The Olympic Games are almost over. Thankfully, grandson David was here when they began and got me hooked. I’m old enough to watch by myself, but it is so much more fun to watch with someone.
I have always been impressed with the technology involved. There must have been lots of chaotic moments, but the presentations were smooth. I enjoyed the quick background information about the athletes, because it made them seem three-dimensional. There are probably many sports fans who could have dispensed with that patter, but I liked it. NBC pushed American teams, which was expected. However, they also featured the outstanding winners from other countries. Usain Bolt of Jamaica was one of those.
Speaking of Usain, I had a nightmare about him. Who would have thought this giant runner with a jaunty air could inspire a nightmare? In my dream, I was watching him up close, as if I were a camera man beside the track. Every time he struck that signature pose of his, I felt a compulsion to swallow. What a struggle it was to swallow when there was nothing in my mouth! I desperately wanted to beg him to just smile and wave and quit tormenting me with that fun pose. Struggling out of sleep, I was almost sucking my teeth loose, trying to swallow.
The commentators never seemed to falter when pronouncing the names of the athletes. Yes, they probably had phonetic spellings, but I’ve heard church lectors mispronounce Elisha on a Sunday morning. Granted, the names may not have sounded quite right to their owners, but the sportscasters said them with authority. That brings to mind my question about “semi”. All my life I’ve heard people talk about semifinals, semiautomatic weapons, and semicircles. It was semmy, not sem-eye. Where on earth did sem-eye come from? All the TV people talked about the upcoming sem-eye for beach volleyball or the results of the sem-eye for the 100-meter race. Can you say sem-eye-circle without twisting your face? Sem-eye might be world-speak now with its constant airing of the past two weeks, but I will never say it willingly myself. Could I interest any of you to join me in a semi-serious protest of sem-eye?
Neighbor Connie knew John was away and, as a special treat, took me to the Smokey Mountain Coffee Roasters Cafe. We’ve lived in this area twice as long as she and Dave, but they already know the best places to go. I followed her lead and had a frozen mocha, a heavenly iced coffee topped with whipped cream. We settled at a small table in the back and talked to our hearts’ content. A few customers came and went, but I was doing what I liked best, visiting with a good friend. Connie has lots of excellent stories to relate, and one tale led directly into another. I asked how many times they had moved, and the answer was eight, twice as many times as we have. She worked at many different places through the years, something that would not have appealed to me but suited her thirst for variety.
I had no idea what time it was. Both our husbands called us on the phone, one perhaps looking for his lunch. We brushed them off like flies and continued my vacation day. When Connie looked at her watch, I thought she was surprised. I was shocked when she repeated the time. We had been there talking nonstop for six hours when I thought it might have been two or three!!! How could time go by so fast?
I took a souvenir picture, trying to show Connie’s face and the bags of coffee beans waiting to be roasted. The roasting machine is also in the background. It wasn’t a good likeness of her, but it’s the only one I took. We had confined our conversation to good things, but just think if we had gossiped, we might have roasted those beans right in their sacks!
The sad part about this account is that there was no one here to laugh. I would have been glad to pose for a photo if anyone had been here to take it.
The story began when we lived on Long Island, and I bought a balance ball to use as a desk chair. Our grandsons loved it, rolling about the alcove where I had my computer. I thought it was good for me, keeping my knees active for hours. All along I suspected it was a bit too big for me, but it worked, and I was happy.
I lost my computer desk when we moved to North Carolina, because it fit our new office perfectly. One of us was addicted to New York radio stations, so we could not share office space without driving the other crazy. The solution was to buy a bare-bones table which we put in the kitchen near the fireplace. I thought that would work well. I could write while baking or waiting for a pot to boil. The concept was excellent, but the execution nearly killed me. There were two things wrong. This table did not have a keyboard tray that slid out, so I was too far away to type comfortably. Blisters appeared on my big toes, big blisters that hurt! I was putting so much pressure on my feet to stay in front of the keys that it caused blisters. The ball was pushed aside in favor of my dad’s office chair.
After I changed the orientation of my computers, Dad’s heavy chair was not comfortable. The solution was to buy a new balance ball, one that was low enough for me to sit before a TV table. As you might guess, downsizing was trickier than it seemed. John helped me measure the height I needed, and I ordered a new ball from Amazon. It arrived the day our grandsons left.
I perceived no danger. After all, I had a good history of sitting on a balance ball, didn’t I?. The new one looked awfully low, like it was the height of a kindergarten chair. It has been about 41.7 years since I was confident about rising unaided from a kindergarten chair. I placed the ball in front of the computer and should have paid attention to my reservations about its lowness. I didn’t. Ohhhh! My knees were bent less than 90 degrees. I wish Rebecca, my physical therapist after knee replacements, had been there to measure that angle. She would have been so proud of me. Whoops! Watch out! Shifting just a little bit was much more drastic than on the bigger ball. I had about a foot of leeway on the old one and an eighth of an inch on the mini-ball. I would have to learn how to get on it at just the right place.
Accidents happen in a silly millisecond, but it’s amazing how much your brain can process in next to no time. The mini-ball was intent on dislodging me, having the mind of a stubborn bucking bronco. As I began rolling to the right, I grabbed for the flimsy TV table. These are the thoughts that went through my mind, “You’re going to fall. Hold onto the table. The table is wobbling, and the new computer is going to fall on the floor. You don’t want that, do you? Let go of the table. Try not to kick it as you go down. Golly! The mountain out there is at a funny angle! Who knew mountains could go that way?”
Whammmm!
The brain continued racing, although the body was suspiciously still. Brain thought, “No bones are sticking out of flesh. I survived a balance ball crash, didn’t I? Nothing hurts, does it? Why did I try this with no one else in the house? Did I really think I could balance on a marble? Where is someone to laugh with me? I would have chosen daughter Lise, being the most reliable laugher in accidental situations. She could have shrieked uncontrollably for 10 minutes had she witnessed that unbalanced dump. You better see if you can get off the floor before you start laughing at yourself.”
Uooffff! Dad’s sturdy chair was right where I needed it. I was up before the five-minute rule that says nothing is broken if you stand up before time runs out.
I’m not totally dumb and was leery of using the ball again without an audience. However, I am a miser, a really extreme one. I will not send back that glorified beach ball and get a bigger one, because I am going to sit on it if it kills me. You are supposed to get back on a horse if it throws you, aren’t you? OK. I will listen to one bit of advice. I will put Dad’s chair beside me, even if there is very little room to maneuver. What I really need is a cage or four walkers, one on each side. A safety pendant might be a good idea, too. Here is one last question. Where is the wisdom that comes with age? I know the real answer. I’m not as old as I thought I was!
Although temperatures were still seasonally hot, a fun summer ended for me when John headed north with our grandsons. We laughed every single day at things that were amusing or just silly. We were old enough to be silly, and they were mature enough to join in. Of course, there were tons of puns bandied about, with David reveling in them and Nathaniel claiming to despise them. Both were good at it. We delighted in visits with relatives in Summerville SC and Winston Salem. Relatives from Thomasville were here for a conference, so we were with them for a few hours. Touristy things included seeing a bit of Charleston, touring an Asheville mansion, and going to a mountain folk museum. Another high point of the visit was son John’s taking the young men on a hike to Chimney Rocks. While David worked, Nathaniel helped John build a waterfall in the garden – a treat for the eyes and ears! Quite often Nathaniel grilled the meat for dinner. Everyone enjoyed the food, and John was pleased that he didn’t have to build the fires and do the cooking.
The time slipped away for us to see neighbors Shawn, Bob, and young Logan. They came over to say goodbye, and sadly we didn’t hear them at the door. They left a very special calling card – vine ripened tomatoes and green peppers from their garden. Unlike us, they have a very USEFUL garden.
The last full day was a time for packing and putting things away. Nathaniel’s belongings were compact, but David was taking everything he’d need for college from summer clothes to winter coats.
At the very last minute, Nathaniel remembered the mirror ritual. One of the first things he does when he comes is moving the mirror from its normal hook to a high one left by the previous owners for a clock. The height is perfect for him, and him alone. I don’t know why he was wearing a winter hat topped with a conductor’s hat, but we do silly things here. He was probably taking them out to the car the easiest way possible. He and David assumed poses for the formal ritual. Nathaniel carefully moved the mirror and leaned down to check his reflection.
Formal pose for mirror ritualLast comfortable view for NathanielMirror set at normal heightCrouching for one last check
I hadn’t the heart to take a photo of the van before they left. I know it was unorthodox. They removed the middle seats. David sat in the front passenger seat, and Nathaniel folded himself into the very back where he was surrounded by luggage before and behind him. The last I heard from them was a text from David responding to my reporting of Olympic wins of the American swim teams. For me, this was a most satisfying summer, one filled with good memories and hopes of more to come.
Desalinization is the process of removing salt after an hour of humid gardening. The more common name is “shower”.
A desalinizating shower probably should be followed by a watermelon fest. I would shield you from my selfie, substituting a photo of grandson David approaching his personal feast after work.
My brother Bob and wife Beth could make the Energizer Bunny look anemic. They exhibit an aura of youth and vibrancy that at times makes me feel breathless. Lack of breath was a reality when they joined us in our morning walk to the creek. I could almost keep up with them going downhill, but the steep grade of Qualla Road? No way! It has become a tradition for me to take a photo of those who walk with us all the way to Jonathan Creek. That is a bit unfair, since no one looks his best after a mile-long, brisk walk. Still, people are more relaxed at the creek than after hoofing it up the steep hill.
I thought more about walking after being with the Energizers. There are various groups for sports, like heavy weight and light weight boxers. There are age groups for long foot races so that a 20-year-old isn’t competing against a 70-year-old. I need this kind of distinction! If nothing else, I want the peace of mind that I’m not a walking failure. I can’t compete against tall people like Beth and Bob whose strides must be two yards long. And grandson Nathaniel? At 6’4” he must go 1/8th of a mile with each step. I’d put myself in the Short Stride group, one step above Baby Stride. Going up the scale, we could have Normal, Tall, Giant, and Ginormous Strides. I need a mathematician here to set my foot-icap.
Our group activity was going to the Smith-McDowell mansion in Asheville, which I think is the oldest brick mansion in the city. Our tour began in the basement where the winter kitchen was on display. Each room on the upper two floors showed a different time period for the house, and there was a hands-on table in every room. We could pick up a curling iron, look through a stereoscope, and try using a button hook. In the dining room people were invited to arrange a place setting on a table, a challenge to get the plates and cutlery in the proper position. A most knowledgeable and engaging guide enhanced this visit as she introduced us to the past inhabitants with photographs. We wandered about on our own, but she was there to answer all our questions. How I wish I had taken her picture as she showed me how to work a mountain toy made with two sticks! The one you held steady had notches on it with a whirling blade at the end, only I couldn’t make it move. The other was just a plain stick that you rubbed back and forth over the notches. The trick was to hook your finger over the stick to make the blade go one way and press your thumb against the other side to reverse the blade.
Nathaniel was our chef, cooking turkey burgers and brats while I assembled the rest of the meal.
David volunteered to help Beth and Bob continue my battle with the juniper bed. By the time dinner was ready, they had trimmed about 95 percent of it back to the original stone boundaries. I had never seen those stones, since they were already overgrown when we moved here.
Lively conversation was a part of every meal. I may not have written about Nathaniel’s prowess with words. He has a wonderful vocabulary and speaks with confidence on many subjects. However, you need to be alert. When he doesn’t know the correct word, he inserts one he has made up on the spot. It’s such a smooth part of the patter that you wonder if you heard it correctly. I let him finish his sentence, but I called him on “oblitherate.” All of us managed to use that word at least 10 times, including a laughing Nathaniel. What a good sport he is!
After our walk (breathless for me), we had a leisurely breakfast. Nathaniel challenged Beth to do more gardening. She, Bob, and I finished off the juniper jungle while our favorite teen dug up the iris bed. We had a few blooms the first spring and only one this year. The fellows retreated to the cool house as we went after the weeds and replanted the iris nearer the top of the dirt. Fair-skinned Bob came out to applaud our progress, hiding from the sun in the shade of the crepe myrtle for the viewing.
I assumed our projects were finished when Bob mentioned the refrigerator. He and Nathaniel were on the floor looking at it, supervised by John and Beth. Bob vacuumed the grill, and they cleaned behind the appliance while John went for the part we needed.
The toy camera insisted on a farewell picture to show our relatives when they weren’t working. Grandson David was missing from most of thesephotos because he was at work.
When I brought the container to the table, I explained to grandsons David and Nathaniel that it was something new. A friend sent a recipe for summer oatmeal, and I wanted to try it before serving it to brother Bob and wife Beth. We were recently at their house where a new favorite breakfast was Greek yogurt and fruit. This recipe included both, along with oats and flavoring.
I went back in the kitchen for something, and when I came back, the lads had smirks on their faces. Nathaniel admitted he thought the concoction looked like tuna fish, at which David’s laugh escaped. Both dissolved into snickers. As you can guess, there were no candy bars in sight.
Nathaniel said, “Gran, you have to admit it does look like tuna salad.”
Grinning back, I said, “You are absolutely right.”
They rushed to assure me that they would give the dish a fair try. I suggested they take a teaspoonful to taste and get regular cereal if they didn’t like it. I added fresh blueberries to mine, and a few bites later, some banana slices.
We got a bit silly after that. David demonstrated how thick the stuff was, turning his bowl upside down.
Not to be outdone, Nathaniel did the same with the serving dish.
They brought up some movie clip they had shared with me, one where the homemaker serves a slimy neon-blue dessert to her husband and son. It slithered off the table in the closing scene. More snickers. One of them, I’m not sure which, said we should put hot chocolate mix on it, to mimic what Bob adds to his breakfast yogurt. We had tried that at his house and liked it. I went to the cabinet to pull down a box that had not been opened. My surprise was finding there were K-cups inside. I stabbed one with a knife, and we all took some.
Beth and Bob are already on the road to come here. If you want to vote whether I should make breakfast oatmeal for them, cast your vote by 10 pm on August 4. Comments welcome any time.
John was reading the newspaper when he put it down and asked, “Do you think we aught to go to this meeting about Alzheimer’s disease?”
“No, why should we?” I replied.
He said, “I just thought it might be a good idea to learn more about it.”
I wondered if he thought I was heading for it. If so, I wouldn’t be interested, would I? I’d be oblivious. Was he trying it on for himself? I’d be even more disinterested if he were hurrying me to be his caretaker. Let’s just keep our heads in the sand.
Nothing more was said, and we went on with the day. Not more than two hours later I was preparing one of our favorite Jello salads. Pouring it into the mold I always use, I wondered why the level was lower than usual. Golly Pete! I had forgotten to put in a key ingredient, crushed pineapple. That was easily remedied, but maybe I shouldn’t have terminated that “old” conversation so quickly.
I was quite young when my parents identified Queen Anne’s lace for me. Egocentric child that I was, I took pride in the bountiful display of this beautiful bloom that was connected to my name.. It never occurred to me that a flower in every ditch was not likely to be precious.
Fast forward 65 years. If anyone asked me to identify Queen Anne’s lace from the window of a moving car, I could have done it in an instant. You are welcome to laugh when I tell you I did not recognize it in our own garden. A plant that voluntarily came up two years in a row was accepted for what it was – something with wispy green foliage, spindly stems, and bedraggled white blooms hardly worth looking at. Neighbor Amy, in response to my openness to hear her garden secrets, identified it about a year ago. She gently let me know most folks would consider it a weed.
I thought my opinion of the weed would remain low. It did until a gifted naturalist wrote about it in the Asheville newspaper at the end of the growing season. I looked for the article from last year but couldn’t find it. Daughter Lise found it, though, and she lives in Denmark. Maybe I was too close. The man included a folk tale of how it got its name, explained it was part of the carrot family, and published a painting of it done by his wife. He noted that many mature blooms have a dark spot in the middle which may attract insects. I looked at every bloom, trying to see that black spot and was unsuccessful. Click here to read the article.
This year I again looked for a tiny black area in the blooms we passed on our morning walk. Eureka! Many of the plants had them! I have no clue why I couldn’t see a single one last year. The tiny black area was usually raised above the white, which was quite distinctive close up. When we drive in and out of our area, I wear a smug smile. I know a secret now that was hidden from me for most of a generous lifetime.
I am a most reluctant gardener which has been stated many times before. I am also a miser, and that must be the root of the problem. We inherited a nice little garden with this house. John said at the outset that he was not going to get caught up in it, so what choice did I have? I couldn’t let the previous owner’s investment of time and money go to waste, could I? Besides, I was surrounded by real gardeners – former neighbor Amy, across the street Shawn and Bob, and next door Joyce. They might have needed someone to look down on, and I was the perfect one. Instead, they were most helpful, willing to share advice whenever asked. I couldn’t let down the neighborhood.
I almost gardened myself silly this morning. All I went out for was to trim off the dead roses. Several times I had clipped around two areas with low-growing evergreens near the pergola. That’s where I started on the way to the roses.
First clippings are near the stone wall.
Somehow I missed the big bed just outside the porch screened door. The former owners had the area carefully ringed in stones, and I let those bushes get way past their boundary. Despite having already put in my quota of pruning time, I whacked about 5 feet of that line. The butchering was done with a dull pair of clippers, the action being more twisting than cutting.
Stones were exposed, and the gravel walk was strewn with branches.
Miles of evergreen later, I almost couldn’t walk back in the house. I came in thankful the garden didn’t kill me today. I really don’t want a garden that I WILL DIE FOR!!!!
My name is Suki, my human is a writer, and this is about my world. The world according to Suki The Cat. My humans smell funny, look weird, and I can't understand a thing they say, but they feed me, so hey, what are you gonna do?
Mehrling Muse 