This blog is my little 'get away', my vacation from my hectic life, both online and off. Like a trail ride on a spirited horse, it should add a little fun to my life and to anyone else's who happens to stumbled upon it. So, Rie's Ride is a trip to everywhere and to nowhere in particular. My favorite kind of ride!
I would LOVE to send out one of those “Christmas Letters” to my friends, but honestly, I don’t want to bring anybody down! This one couple we know has sent us a Christmas letter every year for the past 12 years and frankly, they are so depressing that for a while there I was considering changing my religion, or worse, moving and not leaving a forwarding address!
Each year, it was the same thing: their home-schooled (of course!!), piano-playing, karate practicing, Green Space champion award- winning, and smarter-than-any-kids-who-have-ever-lived children are nothing but divinely phenomenal. The whole family managed once again to travel all over the world, sometimes even two or three times in one year; either the husband or wife (or both) won an award for something, and it was nothing but blue skies and sunny days for their family, by gosh! It’s enough to give me serious gas, crossed eyes, and to make me consider turning in my membership card to the Human Race.
In my family, in any given year at least three of my four grown children are not speaking to one another. I consider it miraculous some of them have managed to learn speak the English language at all (REAL English, not that texting shorthand stuff – u no?) and that at least two of them actually know more words than merely, “I’m broke – please send cash”. As for travel, with my husband’s and my physical challenges, I seriously applaud him for his continually getting up in the morning and going in to work every day, day in and day out. He’s a chain-smoking executive with some ugly breathing issues, and has high blood pressure, a foul temper, and more arthritis in his body than he has bones! And, as for me, it’s a red letter day when I can crutch-walk to my car and actually drive for a few miles before my legs go totally numb from the pain (Yeah…I know. Only those of us with AVN know what I mean!) . “Oh, wow! I made it to Shop Rite and back!” Now, that’s newsworthy in our house!
As for winning contests or awards, my family is right up there jockeying for the top spot. I can just see it in my family newsletter:
“I beat not one, but two traffic tickets this year! My prize hosta plant would have won a local gardening contest, but it got turned into a tossed salad by a furious groundhog being chased by my over-zealous dog. My husband did not slap our well-meaning but foot–in-mouth young neighbor silly, the young guy who goofed and referred to him as ‘an older man’ Life was good to us in 2010!”
And, as for my kids and grandkids, well…what can I say? My kids have to answer for their own sins, mistakes, and what-not, but my grandkids are perfect! Now, I ask you: how can I put that in a newsletter? Who would believe me?? Hey…these people know my family! I don’t stand a chance in the bragging department, even if it is really and truly true that my grandkids are perfect! There just isn’t enough else to hold people’s interest or to make it digestible. So, once again, it was simple snowmen or Christmas scenery Christmas cards that got sent out by me this year. They are safe – they say it all and simply that all is right with my family’s world.
I suppose it’s true that family Christmas newsletters do serve a purpose, however. They might be the motivators that keep us striving for that elusive quality called “hope.” Each year I build up hope that someone in our family will do something simply amazing, something I can force down others’ gullets with a smug, self satisfied, “There! I told you so!” grin at Christmas-time: “Put that in your pipe, Santa, and smoke it!”
All I can do is simply wish others a wonderful holiday and just go on loving my family for who they are and for what they mean to me. If others can’t see the greatness in them without my having to say so, then that’s their loss. I know how great they are -- and just as importantly, they know how great they are -- and really, that’s what counts.
So, if this is your lot in life – getting those Christmas family newsletters which only missing feature is a diamond-studded, dripping, oozing 24 carat gold plating -- don’t let it worry you. If it makes others feel better seeing in print what they believe in their minds, then more power to them. If that’s what they need to do to convince themselves and make themselves feel good in their hearts, then in all seriousness, God bless them. As for me and mine, we admit we are human, and we are proud to be human. We will continue to take life as it comes and to muddle through somehow. We will take the bad with the good, toss out what we don’t need and keep the rest, learn from our mistakes, and then hope for the best. So far, it’s a system that has worked fairly well. It’s the only one we know and I can’t see writing that in a newsletter year after year. Besides, it’s not really ‘news’ – it’s just the way life is, and that’s good enough for me and mine. Honestly, if you don’t ‘get it’ or understand it by the age of 20, then you never will.
Please…put down the pen, and have a very Merry Christmas!
Once again, the world is marching along, doing its thing, and there I am, somewhere in the very back row. I’m so far back that by the time the sound of the beating drum reaches me, it is tomorrow already! I’m used to this because I am convinced that when God built me he installed a defective timer switch. It is nothing new for me to be out of step, in the wrong time -frame of things. I’m usually either far ahead of the crowd or so far behind in the race that I thought I was in the lead! Well, Life did it to me again, only this time it has now found a very clever way to steal my so-called ‘free time’ and it is making me work like crazy at having what I am loosely going to call “fun”. It’s about as much ‘fun’ as a recurring yeast infection! But, I digress…..
I’m talking about this fad/craze, gray hair- producing and time-consuming game called “Farmville.” Oh, don’t let the cutesy name fool you! There is nothing “Ville”- like about this game! “Ville” denotes to most of us a cozy little burg, somewhere out in the blue sky, green grass country where people square-dance, bake each other pies, cheerfully call out “Howdy!” to each other, and raise one another’s barns – all very comfy-cozy, right? Don’t you believe it! This game is designed to make you worry, fret, lose sleep, and to permanently attach your computer to your hip (or lap, depending on the model) and never, EVER be without it because, God forbid, one of your crops might be ready to harvest!! And, if you’re not there to harvest them, look out!!!! They will wither! So what, you say? So, you’ve just blown a whole bunch of your Farmville bucks (fake) money on wasted crops.
And…if you are truly serious about this game, you will take that plunge and start trading in your fake play money for the REAL THING. You will ‘feed’ your Farmville venture with real money because you want to get ahead! Yup, you heard me. This sneaky game really does expect its players to BUY what they call “farm dollars” so that the players can build bigger, better, more productive and more lavish farms! What a devious plan!! I want the guy who wrote Farmville to come manage my non profit organization! All this time, I’ve been doing it the hard way, asking people to please donate to our cause. Little did I know that all I had to do was to offer them a game, for Pete’s sakes, where they would actually spend real money, so that they could get ahead and prosper – all online, of course, and in a fictitious endeavor at that! How deliciously, deliriously, and decadently devious! And here I thought giving my members an online library of more than 3 gigabytes of information on our rare disease, as well as a fully interactive web site, was a ‘bargain’. Nope. What most people want these days, I am finding out, is to create the GWTW version of Tara without the hassle of fighting a civil war! And....here is the best if not sneakiest part: the game players actually DO help each other!
How ingenious! I ask you: who wants to be a bad neighbor? Not most of us, so we will help fertilize or pick crops, brush farm animals, and harvest trees of their fruit for each other. So, it is not just a singular person playing a singular game. It is an entire community that is being built, person by person, farm by farm, day by day, and literally hour by hour. I know, because like an idiot I got caught up in this and feel as if I am being swallowed up alive!
I wanted to see what all the hoopla was about. A couple of our volunteers were unexpectedly MIA over the past year or so and I found out from some of their “neighbors” (people on our mutual contact lists who also play Farmville – it’s like a HUGE spider web of people, but if you’ve been on a computer recently, I don’t have to explain what this is like) that they were busy playing games such as Farmville, or FV for short. I remember thinking, “What?” How could a game take up so much time and energy?? Well, let me tell you: I found out! I’ve only been playing about 1 month and what happened today told me that I need to STOP. Stop right now, before it is too late --and before I lose myself in a make-believe community or, worse yet, that I give in to the urge to actually buy some of those Farmville dollars! I got news for you – this is never going to happen! I’ve worked too long and too hard for my money and there is no way I am going to spend it on an online game when there are games for free, all over the web. Besides, I have real work to do, and people to take care of. FV, step off!
It all came to a screeching halt for me today when in my early morning haze (that is, before my second cup of coffee for the day), I accidentally planted about 40 plots’ worth of cranberries, poinsettias, and some other gunk, without stopping to realize when I’d have to harvest them all.
“Oh crap!” I chided myself when I realized what I had done. At least two of the crops would mature in about 4 hours and I had planned to go out this morning. So, what did I do? I went out, anyway. And was a nervous wreck the whole time!! I could not wait to get back home in time to harvest my crops—or I’d suffer the loss of about $2,000 of my fake FV ‘money’. And, I’d look like a poor farmer to all of my FV neighbors, to boot! And, for all I know, I’d take them all down with me, too!
HOLY COW! That did it for me! I harvested my stupid cranberries and what-not, and on purpose, did not replant anything else. My little Christmas village house thing still doesn’t have its lights, and that’s OK. It’s only Dec. 7, after all. HEY…wait a minute!! There I go again! See what I mean??
Still, I do have about $104K in fake FV bucks, and found myself wishing for that one more additional neighbor so that I could enlarge my farm’s area (Yep…they get you there, too! Fake money isn’t enough – you need to have a certain number of neighbors, too!)
I need to get back out in the real world, I think. Back to the old drawing board; back to trying to figure out what my membership in my own non profit organization needs or wants, or would like to have. And all I can do now is pray that the answer isn’t “Give us a game like Farmville!” Oh, God! Anything but that!!
“There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.”
~ Theodore Roosevelt
You hear me mention my horse, Roxy, quite a bit both here and on my organization’s web site. I thought you might like to hear how Roxy entered my life, because, let’s face it, it’s not everyone who owns a horse! And, what does a 50+ y/o woman need with a four-legged hay burner, anyway? Trust me in this one: no one was more surprised than I was to suddenly find our family’s number increase by 1. Except for maybe my husband. He says this one was entirely on me, but judging by the grin he gets on his face every time I tell him about Roxy’s latest escapade, I know he’s secretly glad she is ours, too.
The year was 2002, and it was one of those milestone types of years for me. We had just moved to Pennsylvania two years previously, but I had not had the chance to get out much and learn my new surroundings. You see, my mother lived with us and she needed full time care as she was suffering from terminal lung cancer. So, for my first 2 years here in PA, I was more or less confined to my house. Even a trip to the food store meant I had to have someone come and stay with her for that hour or so that I was out. I relied heavily on the Hospice workers for their help.To make matters worse, for our first few years here, my hubby worked away all week long and only came home on the weekends. So, I was not able to get out and meet people. The feeling of isolation was often crushing for me, but I was more focused on taking care of Mom than worrying about my own social life. However, almost all too soon, in the early spring of 2002, Mom was gone. Suddenly, I was totally alone in a strange new city and had to start all over again. Filled with great sorrow, there was no one at home for me to take care of, or to converse or interact with. I felt as if I was totally alone in the world, and it terrified me and made me feel quite useless.
That’s when I started going to the back fence of our yard and watching the people ride their horses in the neighboring field. It all looked like so much fun! In another part of my blog, I mentioned how I met Cora Jean, and how she let me take a ride on her horse. One day, Cora introduced me to Cowboy, the man who ran the stables, and he invited me to come on over. I felt so stupid! I could barely walk, thanks to Osteonecrosis and two recently implanted artificial joints, but I was so lonely that I decided to take a chance.
Cowboy could see how much I loved all animals and how the horses just fascinated me. He urged me to come over any time that I wished, and I could tell that he meant it. He totally ignored the fact that I walked with a bad limp, and he treated me just like anybody else. It was almost as if he couldn’t see that there was something wrong with me, that it didn’t seem to matter one way or the other. Then, one day about two weeks after our first meeting, he asked me a question:
“How would you like to learn how to drive a little horse cart?”
I thought he was nuts! I mentioned how difficult it was for me to walk, and asked him how on earth I could ever learn something so complicated. He just smiled and said, “Marie…you can do anything you want, if you want to bad enough.”
Something inside of me just kind of snapped. I thought: Why not? There was nothing and no one at home for me to get back to or tend to, so why not? We agreed to meet the following morning for my first ‘lesson.’
Within two months, I had learned how to tack up a horse to a cart, and to drive him all around the barn, the fields, and eventually, out onto the streets. My first little horse was really Cowboy’s own Shetland pony, named Dakota. Dakota and I shared a special bond. No one really paid him much attention because he was so small and wasn’t’ “flashy” enough for them to ride (or strong enough, for that matter). But, for me, he was just perfect. He would pull the little pony cart with me at the reins just as proudly as he could, probably glad to have a ‘job’ to do. He felt useful. And, I began to feel not quite so handicapped any more. I was one of the few people Dakota didn’t kick at, or try to nip. In fact, he would actually smile at me – I swear!
Then, it was August. The whole gang was going up to the horse auction at New Holland, in Lancaster county, real Amish country. New Holland is also infamous for being an animal slaughter house as well, where people would buy horses and cattle at the auction and then sell them for slaughter by the pound. For many horses, New Holland was the very last stop. It is also where horse people would go to buy horses for their own purposes, either for pleasure riding or for working on a farm. Cowboy wanted to buy a couple of new horses for his farm, and he invited me to come along for the ride.
The whole group of us went up that day. As we walked through the holding pens, an idea began to take hold in me. I spotted several lovely small horses, bigger than Dakota but not as big as my friends’ horses, and found myself wishing I could own one. Cowboy realized how I was feeling and began to help me look. I found a handsome little pony, called a Hackney, with delicate bone structure and about 3 and a half feet tall at the shoulder.
“Nah! You don’t want that one,” he said with a tone of disapproval. “He’s too small and couldn’t ever pull a cart through the city streets.”
So, we walked around some more. Eventually, we came to this horse with a huge rump – and who stood about four feet tall at the shoulders. This horse was solid! She was anything but ‘fine boned’ and had a chest on her almost a foot and a half wide.
“Now, this is a pulling horse!” Cowboy announced with confidence. “Just look at her muscular chest and flanks!” Sure enough, she was huge, mass-wise. “She’s what they call a Welsh Cob pony and they are meant to pull,” he finished with satisfaction.
However, to me she looked like a small moose! I wasn’t so sure. In fact, I thought she was far too big for me and I wasn’t that impressed with her at all.
Then, she turned around and looked at me. As God is my witness, I will never, ever forget that look! It was sad, confused, and almost pleading with me, as if to say, “PLEASE! Get me out of here!” That’s when Cowboy and I noticed the sold sticker on her backside. Her number tag had a line through it, signifying she had been sold. Even worse, the line through the number was in red – meaning, she was destined for slaughter.
“Wait right here! I’ll be right back!’ Cowboy said, breaking out into a near-run. I stood with the horse and gently petted her. Her eyes never left mine and they contained so much gentleness and sadness that they nearly broke my heart. Then, she began to rub her head against my arm ever so gently; and I was completely and totally hooked. But…she was sold, and I couldn’t have her.
Or so I thought.
“Marie! We can buy her!!” Cowboy yelled at me across the crowd on his way back to me.
Without even thinking about it one second longer, I decided to buy this horse! She cost me only $100 more than the previous buyer paid for her and almost before I realized it, I was a brand new horse owner! There was a flurry of activity that ensued as we prepared her for the ride home. Fortunately, one of Cowboy’s buddies was there with his trailer and offered to bring her on home for me.
Since I live in the Roxborough area of Philly, I called her “Roxy’s Brown Sugar”, or simply Roxy for short. It fit her to a “T”. From the day we brought her home, Roxy and I were a team. Within one month, she was already pulling the cart. Strangely enough, my walking improved, too! Going down to the stables every day, I got the exercise I so badly needed. When Roxy was out in the field and I came down to the fence line, she would run lickety-split over to the fence the instant she realized I was there. I visited her every single day, rain or shine or even snow when winter arrived! We were simply inseparable.
The following spring, I was once again in the hospital getting another joint replaced, this time my left knee. My riding crowd friends told me that the whole time I was in the hospital, Roxy would not come out of her stall. She was way off her feed and would just stand facing the corner of her stall, refusing to pay attention to anyone or anything.
When I came home it was only about one week before I painfully and slowly made my way down the yard to the fence, only to find Roxy not in the field. Cowboy spotted me and called out, “Marie! Call out Roxy’s name!” This, I did. We heard this loud whinney from within the barn – and Cowboy ran to go get her.
Out of the barn she came trotting as fast as her legs would take her – and she ran right up to the fence where I was standing. I tossed her the apples I had with me and she started eating them up like crazy! The two of us remained there, me in my yard and she in her field, for the next hour or so, until the pain overtook me so badly that I had to go back in and lie down.
We have been together ever since, even though she now lives about 35 miles away from me. Her new stable and farm is just gorgeous and she is very happy there. For both of us, the weekends are when we each come alive as I go up there every weekend, almost without fail. I talk to her as if she was a person and, I swear, she understands every word! Our relationship is very unique as we are connected at the soul. Of that, I have no doubt at all.
I can’t help but feel that Roxy was meant to be in my life. She came to me at a time when I felt lost and alone – so very, very alone – and was in such great emotional and physical pain. In all truth, I think we more or less saved each others’ lives.
As for my hubby, he also loves her and he recognizes that she and I were meant to be a team. She has given far more to me as an individual, and to us as a couple, than we could ever give to her. She was one of the craziest, most extravagant decisions and purchases I’ve ever made in my life and I thank God every day that I took that chance.
Ahhh! Holiday time! It conjures up memories of families gathered ‘round the table, with actual wax candles in their holders, really lit up and gently illuminating everyone’s smiling faces. Lovely! For most people, that is. Then, there are those of us who live life a bit differently from most and holidays can take on a really different meaning. For us, it’s a time to do things we would never, EVER normally do, not in our wildest dreams! Not all of us grandmas have flour-covered aprons on. Some of us wear riding boots…..
One rather exuberant holiday event was the now infamous “Team Penning Incident”, which was held around Thanksgiving time a few years back. What is team penning, you ask? It’s a sporting event in the world of western horseback riding and rodeos, one better left to the professionals. Basically, a group of cattle is released on one end of this huge indoor riding ring. They charge down the field, helter- skelter, with people on horseback attempting to herd them into these little tiny penned in areas at the opposite end of the field. Hence “Team” (the folks on horseback) “Penning”, getting these poor, confused and somewhat angry cows into a little pen.
I was just learning to ride. My stable master, a rather old-time, gnarly, fat-back and grits cowboy from a different era and planet, had no qualms whatsoever about plunking me into a saddle on this huge horse and telling me to “Stay put! That’s all you have to do….just stay in the 16 hole and don’t move!” The 16 hole is the itty bitty space between the ‘walls’ of the cattle pen (metal gate-like panels) and the actual fence surrounding the riding ring. Basically, there is just enough room for a horse and rider – and the idea is to plug up that space with their bodies so that the cows can’t go anywhere but into the pen itself. Sounds pretty good in theory, right? Read on…
Nervous as can be, I sat on Moon, a huge American quarter- horse stallion (but gentle as a lamb), in the 16 hole spot, and waited for the event to begin. A loud horn screamed over the noise of the crowd – and about 20 “cows” came charging into the ring. Only they weren’t exactly cows. They were steers, with most of them sporting horns as long as a foot or more in length! And…they were coming straight at me and Moon!!
I had no idea what to do! All I could picture was Moon and me covered in blood with these huge steer horns going straight through our bodies like giant push-pins on a bulletin board, and I just froze. The crowd began to scream at us: “MOVE!! MOVE!!!” But, my stable master had told me to just stay there and stay put. So, that’s what I did. Besides, finding reverse on a horse who is already not too happy to begin with wasn’t so easy and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go forward, into the oncoming onslaught of these hell-bent for leather steers! So, I sat there and held my ground with Moon, who was snorting and kind of dancing from foot to foot. Not knowing what else to do, I turned and actually waved to the crowd – who suddenly began to cheer like crazy!! To them, I was exhibiting bravery the likes of which they hadn’t seen in a dog's age. But in reality, I was just being the inexperienced newbie that I truly was. Suddenly, one steer was thundering too close to the side of the ring and was heading straight for the 16 hole. NOW I had a problem! Moon clearly was not happy with this turn of events, nor was I. The steer wasn’t too crazy about it, either, but his momentum and all 2000 pounds of him just kept him coming.
Just like “that”, I was airborne as Moon decided to rear up at the last second. What a weird feeling that was! For a split second in time, I was not in contact with anything and was launched with rocket speed to about 8 to 10 feet above the ground – and was then coming back down just as fast. I hung on for dear life and almost before I knew it, I was back in my saddle with Moon snugly beneath it. The steer somehow put his brakes on in the nick of time and did a crazy 360 turn and swooped INTO the adjacent pen. The crowd wildly cheered its approval and then the buzzer sounded, signaling that this round of the event was over.
My friends from our stable just stood there -- for the longest time -- with their jaws gaping wide open…and as they helped me down off Moon, they clapped me soundly on my back, congratulating me the whole time. “WOW! We didn’t know you had it in you!” they chanted, among other things. One friend, Cora Jean (of course!), was just livid that I had somehow managed to upstage her – but all in all, I was too happy to still be alive to worry about anything else. Talk about “ Happy Thanksgiving!” Yee-freakin’-HA!
Somewhere in this neck of the woods are pictures of this team penning event, and a woman on a huge white horse who was rearing up, much like “Hi Yo Silver!”, and I’m told one even made the local paper. I’ve never seen them myself, nor do I care to. As for team penning, I never tried it again. One rodeo event in a newbie’s life is quite enough, thank you very much!
The late, great George Carlin said it right and said it best:
“So when you get right down to it, your house is nothing more than a place to keep your stuff…while you go out and get…more stuff. ‘Cause that’s what this country is all about. Tryin’ to get more stuff….”
I’ll never forget the first time I heard his monologue on “Stuff”. I laughed so hard I almost peed myself! George was a master at playing with the English language, and his clever use of irony made his side-splitting, laugh- uproarious monologues true American Classics. One thing for sure is that his point-blank, no-holds-barred view of Life made his audience come away with the feeling that, “Yes....he made a great point and in every sense of the word, is entirely correct.”
I loved the “Stuff” monologue the best on so many levels. Not only was the word-play hilarious, but the meanings behind the words were undeniable. And, I found out that George was absolutely correct -- more often than not, our stuff defines who we are. The stuff we keep and the stuff we discard or give away holds more truth about us than anyone could ever imagine.
For example:
Most people in the 45 to about 50 or so and up age bracket are facing the reality of suddenly having to deal with other people’s stuff. And, I’m talking about a lot of stuff. For my hubby and me, we had to deal with the things he inherited from his parents’ home which included many artifacts from his grand-parents as well. The same went for me: when we invited my mom to come live with us, where else were her belongings and furnishings going to go but in our home? I swear to God, but right now our basement looks like a museum from the early 1900’s up to about the year 2000. That’s pretty impressive, come to think of it! I’ve found photos so old that they are done in shades of brown (called “sepia”) naturally. You can’t help but wonder if people back then thought those pictures were done in color, and that they were mighty pleased with their accomplishment.
At any rate, between the furniture, china, glassware, books, records, video tapes, reel to reel tape recorders, and so many other things I’ve yet to un-box, we have a virtual store-house of stuff that belongs to us, but was never ours to begin with. It is the oddest feeling! What, exactly, does one keep and what does one toss?
There is a cute little figurine carved from wood that was made in Italy many years ago. My dad loved that little guy! With his tiny little wooden hand holding a bow poised above a minuscule violin frozen in timelessness, the figurine meant something powerful to my dad. To me, it is a curiosity that looks like it would be impossible to dust or clean without breaking it. But, Dad loved that carving. So, what should I do with it? The immediate response would most probably be “Put it on display someplace in your home.” Right. Along with, for example: dishes, bone china tea cups and saucers, a salt and pepper set collection that spanned almost 100 years, a shadowbox in the shape of a crescent moon, with little stairs going from bottom to top, each step holding a little knick-knack. Or, how about a shot glass collection, or about roughly 500 back-issues of The National Geographic magazine? And, let’s not forget more than 200 hand-embroidered or hand made dresser scarves, doilies and other things that withered, arthritic hands worked on with loving care. Almost bordering on the ridiculous, I have six sets of sterling silver tableware stored away: one each from my mother, her mother, Richie’s mother and grandmother, one great aunt – and one set that was given to me as young bride many years back.
Then, there are the nearly 500 LP records from my dad, who was a professional musician and music teacher. Carefully boxed away, we don’t dare unpack them for fear they will somehow be destroyed if we do. And....his video collection! Somehow, he and my mom got involved with one of those “Just buy one a month for the next 100 years…” companies, and the final upshot is that we wound up with more than 10 cardboard boxes of now-antiquated VCR tapes. In other words, my husband and I are drowning in stuff – all of it other people’s stuff. And, we aren’t quite sure what to do with it all. My kids want mementos, and that’s fine. But, they don’t necessarily want to take possession of it all just yet. Then, as some of them pointed out, there will be the matter of our stuff, when my husband and I shuffle off this mortal coil, things that my kids will have to deal with then, much as Richie and I are dealing with right now.
I swear this is also true: somewhere in my basement is a cardboard box that contains a lovely crystal stemware set that was a wedding gift from my first marriage. This set I have not seen in almost 25 years! That’s how long ago I packed it up, along with packing in my first marriage – and I haven’t seen it since.
I desperately want to clean out my basement, but I don’t dare. For certain, I will offend someone, somewhere, be they here on this mortal plain or elsewhere, if I dare to toss anything out or to give it away. There is enough furniture downstairs to completely furnish another home! But, my husband can’t bear to part with his mother’s “antiques” – and I have a similar problem when it comes to parting with my mother’s things. I’ve been trying to sort through and weed out a great many things for years, and mostly succeeded in just moving most of it from one spot to another. This is not my idea of organizing, not by a long shot!
Please don’t misunderstand me: I am honored to be the ‘gatekeeper’ of so many memories of so many beloved and greatly-missed people. It’s just that our home is very limited in space and I am very torn between what to show- case, and what to leave packed away. It always feels as if I am being unfair to somebody, as if I’m leaving someone out if their most treasured possession isn’t on display. Sometimes it even feels as if I don’t exist. If in some crazy universe we are wondered about by our “stuff”, then mine is packed away, buried under many other past lives’ and their life’s events, quietly waiting for another living person to discover it, and then to decide what to do with it all.
My poor kids are going to have to sort out this huge mountain of ‘stuff’ when it’s our turn to leave this world. I pity them – and hope they are up to the challenge. If they think we have a lot in our basement, they are going to keel over when they realize how much stuff we collected of our own – which is all upstairs – and which one assumes that one day will reside in their own basements.
George, you got it right, buddy! “Stuff” and more stuff – and our homes are truly meant to house it all. I just wish you would have told us how many generations’ worth is the safe and sane limit!
This year I bought something that I’ve been needing for an awfully long time: a stove with all 5 burners that work, plus one kick-butt oven! I mean, this oven is just gorgeous. The door is wide enough to allow me to put something in the oven larger than a breadbox, which is a novelty for me. Also, it works as promised. 350 degrees means 350 degrees and not somewhere between 250 and 450. There is even a handy window so that I can see what is going on inside. Martha Stewart, move over! There’s a new Kitchen Diva in town and she’s been cooking and baking up a storm! I’ve made some mighty fine stuff in my new oven and thought, “Swell! I am now all set for the holidays.” My daughter and her family are coming down for Thanksgiving this year, much to my delight. In the spirit of things, I decided to give this oven a test run. Really, since I won two free turkeys at our local super market and only had room in my freezer for one of them, I thought I’d cook one up yesterday. That sure would make a great test run – and looking back on it now, I thank God that I did.
I stuffed the 19 pound bird, tented it with foil, turned the oven on to 250 degrees and placed old Butterball in the oven. The game plan was that I would be spending a few hours up at the farm with my horse, Roxy, and the turkey would slow cook all day long and be ready to enjoy upon my return.
My horse pal, Cindi, and I go up and spend time with our horses every single weekend barring natural catastrophe or severe illness. This weekend was just spectacular in every sense of the word, so we set out to enjoy our day at the stables with our horses. As the day wore on, Cindi decided she wanted to stop at our local BJ’s SuperCenter and asked if I’d like to come with. Since I am a member there, too, the logical response would have been ‘yes’. But, something just didn’t feel right. I had the urge to get home, so I thanked her and added “I’ll take a rain check on that”. No problem-o, Cindi replied.
When I got home about 1 hour later and opened up my front door, I was in for a bit of a surprise. Instead of the heavenly aroma of turkey gently roasting in the oven, there was this peculiar, almost acrid smell. It reminded me of the time when a pan of oil I once over-heated on the stove top nearly burst into flame. Then, I noticed the smoke! Like a light haze at first, the farther I went into my house, the thicker it became. Finally, in my kitchen I could see wafts of smoke passing in front of the kitchen window and thought, “Oh, Crap!” Sure enough, my oven was full of smoke, and I did the dumbest thing ever. I opened up the door.
God must have been with me because I totally forgot Kitchen Fire Safety 101. If the oven is full of smoke, you should just turn it off and run for the fire extinguisher, just in case. To open the door could allow a flood of oxygen to ignite the interior into a ball of flame. I was very, very lucky. Apparently, the interior temperature was low enough that fire wasn’t imminent, but there was another problem. I don’t know how or why I did it, but I used the wrong roasting pan! It was far too small for the huge turkey, and so the juices spilled out over the edge of the pan. Fortunately, my oven is designed to have a hidden bottom element. It is below the floor of the oven, out of harm’s way. The juices had all collected in the well at the bottom of the oven and were just getting all smoky.
It took me a good hour and a half to clean up the mess. Another bonus is that my new oven steam cleans itself, which helped me a lot. The turkey was done to perfection, believe it or not, and my husband and I went on to enjoy a lovely meal.
But, I want to share this with everyone, so please listen up! Make sure you use the correct size pan for whatever you are cooking. And, if you are going to cook something while you are out….please don’t do it. I’ve never been a fan of that, but thought that with my new stove’s capabilities everything would go along just fine. You just never know what can happen, and if you are not there to take care of a little problem, it can develop into a huge one.
Whatever you do, please enjoy this holiday time. Cook, bake, eat and be merry. And remember to use the greatest of caution in the kitchen first, last, and always!
