Month: January 2024

I sometimes wonder how accurate childhood memories are. Experts are somewhat divided on the matter; but what aren’t experts divided on?

I tested some childhood memories when I came across the old blue diary with a tarnished lock that I kept in fourth grade. My memory was that fourth grade was routine and uneventful. Sure enough, every single entry said, “Went to school. Practiced piano.”

Sometimes I just wrote “ditto” for the day’s entry. There was no need to lock the diary.

Last fall I had a chance to return to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I was born, and our family lived until I was almost 9. I have often replayed the 13-block walk to school in my mind. Details seem vivid, but surely they have been embellished by imagination.

Retracing the old route to school, long-forgotten memories crystalized.

“Old Man Scott’s house,” I said, as we passed a tumble-down shotgun house. As a girl, I never saw Old Man Scott, but I knew he kept a goat and that grown-ups shook their heads over the state of his place. Old Man Scott may be gone but, from the looks of things, the goat may still be around.

On  a corner lot sat Green Chapel where I attended vacation Bible school one summer. One day, the church ladies asked if someone would play the piano while they collected an offering.

I took a seat at the rickety upright and played the only song I knew by heart – “Shortnin’ Bread.” “Get out the skillet, get out the lid, Mama’s gonna make a little shortnin’ bread.”

When I told my mother I had played “Shortnin’ Bread” during the offering, she did not seem pleased. I know for certain that I remember that one correctly.

The old neighborhood has not fared particularly well, but the house where we lived looks good. It has been cared for despite the half-dozen cars now parked in the side yard where a sprawling vegetable and flower garden once flourished. I could smell the purple iris and pink peonies in bouquets Mom would send with me to school with for my teacher. I could see Dad polishing his car on Saturdays in the gravel drive.

We retraced the route I used to travel to my three great-aunts’ house with garden produce strapped to the back of my red bike. Straight four blocks, turn right, turn left, another four to go. The final stretch was on the same route the city bus traveled. When that beast roared past belching black exhaust, I always wondered if I would be sucked into the engine. But each time, the lettuce, beans, radishes and I all lived to see another day.

When the whole family went to visit those three aunts, the second or third time my younger brother and I banged the porch swing into the porch rail, Mom would send us uptown to get my brother a haircut. It wasn’t until we moved away that his hair ever had a chance to grow longer than a quarter-inch. My brother’s recollection is that I never went with him to the barber shop, that he always went alone.

Funny what you remember, what you think you remember and how others remember differently.

Memories can be both friend and foe; hard ones spring to mind as easily and unexpectedly as the good ones. The hard ones land with a thud and often attempt to dig in and roost. Good memories whisper softly, linger briefly, then drift away on a gentle breeze.

If your good memories outnumber the not-so-good memories, and if you can summon a good memory to the forefront at will, you have been blessed. Remember that.

Our granddog wears a hoodie. I can’t believe I just wrote that. The part about having a granddog. And the part about a hoodie.

Our daughter and family treat their new dog like family, which every family in the history of time has done and is also why the dog got a new hoodie for winter.

The hoodie is of pale pink sweatshirt material and even has a pocket on top. Probably for the dog’s gloves, lip gloss and cell phone.

The hoodie has sleeves. There’s something about a dog wearing sleeves that come halfway down the legs that make you wonder if the dog might be able to hold a fork and spoon.

It also makes you want to hand the dog a pen and say, “Here, write your name.”

For some reason, it all looks entirely doable.

Dog clothes are not foreign to me. I sewed a lot of my own clothes in high school and often made my dog a matching wardrobe piece, which was a basic rectangle that tied underneath.

He always wormed out of my creations. Apparently, the dog had something against navy blue windowpane plaid. Big patterns were hip back then. He didn’t like the red and green plaid I made for him either.

My brother and sister-in-law would never try to dress their dog. It is a huge German Shepherd that weighs 85 pounds. When the dog is in your face and smiles big, your first thought is always from Little Red Riding Hood, “Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have!” The dog is not amenable to cute, cuddly clothes. However, the XL dog will try to sit on my brother’s lap, but there is no chair big enough.

Different dogs, different choices.

Dogs that do accessorize often appear personable, the sort of dog you would enjoy chatting with in a slow-moving checkout line.

Still, I casually inquired as to why a dog would wear a sweatshirt inside the house. “I don’t wear a jacket inside,” I said.

Five people turned and yelled, “That’s because you’re cold-blooded!”

I might be.

I casually mention that the dog has a thick coat of fur and at one time dogs lived outside. I also mention seeing a picture of wolves in Yellowstone National Park that were burrowed into the snow and catching a few zzzz’s in the sun.

Later that day our daughter called and said, “Guess where the dog is?”

“In the kitchen making dinner?”

“No, she’s outside. Guess what she’s doing?”

“Going to Starbucks for a coffee?”

“No. She’s burrowed in the snow and is quite content. Just like the wolves.”

“You know what this means, right?” I ask.

“That our dog enjoys being outside,” she says.

“No. It means you’ll have to put the pink hoodie in the dryer when she comes inside.”

 

A text arrived saying a dress I ordered online had been delivered to our front porch. And so it had, in a large and heavy box.

I lugged it inside, heaved it onto the kitchen counter, opened the box and pulled out another box with a picture of a griddle on it. Inside was a large griddle, double burner—the griddle of a grandma’s dreams. The picture on the box indicated it could easily handle eight pancakes at a time.

Perhaps the text about the delivery of the dress had been in error. Perhaps one of the kids sent a griddle as a gift—you know, a gift that says, “Keep feeding us, keep standing at the stove, keep those pancakes coming and we’ll keep coming over.”

I texted each of them and the response was the same, “No, we didn’t send a griddle—but when will you be making pancakes?”

There was no gift card, no note, no invoice, no receipt or paperwork of any kind, just a griddle.

Next came an email saying the dress had been delivered. It included a picture of the box left on the porch and a picture of the dress that was theoretically inside the box. But there was no dress in the box, only a griddle.

I don’t have shoes to wear with a griddle.

Furthermore, a griddle does not provide adequate coverage. Oh sure, I could see some young starlet on the rise trying to wear a griddle. But it’s not me. Not my size, not my color, not my non-stick surface.

Yet, the griddle began growing on me. Literally. My metabolism is now so slow that I gain weight just thinking about food. Even leafing through cookbooks is high-risk. Pictures add pounds.

The griddle would be great for breakfast for a crowd . . . bacon . . . French toast.

Truthfully, the griddle had more possibilities than the dress . . . Philly cheesesteak sandwiches . . . quesadillas.

With all this thinking about food, should the dress ever arrive, it probably wouldn’t even fit.

I was now on the fence about trying to straighten out the mess. Initiating a return could mean a trip to the store without any paperwork and subsequently being charged, arrested and hauled away for theft. (Like that happens anymore.) My metabolism may have slowed, but my imagination remains in overdrive.

I checked the price of the griddle online. The dress had been more expensive. It would not be an even swap, even if they threw in rib-eyes, fresh-catch and pork chops to sizzle on the griddle.

I hauled the griddle to the store and explained the situation to a clerk. Without batting an eye, she said this happens frequently, credited me for the dress and asked if I wanted to reorder it.

I said no thanks.

“The griddle is on sale,” she said.

Mind reader.

 

 

My newsfeed said that the internet had been “set on fire” when Martha Stewart, 82, posted a sultry selfie of herself in front of a hotel bathroom mirror the morning following a rough 8-hour flight.

She looked good. Really good. She looked so good I almost didn’t recognize her.

Her skin was glowing, her eyelids weren’t puffy and she didn’t have a single visible wrinkle on her face. Who wouldn’t like a selfie like that?

You know why Martha takes good selfies? Sure, there are creams, fillers and doctors, but she takes good selfies because she has long arms.

I can’t take good selfies because I have short arms. They’re not flipper short, just not long enough. I’m a big fan of the 20-foot closeup.

I probably took a total of three selfies last year. The reason I took them was to try and scare myself into doing something about my hair.

It didn’t work.

Apparently, I don’t scare easily.

Martha and other celebs do not take selfies to scare themselves or others.

If I shared a selfie the morning after a long flight, friends and family would think it was a call for help. They would be frantically phoning 911 and sharing my location.

I don’t know many people who wake up with jet lag, stumble into a hotel bathroom, look in the mirror, think, “man, I look good!” and whip out a camera.

Well, nobody except Martha. But she also makes her own bread and raises donkeys.

I stumble to the bathroom most mornings, look in the mirror and think, “Who is that and what did you do with Lori?”

It’s the same startled reaction I have when I unlock my car, catch a reflection in the driver’s window and wonder who that woman is. Then I realize I know her, because I am her.

Some people just have better genes. You get what you get. Like the song says, “Be happy, don’t worry.” Besides, if you worry you get worry lines.

You know what the great leveler is? The cameras above the checkout stations at Walmart that record you as you scan items. Every single person on the planet looks like a felon on those cameras. Something tells me Martha doesn’t shop Walmart.

I’m happy for any woman who has a good hair day, a good face day and a good wardrobe day, all on the same day, and gets a good photo of herself.

My mother, who wrinkled like 100% cotton in the dryer, used to cup her face in her hands and say to me, “Behold your future.” To which I would cup my face in my hands and say, “Behold your future caretaker.”

Then we’d both laugh so hard we both added six more laugh lines.

We’ve been having issues with possessive pronouns lately. Forty-five years of marriage and we’re still carving out our turf.

A green light on the refrigerator door indicates it is time to order a new water filter. The reminder has been glowing green for more than a week, yet I successfully managed to ignore it. I file the little green light under the category of “nagging.”

Yesterday, my husband says, “Have you ordered a replacement for your water filter for the ‘fridge yet?”

Did you catch that? “Your” water filter.

Why does the water filter belong to me? I didn’t birth it or potty train it. I’ve never even unboxed one, let alone removed an old one or installed a new one.

I am the one who orders the hard-to-find rascals, so I suppose that “technically” makes them mine. I unruffle my feathers.

On the other hand, he buys the furnace filters, so that makes them “his.” I love sharing.

I began thinking about other things he might think are “mine.”  The kitchen comes to mind. I’ll take that. The kitchen is “mine,” but the garbage disposal is “his,”—as in, “Your garbage disposal is acting up again.”

The lawnmower has never been “yours,” or “mine” or even “ours.” It’s always been “the” mower. I would like to take this opportunity to officially make it “his.”

Glad that one is settled. He can thank me later.

The garden is “mine” most of the time, but sometimes it is “ours.” The gutters are “his.” So is the roof.

“How is your roof today?”

The leaf blower and small power tools are “ours.” We both use them, though I am usually the one who knows where to find them.

I have no desire to make the chainsaw “mine” or even “ours.” No contest, he can have it. I hereby yield the chainsaw.

We used to have “his car” and “her car,” otherwise known as “your car” and “my car,” until he retired. “His” car became “the” car because it is newer and gets better mileage. Whew. A definite article saves the day.

We share a bathroom, but it is “the” bathroom, not “yours” or “mine.” Neither one of us wants exclusive rights because we both know that to own it is to clean it.

We share “the” hairbrush (mainly because I have three other ones in another drawer), but it is “my” blow dryer. What hair he has left can air dry.

I am eyeing the washer and dryer and realize they have never, ever in the history of us been assigned a possessive pronoun.

He’s a smart man. He wouldn’t dare.