Mom & Me Four Archive

    In case you want to know what javelina look like and why they are interested in domesticated yards, this Walking Prescott post has a good picture, toward the end, of a javelina family. The post focuses on javelina supremacy in the Prescott stand-off between domestic gardeners and domestic-garden-loving javelina. In my area, javelina have been known to ascend balcony stairs to go after my neighbor's to the east herb garden and dig underneath chain-link fencing to eat the new tomato and pepper plants lovingly set by my neighbor to the west. The reason I know about both these incidents is that I heard the squealing of the stuck javelinas in both cases and came out to investigate. In our yard, the javelina provided a long running lesson on how to secure a compost bin from being knocked over and plowed through every night. Since our yard is fairly wild, as well, during the lean times they often snuffle around at night in our open front yard, looking for treats. Our cats and I heard the first seasonal javelina tour group outside our eastern Arcadia door yesterday evening, in fact. No, nowhere near to the newly planted bulbs, luckily.

...on the immediately previous post with some much needed cautions on bulb plants. Since the comment focused on our problems with javelina, my curiosity caused me to search her web moniker. Sure enough, up came a couple of sites, one, in particular, that might be of interested to my readers: Walking Prescott. I'm smiling as I recall my scan through it. It's a delightful, idiosyncratic tour of "Everyone's Hometown," "Christmas City, Arizona", "First Capital of Arizona", the official name of the Christmas card in which Mom and I live: Prescott, Arizona. I haven't read through the entire site, yet, although I will. I've gone through the pictures, though, and they are eccentric and delightful, very representative of what it's like to live here, geared to a resident's walker's eye view of Prescott, the walker being Granny J. Prescott is a mountain city-town full of walkers, so her journal presents a more appropriate view of Prescott than professional PR sites. As well, in her response to an e I sent to her earlier today (which contained even more valuable tips for bulb success, thank you again, Granny J), she mentioned that she has a Mom, too, 103, the "wonder woman" of the assisted living facility in which she now resides here in Prescott, whom she tells me she mentions in her blog, which further whets my appetite.
    I'm going to link this to my Special Posts section, too.
    Anyway, got a pharmacy run to make during Mom's upcoming nap. Better snap to.
    Later.

...so we're pushing arousal to 1400. I'll be stern, this time. I wonder if that small slice of banana pie elevated her blood sugar into the "sticky eye" area.
    Forgot to mention, though (I was reminded of this when bending over my mother's bed to prod her into wakefulness), she did, indeed, remember that yesterday was my birthday. Immediately upon arousal she burst into, "Happy Birthday to you...", through which I accompanied her, of course. The song came up a couple other times during the day, as well, during odd, funny moments. Finally, last night, as we were in the bathroom preparing her for bed, she said, "Well, today was a good birthday, wasn't it."
    Just for fun, I heckled, "Yes, it was. I'm wondering, though, whose birthday it was!"
    "Doesn't matter," she said, "as long as the birthday person lives in this house."
    Good point.

    Birthday wishes from unexpected places, including an hilarious "pumpkin butt" card from MCS (in sly reference, I imagine, to the fact that I did come in on a load of pumpkins, something most people prefer not to admit); a birthday call from the sister who sent the card; a strange little Halloween birthday puzzle emailed to me by a friend, which it took me a half hour to master, in part because I didn't think I needed to do anything, at first; birthday calls from a nephew and niece with whom I am particularly close; a beautiful purple/magenta/yellow flower arrangement from MFS which arrived on my birthday, as well as a DVD gift from her (arrived today) which delighted me into outloud laughter (for many reasons) when I opened it: A disc of three key episodes from The Dog Whisperer! This is one of those programs to which I've occasionally tried to steer my mother, considering how much she'd love to have us host a dog, but there is always something else she'd rather watch. No excuses now! I even maneuvered a hapless election telephone poll researcher into wishing me a "Happy Halloween Birthday" yesterday while he questioned me on upcoming election issues and collected my "stats", including birthdate.
    The dinner was perfect. The banana cream pie was a surprise. After discovering that I needed only half the bananas I'd bought, Mom and I discussed the ingredients and decided to "start small", since both of us are wary of pies containing bananas and/or "cream": Fresh sliced bananas and pecans only for this run, no ginger (might not work), no dates (might make it waaaay too sweet). We had to wait a couple of hours after dinner to approach the idea of tasting the pie, which we finally did, just prior to her retirement (at around 0100 this morning); very thin slices. Considering how much fresh banana I used and that I was insistent on finding (at a natural foods market) banana flavoring that isn't artificial, the flavor was, truly, that of banana. The pecans were an inspiration in this pie. They (which I cooked within the pudding) turned the pudding in to a sort of sienna beige, pretty color, and added a subtle nutty flavor to the pie. The pudding set up very well.
    Later, I decided to something I haven't done a few years, visit my favorite astrological charting site and run a solar return on myself for this year. [For a quick reveiw about my involvement with and attitudes toward astrology, see here.] Yeow! Hard to miss that indomintable Saturn (ruling, in the Solar Return, my third house of siblings and overt communication) conjuncting my midheaven this year, throwing strong squares my first house planets planets and forming the axle of a T-Square, which deposits into my 7th house of partnership and open enemies, through an opposition to Neptune! Discipline (Saturn) in the face of illusion (Neptune), ameliorated by companionship (of my mother, I assume) and openly acknowledging conflict (both 7th house issues), with the help of self-concept (Jupiter ruler of solar Second House), ancestors (Mercury, ruler of solar Eigth House) and friends, hopes, wishes and dreams (Mercury also ruler of solar Eleventh House) at the apex of the T-Square, which resides in the Solar First House! Wow! Well, that year has already started, that's for sure! I find it interesting that I've used the word "discipline" very recently, not only in this journal, when talking about myself and what I'm doing with my mother. I also find it interesting that I have lately been very focused, both in particular and in general, on relationships between caregivers and other relatives. Out of curiosity, after sleeping on that Solar Return, I decided to run a Solar Return for last year. It is dominated by a rigid Grand Cross in the Third, Sixth, Ninth and Twelfth Houses, riveted by Saturn (ruling, this time, the 5th house of creativity of all kinds, including procreation, play, artfully creative activities, etc.) in the Twelfth. Lots of frustration. This year's has a point of discharge, though, which is somewhat more optimistic.
    When I first compared the two Solar charts I was struck with the feeling that, looking back, I don't consider that I was unusually frustrated. In the course of last year, though, I exploded due to frustrations over my circle of familial relationships and its implications for my companionship with my mother. I find it interesting to consider that the explosion accomplished only my eventual acceptance of the situation. Perhaps, this year, that acceptance will not be an "only" factor; it will be the key to a recharging of my life as my mother's caregiver/companion within the circle of my family.
    Having said all this, above, I will be filing the charts away and forgetting them until my birthday next year prods me into my usual concentrated birthday fascination with myself.
    I checked on my mother at 1300. She asked for another half hour, despite the temptation of video delights awaiting us today (The Dog Whisperer and a rental copy of Sunday in the Park with George).
    We also received, yesterday, the collection of unusual iris bulbs I ordered a while back. I'll probably plant them this afternoon or tomorrow morning...most likely tomorrow morning. When they arrived yesterday, Mom was excited and up for supervising their planting today. I have a feeling, though, just from her reaction to my wake-up call at 1300, and the overcast weather we're having, today, that I'm not going to be able to get her out. They need to be planted quickly, now, so I'm sure I'll be digging around early tomorrow morning. Our yard is, finally, next spring and early summer, going to be a riot of irises, daffodils, tulips and a miscellaneous mixture of flowering bulb plants...assuming of course, that the javelina don't eat most of the shoots, as they did this year. I'm guessing they won't, since we've had a wet spring and summer, a wet winter is promised, so they will, as usual except for last year, have plenty of munchies outside the perimeter of our property. Here's hoping...

    On the day of my father's birthday he was looking forward to early retirement from his Civil Service job in June of that year, when all our family that remained home moved to the U.S. proper from Guam. Although my parents had planned extensive travel for their retirement years, my father was soon to declare that he was going to sit in his rocking chair and drink himself to death. It took him 13 years to accomplish this.
    On the day of my mother's birthday, our family had returned to the states and was living temporarily in Prescott, AZ. One of my sisters was preparing for her hastily chosen wedding in August, less than a half month away. My parents' restless sojourn back and forth (and back and forth) between Texas and Arizona had yet to begin.
    At 55, my father was almost burnt out...glimmers of hope flashed here and there but, mostly, he was tired of life and scared of the emptiness he was sure he faced.
    At 55, my mother was harried but hopeful. She was stressed over the surprise wedding which everyone thought was unwise, but, realizing she could not stop it, fully caught up in the preparations. She was, as well, extremely optimistic about her and my father's "retirement".
    On this, the day after the last day of my 55th year (although I will, officially, be "55", I will begin telling people I am in my 56th year, which is true...an old habit, started when I was much younger and wanted to be much older), I think I can confidently say that I feel quite a bit different about this age than my parents felt about reaching 55. This is not and probably will not be a watershed year for me, as it was for my parents. There is nothing happening that is marking any kind of passage. At 55, I think my father felt "old". At 55, I think my mother felt, "What?!? 55? Well, all right, but I don't 'feel' 55." Me? I'm cruising. I have no problem admitting how long I've been around. I'm just pleasantly surprised that this is what 55 is like for me. I don't feel essentially different than I did when I was nine. In fact, since I'm on the other end of menopause, I probably feel more like I did when I was nine than I have for 46 years.
    On my 9th birthday in 1960, as I was riding the bus to school, I remember looking out through the window and the passing boonies, planning bike trips to the mysteries hidden in dense overgrowth along the route, thinking about how I felt that day: Energetic, hopeful, excited, much too savvy and wise to be "only nine"... I made a decision. I decided that every year on my birthday I would remember that bus trip, how I felt at that time and compare it with how I felt on my birthday every succeeding year. I've done this faithfully.
    I remember much of that day. The day at school even had an auspiciously exciting start: Someone threw a used menstrual napkin into the middle of the playground, around which all of us kids gathered, oohing and ahhing. A presentation about menstruation was planned at school for the 5th grade girls that day. Fourth grade girls, of which I was one, were allowed with parental permission and presence. I was the only 4th grade girl who attended (with my mother). I was pleased because I was hoping the presentation was going to include a Disney cartoon movie about menstruation that I'd seen a few years previous when I'd accompanied my older sister to a similar presentation in California, where we were living at the time. The movie had enchanted me, although I hadn't understood any of it. I loved it, especially a scene wherein a developing girl takes a shower and ice cubes come out of the spigot. This time around, in the 4th grade, when, much to my delight, the movie was shown, I absorbed the mechanics of the process but still didn't relate it to myself.
    I had a family party rather than a neighborhood party. I don't remember why, but it was my choice. Our parents left those decisions to us, past "a certain age", probably school age. My mother had informed me, as well, some months previous to my birthday, that this was the last year I could receive a doll as a present. If I wanted one, I was to pick out exactly the kind I wanted. The only doll I'd ever wanted was a "Muffy" doll, when I was in the 1st grade. The only reason I wanted it was because my oldest sister had one and I idolized my oldest sister. By the time I decided I needed this doll, though, they were no longer being made. The only dolls with which I ever "played" were errant, naked Barbie and Ken dolls belonging to my younger sisters. I used them to instruct my younger sisters regarding the positions of sexual intercourse, including an explanation of what their genitalia would look like and what those organs would be doing in various positions, "...if they had them." I preferred tiny glass and ceramic animals and chess pieces as the animated elements in my fantasies, if I wasn't busy imagining that I was a horse. However, this impending doll hallmark seemed unusually important to me. I figured, well, I'd better pick one out. I did.
    We were also allowed to plan our favorite dinner. I asked for hamburger patties with cheese and pickled beets (canned beets pickled while cooking with vinegar and spices; no sugar). I'm sure I had a cake of some kind, but I don't remember it. Remembering my preferences of the time, though, I probably asked for chocolate without frosting. I was probably told that it would have frosting, anyway, since the rest of the family liked frosting. I probably also asked for ice cream, most likely Rocky Road. If I had made it to the part of the dinner that included dessert (which I didn't), I would have demanded a piece of cake from the center, which would have the least amount of icing, then would have scraped my icing onto someone else's plate.
    During dinner someone made the mistake of asking what happened to us at school that day. When my turn came, I related the playground incident, then went on to extoll the virtues of the Disney menstrual movie, proceeding to explain, in detail, the journey of an egg through female fertility plumbing. My oldest sister turned scarlet with embarrassment. My father, as my presentation progressed, tried, several times, to stop me, until, annoyed and argumentative, I gave up, disgusted, having the last word with, "It's just about a little egg!"
    Dinner devolved from there. My feelings were hurt and I began to cry. I tried to cut my hamburger while I was blubbering, the knife slipped and launched the burger across the table and onto the floor. I left the table of my own miserable accord to cry and pout in my room.
    The doll? I never named it. Feeling an immense responsibility toward it, I taught myself to sew by hand by making her a wardrobe. I asked my father to make her a bed, which he did. Every morning for about a month I'd dress the doll, make her bed, sit her up on it. Every night before I retired I'd put her in pajamas and tuck her back into bed. I didn't play with her, other than that. She was quickly forgotten and discarded sometime before I became a teenager.
    I will, tonight, on this birthday, fix a dinner of food I like, want and haven't had for quite awhile: Marinated, grilled rib eye steak. We'll have small baked potatoes with butter, sour cream and chives. I'll dig all the white stuff out of mine, ask Mom if she wants it, she'll say, "No," I'll discard it and eat the remaining skin. We'll have steamed brocolli with a home made Asian dressing, loaded with ginger, rice vinegar and hot curry powder, a dash of soy, a peanut oil base.
    I was going to forego dessert but suddenly, an hour or so ago, I realized I wanted banana cream pie. This is bizarre. I like bananas but have never relished the idea of banana cream pie, and my mother doesn't like it, either, although she, too, likes bananas. I may have tasted one at some time, I don't remember. If I did, it was probably while at dinner at someone's house and strictly to be polite. Whatever, I decided, I seem to want this, so I'll have it. I considered buying one but figured it probably wouldn't have many bananas in it. I went to the store, even though I made sure all errands were up-to-date so I wouldn't need to go out today, bought bananas, banana flavoring, milk and a ready made graham cracker crust (I don't feel like messing with an original today). When I make my banana cream pie it will be more bananas than cream. I'll include chopped pecans. It occurred to me, on the way home, that I might even add chopped dates and a teaspoon of ginger, out of curiosity. Should be interesting.
    I'll probably let Mom sleep in, at least until I get nervous, which will probably be around 1400. She didn't retire until 0130 this morning, though, so I think she'll be fine. I probably won't encourage a walkering session today.
    She may or may not remember it's my birthday. I think it'll depend on whether she is reminded that it is Halloween.
    Although it's not a doll birthday this year, I am my mother's companion and feel an immense responsibility toward her, which is displayed in a variety of ways, none of which involves making clothes for her. Fortunately, I also have much more interest in her than I did in a doll. I don't expect we'll be watching any menstrual movies, but, this year, for the first year since I turned 9, I feel like I'm again riding that fateful bus. I feel much the same as I did then; I'm even expecting to catch a glimpse of sparkling mysteries, to which I will plan trips.
    Later.

...in regard to the immediately previous post, I mean. Nothing, nothing, that needs to be read. I don't want anything around me that will get in the way of delingualizing my brain.
    Later.