The Scent of the Season

When she was six and I was twelve, my sister got a dog. One of our uncles gave it to her, I think because the dog could outsmart him. The dog was a toy fox terrier named Pepper. He was unbelievably cute – he looked like a tiny white and black deer – and amazingly smart. He was feisty; he had a hilarious personality and a thirst for adventure.

He also really, really liked to annoy me.

In his defense, I think the only reason he liked to annoy me is that I didn’t like him. I was just not a dog-person. I thought he was adorable and smart; I loved him in the abstract. I just didn’t want him on my lap or in my room, and on car trips, I didn’t want him snuggled up next to me.

I think Pepper originally wanted to be with me because he had hung out with my cousin before he came to live with us, and I was her general size and shape. However, once he figured out I didn’t want him on me or around me, he clearly thought, “Hmmm. I can have some fun with that.”

Pepper was mainly an outside dog, but he was allowed to come inside during cold weather. Anytime he was in the house, he would make a beeline for my bedroom. He did not enter the bedroom, though. He was too smart for that. He would sit just outside my bedroom door, so close that it would bump his nose if I closed the door, but still in the hallway so I couldn’t say, “Pepper, get out of my room.” He would sit there and watch me. That’s all, just sit and watch. It annoyed the daylights out of me for some reason unknown to me today, and I would eventually break under the pressure and yell, “Colene, call your dog!!!!” Colene would call, “Pepper!” and he would bound off to play with her. (There was one notable occasion, still famous in our family, when Colene was actually hiding under my bed so she could jump out and scare me. Pepper was in his usual pose in my doorway when I arrived. I immediately yelled, “Colene, call your dog!!!” and from under my bed came a tiny, tentative voice: “Pepper?”)

Anyway, since it is usually cold(er) in Austin in December, Pepper was often in the house during the Christmas season. He was in his glory. He strutted around the house. He examined the Christmas tree. He examined the gifts under the Christmas tree.

And, every year, he peed on at least one of my Christmas presents.

Only on my presents. Never on anyone else’s presents.

Always, always on my presents.

Our house had hardwood floors and Lucy#1 and Leroy had to re-polish the floor in the living room every new year because the peed-upon wrapping paper would lose its dye and stain the floor. Every year. No one ever caught him in the midst of his villainy, but every year when I opened my presents on Christmas morning, at least one of them would have telltale signs of an encounter with Pepper.

The Christmas that still makes us howl with laughter (although, believe me, my original howls were not laughter) was the year Grandma gave me a box of scented candles for Christmas. Yes, that’s right; there were scented candles in a box under the tree for me. And yes, that’s also right; Pepper peed on them. I don’t remember now what scents they were originally, but by the time I opened the package . . . well, let’s just say the original scent was not apparent.

Pepper and I battled it out until I left for college. I missed him when I left, and while I still didn’t really want him on my lap when I returned for weekends and holidays, I was a little softer-hearted about having him in my room. (He still peed on my Christmas gifts, though.) Eventually I grew up, and Pepper and I maintained a reasonable friendship. When I’d go over to visit the parents, I’d go out and pet Pepper and chit-chat with him. Pepper was part of our family for 16 years, and we all took it very hard when he died.

I guess Pepper’s “mark” is as much a part of our holiday tradition as the tree and the fudge, and he is still making our Christmas memories merry.

 

If that were my tree . . . .

Our family has pretty much always celebrated the season with eclectic Christmas tree. Lots of multicolored lights, all the ornaments we own, silver icicles, sometimes even flocking were on our tree. Eclectic is what we always had and we loved the whole gaudy thing. Decorating was a walk down memory lane, seeing all the ornaments collected throughout the years, rushing to find and our hang our own personal favorites.

We deviated only once in my memory.

Sometime in the early 70s, we decided we would have a theme for our Christmas tree – we would celebrate with a blue and silver tree. It would be very wintery, almost icy. It would be so amazing to have such a cool-looking tree in the heat of an Austin, Texas, winter. We switched out all the bulbs until we had strings of blue and white lights. We shopped for new ornaments, all blue and silver. We decorated our theme tree and it was everything we had hoped. Stunning! Artistic! Beautifully modern!

The actual decorating was a little bit of a bummer because the treasured ornaments we had hung every Christmas were absent, but it was fun watching the silver and blue ornaments, the silver and white lights, and the silver icicles come together into icy beauty. We liked it!!

Grandma (Lucy#1’s mom) came to our house for Christmas that year. We always enjoyed having her with us. She was a barrel of laughs, always willing to tell us stories of her youth, always thrilled to cook us meals and do lots of Christmas baking, including her famous Mogen-David-wine-laced fruitcake.  (If you don’t like fruitcake, it’s because you never had my grandma’s fruitcake. ‘Nuff said. J)

When Grandma arrived we could not wait to show her our gorgeous blue and silver Christmas tree. She studied it for a moment, then said, “I always have red lights on my Christmas tree.”

“We usually do, too, Grandma, but this is a theme tree. We want it to be just silver and blue. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Yes, but it needs some red lights.”

She didn’t tell us we were wrong; she didn’t make fun of our silvery tree. But, every day when Grandma passed by our tree, she would say, “If that were my tree, I’d put some red lights on it.”

 

That comment’s become an in-joke for my sister and me. If something is just a little bit off, one of us will say to the other, “If that were my tree, I’d put some red lights on it.” If we see a pre-lit tree, all white lights and glittering with shiny ornaments -- “If that were my tree, I’d put some red lights on it.” Just a few days ago, I found some cross-stitched ornaments I made for my parents in 1985 or 1986. I texted a photo to my sister, with the envelope I mailed them in (which is where Lucy#1 stored them every year), saying, “Wow! Look what I found.” And my sister texted back, “If that were my tree, I’d put some red lights on it!”

Memories. They’re the best!

 

Christmas Memories

December and I have a love-hate relationship. I love December because it’s cold(er) outside, Christmas music is everywhere, houses are lit up with pretty lights, lovely cards are in my mailbox, cookies!!, and no one looks at me funny if I say I’m gearing up for a weekend of A Christmas Story, Scrooge, The Santa Clause, and Die Hard. (Okay, so they do look at me funny about Die Hard, but it takes place at Christmas, there are Christmas carols, and doesn't Bruce Willis wish the bad guy a Merry Christmas? That's right. Ha!) I hate December because I’ve been listening to Christmas music everywhere since just after Halloween, I’m always behind on sending my Christmas cards (raise your hand if you have even received a card from me in the last five years, yes both of you, raise a hand), the traffic is terrible all over town, my jeans don’t want to zip up, and the forecast is for an ice storm so we’ve had to cancel our office Christmas party. Fortunately for my seasonal cheer, the things I love about December are so very loveable that they completely overshadow the things I hate. And I do love Christmas – celebrating baby Jesus coming to save us, Santa Claus flying in on the 24^th, Christmas trees!

Having spent my youth and first 20 adult years in Austin, I equate brake lights on the highway during bleak, rainy weather with Christmas. (Now you know what December is like in Austin.) I got really excited driving home the other day because it was cold and kind of drizzling and the roads were getting slick so everyone was driving on their brakes. All I could think was, “Yay, Christmas is coming!” The minute I got home, I put Christmas CDs in my car. J

This Christmas could be a bummer because I had so many Christmas plans for Lucy#1 and me. I was looking forward to us putting up a tree, singing along with the Christmas music, decorating sugar cookies, baking chocolate pie, watching Christmas movies, and just celebrating together all month long while we reminisced about Christmases past and laughed over the good old stories and fun times.

Phooey.

But, I have decided to refuse to let gloom overcome the joy of the season or the joy of Lucy#1. So, I’m going to share some of the memorable Christmas moments our family has had over the years, and I’m going to remember these moments and more when I miss Lucy#1 this Christmas season.

The first really outstanding Christmas I remember, I was five. Lucy#1 made cookies and brownies and fudge, and then, amazingly, on Christmas Eve no one policed my consumption of those goodies. I ate all the cookies and brownies and fudge I could hold. Yum!! I was in sugar-induced heaven . . . . right up until that moment in middle of the night when those cookies started coming back up. I didn’t go straight for the bathroom when I realized I was going to be sick – I headed for my mama – so I tossed up those cookies right in front of my parents’s bedroom door. My parents were thrilled, of course, and my daddy cleaned up the floor while my mama cleaned up the kid. She put me in clean pajamas and they tucked me back into my warm sugar-plum bed. I slept a little while, then, ruh-roh! More cookies coming up! I went straight to the bathroom that time, but wasn’t fast enough. Repeat prior activities by all. Then, wait half an hour and repeat. Then, ditto, until I ran out of clean pajamas. My mother (who had apparently peeked while Santa was there) went down and got me some nice, brand-new jammies from under the tree. I don’t know how many times I have heard about me saying, “Isn’t it good that Santa brought me new pajamas? It’s like he knew I would need them tonight.” (In case you are wondering, I was never allowed free reign at the Christmas goodies table again.)

The next huge Christmas event in my memory concerns my sister. She was almost three. She loved her Christmas gifts. She loved each of them so much that she had to be forced to open the next one. First she saw toys from Santa. She started playing with one. Mama and Daddy had to take it away from her and show her the next toy. She played with that. I showed her a wrapped package. She opened it. It was a little outfit. She put it on (without help, because she was fiercely independent and wouldn’t allow anyone to assist her). Then we talked her into opening the next gift. It was a book. She sat down to “read” it. It took her what felt to me like h-o-u-r-s to open her gifts. Each year, someone would mention that Christmas morning, and our whole family would chuckle about how cute she was and how appreciative of every gift.

Our first Christmas in Germany was amazing. We lived in a little German town, upstairs from a wonderful German couple and their youngest son. They invited us to join them for their Christmas Eve celebration. Most of their children were grown with families of their own, and they all came over. The house was packed with people, all speaking German (which, by the way, sounds really rowdy if you don't understand it)! We all sang Christmas carols (not all in the same language). Neighbors came by to visit and have a cookie and/or a drink. (They had really good cookies, although I was allowed to eat only a few.) I’d never seen a madhouse of activity like that! What crazy Christmas joy spilling over onto everyone! We joined them every Christmas Eve while we were in Germany, and it was a fantastic night every year.

The Christmas I was 11, Santa brought my dad a race car set. Whoooeeeee! We all enjoyed those race cars! A young couple (in their early 20s) who lived next door came over for Christmas dinner, and we all raced those cars all day long (and for years afterward).

The first year Freddy joined us for Christmas was a hoot. Freddy is from Columbia; he was attending Texas A&M and worked where Lucy#1 worked. He couldn’t go home for Christmas, so he joined our family for the day. My sister and I (in our 20s at the time) adopted him as the brother we never had, and roped him into all our crazy Christmas traditions and activities. We ended up playing Monopoly that afternoon. Freddy was not familiar with the game and didn’t feel comfortable playing, so he offered to be our Banker. He found out all about us that day! I doubt the bank was actually robbed, but I think there may have been a lot of wheeling, dealing, wheedling, and whining in addition to other Monopoly shenanigans, and possibly some boasting and jeering. I’m pretty sure Freddy thought our whole family was nuts, but he came back every year. (We didn’t subject poor Freddy to Monopoly again, but he did play some pretty cut-throat Uno with us through the years!)

My first Christmas in Oklahoma City, Lucy#1, my sister, and my nephew came up to spend Christmas with me. We had so much fun! Since I had come to OKC from the mountains of New Mexico, where I lived in a solar-powered house with a woodstove in the living room as the only heat source, I was used to much cooler temperatures (inside as well as outside) than was my poor family, and it never occurred to me that 64 degrees was not the perfect indoor temperature. I did notice they were wearing sweaters while I was in lightweight clothing, but hey! Lucy#1 was always cold, even in the summertime, and Susan was enjoying wearing her Christmas sweaters, right? And my nephew did stay snuggled up on the couch with an afghan, but golly, he was a kid and had his game boy or whatever and I love to snuggle up with a book -– same thing, right? Well . . . .  no. I was wrong on all counts. After they were safe and warm back in Texas, my sister told me that she and Lucy#1 had considered offering to pay my electric bill if I would just turn the heat on!!

I haven’t put my Christmas tree up yet, but that’s on my weekend to-do list. I’ll pull out the old Andy Williams Christmas CD, and Billboard’s top Christmas songs, and maybe something really fun like the soundtrack to the Christmas program John Denver did with the Muppets. Or maybe my Twisted Christmas CDs. (Did you know that House of the Rising Sun works perfectly with the tune to Oh Little Town of Bethlehem? Try it. You’ll see. There is a house in New Orleans . . . . Really, it works!)

I’ll sing Christmas songs at the top of my lungs while I decorate, then I’ll admire my handiwork and toast Lucy#1 with some hot chocolate. I’ll miss her, but at the same time I’ll see her in all my Christmas memories. That works, too.

Well, that's a bummer.

I’m so very sad to report that the Two Lucys have had their last earthly adventure together. Lucy#1 departed this world just before midnight on Sunday, October 6.

Her departure came after a week in the hospital and four days at home on hospice. She ran a low-grade fever at home for three days, but said she felt fine and refused to go to the doctor. On the fourth day, when her fever shot up over 100, we went to the hospital. While staying overnight for observation due to a diagnosis of bronchitis, everything went downhill very suddenly. Final diagnosis was a massive MRSA infection in her heart, along with all kinds of other things wrong with the heart. Her only treatment option was open-heart surgery to repair a hole and several broken valves, put in some stents, and more --and no one thought that was really an option since she was so frail and her lungs were so weak.

I’m going to keep writing here, even though I’m just one Lucy now. There are some stories I’d like to tell about Lucy#1’s days in the hospital, because she definitely did not lose her sense of humor while she was ill! I’d also like to tell some stories about Lucy#1’s life before she joined me in Oklahoma, and maybe some stories about all of us who loved her.

Lucy#1 was my favorite Lucy. She is gone from me now. I miss her. That’s a bummer!

 

On the other hand, I was blessed with her as my mom for many years and my housemate for several months, and I have many, many happy, sad, beautiful, annoying, wonderful, and hilarious memories of her. Those memories will ensure she will always be with me until we meet again in Heaven. That’s a blessing!

One last thing: I’m not a preachy person, and I don’t usually go around telling people what to do. But I am going to say this anyway. I’m saying it in all caps because I feel that strongly about it.

DO NOT SMOKE.

IF YOU ALREADY SMOKE, STOP.  STOP RIGHT NOW!!

IF YOU HAVE NEVER SMOKED, DON’T START! EVER!

IF SOMEONE YOU KNOW SMOKES, ENCOURAGE THAT PERSON TO STOP RIGHT NOW!!

Lucy#1 started smoking when she was 19 or 20, and even while she was in the hospital with an oxygen saturation of only 90% (even with an oxygen mask, only 90%), she told the doctors and nurses that the first thing she would do when she got home was smoke a cigarette. (There’s a story about that, but I’ll tell you later.) Her lungs were so damaged that 90% oxygen saturation is the very best she could ever have, and while 90% sounds like a pretty decent percentage, trust me that it is not. (If you don’t trust me, ask a doctor or nurse.) Lucy#1 struggled to breathe in the best of times. For several years, she would gasp for breath after walking across a room. She had to have morphine at the end of her life, just to help her body relax enough to breathe. Her lungs were so damaged that her body was panicked because of lack of air. Yes, even while she was asleep, her body struggled to take in enough air. And yes, she had oxygen blowing into her nose to give her air, but her body still struggled. (And the oxygen machine was set on 4. Ask a doctor or nurse what that means. It is not good.)

I am not exaggerating when I say Lucy#1 would probably have lived many more years had she not smoked. Her heart was damaged, her aorta was damaged, her lungs were destroyed – all by smoking!  

 

So, live life, enjoy life, love those around you – and love yourself as well. Don’t smoke!!!

A Weekend Guest

A good friend of mine from Austin recently came through here on her vacation. She and I have been friends since we were both in our 20s, and although I had spoken of each of them to the other through the years, Lucy#1 and Marianne had never met.

We had a nice weekend. We relaxed and didn't do anything except talk.

Marianne got up before I did on Monday, and completed her bathroom routine early first so I could get ready for work.

When I turned my hair dryer off, I could hear Marianne chuckling. Then I heard her laughing. I could hear the rumble of Lucy#1’s voice, but could not distinguish any words. Marianne chuckled some more.

I went to the dining room, where Lucy#1 and Marianne were grinning at each other and said, “I hope no one is telling embarrassing stories about me! Marianne, what is she telling you? You two had better not be laughing at me!”

There was a brief pause. Marianne looked at Lucy#1. Lucy#1 looked at Marianne. They grinned. Marianne looked at me and said, “Your mom is telling me about some of her antics when she was young, and how she was a women’s libber before there was women’s lib.”

Lucy#1 grinned again, and told Marianne a story about marching when she was in Air Force Basic Training and how she almost punched someone. Marianne chuckled. Lucy#1 was in her element!

Marianne told me, “Your mom is so cute.”

Lucy#1 told me, “Marianne is really nice.”

I love those two!

All You Need Is Love

Between the Beatles and the Bible, I’m a believer – love really is all you need! I’m not talking about being “in love,” but about the love between any person and that person’s friend, child, pet, parent, neighbor, coworker. (By the way, I don't mean to whack in-lovers off the list. Rather, I hope if you are "in love," the person with whom you are in love is your best friend.)

The Bible says this:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 

(1 Corinthians 13:4-7)(NIV)

 

The apostle Paul wrote this letter to the Corinthians because he had heard the church members in Corinth were quarrelling amongst themselves. His words about love came just after his words explaining that each person in his audience needed the others and none were better than the others. (If you haven’t read 1 Corinthians lately, go re-read it! It’s good instruction for life, and you may find some surprises in there!)

I have no M.Div. and I’m not about to preach to you, so please don’t run away if you’re not a Christian. (I would still recommend 1 Corinthians to you as a good read and a good roadmap, though.) Paul’s words apply to more than just the people in the Church. He’s talking to human beings, and that’s all of us.

Most adults have some experience with living with another human being. Some are married, with or without children; some have roommates; some are blessed to live alone but have had roommates or spouses in the past; everybody lived with someone as a child or a teenager. I’m betting that any time one human being lives with another, life is much happier for all when everyone treats everyone else with the love Paul describes in 1 Corinthians.

Certainly, since the Two Lucys have lived together, this Lucy has been bombarded with the truth of Paul’s words. This is not the first time I have seen the truth in these words, but it is the first time I’ve experienced this truth quite so personally and quite so daily. It’s the first time I’ve taken this truth completely to heart.

Lucy#1 is my mother. Of course she loves me. Of course I love her. But sometimes we may be irritated enough to not like each other so much at a particular moment. That particular moment, my friends, is where Paul’s truth about love can fall right on your head and make you see stars! But the stars are glowing stars full of life and happiness if you skip the un-like and go right to the love.

Here’s the trick: It’s not just about the love you have for the irritating person. It’s the love that person has for you. How can I have more than a flicker of annoyance with Lucy#1 when I know how much she loves me? She has loved me for 56 years!! That’s a lot of lovin’! Of course I have loved her right back, but the point is that even when she no doubt wanted to pinch my head off through the years, she continued to love me. She still loves me when I’m ticking her off right now and she’s stomping out the front door to smoke a cigarette and make it clear she is ignoring me.

When you remember that someone loves you, you are a better person. You want to love others. And the way we humans show love to one other? We are patient and kind, not envious, boastful, or proud; we put others above ourselves; we keep our tempers in check; we forget (and forgive) the wrongs done to us (large and small); we treat others well and tell the truth; we protect, trust, hope, and persevere.

When Lucy#1 wakes me up at 8:30 on a Saturday morning when I’ve been exhausted and suffering with a sinus headache all week and wanted to sleep past noon, I remember that she loves me. And, I’m pretty sure that when I tell Lucy#1 that we need to get her hearing tested because I do not mumble, she remembers that she loves me. The recollection of love makes us get along very well together. We treat each other kindly and don’t lose our tempers with each other (much J). I’m patient when she wakes me up early on Saturday or won’t eat a meal if I don’t eat with her, and she’s patient when I suggest we watch six episodes of NCIS in one day or I drag her with me all over town for two hours when we both know she is a home body. We each seek to protect the other, we trust each other, and we never stop wanting the best for and loving each other. Living our lives together – with love – is making us both better people and helping us live together happily. I’d like to think our love is also spilling over into the rest of our lives and onto our friends and family. Loving others is the recipe for happiness and a wonderful day every day!

So, see, the Beatles were right. Love is all you need.

1 Corinthians 13:8a says this: Love never fails.

Love is all you need. Love never fails. Now, remember those words and go love friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, pets, and even the person who cuts you off in traffic. The practice of loving others the way Paul describes love to the Corinthians will make you a better person. More importantly, practicing love now will prepare you to handle, with love, the glad things, bad things, and sad things that are sure to come your way later.

You need this training. I know you do, because so do I. Trust me. Lucy#1 and I are in training every day.
 

 
 

Hey, sing along with me!! (I found the words and photo at LyricsFreak.com.)

 

Love, love, love.
Love, love, love.
Love, love, love.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.
It's easy.

Nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.
It's easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

Nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy.

All you need is love.
All you need is love.
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need.

All you need is love (all together, now!)
All you need is love. (everybody!)
All you need is love, love.
Love is all you need (love is all you need).

A Broken Heart

Sometimes the Two Lucys do not get along with each other. We disagree with each other’s point of view. We bicker. We irritate each other. She sometimes walks away from me after giving me the well-known imperious wave of her hand that says, “I’m done with you. Buzz off.” I sometimes disappear into the bathroom and scrub something just to keep from screaming.

It’s a pretty typical situation, right? No two people who live together are thrilled with each other 100% of the time. Whether it’s your freshman roommate in the dorm or the beloved person you married however-many years ago – if you share a living space with someone, you will rub each other the wrong way now and then.

Lucy#1 and I have done pretty well overall. We each have been frustrated with the other occasionally, but we have gotten over it and gotten back to normal quickly. (I’m actually kind of surprised by how quickly!)

The interesting thing to me is that the longer we live together, the more I seem get over our various issues pretty much immediately, no matter how dramatic our disagreement may be or how cranky I am about the situation. In fact, often I never become frustrated or angry or upset at all, no matter what has happened.

I think my calmer attitude stems from a heart that is broken for Lucy#1 on a daily basis. My heart simply cannot be upset with Lucy#1 anymore.

The things that break my heart are too many to enumerate here, but the first-place and most-constant heartbreaking moment for me every day is whenever Lucy#1 walks away from me. It doesn’t matter if she has given me the “buzz off” wave and is stomping off in fury or if she is merely going into the next room or if I see her out the kitchen window while she is on the front porch smoking. It’s the way she looks walking away from me that breaks my heart, no matter why she’s walking away. She is so tiny, so defenseless, so much less strong than she used to be.

 

Lucy#1 is still her same old self in many, many ways, but the ways she is not herself seem more immediate to me when she is walking away. I don’t know why that is, exactly. Maybe when I see her walk away, her very frailness points out that day-by-day she is closer to going away from me forever.

Oh, how that breaks my heart.

Oh, what a beautiful day!

Today was beautiful here in LucyLand. Lucy#2 had a good day at work, was able to leave on time, and be home by 3:00. Lucy#1 ate a good lunch instead of half a sandwich. Then the Two Lucys got together and it was a hoot!

We both like NCIS. I’m always a season behind on watching because I am either not home or forget what day it airs, so I have to catch up when the whole season comes out on DVD. (Yay, Netflix!) Lucy#1 watches every Tuesday night, so she is always up-to-date. For Season 11, when I don’t have Pampered Chef parties, I may start being up-to-date because Lucy#1 will be on top of it and will remind me. Cool!

NCIS Season 10 DVDs came out on August 20, so today when I came home from work, we Lucys watched the first couple episodes.We enjoyed watching together and talking about Gibbs. (Woo, baby, Leroy Jethro Gibbs! J)

The Two Lucys had a glass of wine while I fixed supper, and Lucy#1 sat in the kitchen doorway and chatted with me while I cooked. We talked about people she worked with when she lived in Austin, and there were only a couple whose names she could not remember. We had some good laughs, rehashing some of the hilarious things that happened and the crazy things people did.

During supper, we talked and laughed more. Lucy#1 ate a pretty large meal (for her), but said she was done when she still had about three bites left on her plate. Thus, the following conversation, one that would have been so typical of us waaay back in the day:

Lucy#2:  Hey, you can’t stop eating now! You didn’t clean your plate.

Lucy#1:  I can’t hold another bite.

Lucy#2:  Ha! You know that’s B.S. because in a few minutes you are going to ask me if I want to eat some ice cream with you.

Lucy#1: No, I won’t! (Insert big grin here.) I’ll just go eat some without you!!

 

Then we laughed and laughed.
 
It was so much fun to laugh with Lucy#1! Of course, we have laughed together many, many times through the years, but these days we don’t so often have these goofy conversations where we just crack ourselves up and hoot with laughter.

Yes, today was a fabulous day!

 

 

By the way, the menu tonight was leftover chicken rejuvenated with barbeque sauce, turnip greens, and macaroni and cheese:

 

 

(Don't you just love it when the food matches the dishes?!)

I used the Pampered Chef Microwave Egg Cooker to make tonight’s macaroni and cheese in the microwave – in less than 10 minutes! I found this recipe on a Facebook page called something on the order of I Love my Pampered Chef Microwave Egg Cooker. Many intrepid cooks post interesting recipe ideas on that page, and I shall be trying more of their recipes!

 

 

The macaroni and cheese was very good. Here’s the recipe:

Place 1/2 cup elbow macaroni and 1/2 cup water in each well of the Egg Cooker. Cover with parchment paper and cook on high for 3 minutes. Remove and stir. Re-cover, return to microwave, and cook 2-3 minutes, or until the water is absorbed and the pasta is al dente.

Stir in 1/2 cup shredded cheese and 1/4 cup milk (in each well).

Cover and cook on high for 1 minute. Stir. Cook for 30 seconds, or until cheese is melted and milk is absorbed.

Easy, fast, delicious!
 

Time and Weather

Until the Two Lucys became roommates, this Lucy had no idea how important time and weather could be. I understand the concept of time and most rooms in the house have a clock I can check if I’m supposed to be somewhere at a certain time. I check the weather most mornings on my phone to see if I should wear rain boots. That is about it for me, as regards weather or time.

For Lucy#1, on the other hand, time and weather are urgent matters.

Lucy#1 keeps a pocket calendar next to her place at the table. She records appointments in this calendar, when she or I have appointments. She also records the outside temperature in the calendar – several times each day. She has at least three temperature entries per day on her calendar. Many days she turns the television on every couple hours just to see the temperature, and she watches every news program to learn both the current weather situation and the forecast for later. The weather seems to be her main focus at the moment. She doesn’t ask me how I enjoyed my day at work; she asks what the weather was like at my office. She appears to give very little thought to what a long-distance caller has to say about anything except the weather. Family members call her, and if she mentions the call to me at all, it is to tell me that it’s been in the 60s here or they have been getting a lot of rain there. Every day when I come home from work, she tells me the current temperature, what the temperature has been at various times during the day, and what weather is forecast for tomorrow. She rushes to watch the news at 5:30, 6:00, and 10:00 so she can see the weather. As soon as the weather segment is over, she turns the channel or turns the TV off.

Lucy#1 also has what I, infinitely lackadaisical, would say is almost a time fetish. If I announce any plan, Lucy#1 wants to know the exact time of the appointment. Once recently, I didn’t have an exact time to give Lucy#1: A friend and I planned to meet for coffee Saturday afternoon. However, Christine had things to do on Saturday, so we agreed she would contact me when she was free and we’d figure out a time then. We made this plan early in the week, and I told Lucy#1 right away so she would understand I would not be home part of Saturday afternoon and so we could do her shopping and errands either one day after work on Saturday morning. She was not happy that I didn’t have a specific time for the coffee date. She asked me every day that week if Christine and I had set a time, and when I would say we were going to figure it out on Saturday, she would say, “Well, why don’t you tell her you need to know what time you’re meeting?” I could not make her believe that I was not worried about the meeting time. On Saturday morning, she was quite upset that I still didn’t have a specific time. When Christine called to finalize the plan and we decided on a time, Lucy#1 finally relaxed. She obviously did not care that I was leaving the house; she cared that I did not have an exact time of departure.

I know these fixations are brought on by dementia. Next time I see one, I will buy an outdoor thermometer and hang it where it can be seen from the living room windows to see if that helps her. Every time I leave the house, I tell her when I expect to return, and I call if I’m running late. These are easy things for me to do; they make Lucy#1 happy.

These things also make me keenly aware of how often I work late and how long (in general) it takes when I stop at the grocery store or the bank on my way home. I have a better grasp of time and its passage than ever before – maybe that’s the silver lining in the Two Lucys’s sometimes foggy world.

It's a big yard, and someone's gotta mow it.

I do not mow my own yard. There are many reasons for this, with the two most prominent being severe allergies and the fact that not sweating, sneezing, and itching is worth more to me than what it costs to hire the job out. If the Two Lucys are still living together next year, I may buy a lawnmower. For now, however, it’s more than worth it to me to fork over the bucks to have someone else sweat in our yard.

Sadly, this year has been one unfortunate event after another on the lawn-mowing front. The first half of the season, I had a charming young man who was a senior in high school and then a graduate of high school who did a great job for a reasonable price. Then, he had senior trips and mission trips which, combined with a crazy (but appreciated!) rainy summer, got us a little bit off track. The lawn was often a bit unsightly, and the hedges needed trimming. Lucy#1 fretted over it, and asked me every day when Travis was coming to do the lawn.Then, sigh, exit Travis to college. Travis’s brother was supposed to step into the mowing shoes.

The rain kept coming and the grass kept growing, but Cole never showed up. I got the occasional pinch-hitter to mow the yard, but it just wasn’t working out, and Lucy#1 was very anxious about state of the yard.

Soooo, about a week ago, I called someone who had cut my yard before Travis came on the scene. I asked if he could cut the yard this week and then every two weeks until the grass quit growing for the winter. He said he could and would! Yahoooo! The Two Lucys were ecstatic.

Well, at first, the Two Lucys were ecstatic.

Then Lucy#1 began to drive Lucy#2 crazy (and, as they say, it is short trip) day by sad day that the lawn was not mowed.

Long story short, Darrell never showed up. I gave him until Friday, since he said he would get to it at some point during the week. Friday afternoon at 3:30, I called Darrell’s business, and left a voice mail saying I wanted to confirm that I was still on the list because it was 3:30 Friday afternoon and my yard had not been mowed, and I would like someone to please call me to confirm.

No call back, and no one came to mow the yard.

By the time we walked our dinner guests out to their car Saturday evening, the grass was so high that the neighbor’s dog was having a hard time finding her tennis ball when her owner threw it. In some places, the grass was mid-calf high on me, practically up to Lucy#1’s knees. Lucy #1 was very unhappy. Really, bitterly unhappy about the state of the yard. She threatened to get a lawnmower and mow it herself. The dog’s owner offered to cut the grass. I said I would call Darrell again on Monday, and then I would borrow a lawnmower and cut it myself.

When I came home from church on Sunday, someone was cutting the yard. Yay! Darrell’s partner, I guessed, because he was unfamiliar to me. I went over to shake his hand and say, “howdy.” Before I had time to find out his name, Lucy#1 came out of the house to tell the nice man that I am her daughter and to tell me that she told him he could mow the yard. His name is Curt.

It turns out, our next-door neighbor, Mark, told Curt that Lucy#1 is his aunt and needed her yard cut. Then Mark came over and told Lucy#1 what he had told Curt. Then Curt came over and Lucy#1 told him to mow the yard.

Then I came home and paid Curt.

I still don’t quite understand the exact story of how Curt ended up mowing our yard, except that Mark asked him to. At first Lucy#1 said Mark flagged Curt down, then she thought maybe Curt had cut Mark’s yard last week. Then she thought maybe Curt cut Mark’s yard today. Who knows? Who cares? The yard looks very, very nice. I have Curt’s business card. If I don’t hear back from Darrell (for whom I left another voicemail while Curt was finishing up the yard) on Monday, I’ll call Curt and see if he can put me on his regular route.

Oh, yeah, and Curt charged $10 less than anyone else who’s ever cut this yard. Yay, Lucy#1!!

She's Just Snarky

E lives across the street from Lucy#1’s house in Texas. She and her husband, K, are the nicest people in the world! They are in their 50s. They watched out for Lucy#1 from the time she moved in across the street from them until she moved out to come up here. By “watched out for” I mean they recommended workmen she needed, brought her a plate when they cooked a big meal, took her to Tyler to buy a new TV when hers died, checked her mail when she was out of town, and more and more and more, including watching every morning to make sure her lights turned on and she went out on the porch to smoke at the usual time. They threw her a going-away party and got a little teary saying goodbye. They love Lucy#1 and it’s obvious in every way.

This morning as I was leaving for work, the phone rang. Since I was walking right by it, I answered, and E was on the line. I mentioned her by name so Lucy#1 would know who was calling, told E I was on my way out the door so I was going to hand the phone off to Lucy#1, and handed Lucy#1 the phone. Her reaction was to say in her snarkiest voice (with the phone in her hand), “What does she want?” Then she put the phone to her ear and spoke to E in her most pleasant manner.

I was so horrified that I did not leave for work, but waited for the call to end. As it turns out, E was calling from her car on the way to Dallas where her husband had just been taken for emergency surgery after a serious injury at work. E wanted to let Lucy#1 know about the injury and the surgery because she thought Lucy#1 would want to know, as indeed E would want to know were the roles reversed.

When the call ended and the information about the surgery had been imparted to me I said, “You know, when you said, “What does she want?” E probably heard you. She has been very good to you, she loves you, and when you said that, it probably hurt her feelings.” Lucy#1 replied, “I didn’t say it that loud.” I reiterated the rudeness and hurtfulness of her question and her snarky voice. She just looked at me for a moment, then went on to give me more details of how K’s injury occurred.

Lucy#1 has always been this way. I pray the dementia is not making her behavior worse, but I do worry about that since she has always been snarky and dementia will often greatly magnify one’s core traits: nice people are even nicer and mean people are not nice at all.

Lucy#1 has usually been sneaky-snarky regarding others (talking behind their backs, or saying snarky things in a snarky tone when they can’t hear her), but she has always been snarky right to my sister’s and my faces, and it got worse after our dad died. Who can count the number of times I hung up from talking to her on the phone and cried for an hour? I thank my husband for insisting I remember that if my feelings were hurt, it was because I let her hurt them, and teaching me how to deal with her without ending every phone call in tears!

I don’t know if her snarkiness is a reaction to being frightened of the world (which she is, and I don’t care how many times she says, "If anyone messes with me, I will kick their ass.") or if she is simply turning into her own mother, who was one of the worst sneaky-snarks I’ve ever seen in action. Whatever the cause, the result is awful.

I hope E did not hear Lucy#1’s hurtful question. If she did, E knows Lucy#1 well enough that I’m pretty sure E will blow the snarkiness off, but it bothers me that she may even for a moment been hurt by my mother when she was already suffering because of K’s injury.

And so I wonder …… since I certainly cannot control the way Lucy#1 speaks to and treats others, is it now my responsibility to try to soothe the feelings hurt by my mother’s unkindness?

 

 

Lord Jesus, please help us! Amen.

 

The Two Lucys See Dr. T

Today was Lucy#1’s first doctor’s appointment since she moved to Oklahoma. I made the appointment last week. I expected a fuss when I told her, but her reaction was resigned and sad. It broke my heart to see her little face when she said, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

My primary care doctor takes Medicare patients, so now the Two Lucys have the same doctor! This Lucy thinks that’s pretty cool, but I am not convinced the other Lucy shares my enthusiasm. J The best things about us both seeing Dr. T are that he seems to be a fine doctor as well as quite personable, and that his office and nursing staff are simply wonderful. There are no duds in Dr. T’s office!

The appointment went well. The nurse and Lucy#1 joked around during the taking of the vitals and the completing of the exam-room paperwork, and the nurse didn’t flinch at all when she asked Lucy#1 if she smokes and the reply was, “YES!!!” in a rather loud-and-proud voice. So far, so good.

I’m not sure whether Lucy#1 is as well pleased with him as I am, but I now like Dr. T even better than before! He spoke to Lucy#1 with so much respect and courtesy, introduced himself as “Jim T” rather than “Dr. T,” gave her a hand up onto the exam table (and didn’t drop her like a hot potato when she told him in quite testy manner that she did not need any help), then suggested she sit back in the chair after the exam as it would be so much more comfortable while she waited for the nurse to take her for blood work, and helped her down from the exam table. Not only that, but (unlike any of her Texas doctors whom I met) he told her everything he was doing (“I’m going to listen to your lungs now. I’ll lift up your shirt in the back just a little bit.”), and answered the questions I asked. What a guy!!

The results of the visit with Dr. T:

• Chest x-ray taken (re: COPD) 
• Blood work done
• Oxygen level measured; weight recorded; blood pressure checked and pronounced good (with medication)
• BP medication prescription refilled
• Application for handicap placard in my hand
• Bone density appointment pending
• We found out that a patient taking blood pressure meds can take Allegra 30mg for allergies. (Yay! Maybe, if she will take the Allegra, she can cut down on her coughing and cough drop consumption.)

The funniest parts of the visit with Dr. T:

• Lucy#1 would not / could not wait patiently for the lab and x-ray techs to be available. She marched up and down the hallways, no doubt going where she should not have gone. The staff is apparently used to such behavior; no one said a word, but just walked around her and smiled at her.
• Lucy#1 gave me the Hairy Eyeball when I offered information she failed to mention, such as “the doctors at Baylor said you have COPD” and “she sometimes seems to have difficulty getting a good breath.” And, whoo-baby, the Super Hairy Eyeball when I asked about getting a handicap hanger for the car!!
• When we got to the checkout window, the receptionist was away from her desk. Lucy#1 waited about five seconds for her to reappear, then tapped on the glass. No one else (i.e., neither of the two ladies on the phone at other desks) came to the check-out window immediately, so Lucy#1 banged on the glass. I asked, “Would you like to go out and smoke, and I’ll wait here and get you checked out?” I couldn’t help but add, “That’s probably why you are so crabby.” Lucy#1 replied, “That’s not why I’m crabby. I’m crabby because I hate having to wait.” She left. I laughed.

When I had checked her out and made her follow-up appointment, I found Lucy#1 standing by my car and smoking. Knowing she was probably not all that thrilled with me, I got behind her, wrapped my arms around her, rested my head on her shoulder and said, “You love me! You may not want to, but you do! You love me!” in a sing-songy voice. She said, “Well! You know that’s true.” I said, “I know, but I like to remind you of it when you’re probably mad at me.” She gave me the Hairy Eyeball again, then grinned, and got in the car.

Whew!

Oh, nuts! Peanuts, that is.

Lucy#1 likes peanut butter, and she has a PB&J for lunch at least once per week. She likes JIF peanut butter. (She also is trying to limit her salt intake, and has digestive issues that preclude her eating whole nuts. This may seem like TMI, but you really do need to know this. J)

Recently when I went alone to buy groceries, peanut butter for Lucy#1 was on the grocery list. That seemed easy enough to me – right until I arrived at the peanut-butter row. I have an oddball allergy to something related to the processing of peanuts and unless I’m willing to have big, itchy hives, I can eat only “natural” or “organic” peanut butter. I discovered Smuckers several years ago; that’s the brand I buy and I never even look at other peanut butters. Imagine my surprise when I saw how many varieties of JIF peanut butter were available! It took me a while to wade through the peanut-butter display, but I was eventually thrilled to see a lower-sodium JIF option. I chose a jar of creamy, lower-sodium JIF peanut butter, the label of which states it contains 90% peanuts.

Here is the conversation we had when Lucy#2 looked at the jar of JIF at home:

Lucy#1: “I can’t eat this! It’s 90% peanuts!”

Lucy#2: “Yes? Um, it’s peanut butter?”

Lucy#1: “No, I can’t eat peanuts. I can’t eat this. It’s 90% peanuts!!!”

Lucy#2: “If it didn’t contain 90% peanuts, it wouldn’t be peanut butter. The peanuts are what make it peanut butter.”

Lucy#1 (becoming pretty indignant): “But I can’t eat peanuts! You’ll have to get me something else!”

Lucy #2 (as the lightbulb f-i-n-a-l-l-y comes on): “No, no, it’s creamy peanut butter. It’s just like your other peanut butter, except with less salt. There are no chunks of peanuts, just smushed-up, creamy peanut butter.”

Lucy#1: “Oh, okay. I guess this will be all right then.”

 

This conversation is, of course, a small drop in the bucket of interesting conversations over here, but it was a real zinger for me at the time. I think I’m getting a little faster on the uptake, but I don’t know how quickly things will progress on either of our parts. I hope I can keep up.

Get out of the way, Lady!

I am an avid cross stitcher. Some folks have even gone so far as to say I am obsessed with cross stitching. Whatever!! I say those people need to get a hobby. J

Cross stitching (and other needlework) is relaxing, makes me calm, and gives me something else to do while I watch movies at home – and all while I create something pretty from a piece of plain fabric and some thread. As cross stitchers say, “Stitching is cheaper than therapy.”  In my eyes, you just can’t beat all that with a stick.

There is a wonderful cross stitch shop in Tulsa: The Silver Needle. (It’s located at 6022 S. Sheridan; if you have even the slightest interest in cross stitch, Hardanger, punch needle, etc., and are ever near Tulsa, go there!) The Silver Needle puts on various different events every year. Some of my friends are also avid cross stitchers, and we sometimes attend Silver Needle events.

Ann, Christine, Lynn, and I went to The Silver Needle last week to meet the designers from Just Another Button Company and The Cross-Eyed Cricket, two fabulous companies we cross stitchers love. The four of us arrived in Tulsa Wednesday afternoon and left Sunday afternoon. We enjoyed a lot of togetherness. We carpooled; we shared a table at the event and for all meals; we shared a hotel room. We are good friends and we had a blast!!

As one might imagine, we talk a lot while we are stitching. Since we don’t all see each other all the time, we have stories to share. Inevitably, we end up cannibalizing parts of each other’s stories and taking comments out of context to make each other laugh later. We laugh a LOT.

This trip, Ann told a story of her youngest son when he was two or three. He had learned (from his dad, of course) to say to errant drivers of other cars, “Get out of the way, Lady!” That was funny. Then one day when Ann had the child in the cart at the grocery store, they came upon a traffic jam in the aisle. Ann did not think it was funny when her adorable boy shouted, “Get out of the way, Lady!” to the other shoppers. Ann was horrified! She chastised her child. The other shoppers tried not to laugh. Everyone got out of the way.

"Get out of the way, Lady!” became our phrase of the week. We said it to each other (four women – one hotel room); we shouted it in unison to slow drivers in other cars. We laughed and laughed.

Last night when I went to the kitchen to fix supper, Lucy #1 went in there, too. She puttered around. I couldn’t get to the pots and pans. I left the kitchen. She left the kitchen. I went back in the kitchen. She went back in kitchen. I told her she was welcome to do whatever she wished in the kitchen, but the kitchen is too small for two people. I told her to let me know when she was done in there and then I would fix supper.

Then I sat down at the table and texted Ann.

Tonight when Lucy#1 joins me in the kitchen, I am going to tell her Ann’s story. Lucy#1 knows this child (who is now seven) and she will love this story. From then on, when Lucy#1 goes in the kitchen while I am trying to cook, I will say, “Get out of the way, Lady!”

 

I hope we will both laugh. I hope she will get out of the way.

(Below is a little heart I stitched for Lucy#1 while I was in Tulsa. Christine framed it for me, and I'll give it to Lucy#1 when I get home today! Yay!)

I also made her this little pin cushion, since she collects elephants. All I had to do was cut out the ears, and sew everything onto the pink felted ball. The quarter is there to show the elephant's size. It's not as well done as the heart, but hey! I'm a cross-stitcher, not a button-sewer. J

 

 

Are you okay?

I trip and fall; someone who saw me go down asks, “Are you okay?”

I have a screaming headache and it shows in my eyes; a coworker asks, “Are you okay?”

I am taking a bath (and Lucy#1 knew I was choosing a book to read in the tub). After 30 minutes, Lucy#1 bursts into the bathroom to say, “You have been in here for a long time. Are you okay?”

It’s Saturday, the only day I don’t have to be somewhere early. I told Lucy#1 last night that I plan to sleep late in the morning. It’s 8:30 a.m. Lucy#1 comes into my bedroom and says, “You’ve never slept this late before. Are you okay?”

The first two of those scenarios seem friendly to me. I appreciate that someone cares that I may be injured or ill.

The last two are my new normal. They do not seem friendly to me. I am growing to dislike the question, “Are you okay?”

A part of me understands Lucy#1’s “Are you okay?” queries are born of care, concern, love, etc. That part of me understands she means well and worries about me.

A part of me realizes Lucy#1 has some dementia. Her boundaries and filters have changed. Her logical thinking capacity has altered. That part of me realizes she isn’t connecting the book with a long, soaking bath; she doesn’t remember that 8:30 a.m. is not “late” to me on a Saturday morning.

A part of me thinks, “Why does it matter how late I sleep on Saturday, or how long I talk on the phone?” That part of me bangs my head against the wall when the bathroom door bursts open as I’m drying off after my shower because Lucy#1 no longer hears the water running and needs to know if I’m okay.

A part of me wants to be alone. That part wants to stay up until 2:00 a.m. to finish a good book, work on the Pampered Chef business in private, take a nap on the couch, talk on the phone, read posts on Facebook, and do many other things that are no longer possible without hearing, “Are you okay?” That part tries to give an explanation for what I’m doing, how long it will take, and why there is no need to worry.

Slowly, we are working toward a reasonable compromise. I am trying to remember to tell Lucy#1 how long I expect to be in the office or on the phone. She is trying to stop checking on me so often.

Neither of us is perfect.

Neither of us is really okay.

We are both doing the best we can.

Whoa, Amaretto!

No one knows where or when she got it, but Lucy#1 had a brand-new bottle of Amaretto in her liquor cabinet when she moved to Oklahoma. She’s not much of a drinker; she had never tried Amaretto and had not opened the bottle. I’m not much of a drinker, either, but I do like Amaretto. So, Lucy#2 having told Lucy#1 that Amaretto is an almond liqueur, we decided to crack open her bottle and give it a shot. Literally.

Unfortunately for class and style, neither of us owns liqueur glasses. Fortunately for us, we don’t worry much about being classy around here. Her wine glasses were not yet unpacked and mine are enormous; we opted to just use juice glasses for the taste test.

I poured a shot into one glass and before I could pour anything into the second glass, Lucy#1 knocked back the first glass in one gulp! 

There was a little bit of a gasp, a little bit of a cough, and her eyes got big for just a second. I said, “Whoa, you’re supposed to sip that stuff! It’s hot if you shoot it like that! Are you okay?”

She (eventually) replied, “I’m fine. I don’t want any more of that. You can have it.”

I’ve since suggested she give it a try in a more innocuous manner, say, as an ice cream topping. (Blue Bell Dutch Chocolate ice cream with a little Amaretto on top is A-okay!) She’s not interested.

We both learned something from The Amaretto Incident. I learned to give Lucy#1 a heads-up about anything tricky when she’s trying something new. She learned not to take a big drink of something she hasn’t tried before.

We have decided to stick to white wine when we feel wild and crazy in the evening. We have drunk a bottle and a half of wine in two and a half weeks. We sip together, relax, and chat. It works.