandma was a little fireball of activity. She awoke before the sun came up because she understood that working in the cool of the morning was preferable to waiting for the noon day heat. By eight or nine each day all of her cultivating and pruning and picking was already completed. Then she would turn to her indoor projects. She used feed bags to make her dresses and when those dresses were worn she would turn the fabric into quilts. She was a conservationist before it was fashionable to be a conservationist.

If someone had recorded Grandma’s lessons about living and then transcribed them into written form, her wisdom might have filled a dozen books. She could have been a contributor to the Foxfire series of pioneer folkways. She explained how ordinary folk brushed their teeth when she was a girl. She told me that she used an old rag to rub ashes from the cooking fire across her pearly whites and then she would swish around some water and spit it on a plant so as not to waste that precious liquid. She would laugh when I showed my amazement and asked how well it worked, telling me that her dentures seemed to be proof that it wasn’t as effective as she had hoped. Her stories of outhouses were instructive and interesting as well. 

My grandmother’s folksy wisdom kept her family warm and well fed but it also provided them with a genuine love of nature and its place beside us in this world. Even my father echoed her notions that we must honor the creatures who live around us and nurture the plants that provide us with sustenance and beauty. From the time I was very young my grandmother taught me things that I have never forgotten. She was a natural born teacher who quietly hid the reality that she was not even able to write her own name. 

I remember being shocked the first time that I realized her lack of formal education. I accompanied her and my grandfather to sign some important papers. I watched as she put an “X” on the line for her signature after which my grandfather printed her name as her representative. I was only seven but had already mastered the art of writing my name and reading enough words to understand what the document was about. I felt her shame in being unable to read or write and I wanted to hug her and tell her that she knew so much more than most people ever learn. Instead I sat quietly admiring her dignity and thinking of how incredibly she had overcome her deficiencies in schooling. Perhaps that was a moment when the idea of teaching lit up a part of my soul. 

My Grandma Minnie had a PhD. in common sense. She learned by closely observing everything and everyone around her. She used her curiosity to explore. She may not have had formal papers to certify her knowledge but she was nonetheless incredibly educated in practical ways. We too often downplay the value of hands on experience in the process of true learning. She was a graduate of the oral tradition, the university of folks who tackled the challenges that they encountered with an understanding of how things actually work. I miss those mini-lectures that she provided me whenever she demonstrated her skills. She was a brilliant woman.   

I never had many opportunities to learn much about music. I remember memorizing “Every Good Boy Does Fine” to identify the progression of keys on sheet music. I once had to perform “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” on a recorder and then on the piano. I attempted to play the drum for our school’s drill team but I was so short that the snare kept flipping upside down when I attempted to march. I kept the drumsticks for years nonetheless but never really got past “tap flam tap flam, tap flam idy flam.” The bugle was out as well because try as I may I was never able to blow hard enough to get even a squeak out of the instrument. Musically I am a total failure other than being a great appreciator of the many ways that humans turn sounds into glorious feasts for the senses. 

I suppose that if I had begun lessons with an instrument at a young age I might have mastered the artistry of making beautiful music. One of my daughters attempted the oboe with a small amount of success but she chose dance over band in high school and set her reeds aside. All of my grandchildren have become rather proficient with one instrument or another. They’ve chosen everything from tubas to the cello and one has continued his musical journey with piano, guitar and drums. 

Not being able to read music or play an instrument is one of the regrets of my life. I’d consider trying something now but I know that my hands are not nearly as flexible as they once were and I’m not so sure that my mind is as sharp either. Furthermore I have no idea what type of instrument I would want to learn. Long ago I tried the piano and realized that my tiny fingers were not well suited for stretching across the keys that is often required. Of course I know that drums and bugles don’t work for me either. My husband attempted to interest me in the guitar but working the strings hurt my fingers too much. I suppose that I might be best suited for something like the clarinet or maybe a flute. 

I think it would be fun to join a rock band like the Rolling Stones. I’d want to be one of the back up singers harmonizing almost anonymously. I do know how to sing. My mom used to teach us how to harmonize with simple tunes. I picked up on her instructions rather quickly and I find myself singing harmony all the time to this very day. I’m not a soprano nor am I a pure alto but my “somewhere in between” voice works quite well in complementing the lead singer. 

My brothers and I used to put on neighborhood shows and charge a very small admission for the mothers and younger kids to came to see our acts. Our mom taught us tap dance routines and songs in which the three of us harmonized beautifully. People used to ask her where she had received her musical training and she would laugh because she picked it up by watching those old musicals from the nineteen forties. When she became a teacher people would stop outside her classroom to listen to the lovely sounds of her students singing in arrangements that she had created. She had a natural bent that I somewhat inherited.

I love to listen to music when I am driving around by myself. I tend to play the same songs over and over so that I know all of the words and nuances of the melodies. I’ve harmonized with the Beatles and Sting. I’ve imagined myself backing up Prince and Michael Jackson. I can really belt it out when nobody is around. I become a bit more inhibited if I know that someone is listening. 

I used to do some tutoring at one of the schools where I once taught math full time. There was a guy on the radio who played “Oh Happy Day” every Friday morning at eight. On the way to the school I tuned in just to hear that song and join with the choir in the background, then I would turn him off because his show was political and I had no interest in that. I’d perk up and be ready to conquer the world after my private recital. 

When my daughters were small my husband and I taught them to sing “White Christmas” with us in four part harmony. Our tradition was to meet with our extended family at my brother’s home on Christmas Eve. On the way there we would do our best version of that classic song and then repeat it again on the way home. We imagined our version as being so good that we would surely land a recording contract if anyone ever heard us, but mostly if was fun to make music together. 

Music is the sound of angels. It is one of the most remarkable human accomplishments. How wonderful that we think to alter our voices in song or use objects to make lyrical sounds! Music tells stories and touches our hearts. It soothes us and challenges our imaginations. In a word it is glorious and we need more of it in our lives.  

My life has been filled with difficulties that sent me in search of inner peace. I was an observant and sensitive child. I noticed when things were amiss around me even though adults back then did not share their concerns with children. I would witness the whispering  and catch snatches of conversations. I was able to put together clues that things were not quite right. I suppose I have always been aware of tension and, even as a little one, I wanted to help to alleviate it.

When I was about four years old I discovered that my favorite uncle had cancer. He was very honest about his condition and the prognosis for his future. He spoke to me about it as though I was much older. Instead of frightening me, his honesty was comforting. I also learned that he had made peace with his situation. His condition became dire when I was five. He came to the Veterans Hospital in Houston along with my aunt who was many months pregnant with their first child. I immediately knew what was happening even though my elders gave me no explanations about their frenzy.

There was much upheaval in our home as my father noticeably grieved for his best friend and my mother cared for my newborn baby brother. With so much chaos on the horizon my family decided to enroll me in school. Without warning I suddenly became a first grader in a world for which nobody had prepared me. It was left to a classmate named Virginia and an exceptional teacher to soothe my anxieties as I secretly worried that my uncle’s time was coming to a close. When later that year he died, I clutched the special times that he and I had shared. 

It was my first real experience with death and I suffered it alone because the adults did not realize the depth of my understanding and my feelings. I comforted myself by remembering our times together and by cherishing the gift of honesty that he had given me. Somehow he knew how much I loved him and how hurt I would be if I did not know why he had died. Because of his loving concern for me I was able to quietly handle my grief. 

I also knew how shattered my father was. I knew that he was trying to come to grips with his loss, but he never spoke of it to me. Instead he often invited me to accompany him on little excursions around town where we did little more than sit quietly with each other. In the year before Daddy died he took me fishing several times. I physically felt him relax as he baited the hook and dropped his line into the water. I sat beside him being ever so quiet lest even a tiny sound might scare the fish away. I heard my father’s breathing and I felt a special kinship with him in those moments. I sensed that I understood him and that he understood me. Just sitting together was the panacea that began to heal us both. 

When my father died the adults once again believed that at eight years old I was far too young to conceive of what had happened. They did not realize how deeply the loss of my father impacted me. I felt as though he and I had shared a secret connection with those rides in the car and the fishing expeditions. I believed in heaven and an afterlife, so I was happy that he would see my uncle again even as I felt an obligation to help my mother and brothers through our family sorrow. My emotions were conflicted in a way that stole my courage, but no my grit.

I went through a time feeling like a shadow of myself. I did not want to bother my mother with any troubles. Instead I found comfort and peace being with my grandmother Minnie. She spoke openly of my father, telling me what he was like as a boy. She smiled and cried at the same time as she spoke of what a good son he had been. She gave me a tattered story book that had once been his. She filled in the gaps of my father’s story that I needed to hear. We connected in a magical way. 

I was fifteen when my grandmother died. It was yet another blow to my heart. That is when my grandpa stepped in to become my source of strength and comfort. He was a survivor whose life had been punctuated with even greater loss than mine. His mother died in childbirth. The grandmother who raised him died when he was thirteen. The uncle who became his guardian died when he was twenty one. He had lost his only son and then the love of his life. Somehow he remained strong through it all, but he never tried to cover the depth of his feelings. He became my refuge whenever I needed a place to find inner peace. He delivered that solace every single time, even when I did not openly ask for it. 

I am a religious person and I have daily conversations with God, but sometimes I find the need to connect with another human on a very personal and spiritual way. It has been my method for dealing with whatever challenges I have had to face. Somehow God has always placed people in my path with who seem to understand me and love me even when I am not so lovable. Ultimately that person became my husband, a man who was taught by his own mother and father to be infinitely patient and kind. 

I have been blessed at various times with friends like Virginia who accept me and my thoughts and beliefs without judgement. They too have provided me with the inner peace that I need to struggle through the difficult times. Sometimes they come and go and other times they become lifelong friends. They must surely know who they are because I have done my best to let them know how much they mean to me. Attempting to name them would be difficult because I might inadvertently forget someone who has a special place in my heart. 

My inner peace is the product of understanding, honesty and love from many who have touched my heart at the very moments when I most needed them. Even without exchanging words I felt a calmness arise in my soul just being present with them and long after they are gone I still remember. 

You’d think that retirement would lead to boundless lazy days. It’s certainly how I thought that my life would be once I hung up my teaching badge, but it hasn’t worked out like that at all. Other than getting to sleep in until six thirty or seven rather than being on the road heading to work, I’ve kept myself busy since the day I walked out of the school building where I once lived for twelve plus hours each day. Somehow my personality did not allow me to sleep until noon or watch movies in the middle of the day. My compulsiveness demanded that I plan each day as carefully as I had for decades. I measured the success or failure of each day by assessing my accomplishments and measuring my progress in meeting multiple goals. 

I found that simply sloughing off left me feeling less useful to the world and sometimes even a bit depressed. I signed up for continuing education classes which I still take each fall and spring semester. I found my way back into teaching math, albeit on a smaller scale than when I was still a full time employee. I write at least five days each week and even completed a book which I can’t seem to get properly published. I exercise regularly and maintain a routine to keep my home in order. I spend time cultivating my plants. I plan regular camping trips. I look after my father-in-law and mother-in-law. I make an effort to stay in touch with friends and family members. I read constantly, sew once in awhile and cook daily. In other words, I don’t seem to have a lazy bone in my body. 

Once in a blue moon I hit the wall. My energy level wanes and I don’t want to do anything productive. When such a mood arises I allow it to fully wash over me. I stay in my pajamas all day long and sometimes only get out of bed to prepare something to eat. I watch ridiculous programs on television and take little naps all throughout the day. I indulge in ice cream and cookies and don’t care of if close the rings on my Apple watch. I order pizza to be delivered to my front door. I play with word puzzles on my phone for hours. Nothing that I do has any purpose other than to entertain me and rest my weariness. 

I never remain in such a state for more than a day. I usually arise earlier than normal the following day ready to take on the world with a vengeance. I revert back to my type A way of living and dive right back into my more typical habits. I am refreshed and ready to go after a lazy day which I have tended to call my mental health days because they recharge my batteries so well. 

I’ve been told by family and friends that I should relax a bit more, let things go, skip routines, throw caution to the wind. At this stage in my life it’s a bit too late to change my old ways. I’ve been operating at warp speed since I was a young child. It is in my nature to plan ahead, set deadlines, break tasks down in doable chunks, stick with the plan. It’s not that I am unable to relax, because just chilling is actually part of every one of my days. I set aside a quiet time in the morning. I enjoy a tea time in the afternoon and I spend evenings enjoying the company of my husband. In between I am a whirlwind of activity even when nobody is looking. 

Back when my girls were still at home I created lazy days in the summer. We’d have a hours of watching all of their favorite movies in our pajamas while eating nothing but snacks. I would take them to the beach or Astroworld where we would forget for a time that anything bad was happening anywhere in the world. Sometimes we’d just sit under the trees in our yard with me visiting with my neighbors while the children ran and played. We’d build elaborate forts out of sheets and blankets and I’d make up stories to tell them as we laughed under the soft dome of our creations. Those were glorious days when somehow it did not matter if the laundry did not get done or if dust had collected on the furniture. 

I suspect that as I have grown older lazy days frighten me a bit unless I am sharing them with someone else. If my awake time becomes little more than efforts to fill the time with fun, I begin to feel as though I no longer have any real purpose in this world. As someone for whom having a meaningful life has always been my motivation, I have a need to feel that I am doing something important each day. I am not yet ready to surrender to a frivolous way of living. I have seen from my elders that eventually our bodies and minds lose their ability to remain active contributors to the world. Our days eventually all become lazy whether we wish them to be or not.

Right now my mother-in-law is suffering from a heart that no longer works the way it should. She is tethered to oxygen day and night. Simply walking from one room to another is exhausting. She is tired of watching television from her recliner. She has difficulty concentrating on her books. She wants more than anything to be able to cook and clean and work in her garden. Without a sense of purpose and the ability to actively pursue goals other than simply waking up each day the light has gone from her eyes. 

We humans like to have fun and relax and throw all duties to the wind, but when push comes to shove each of us wants to feel as though there is meaning and accomplishment in our daily activities. Lazy days are like vacations and, just so, they were never meant to last forever. 

I seem to be much more involved with cooking these days than I have ever been in the past. If truth be told I don’t really care that much about food in spite of evidence to the contrary as demonstrated in my girth. If left alone I doubt that food would be much of an issue for me at all. I would purchase one of those huge Costco roasted chickens and be content for a week. Instead I am a social person and cooking for others motivates my interest in the culinary arts. 

A challenging twist to creating delicious meals is that many of the people who eat my food have to go easy on salt. I’ve had to learn how to use herbs and spices to enliven the taste of dishes that might otherwise be bland. I’ve become a huge fan of Penzey’s a little store in the Houston Heights that sells a remarkable variety of products to enhance virtually any kind of cooking. Best of all they have an entire section of the store devoted to mixtures that are salt free, but add so much delightful flavor to my cooking. I find myself using these concoctions on meat, eggs, sauces and even my famous beans. 

My favorite spices have become pepper, garlic, turmeric, parsley, basal, bay leaves, sage, and a Penzey’s creation called Mural of Flavor. It is a perfectly balanced salt free combination of herbs and spices that seem to work well with almost anything that I cook. I keep a large jar of it handy in a cabinet next to my stove. A sprinkle of it here and there seems to bring natural flavors alive.

I’ve also learned the loveliness of olive oil and vinegars. Last summer I visited an olive oil store in Old Albuquerque that features wonderful combinations like Persian infused olive oil and raspberry balsamic vinegar. Such products have become standards in my kitchen and I use them for both cooking and salads without having to include lots of fats, sugars and salt. Sometimes I can’t believe how flavorful the food becomes. 

My foray into a healthier way of cooking has been gradual so I don’t miss fats and salt anymore. In fact, when I dine away from home I am sometimes repelled by the saltiness of the dishes. My body reacts by swelling and sometimes my digestive system becomes angry. On the other hand people who come to my house to eat often request the salt shaker because their taste buds are missing the zing of salt. 

I often think of the many places around the world where my herbs and spices were grown. I hark back to history of stories of trading along the silk road. I imagine exotic spices making their way to the Europe of my early ancestors and I envision adventurous chefs finding new ways of using them. There is something quite precious about the spices and herbs that bring our foods alive. 

My husband watches cooking videos and has become my partner in the kitchen. He’s far more inclined that I am to try new ways of creating the food we eat. He found a lovely recipe for butternut squash that has become a staple in our menu planning. Ironically the crowning glory of the dish uses fresh sage leaves that are gently cooked alongside the squash and then used as a garnish. That lovely herb transforms the squash from ordinary to luxurious. 

I often wonder how humans thought to create edible foods. Who would have looked at stalks of wheat and decided to create flour and then combine it in such a way that it became bread? What instinct drove people to roast meat, and for that matter why would anyone even consider killing a beast and eating its flesh? I imagine myself sustaining life with berries and fruits hanging from trees. The idea of building a fire and cooking would have never occurred to me. I marvel at the creativity and ingenuity of the human race.

We have to eat or we die. Somehow over time there have always been people among us who pushed the envelope to make our process of staying alive more pleasurable. We have geniuses who create culinary delights with the same basic ingredients that we all have. They are food scientists who experiment with ingredients, herbs and spices until the taste is just right. They are artists of the culinary palette. I am in awe of them.

As I try a pinch of this and a dash of that I do my best to make my food enjoyable. I have victories and I have failures. Over time I eventually get it right. My herbs and spices and oils and vinegar are the key. They are the riches of my kitchen and I am ever thankful to the adventurers of yesteryear who first learned of their value and to those who spread the word of their value. Spices are the food of life.