"How to succeed as a flunky after you've been the boss" but I could. Now obviously if I'd been wildly successful in the first five decades of employment I wouldn't be soldiering on as a flunky. And I'm not complaining. In fact, I'm grateful that someone still finds my flunky skills worth paying for. (I'm also pretty grateful that I get a Social Security check every month to support my working!)
However, it is a learning curve. After many years of being the writer, producer, planner for business and events, for companies and organizations, its not fun to be the last to hear about something. Or to learn that after fifty years as a writer I am no longer capable of providing simple press releases, well maybe still capable but someone else will now write them.
Those who point to "birth order" thinking know that as a first born I am naturally anxious to please and I guess that includes some form of acknowledgement that I have "pleased." Flunkies do not get acknowledgement. They get a paycheck. Flunkies do not get overtime they get "comp" time, sometimes. They also do not get to choose their lunch hour.
This was not a great week at work ... can you tell? Maybe its as simple as forty hours are a lot now when fifty hours didn't seem so much back then. Maybe its this lovely Texas Summer that seems a little tougher than usual. Maybe I'm just worn out or a big old whiner. I am looking forward to a day of vacation in another couple of weeks, a trip to Mexico with friends and also a visit to Katelyn, Alabama (the University), and "Le Miz" in September. It helps to have some things to which one can look forward.
A word to the younger among you ... make some plans about what you want to be when you grow old ... probably flunky shouldn't be your first, or second, choice.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Why I Love Navasota, TX
I love my little town of Navasota because it lets me live and work here. Navasota has about 7000 people, a small creek, some interesting history and historical buildings, and a beautiful new City Hall. I work in the new city hall as a clerk in the Utility Department.
As a person on a fixed income, with little or no interest in antiques and other people's old stuff, there are not a lot of things on which to spend my money. If there is something I "need" that's not available here, in twenty minutes I'm in the booming twinopolis of Bryan/College Station and they have darn near everything I could ever need and lots of other stuff too.
With my earlier "retirement" and move to Brenham I was sure I could find a full time job, reasonably priced housing and other comforts but I never (three years) found a full time job and living was more costlier. I have now lived in Navasota for four years in a spacious and quirky "loft" apartment overlooking the railroad tracks and with a one block walk to my new office ... as it was to my old office ... and it was only a block more to the first place I worked here.
I am not sure why I have put 29,000 miles on my car in a year and a half when I walk to work every day, but I have.
I am probably not cut out for working in small city government but I am grateful for the opportunity to learn all these new things at the age of 70. Gas, water, wastewater and sewer require a pretty high learning curve. The parts that go into those utilities are infinite, varied and strangely named, ie. nipple, spud, collar, and riser. The amount of government reporting and paperwork(federal and state) required to operate the various plants, pipelines and chemicals are even more infinite. (note: I know there is nothing "more infinite" it just seems so.)
It turns out that public utilities require the hard work of a lot of very macho guys ... much more macho than radio, advertising or the "car bid'ness" ... another curve I am trying to navigate.
And then there are "the folks" which every town has. These are the folks for whom nothing is ever good enough, quick enough, cheap enough or designed for their special needs. They are unpleasant, unreasonable, unrelenting and must be treated with the utmost tact and diplomacy ... now we are talking "big curve." No one has ever labeled me with those terms.
Bottom line; great town with lots of wonderful people, a job that's hard work with some excellent benefits and some not so. I am grateful, challenged, exhausted and periodically pissed off ... but I'm not bored or broke!
Why don't you come by and see me sometime ... showing off our new digs is one of my most favorite things to do ... the landscape is going in and new streets not far behind.
I am proud to be here.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
I Wonder Why ....
nobody ever fell in love with me. Maybe I don't want to know. Maybe there are lots of people with whom nobody ever falls in love. I wonder. How would you know?
I have family members who are pretty sure they know why no one ever fell in love with me.
I have friends and cohorts who have, over the years, premised perfectly good reasons ... "oh, you're too independent." Let me see, left to raise four kids on my own, if you weren't independent how would that work?
Because I'm not talking about settling for some less-than-love deal. Next premiss ... love is an over-wrought and unlikely arrangement called up by writers and singers and drinkers and fools. Lots of people settle for "deals." Or, who ever promised you that someone would love you?
I am not so foolish, even now, to really think that "there is someone for everyone" ... nor to come up with snappy rejoinders about where mine was and how I missed him.
Deep deep down I wonder if I'm being punished ... made bad choices, blew my three wishes on the ones who didn't care and now that I'm really sick of being alone, my options are up. I also wonder why I didn't set about searching several years ago. It just didn't occur to me to look.
On line dating at my age is so depressing, scary and fraught with untruth as to make the strongest shudder ... and let's face it, if I'm 70, only guys over 80 are going to be interested! And then they are interested in a nurse or a purse! I've done the nurse part and have no purse.
I know that my attitude toward "not putting up with someone" was forged in my youth. I suspect that I was not marriage and mother material at any point, but since I was a mother I tried to take it on and do my best. Actually, most of my children seem to think I did acceptably, most of the time. I suspect I could have lived a childless life, perhaps gotten an education, a career. I don't know.
Obviously, I can live the rest of my life alone, I've already gotten through a large portion of it that way. But I lie in bed at night, praying for many and much, and I always get around to asking the unanswerable ... how come nobody loves me? And maybe too, how come nobody ever loved me? Why did I come mate-less?
I wish I thought that when I died I would get to go right up and get the answers to questions like that. Hey, God, was it because I wasn't good enough? Was it because I expected too much? Was it because I wrote the lines and nobody spoke them? Or was it just because I was so darn self centered?
Maybe I just ask too many questions ... wouldn't be the first time I've heard that.
I have family members who are pretty sure they know why no one ever fell in love with me.
I have friends and cohorts who have, over the years, premised perfectly good reasons ... "oh, you're too independent." Let me see, left to raise four kids on my own, if you weren't independent how would that work?
Because I'm not talking about settling for some less-than-love deal. Next premiss ... love is an over-wrought and unlikely arrangement called up by writers and singers and drinkers and fools. Lots of people settle for "deals." Or, who ever promised you that someone would love you?
I am not so foolish, even now, to really think that "there is someone for everyone" ... nor to come up with snappy rejoinders about where mine was and how I missed him.
Deep deep down I wonder if I'm being punished ... made bad choices, blew my three wishes on the ones who didn't care and now that I'm really sick of being alone, my options are up. I also wonder why I didn't set about searching several years ago. It just didn't occur to me to look.
On line dating at my age is so depressing, scary and fraught with untruth as to make the strongest shudder ... and let's face it, if I'm 70, only guys over 80 are going to be interested! And then they are interested in a nurse or a purse! I've done the nurse part and have no purse.
I know that my attitude toward "not putting up with someone" was forged in my youth. I suspect that I was not marriage and mother material at any point, but since I was a mother I tried to take it on and do my best. Actually, most of my children seem to think I did acceptably, most of the time. I suspect I could have lived a childless life, perhaps gotten an education, a career. I don't know.
Obviously, I can live the rest of my life alone, I've already gotten through a large portion of it that way. But I lie in bed at night, praying for many and much, and I always get around to asking the unanswerable ... how come nobody loves me? And maybe too, how come nobody ever loved me? Why did I come mate-less?
I wish I thought that when I died I would get to go right up and get the answers to questions like that. Hey, God, was it because I wasn't good enough? Was it because I expected too much? Was it because I wrote the lines and nobody spoke them? Or was it just because I was so darn self centered?
Maybe I just ask too many questions ... wouldn't be the first time I've heard that.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Grandparents
Kathy asked me to write a bit about my grandparents for her kids to have. I wrote the following and am attempting to paste it as a blog. I do not guarantee the accuracy but I think I'm close. Hope it works! Looks like the photos didn't make it.
MY GRANDPARENTS
BY: GRAMMA SALLY WILLIAMS
May, 2011
My mother, Enid Anne Heberlein, was born on April 4, 1904 (4/4/4 !!) to Fredrick William Heberlein and Sarah Susanna Peterson, in Hamilton, Missouri. She was the third child and second daughter.

(Enid left with younger sister, Hope)
Her parents, Fred and Sadie, as Sarah Susanna was known, grew up in the small Wisconsin farming community of Briggsville. Fred’s family were first generation immigrant farmers and millers from Germany. Sadie’s were first generation immigrant farmers as well, but from Norway.
The Peterson’s had four children; Marcus who became the Postmaster in Briggsville, married to Mildred. They had no children. Ella married John Dean and they had two daughters, Inez and Dora. Sadie married Fred and they had Harold (we called him Uncle Hal), Lois Ellen, Enid and baby Hope. Youngest of the Peterson’s was Inez. She became a Registered Nurse and lived in California for many years.
The senior Heberleins had many children; so many I cannot remember exactly. The one I knew the best was Uncle Will because he had a large dairy farm in Briggsville and I visited them often.
The unusual thing about Fred and Sadie was that they went off to college; to Ripon College in Ripon, Wisconsin. 
(Fred is the first seated on the left with an “X” on his shoulder)
They were each the first of their families to have a college education. Sadie was a gifted artist and musician and in that is what she received her degree. Although she had fallen some distance from a log box as a young girl and badly damaged one leg so that it was always shorter than the other which caused her to limp, she was an active student, then wife and mother. In addition to playing the music in her husband’s many churches she found the time to create many lovely oil paintings. She painted four special ones, one for each child. I have the one that was left to my mother.
Following his graduation from Ripon, Fred attended Yale University and received a Master of Divinity Degree in 1898. I have the pottery pitcher that has the names of him and all his classmates. There is also a booklet on the occasion of their 50th anniversary of the class with a page from each of the students.
Fred and Sadie spent the next many years ministering to Congregational churches, some in Missouri but mostly in Wisconsin. By the time their daughters were students at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, he was the Superintendent of all the Congregational Churches in the state of Wisconsin. They had a large home and several of the girls’ cousins stayed with them during their college years.

(Fred standing far left, Sadie standing far right, with Enid seated at the left on the occasion of her graduation from the Univ. of Wisconsin, 1928)
Upon his retirement they returned to a lovely home in Briggsville and he spent the rest of his years growing and developing many beautiful fields of gladiolas. His new glads included ones named for each of his daughters. “Enid Anne” was a lovely coral orange flower and we always tried to include it in arrangements for her special occasions.
During World War II we moved to Colorado Springs, CO., where my father was an airplane mechanic at Peterson Field. My grandfather, Fred, would type, single spaced, several page letters to me, telling me all about what was going on at home in Briggsville and asking about our life in Colorado. I was three and then four years old. We have some of the letters and they are very special memories for me.

(Grandmother, Sadie with Sarah in Colorado, 1944)
When my mother found out she was going to have a baby in April of 1945 we moved back to Briggsville. My dear grandfather died that year in July. He was memorialized at the Methodist Church in Briggsville but he was also “viewed” on a tall bier in the living room of their home. One of my earliest real memories is being lifted up by my Dad to see him lying there. I would rather remember him leading me up and down the fields of flowers and there are pictures of that.
My grandmother, Sadie, lived on alone and later with my Aunt Inez at their home in Briggsville until she died in 1951. We did not own a car at that time and were living in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, so my Aunt and Uncle came from Madison to take us to the funeral. We had an accident on slippery roads and were taken to the hospital in an ambulance. That is quite memorable also.
I started school, in the first grade in Briggsville. It was a literal “one-room” school house. One teacher, Miss Dinegan, taught grades one through eight. There were two of us in the first grade, Margaret Clary and me. The teacher would stand in front of each row … each grade, and teach them the day’s lessons and then move to the next row.
Now you know about my Maternal (from my Mother’s side) Grandparents.
I know much less about my Paternal (from my Father’s side) Grandparents.

(Anna Louise and Bayard Ralph Stephenson wedding picture … 1904)
My Father, Lyle Thomas Stephenson, was born on September 26, 1905, in Clark Lake, Michigan, to Bayard Ralph Stephenson and Anna Louise Bartig. His mother, Anna Louise died ten days later from “childbed pneumonia.” So, not only did I not know my grandmother, my father did not know his mother. Instead he was raised for several years by his grandmother and his father. Then his father got married again and they had four children; Veryl, Leola, Bayard Jr. (known as Skeet), and Vivian.
They rarely traveled so we did not see them very often. There are photos of the five generations on a visit when I was a baby.

(My Father with his Father and Stepmother and me, 1940)
The summer that I was ten years old my aunt and uncle came to Wisconsin and took me to visit in Clark Lake, MI, for two weeks. Then my family came to visit and pick me up. I remember two things very clearly from that visit. My little elderly Grandpa Stephenson took me down to the huckleberry bog to pick huckleberries. (That is what they called blueberries in that part of the country) It was so hot and muggy in the bog that I had a heat stroke and he had to carry me back to the house. Later I went to spend a day or two with my Aunt Vivian and Uncle Ross and their three children; Richard, Roxanne and Ruth Ellen, in Jackson, MI, and we went to the stock car races. I loved the races
There is only one family member of my parents’ generation still alive as I write this, my Aunt Vivian is a spry 80-something, living part of the year in Southern Florida and part up in Pennsylvania. We e-mail each other and are Facebook friends. She still bowls twice a week.
My dad would be so pleased to know that his oldest child and his baby sister are in touch.
(Auntie Vivian with her daughter, Roxanne, taken in Clark Lake, Michigan, about 2003)
MY GRANDPARENTS
BY: GRAMMA SALLY WILLIAMS
May, 2011
My mother, Enid Anne Heberlein, was born on April 4, 1904 (4/4/4 !!) to Fredrick William Heberlein and Sarah Susanna Peterson, in Hamilton, Missouri. She was the third child and second daughter.

(Enid left with younger sister, Hope)
Her parents, Fred and Sadie, as Sarah Susanna was known, grew up in the small Wisconsin farming community of Briggsville. Fred’s family were first generation immigrant farmers and millers from Germany. Sadie’s were first generation immigrant farmers as well, but from Norway.
The Peterson’s had four children; Marcus who became the Postmaster in Briggsville, married to Mildred. They had no children. Ella married John Dean and they had two daughters, Inez and Dora. Sadie married Fred and they had Harold (we called him Uncle Hal), Lois Ellen, Enid and baby Hope. Youngest of the Peterson’s was Inez. She became a Registered Nurse and lived in California for many years.
The senior Heberleins had many children; so many I cannot remember exactly. The one I knew the best was Uncle Will because he had a large dairy farm in Briggsville and I visited them often.
The unusual thing about Fred and Sadie was that they went off to college; to Ripon College in Ripon, Wisconsin. 
(Fred is the first seated on the left with an “X” on his shoulder)
They were each the first of their families to have a college education. Sadie was a gifted artist and musician and in that is what she received her degree. Although she had fallen some distance from a log box as a young girl and badly damaged one leg so that it was always shorter than the other which caused her to limp, she was an active student, then wife and mother. In addition to playing the music in her husband’s many churches she found the time to create many lovely oil paintings. She painted four special ones, one for each child. I have the one that was left to my mother.
Following his graduation from Ripon, Fred attended Yale University and received a Master of Divinity Degree in 1898. I have the pottery pitcher that has the names of him and all his classmates. There is also a booklet on the occasion of their 50th anniversary of the class with a page from each of the students.
Fred and Sadie spent the next many years ministering to Congregational churches, some in Missouri but mostly in Wisconsin. By the time their daughters were students at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, he was the Superintendent of all the Congregational Churches in the state of Wisconsin. They had a large home and several of the girls’ cousins stayed with them during their college years.

(Fred standing far left, Sadie standing far right, with Enid seated at the left on the occasion of her graduation from the Univ. of Wisconsin, 1928)
Upon his retirement they returned to a lovely home in Briggsville and he spent the rest of his years growing and developing many beautiful fields of gladiolas. His new glads included ones named for each of his daughters. “Enid Anne” was a lovely coral orange flower and we always tried to include it in arrangements for her special occasions.
During World War II we moved to Colorado Springs, CO., where my father was an airplane mechanic at Peterson Field. My grandfather, Fred, would type, single spaced, several page letters to me, telling me all about what was going on at home in Briggsville and asking about our life in Colorado. I was three and then four years old. We have some of the letters and they are very special memories for me.

(Grandmother, Sadie with Sarah in Colorado, 1944)
When my mother found out she was going to have a baby in April of 1945 we moved back to Briggsville. My dear grandfather died that year in July. He was memorialized at the Methodist Church in Briggsville but he was also “viewed” on a tall bier in the living room of their home. One of my earliest real memories is being lifted up by my Dad to see him lying there. I would rather remember him leading me up and down the fields of flowers and there are pictures of that.
My grandmother, Sadie, lived on alone and later with my Aunt Inez at their home in Briggsville until she died in 1951. We did not own a car at that time and were living in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, so my Aunt and Uncle came from Madison to take us to the funeral. We had an accident on slippery roads and were taken to the hospital in an ambulance. That is quite memorable also.
I started school, in the first grade in Briggsville. It was a literal “one-room” school house. One teacher, Miss Dinegan, taught grades one through eight. There were two of us in the first grade, Margaret Clary and me. The teacher would stand in front of each row … each grade, and teach them the day’s lessons and then move to the next row.
Now you know about my Maternal (from my Mother’s side) Grandparents.
I know much less about my Paternal (from my Father’s side) Grandparents.

(Anna Louise and Bayard Ralph Stephenson wedding picture … 1904)
My Father, Lyle Thomas Stephenson, was born on September 26, 1905, in Clark Lake, Michigan, to Bayard Ralph Stephenson and Anna Louise Bartig. His mother, Anna Louise died ten days later from “childbed pneumonia.” So, not only did I not know my grandmother, my father did not know his mother. Instead he was raised for several years by his grandmother and his father. Then his father got married again and they had four children; Veryl, Leola, Bayard Jr. (known as Skeet), and Vivian.
They rarely traveled so we did not see them very often. There are photos of the five generations on a visit when I was a baby.

(My Father with his Father and Stepmother and me, 1940)
The summer that I was ten years old my aunt and uncle came to Wisconsin and took me to visit in Clark Lake, MI, for two weeks. Then my family came to visit and pick me up. I remember two things very clearly from that visit. My little elderly Grandpa Stephenson took me down to the huckleberry bog to pick huckleberries. (That is what they called blueberries in that part of the country) It was so hot and muggy in the bog that I had a heat stroke and he had to carry me back to the house. Later I went to spend a day or two with my Aunt Vivian and Uncle Ross and their three children; Richard, Roxanne and Ruth Ellen, in Jackson, MI, and we went to the stock car races. I loved the races
There is only one family member of my parents’ generation still alive as I write this, my Aunt Vivian is a spry 80-something, living part of the year in Southern Florida and part up in Pennsylvania. We e-mail each other and are Facebook friends. She still bowls twice a week.
My dad would be so pleased to know that his oldest child and his baby sister are in touch.
(Auntie Vivian with her daughter, Roxanne, taken in Clark Lake, Michigan, about 2003)
Monday, April 25, 2011
How many years does it take to change?
If you, or anyone, told me that I had to change, if I thought I had to change, I would have said “no way.” I admire folks who put themselves through programs in order to change. You will never find a person more impressed with twelve steppers … not the programs, although they are tried and true, but the steppers, than I am. The people who face the need to change and find a program that helps them to do it, that is inspiring to me.
I have tried to change; little things, like weight, eating habits, worry patterns, and people for whom I care. It has never been successful. Well, I’m not 212 pounds, I don’t live on butter and sugar and I have outgrown some of those worry patterns.
Harder to change are the ingrown beliefs I developed over all those years of raising all those children, mostly by myself. For instance, I have always believed that a parent’s job is to raise a child to be an adult, not a close to mom’s knee kiddo all his life. Ask any of them, I never expected them to be what I wanted them to be, to live nearby or to check in regularly after they were grown up. And they don’t.
Holidays have never worked very well for me. As a young person they were generally nervous occasions with at least the possibility of a depressed parent with a need to stoke his senses of inadequacy with cigars and whiskey, spoiling what we always hoped would be a good Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter or 4th of July. Some of those tendencies reappeared as I tried to raise my own children. Certainly the brooding likelihood was never far away. So we tried traditions; Tyler for Thanksgiving, all of us together at Christmas, inviting or accepting invitations for picnics or swim parties in the summer. But it was never very good, there were never enough gifts, the regular menu; ham, buffet potatoes, peppermint chiffon pie, didn’t make our holidays special. I always hoped for a good one, a memorable one, one that kids or grandkids would bring up in conversation later. There are some good pictures; group shots on the couch or in front of the tree, smiling at the beach, dressed in Mexican dresses, it looked like we were a “normal” family and having a good time. But it didn’t work.
Now I have changed! I have given up even hoping for a picture perfect family traditional happy holiday. Not “given up” all pitiful like. Really, its okay.
Yesterday was a perfectly good Easter.
It was a remarkably worthwhile Holy Week.
On Thursday I attended Maundy Thursday service at St. Francis. I don’t wash or have anyone wash my feet. It is meaningful to watch others participate but not my cup of tea.
On Friday with dear friends I went to Houston, even past Ascension Church, to eat a great Mediterranean meal, and then to Christ the King church (right there near Rice U) for breathtaking music of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. We stopped at LaMad for soup and dessert on the way home. Never been a better Good Friday.
Saturday I was at church by ten am, stuffed, sealed and stamped our stewardship mailing, prepared our newsletter for a mailing to follow in a few days and went home for a nap. I was back at church at 7:20 for a long, dark and light, moving Great Easter Vigil. I had never even been to one and it is quite amazing with the first half, a recounting of the major events in the old Testament interspersed with prayers and Taize hymns and then blazing with noise into the bright lights and joy of the resurrection. Even really tired, it was thrilling.
I was back at St. F on Sunday morning at nine to be the Vestry Person of the Day. The flowers, inside and out, were just beaming. Our altar has never shined brighter. Fr. John preached another home run. I counted the offering, went to the bank and then met six or so church folk at our regular restaurant, Shiraz, for our regular good lunch. And then I went home to take a nap. It was Easter, a major Christian/American holiday, holy day and except for a short phone call with one of my four children, eleven grandchildren, there was no family in it.
See, I am changed. And I didn’t even have to work at it. It is not pitiful. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I raised my four to go off and be themselves and they have. Some of them still check in with me from time to time. But their lives are their own, their families are their own, their religions are their own. Most of them seem to like me, some of them don’t.
I don’t know how many more years I will live. I do know that I will have to work as long as I can. I am not leaving anybody very much of anything and I hope I don’t ever have to ask any of them for anything. I had them, I love them, I enjoy them and that was what I thought you were supposed to do. I wonder if they will even talk about me when I’m gone? But I’m not gloomy or self destructive or even whining. I have changed.
I have tried to change; little things, like weight, eating habits, worry patterns, and people for whom I care. It has never been successful. Well, I’m not 212 pounds, I don’t live on butter and sugar and I have outgrown some of those worry patterns.
Harder to change are the ingrown beliefs I developed over all those years of raising all those children, mostly by myself. For instance, I have always believed that a parent’s job is to raise a child to be an adult, not a close to mom’s knee kiddo all his life. Ask any of them, I never expected them to be what I wanted them to be, to live nearby or to check in regularly after they were grown up. And they don’t.
Holidays have never worked very well for me. As a young person they were generally nervous occasions with at least the possibility of a depressed parent with a need to stoke his senses of inadequacy with cigars and whiskey, spoiling what we always hoped would be a good Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter or 4th of July. Some of those tendencies reappeared as I tried to raise my own children. Certainly the brooding likelihood was never far away. So we tried traditions; Tyler for Thanksgiving, all of us together at Christmas, inviting or accepting invitations for picnics or swim parties in the summer. But it was never very good, there were never enough gifts, the regular menu; ham, buffet potatoes, peppermint chiffon pie, didn’t make our holidays special. I always hoped for a good one, a memorable one, one that kids or grandkids would bring up in conversation later. There are some good pictures; group shots on the couch or in front of the tree, smiling at the beach, dressed in Mexican dresses, it looked like we were a “normal” family and having a good time. But it didn’t work.
Now I have changed! I have given up even hoping for a picture perfect family traditional happy holiday. Not “given up” all pitiful like. Really, its okay.
Yesterday was a perfectly good Easter.
It was a remarkably worthwhile Holy Week.
On Thursday I attended Maundy Thursday service at St. Francis. I don’t wash or have anyone wash my feet. It is meaningful to watch others participate but not my cup of tea.
On Friday with dear friends I went to Houston, even past Ascension Church, to eat a great Mediterranean meal, and then to Christ the King church (right there near Rice U) for breathtaking music of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. We stopped at LaMad for soup and dessert on the way home. Never been a better Good Friday.
Saturday I was at church by ten am, stuffed, sealed and stamped our stewardship mailing, prepared our newsletter for a mailing to follow in a few days and went home for a nap. I was back at church at 7:20 for a long, dark and light, moving Great Easter Vigil. I had never even been to one and it is quite amazing with the first half, a recounting of the major events in the old Testament interspersed with prayers and Taize hymns and then blazing with noise into the bright lights and joy of the resurrection. Even really tired, it was thrilling.
I was back at St. F on Sunday morning at nine to be the Vestry Person of the Day. The flowers, inside and out, were just beaming. Our altar has never shined brighter. Fr. John preached another home run. I counted the offering, went to the bank and then met six or so church folk at our regular restaurant, Shiraz, for our regular good lunch. And then I went home to take a nap. It was Easter, a major Christian/American holiday, holy day and except for a short phone call with one of my four children, eleven grandchildren, there was no family in it.
See, I am changed. And I didn’t even have to work at it. It is not pitiful. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I raised my four to go off and be themselves and they have. Some of them still check in with me from time to time. But their lives are their own, their families are their own, their religions are their own. Most of them seem to like me, some of them don’t.
I don’t know how many more years I will live. I do know that I will have to work as long as I can. I am not leaving anybody very much of anything and I hope I don’t ever have to ask any of them for anything. I had them, I love them, I enjoy them and that was what I thought you were supposed to do. I wonder if they will even talk about me when I’m gone? But I’m not gloomy or self destructive or even whining. I have changed.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Almost bought a house ....
I have been looking. Not LOOKING, but I have a nice realtor here in town who knows what I want. I want a little house, a bungalow. I don't want a lot of space, a lot of yard or a lot of work.
Oddly enough, most of what comes available for sale in this small town is bigger houses; three bedrooms, two baths, big yards. Needless to say I also have a specific price point over which I do not go.
So, a house became available, two bedroom and one bath, nice fenced back yard. I looked at it twice. I checked on my financeability and passed. I even qualify for a no down payment rural loan.
And I almost had myself talked into it. This house was not ugly. The interior needed paint in every room partly because every inch of every wall had something hanging on it, photos and doodads. I would need a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, some furniture and a lot of paint and elbow grease to make it my own and suitable. I even told her to draw up an offer.
I couldn't sleep that night. I'd look around my spacious, airy loft apartment that I enjoy living in and envision the small living room (with paneling) and an even smaller kitchen. Why would one design a house with two spacious bedrooms and miniscule living room and kitchen? Personally, I spend my living time in those spaces.
First thing next morning I called my agent and told her I just couldn't buy and work for weeks on a house I was not going to love. She was very kind and understanding and said she'd keep looking for one I could love. One of the perks of small town living, she doesn't want to run into me regularly only to hear that I hate the house.
Maybe I will find the bungalow of my ideas. Maybe I won't. I am glad to know that if I do and it is in my price range, I'm already pre-qualified for a loan. There are days of climbing up and down the stairs with arms full, when a single story dwelling sounds like a great idea. There are nights when I have lousy cable and even lousier internet connection that I think I'd like to be in a position to complain and/or negotiate the service. There are a lot of pretty days when I would like to have a yard with trees and flowers and birds and those damn squirrels.
At least I contemplated it and weighed the positives and negatives before jumping to any conclusion. For today I'm still a downtown apartment dweller just a block away from my office and a block away in another direction from the new office.
Oddly enough, most of what comes available for sale in this small town is bigger houses; three bedrooms, two baths, big yards. Needless to say I also have a specific price point over which I do not go.
So, a house became available, two bedroom and one bath, nice fenced back yard. I looked at it twice. I checked on my financeability and passed. I even qualify for a no down payment rural loan.
And I almost had myself talked into it. This house was not ugly. The interior needed paint in every room partly because every inch of every wall had something hanging on it, photos and doodads. I would need a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, some furniture and a lot of paint and elbow grease to make it my own and suitable. I even told her to draw up an offer.
I couldn't sleep that night. I'd look around my spacious, airy loft apartment that I enjoy living in and envision the small living room (with paneling) and an even smaller kitchen. Why would one design a house with two spacious bedrooms and miniscule living room and kitchen? Personally, I spend my living time in those spaces.
First thing next morning I called my agent and told her I just couldn't buy and work for weeks on a house I was not going to love. She was very kind and understanding and said she'd keep looking for one I could love. One of the perks of small town living, she doesn't want to run into me regularly only to hear that I hate the house.
Maybe I will find the bungalow of my ideas. Maybe I won't. I am glad to know that if I do and it is in my price range, I'm already pre-qualified for a loan. There are days of climbing up and down the stairs with arms full, when a single story dwelling sounds like a great idea. There are nights when I have lousy cable and even lousier internet connection that I think I'd like to be in a position to complain and/or negotiate the service. There are a lot of pretty days when I would like to have a yard with trees and flowers and birds and those damn squirrels.
At least I contemplated it and weighed the positives and negatives before jumping to any conclusion. For today I'm still a downtown apartment dweller just a block away from my office and a block away in another direction from the new office.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Confessions of a Recipe-aholic
I like to eat.
I like to cook.
I like to read recipes.
Since I am alone, days go by without cooking anything. No days go by without reading recipes.
In magazines, on the internet, piled up in a file on my desk, or in the mail with an "offer." I read recipes.
If they have a great many ingredients, even though most are things I love, they will likely never be concocted. I'm also a big fan of few ingredients. Side note: I eat almost everything and enjoy almost all of that. Another side note: I very often change, vary or add to recipes ... even ones I'm making for the first time.
I have a lot of favorite recipes ... you can tell by the stuff that I have spilled on them. I have recipes in my mother's handwriting (and she did not like to cook!). I have scribbled on the back of napkin recipes, including a great one for jalapeno pie. I have recipes that I can't find but can remember the website from which they came so I can go print them again, Sara McLachlan's Writers Block Oatmeal Cookies ... recently refound on Land O' Lakes Butter website and printed, again.
But sometimes my love of looking up recipes outfoxes me. Case in point: Birthday Cupcakes for Kyndall's 4th. Last year for her 3rd (traditional party in the park) I found a really great recipe for white "graduation" cupcakes. They were easy to make and of delicious texture and flavor and tasted great with cream cheese frosting. But this year I chose the "theme" and because her current interests are mud pies and bugs, I thought chocolate cupcakes with buttercream frosting (sister Kallie doesn't care for cream cheese !) to showcase the precious caterpillars, ants and spiders that would top them. See, mud pies and bugs. This is where it went bad. I "searched" for "chocolate cupcakes" recipes and chose one that sounded sound. It had six squares of semi-sweet chocolate included and other normal cake stuff. I made them. I painstakingly (and if you know how crafty I am not, you get the "pain" part) created bugs by drawing legs and antennae with melted chocolate and bodies and heads of M&M's. See photo somewhere on this page. They turned out pretty durn cute. Guess what? The cake was awful. It was dry. It was chalkily chocolate. The were photographed, bitten into and put down. I threw most of them in the trash can at the park.
I'm just writing this so I will read it in early April next year and return to some tried and true cake recipe for our annual Happy Spring/Honor Grandma/Kyndall's Party at Washington on the Brazos State Park.
But, on a brighter note, the recipe I downloaded for "Creamy Chicken Pot Pie" that uses rotisserie chicken, corn chowder, corn and peas and a puff pastry crust turned out just fabulous and was a solid hit at the potluck lunch at church today.
So my cure is not on the horizon.
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