Around the Kitchen Table

Note: I started this post several weeks ago. Before I got very far on it, life intervened in the form of my broken wrist. While I continue to figure out ways to incorporate more writing into my daily life (and that means dictation), I decided I would return to this post and finish it. My observation about the state of our living room is still true today.  Thanks to the wrist fracture, as well as some other recent issues involving my left knee, the living room still reflects a lot of medical trauma. It is what it is!

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I have never hidden or shied away from revealing my working class background. Or, to be more truthful, my working class poor background when I was a young child. And, as this is a divider, still, in this town, my hometown, I have never hidden the fact that I come from the East side of town, which still, all too often, immediately translates into poor, uneducated, and worse. We are "those people," as if those of us from that side of town are some strange aliens (in the extraterrestrial sense) who somehow were plunked into this community. 

And sometimes, even without anyone talking about origins, there are things that I do or say that immediately reveal my background and upbringing. 

Which brings us to the kitchen table. 

In my family when I was growing up, and in the families of friends in my youth, the kitchen table was a gathering point. (Oh, additional note: there was no dining room table in either of my childhood homes. Or dining room, for that matter.) The kitchen table was where my parents and their friends would socialize with pots of coffee and endless games of euchre. The kitchen table was where, if there was a serious discussion to be had, you sat and talked. 

That is where life happened.

I was a young adult before I learned that other people, and that includes "nicer" (more refined, more educated, more whatever) people, socialized and talked in the living room. Not around a kitchen table, but sitting on sofas and in upholstered chairs, with coffee tables on which to set down food and drink and such. 

Huh.

And that learning experience has stuck with me to this very day. Friends or family come over and we visit in the living room. Yes, we use the kitchen table for eating (I got rid of my dining room table years ago), including with others, but the talk, unless it is during or immediately after a meal, is almost always in the living room.

How other people live...okay.

So recently I had two friends, sisters in fact, come over for tea and talk. I made sure the living room was picked up (it is still showing signs of recovering from my lengthy medical catastrophe; even a little bit of picking up makes it look better) because I knew we would likely put some food on the kitchen table (to then put on a plate and carry into the living room), I made sure it was clean too.

Kell arrived first. She came to the door carrying a box of goodies, made a beeline for the kitchen (which you can see from our front door), and asked, without even a pause, "Does it make a difference where I sit?" 

I almost fell over.

Someone just automatically assumed we were going to sit at the kitchen table? Be still, my heart!

Kell’s sister, Shell, arrived soon after and didn’t even blink when she found herself sitting next to the City recycling tub tucked away on the back side of the table. 

“What a great idea! I am always wondering what to do with mine!”

For the next two hours, the three of us sat at the kitchen table and talked, laughed, cried, shared. It was a heartwarming visit with good friends. And it all took place around the kitchen table.

So here's to kitchen tables. Here's to life.

Where Things Stand

My right wrist repair

Let's just say it's been a wild ride at times.  

Yesterday marked two weeks since I had surgery to repair and reset my right wrist, which I fractured a few days earlier when I took a hard fall on the ice. My orthopedic doctor reset the fracture, pinning it and plating it as needed. When we saw him one week post-surgery, he said that the fracture was far more complicated than the ER x-rays revealed. 

Great.

Surgery brought a pretty stiff cast from my palm to just below my elbow. Its purpose was to keep my wrist totally immobilized for the first two weeks. Let's just say that it fulfilled its duty with flying colors.

Yesterday, I had a two-week check to take off the surgery cast, remove the staples, and recast my wrist.

14 staples marched in a very precise line down my inner arm, from wrist towards elbow.

14.

My doctor wasn't kidding about it being a complicated repair. That was a long incision.

The staples came out quickly and with little effort. The nurse said I could gently wash my fingers, palm, and wrist before the new cast went on.

Heaven is washing your right hand for the first time since the initial break some 17 days earlier.

After the doctor gave the go ahead, the same nurse who had un-stapled me came in to recast my wrist. What color did I want?

I laughed. When I broke my right arm at the age of 10, there was one choice: plaster cast white. Now you had a palette to choose from, although she recommended against choosing white. "It tends to look dirty pretty fast."

Blue. Give me blue. 

I was in a new, blue fiberglass cast in very little time. The new cast is lighter, shorter, and gives me more (a lot more) range of hand movement. While my fingers and thumb have a ways to go (especially my thumb, which is still in shock) before I can use them more easily, life is already opening up. Case in point: I brushed my teeth, albeit awkwardly, with the toothbrush in my right hand, last night. 

Think that is no big deal? You try putting toothpaste on your toothbrush and then brushing your teeth using only your non-dominant hand. No cheating! 

This new cast will be on until the end of March. After everything I have dealt with since the end of August (and still have to deal with on several medical fronts over the next few months), this one has gone well medically and for that I am truly grateful.

Having said that, don't think I am blithely skipping down a sunlit path. I am not a good invalid. I am frustrated by very real limitations on what I can do and sometimes burst into tears when I run into one of them. Warren is doing a magnificent job of taking care of me, but I am not always appreciative. (And I am also all too well aware of the huge stresses on his time right now and, although he truly does not feel this way, I feel I am in the way and adding to his overload.) At my lower moments, I take deep breaths to calm down. At my lowest moments, I restrain myself from throwing something across the room — a bowl of food, a glass. When the immediate reaction (throwing something) passes, I pick my emotions back up and try again. And remind myself that there really is a lot to be grateful.

I am creeping back into writing. I am dictating a lot, doing a little more typing now that I can use one (one) of my fingers — the middle finger — on my right hand to move the process along. (Hmmn. My middle finger. Wonder if that is a reflection of where I am emotionally sometimes or just the easiest and longest finger to use. Yeah, probably that...the easiest one to use.) Handwriting is still a distance away. But closer than it used to be! 

That's where I am at these days. I have lots of time to read. (When don't I have lots to time to read?) Dear friends in the area come over for tea and talk and chuck in where I need help. I follow the exploits of my grandchildren from afar: Ramona just finishing a run in the cast of Newsies through the theater group she is involved with and Orlando about to turn, wait for it, FIVE.  I dictate letters to my friends: not as satisfying as writing by hand (very different process mentally) but we keep the words going.

From friends to books to grandchildren to Warren, I am grateful and rich beyond compare.

My blue cast is just the icing on the cake!

Isn't it pretty?

 

We Interrupt This Program...

Note bone on lower right: not supposed to be there like that

 

So who thought yesterday "Oh, I can walk safely—it's not bad out," then proceeded to fall, break her right wrist in 3 places, spend 6 hours in ER, 1 hour at orthopedic doctor's office, and has surgery this Friday to fix it?

Let's just say it is not what I had planned this week. Or any week. And we did not need this additional complication in our lives. Yesterday drained us both, to put it mildly. (How grateful I am for Warren; he was just leaving for the office when I went down and was there for every minute that followed.)

Typing is slow and I am clumsy using just my left hand. My dictation skills are decent, but my editing skills are hampered. So don't expect too much from me for the next few weeks.

In the meantime, life rolls on. Right? 

My Analog Life

2024 has arrived. Now what?

I am still (no surprise) figuring out what my life looks like post-medical catastrophe: physically, mentally, emotionally. On the very plus side, as in "wildly positive," I am walking daily (okay, there have been some weather call-offs) with a good pace and increasingly distances (a mile to two plus). Given that my first post-catastrophe walk was .16 miles from our driveway to the end of the block and back, with me hanging onto Warren's arm, I am thrilled.

But I would be kidding myself if I think I am back to my pre-catastrophe self physically because I am not. And will never be in some areas. That's just the reality of age, long-term cancer, and the catastrophe. (And on the mental front, yes, my intellectual capacity took a hit too. Given that dementia runs heavily in my mother's side of the family and I am at significant risk for developing it, I am keeping an eye on when I have blips that are more than just forgetting a name.)

But, back to 2024 and my continuing to shape my new life. As I have shared with close friends, I am learning to create a flow that seems to work best for me now. One huge piece of my life now is that I am spending more of my time in what I will call my analog life.

Here are some things that my life contains.

A jigsaw puzzle that my friend Maike, who knows that Warren and I (especially Warren) are huge admirers of Frank Lloyd Wright) found at a thrift shop and sent our way:

Books, books, books, the old-fashioned way:

Reactivating my sourdough starter, which bit the dirt during the medical catastrophe. I know, I could have asked my next door neighbor to give me some of his starter, but, hey, starting it is no big deal:

And other pieces that were already in place and continue to give me a quiet space to work (head or hands or both): letters to friends (of course) and walking (previously mentioned), washing dishes by hand, taking time to watch the seasons and the skies and the weather and the birds. There is a farm near my father's house where the last two times I have gone to see him, there has been a huge murmuration—starlings, perhaps?—as I am heading back home driving past the farm. "Wow" does not begin to describe the sight.

Back in my earliest days home, my friend Katrina, in response to my comment that I did not have the strength and energy to talk on the phone more than 10-15 minutes, and how some (including my father) would blithely plow past that limitation, sent me a timer. Oh, Katrina! What a gift! I rarely used it on the phone calls, as I could see on my phone how long the call was lasting, but what this timer has done for me is given me controllable time back. I know, I know. Phones have timers and alarms. Our 1970s era stove has a timer clock for the oven. But setting the dial on this timer and letting it run until its distinctive ding, has made my baking and other activities (my now daily nap) so much easier to track. Who knew?

A life changer! 

The catastrophe and some other important matters impact how and whether we will do much (any) traveling this year other than getting to Mayo sometime later in the year. I hope. I am doing telehealth appointments right now; I do not have the physical capacity yet to drive to Rochester and flying, even without factoring in Covid and flu and RSV, takes even longer than driving. I told Warren this weekend that I have made peace (reluctantly) that I will never get back to Maine, a trip we hoped to take last July but scrubbed because of Symphony matters. I realize it is highly unlikely I will make it out to the PDX area this year to see my family. It is what it is.

Fellow blogger Laurie recently wrote about her "football sweet potatoes" and I asked for a photo, which she gladly provided. My interest was prompted by photos from Orlando at Thanksgiving, scrubbing sweet potatoes as big as his head, even adjusting for camera angle. (I called and asked; adult confirmed the sweet potatoes were massive.) My son Ben is making plans, still tentative, to come back here in May, with Orlando (who starts kindergarten this fall!) and I hope that all comes about, whether we are scrubbing massive sweet potatoes, baking a pie, or just hanging out in the sweetness of time (analog, of course). 

The Last Pesto of 2023

 

On its way to completion. Note: the photographer—not the kitchen—was tilted.

This morning I made the very last batch of pesto for the year. 

The. Very. Last. Batch.

As I noted when I resumed writing again, my lengthy time away and the many demands on Warren (the Symphony, the house, me!) meant the garden was ignored and neglected in its final weeks. Tomatoes fell to the ground, peppers went unpicked (not that we had a particularly great crop this year), and everything in both gardens went to rack and ruin (well, everything except a few last handfuls of the Trail of Tears black beans, because those babies were survivors). 

So how did I make this last batch? No, I did not buy basil, although I am sure I could have found some little packages of overly aged and outrageous priced basil in local supermarkets. (Yes, I just looked. 1.5 ounces for $3.99 at one store.)

No, the basil was out of this year's garden. The same one that was in shreds when I finally returned home.

And the magician who made that happen? You have to ask? Warren, of course.

While I was, ahem, indisposed, Warren did some looking online about freezing basil and then making pesto from the frozen basil. He read enough to know what he didn't want to do, then proceeded with his own simplified version: pick it, wash it, chop it, freeze it. While I remember him telling me he had done that while I was still away, when I returned home and saw two half-gallon freezer bags full of dark green stuff, my first question was "What is that?" 

This morning, on a mission to clear out our refrigerator freezer (the basement freezer is another story), I saw the basil first thing and realized it was now or never. 

I chose to make it now. 

As it turns out, making pesto from frozen basil is the same as making it fresh, without the tedious and lengthy washing and cutting. (Thank you, again, dear Warren. You really are amazing.) 

Looking just right.

And that is how the very last pesto batch of 2023 came to be. Some went to neighbors on our right and neighbors on our left, and the rest went down into the aforementioned basement freezer for another time, another meal, another day.

A very nice and savory and satisfying note on which to bring this year to an end.

End product! 

Little Bits

Little bits. 

Little bits of memories, little bits of music, little bits of holiday treats, little bits of sunshine, little bits of rain; these have been some of the underpinnings of these last days of 2023.

Just little bits.

I continue to recover, in little bits, from the acute medical crisis of the fall. A long-distance friend who lives with chronic and debilitating illnesses reminded me, after I noted my slow pace of improvement, that given what I went through, I was doing great.

A little bit of chastisement, albeit nicely said.

A longtime friend walked by this morning with his dog while Warren was leaving, and after he called from the sidewalk, "So how are you?," both Warren and I realized that Bill had no idea what had happened this fall. Warren waved as he drove away, and I gave a short version of what we had gone through. I then told him (and Maisy, his dog) to "wait right there," and dashed into the house to bag some biscotti. 

Just a little bit, because Bill didn't need to carry a lot of weight while he finished walking Maisy. Bill took the biscotti and said, with great relish, that when he got home, he was going to "dunk the hell" out of the biscotti in a cup of coffee. I emailed him a little later this morning and told him that if I had a coffee/bake shop, I would name the biscotti the "Dunk the Hell Out of Them" biscotti. 

A little bit of humor, a lot of friendship. 

I have been walking almost daily (yeah, I dropped the ball during the Christmas weekend due to other demands on my time and energy) and today when I left the house to walk, I noticed I had a large chorus of voices competing in my head. (No, I do not hear voices; these were calling up situations, past and present, where I wanted to respond to (i.e., argue with) someone.) To shake my mood, I made myself focus on the trees and yards and sky. One pine bough near the sidewalk held a drop of water from earlier rains. I started looking as I walked for other drops caught on branches or bushes.

Just little bits, but my search refocused my mind and attention.

2024 holds some challenges and changes, some of them large and at least one of them HUGE. No little bits there, at least not from where I stand. So I tell myself to savor these little bits now, as we spend down the remaining days of this year.

I recently came across, artfully woven into an essay I was reading, two lines from "How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: I love thee to the level of every day's/Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I had not read that sonnet for decades and seeing those lines, standing alone, made my heart reach out to Warren, who has been by my side through all of this. (Note that Warren has always been by my side; recent events just elevated my needs and deepened our relationship.) I shared those lines with my poetry-damaged husband (some teacher or teachers really did a number on him back in the day) and then explained why they moved me. "That is you, dear Warren. You are with me for the most quiet needs, from morning to night. And I don't need to count the ways of how I love you to know that."

And that is NOT a little bit. 

Grandma

Grandma Skatzes would be 130 years old today.

130.

As a child, I marveled at the notion that she was 10—10!—when the Wright brothers made their first flight at Kitty Hawk. As a teenager, I remember her chuckling over the fact that she lived to see men land on the moon.

130.

Grandma saw numerous wars in her lifetime, most of which family, ranging from cousins and in-laws to sons and grandsons, served in. World War I was the one that made the deepest impression on her. She kept a framed copy of "In Flanders Field" on a wall in the living room. Grandma had optic nerve damage from an early age on and could not read the small print of the poem, but it made no difference as she could recite it from heart and always did on November 11.

130.

Grandma was born when Grover Cleveland was president. Jimmy Carter was in the White House when she died in 1978. All in all, she lived through 16 different presidents. She did not talk much about politics, although she had admiration for Franklin Delano Roosevelt's actions during the Great Depression and World War II. Grandma did not vote until she was almost 80. I suspect her husband did not allow her to in earlier years, and her disabilities, both visual and auditory, posed barriers that no one thought to work around until much later. It was my aunt Ginger who finally arranged for special aides to come help Grandma work her way through a ballot and vote from home in the 1970s. Grandma was delighted that she had finally cast a ballot.

130.

My family rented an apartment in my grandparents' house and we lived in the same house until I was 14. For all the bad in my childhood, I had an unshakable refuge in my beloved grandmother. When I was little, Grandma would tell me nursery rhymes and quote poetry. As I got older, she would share stories of how the family and the community made it through the Great Depression. She encouraged me in reading and writing and capturing the world as fully as I can. Although she never said it, I suspect Grandma wanted me to have a larger view of life and its opportunities, and pushed me in those ways to move into the world.

130.

Grandma died in March, 1978 while I was living out in Portland, Oregon. I was walking home from college on what was then a typical early spring day: a mixture of showers and sun. On the way, I saw not one but three (three!) different rainbows in the sky. When I got home and my then-husband broke the news of my grandmother's death, I immediately thought of those rainbows. They were Grandma's goodbye to me.

130.

As Grandma aged, her hearing and vision became so limited that the best way to communicate with her became spelling into the palm of her hand. She would puzzle out the words, then respond in her soft voice. During my hospitalization, when I was intubated (and sedated) for several days, I apparently tried to communicate by spelling out words in Warren's palm. I do not remember any of this, but Warren said I did that several times. "Just like Grandma," I marveled. I couldn't talk because of the ventilator tube, but my innermost self pulled up an old, old memory of spelling with Grandma. 

130. 

It is Jewish tradition when speaking of someone who has died to say, "May her/his memory be blessed." Grandma, your memory is always blessed.