Whitewashed Fences

Recently my husband, Jim (aka Mustache Man) and I have been seeing a "life" counselor.  Roderick (life coach) talked about the importance of us having someone other than each other that we could confide in and feel safe with. Well, I just sat up a bit prouder in my chair and put an imaginary notch in  my imaginary belt of self-righteousness.  I DO have someone I can confide in and she 1) does not pressure me to call her every Tuesday, 2) does not demand that I tell her first before I tell anyone else anything of any importance that happens in my life and 3) she doesn't judge me. I'm pretty sure about #3. I'm feeling pretty confident so I'll go with it. So, my safe-to-purge-on person? Yeah, I'm talking about my tea-toking sister, Cathy. (not her real name).  She's seen me in some very low places (not real places) and has always been there to lift me up, even if it's just to get me to smile. I sometimes think that making someone smile is a lot like whitewashing a wooden fence. It's not a terribly glamorous job, but it sure makes the house look nicer.  So I was thinking about that today (smiles, not fences) because Jim and I had to cancel our counseling appointment tomorrow (nothing serious). And she's my go-to gal so naturally I'd think of her... is any of this making sense? She's the husband I never knew I always wanted. OK, that's not true either. But here's the thing with Cathy and me. We work on our friendship everyday, and it's called texting. And it's FREE. Inevitably one of us will get a headache from tap-typing on our iPhones, so when the mood strikes we will email. I don't try to wax eloquent when I write to her, I don't always spell check, although that is incredibly difficult for me to NOT do.  My sister is extremely low-maintenance and she always lifts up my spirits, and I know that's what she wants to do. Because she loves me. I just love her for that.

Here's a typical short-version of an email from today. It's not Mark Twain, but it got my fences whitewashed just the same. And that's what mattered.  It's all that mattered on this particular day.

On Dec 5, 2011, at 2:26 PM, Susan Fernald wrote:

> I opened my email today and now there's 192 unopened emails there.Lurking. Most of them are stuff i've started "following", and SodaHead crap. oy. my head hurts again. I was up all night and couldn't sleep so I watched White Collar on Netflix. It's a funny white collar crime series. Catchy title huh? Then I got up at 7, showered and dressed, drank some coffee, watched some Top Gear with Evan then went to see my baby boy. OMG. He's grown, sissy. And he didn't even wait for me. He sits in my lap now and smiles and chews HARD with those newbie teeth of his. He's 17 pounds and 4 feet tall. He's gonna be a husky kid, and he's gonna be Gramma's care bear when he's old enough to hug me as great as his daddy does. I call Sam our family's care bear, and he is. Then I came home and saw that new Pinterest deal inviting me to join via my Facebook account. I'm pretty sure the banks are in cahoots with Facebook and you'll have have a driver's license, ss# and a FB acct to put money in the bank. So anyway I checked it out since Lisa told me she had a "board". huh? I started up just a peck and a paw on that and OMG how many hours will this snag out of my already sedentary day? Pinterest is WAY better than Farm Town. Do you think I can do both? I may have to sell off one of my 12 farms. You think i'm kidding but I'm not. Lisa got the 4S iphone and now sends me great pictures again. She sent one that had a picture of B next to a photo of her that I had taken after she'd gotten her cast off at 4 months. They look exactly alike. Well, you and I both think that. And I was thinking how MUCH I'm enjoying that baby who was just sitting in my lap, not doing anything special except brightening my world, and I think maybe I got to get Lisa twice, so I could love her all over again. But this time I'll do it better. And then I'm all crying and now I can't stop and my head hurts even more. How can happy tears hurt so much? OK, enough out of me. How are you doing sissy?

From Cathy Berthiaume -REPLY- 

>Now i"m crying too after that last bit in your email. Yeah. Grandkids are like getting a chance to do it all again and we WOULD do it better. If only our grown children would listen...
I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. Man that flu really took you downtown to China town.

Here's a random story:

Sometimes I use Mike's glucose meter to check my blood sugar level. It's always around 75 or 80. He's always burnt that its so low. "You should have diabetes too" he says. "You are more of a candidate for that than I am". And I just say "tch tch. Don't sulk. Now excuse me cause there's a donut int he kitchen calling my name".

But seriously he shakes his head like "it doesn't make sense". Well he has the family history of diabetes, right? But he really eats healthy and has always taken loads of vitamins and walks so really it isn't fair. he is keeping it down to below 120 though by diet and exercise alone. I saw my endocrinologist this morning for my thyroid and I told him about Mike and he said that only 3% of people with diabetes actually keep it under control without medication so yay for Mike. If it was me I am SURE I'd be on medication.


ps my under achieveing thyroid is fine.

pps tell that baby to STOP growing for crying out loud

See what I mean? Whitewashed fences. And I didn't use spellcheck either.
~Susan Renee~

The Pirates of Riverlakes

Ian and Jared, age 3

I have eight grandchildren. The score is even; 4 boys and 4 girls. Each and every one of them are my heart's delight and believe you me, I KNOW I am blessed. Smack dab in the middle of the line-up are two boys; Ian and Jared. These two boys are thick as thieves, closer than brothers, and can even finish each other's sentences. They are inseparable—in crime as well as punishment. Ian is a little older than Jared but for three months out of every year they are the same age, and right proud of it. This month, they are both 9. Together they have obsessed over Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles...you name it. If there is sword fighting, karate or blowing stuff up, they're all in. Jared doesn't mind girls. They are ok by him—in their place. Ian has always been a card carrying member of the “He Man Woman Haters Club”. After watching Lara Croft Tomb Raider they both gained new respect for the feminine gender. Thank you Angelina Jolie for increasing those boys tolerance. But they don't just love the most popular action movies, they become the characters in the movies. During the Star Wars phase (which comes and goes) Ian was Han Solo and Jared was Anakin Skywalker. They dressed the part, they looked the part, they could duplicate every light saber fight in every movie and did so with gusto. I must have at least 6 light saber in my house at all times and it prompted #4 of "Gram's Top 10 Rules for Raising Grandchildren— You can never have too many Light sabers”. The two younger grandsons, Ryan and Calvin, and at least one of the girls would agree with and appreciate that.

Jared and Ian, age 4

When the families all get together I can't help but watch them play and wonder what it will be like around my house when they are all teenagers and older. How much quieter it will be when they are no longer running shrieking through the house chasing each other with water guns or playing hide and go seek at the top of their lungs. In hind sight I know all too well that my own kids grew up in the blink of an eye, and against my better judgement. I am helpless against the tides of time and watch in amazement how much faster it seems the grandkids are growing.

In an effort to save myself from constantly washing cups, last summer I had the kids all write their names on the kid-sized acrylic cups I have—so when they come over they'll know which cup is theirs and use it all day, instead of always getting new cups. Brilliant, Gram. I amaze me. Then a couple weeks ago I decided to buy myself all new, matching acrylic cups for the grown ups. Four different colors, sixteen in all. I've always wanted all my cups to match so I figured it was time and I had a 20% off coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond. The kids have their cups now and the adults have theirs. I'm sure Martha Stewart's cupboards look exactly like mine. Maybe organized better but I bet her cups match.

Ian and Jared, age 8

The next day Ian and Jared came over to spend the night. They saw my new cups, immediately located the permanent black marker and wrote their names, each on their own cup. It was at that moment I walked into the kitchen. They were proud and showed me their brand new personalized cups. The first thing out of my mouth was “Oh No! I just bought those. You weren't supposed to write your names on my Brand New, 16 matching, Bed Bath and Beyond Grown Up Cups!” I saw their deflated faces. Ian put the marker down and they both looked me in the eye and said “I'm sorry Gram. We didn't know”. They shuffled out of the kitchen in silence and then I noticed the cups. Both were scrawled with their 9 year old handwriting and both said the same thing— “Captain Jack Sparrow”. 

Captain Jack's cup

Right then and there the proverbial ton of bricks hit me and my timbers were shivered. I melted. I sighed. I darn near cried. I thought how fleeting this time is with my Captain Jack Sparrows and how these 16 matching Bed, Bath and Beyond cups will be cracked and thrift store fodder long before they start liking girls for real and put up their light sabers for good. Cups I can replace. Two Cap'n Jacks...irreplaceable. I found them in front of the X Box and suggested we go out for ice cream. “C'mon Captain Jacks. Last one in the Granny Van walks the plank!” Grabbing their swords and screeching like banshees they jumped up and ran out the door. Oh how I love those two villains.


~ Mary Catherine 

Call of Dooty

When my kids were babies I breastfed them exclusively. Thus, their poop (or "dooty" as I call it) didn't ever stink. Well, not until they started eating food anyway. That was just one of the perks of breastfeeding. When my grandson, Brayden, was born it was the same. He was, for the most part, breastfed and I don't recall him yet having a stinky diaper. But, stinky or not, I made it my goal to never change a "dooty diaper" if I could avoid it. Let's face it, boys are just harder to clean up; too many nooks and crannies. I used to have a baby boy. I know. So, it became a little goal of mine and I was determined to go as long as I could without changing a single dirty diaper. And it lasted... for 12 whole weeks.

Brayden Mason

When B's mommy, Lisa (my daughter) returned to work 12 weeks after his birth, I offered to watch him for her. Hallelujah! What a deal. I waited for so long to get this grand baby I was in heaven at the idea of playing this role in his life.  Besides, I was already head-over-heels in love with him.


When the day arrived for my daughter to bring over the "supplies" I would need, I hadn't quite counted on a case of pint-sized disposable diapers to be included. What was I thinking? Of course I needed diapers. It had finally hit me. "I'm gonna have to start changing some dooty diapers now! Ugh and Yuk." My winning streak just ended by answering the Call of Dooty. But ya know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. Our "dooty times" have been some of the sweetest moments between my grandson and me. While I do the changing, he spends most of the time smiling up and gooing at Gramma. It's so precious my heart usually sheds a few tears of joy. 

I love this little boy in ways I have never known before. And I am so blessed to be in a position to care for him while his mommy must work. I have to say I am proud and happy to have answered the call.  And now I wonder if I'll always think "my grand baby's dooty don't stink"? But I know it won't. That would be a little too optimistic. 

Not a Creature Was Stirring...

January 10, 2011

We have a mouse in the house. Or maybe a whole mouse family, I don't know. OK I see the little smile on your face as you are picturing an old Tom and Jerry cartoon and the cute little gray mouse running amuck around the kitchen table with a smirk on his snerk while my cat Patty Cake gleefully chases it and almost (but not quite) catches it. Well slap that smile off your face. Mice are NOT cute. They are dirty rodents who leave their little mouse droppings behind the fridge and out-wit even my most fail-safe mouse traps.

January 18, 2011

I am decidedly a captive in my own house. Last week I set out 12 mouse traps around the house and in the garage. Every day I inspect them and they remain empty. My home used to be my sanctuary, the home that Mike and I built with love and have worked hard to keep—we've kept it relatively clean and artfully decorated (she said humbly). My house is a reflection of who I am. My place of Solace and Zen when I come home from a stressful day out in the cruel world. Or at least it was. We have been invaded. I am determined to evict the varmint(s) and I am not going down without a fight. This is our territory and just like the last episode of Little House, I'll blow this town to pieces before I let any mice keep permanent residence here.

January 27, 2011

Not my house but isn't this cute?

I admitted defeat and called Pest-Be-Gone. The fellow came out the next day and the fact that his name was Ben did not escape my attention. After a thorough inspection he declared that we don't have mice. (No no no, that would be too easy.) What we have is a big RAT he announced with a toothy grin. (did he say ONE? Oh please God let there be just one) My stomach turns at the thought. Evidently the rat has been living in the house for some time now. I'm going to puke.

Truth is I should have guessed. Last week I caught my cat staring at the crack between the stove and the refrigerator. Staring intensely and in her best Pouncing Position. She has no claws. How can she expect to catch a rat half her size? But stare and threaten to pounce she must. I think its in the cat handbook.

So Ben set out several packets of Extremely Lethal RAT poison in tucked-away places around the house and in the garage. He told us RATS are difficult to catch, then quickly looked at his watch, slithered out the door and bade us good luck. Um...bye Ben.

January 30, 2011

Still no dead RAT(s) (please GOD let there be just one) I checked the poison packets. All in place. I called Ben for the fifth time. No answer. I recollected how day before yesterday, Patty Cake assumed the Pouncing Stance next to the couch, staring underneath it. Last night she sat on the couch in my bedroom staring, unblinking, back behind it. That doesn't bode well. Did Ben leave me his cell number? No.

With new determination, I schlepped to Lowes and bought 6 RAT traps. The most expensive ones. Humungous things that sharply snap with enough authority to kill a small child. YES! I set them out in the house and garage, wondering who the patron saint of Rodent Killers is and if Protestants are allowed to pray to saints.... I am officially in panic-mode.

Jan 31, 2011

I pulled out the refrigerator this evening to inspect the packet o poison behind it. (It's on wheels, it's not that heavy) As I did so THE RAT RAN OUT FROM UNDER THE FRIDGE, SKITTERED ACROSS MY TOES AND RAN UNDER THE COUCH. I screamed bloody murder, jumping up and down. It was HUGE and it was HORRIBLE. Mike came running into the kitchen with the stun gun. I don't know if it was for me or the rat. He quickly assessed the situation and said he would call our son, Shane and together they would get rid of that rat for good. I grabbed my purse and marched out the door, vowing not to return until the R.A.T. was D.E.A.D. Driving away (perhaps forever) I thought nostalgically that we've had 12 years in this house. It's been a good run, good times and great memories but every party has to end.

Is it legal to buy dynamite?

Patty Cake....skulking

Two hours later I called my husband needing a status update. It turns out that Project DEAD RAT was a Fail. He said he and Shane tore the living room apart to get it out from under the sectional. Patty Cake was standing by in anticipation and when the RAT finally did emerge in panic from under the couch, she was on the job. She chased it down the hall and into the laundry room. Mike and Shane were on those critter's tails and quickly slammed the laundry room door shut, trapping the RAT inside.

Now here my Fool-proof Plan; shove a towel under the door to the laundry room and never ever go in there again. That room is now dead to me.

February 5, 2011

It's been five days since "Operation RAT in the Laundry Room". The door remains firmly shut. I considered putting yellow police tape over it in case anyone forgets The Plan. Our dirty clothes are beginning to smell. This morning I suggested we toss them into the trash and buy new clothes. Mike thought that was funny. I am dead serious. He then told me not to be such a wimp and go into the Laundry Room. He said surely the RAT is dead by now.

No one calls me a Wimp so with pride intact I mustered my courage, cracked open the door and peered inside. I had little hope at this point and assumed the RAT had chewed a hole in the dryer vent and escaped to the roof. But NO. THERE HE WAS D.E.A.D on top of the dryer. Victory at Last! O Happy Day! Hallelujah Jesus! I screamed...er I mean politely called for Mike and he took care of the disposal of the Deceased Body like any good husband would...after snapping a photo with my iphone so I could post it on Facebook.

Adios  D.E.A.D.  R.A.T.

Thank you Jesus. Kudos to Mike. Props to my son Shane. A tiny sliver of thanks to Ben (who turned out to be a disappointment for the most part and quit taking my calls after the third day). But most of all, loads of thanks to Patty Cake for waking up and moving her lazy butt off the sofa long enough to do what a cat is supposed to do!

Judy! Shake Me Up!

BBC Mini Series of Bleak House

Last week I watched the BBC miniseries Bleak House, written by Charles Dickens. And I am still smiling over the scroogey and dilapidated character of Mr. Smallweed.  He is obstinate and full of bossery vileness. My mom would say he's full of spit and vinegar but he's way worse than that and full of a lot more than spit and vinegar. And to top that off, he's crippled and lives completely reliant upon the generosity of others to move him from one place to another.  Have I described him well enough? Here's more. He's grumpy and cranky and ugly and horrifically hygiene deficient. He is carried from here to there in an old wooden chair held up by more ugly holding long handles that secure the chair to prevent any spillage. (Just think Arc of the Covenant.) This man embodies the definition of a curmudgeon. Don't you love that word? I do. And so you see that Mr. Smallweed is just a horrible horrible curmudgeon of a man. And I love him! He is assisted in his loan sharking business by his granddaughter, Judy.  "Judy! Shake me up!!" he yells to her every time he's thrown a fit over pretty much nothing. She dutifully grabs him under the arms and literally yanks him up and shakes him until you hear some bones crackling. I don't know why, but it's just funny. And it keeps getting funnier. Today, with a full day to vedge out, I watched the whole thing all over again with my daughter, Carissa. Soon enough Mr. Smallweed is introduced into the story. I'm all set to laugh again. I sneek a smiling glance over and see that my daughter is not smiling at all. Don't you hate that?

Mr. Smallweed and his dutiful granddaughter, Judy

As this character further develops I realize she is now fast-forwarding through the meat of Mr. Smallweed's scenes. "He's so horrible", she tells me. YES, I thought. That is exactly what he is. Don't you just LOVE him? But no, she don't. She's a much kinder soul than I and I'm thinking his orneriness was nothing short of rude and irritating (which is true) and I wondered why it was just me who thought this crust of a man was so darn funny? And as my researcher mind got the better of me I started googling him, trying to find out what in the world ailed this old crank that required him to be 'shaken' up every so often. Sadly, I never did find a sufficient answer, but I did happen across this wonderfully refreshing blog called, Code Yellow Mom. Turns out she's seen that mini series too. Back in 2006. And she loves Mr. Smallweed! It was great! I laughed out loud, threw my head back, raised my hands into fists and yelled, "COMRADE!"

So I share her blog with you here in the hopes that it might shake you up at least a little. I think being shaken up now and again may not really be such a bad thing.  Code Yellow Mom doesn't think so either. Comrades must stick together. (BTW, Carissa loved the series, despite Mr. Smallweed and his gnarly and wretched behaviors.)

 ~Susan

http://codeyellowmom.blogspot.com/2006/04/shake-me-up-judy.html

Mary Mary Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

I love to garden. I love the feeling of dirt between my fingers, the smell of tomato plants with ripened tomatoes waiting to be picked and the reward after every winter of springtime with green trees, ever-faithful daffodils and flowering roses. My yard is like an artist's canvas to me and I love coming up with new ideas for plants and flowers whenever a spot becomes available. It soothes my soul. And I like to think that gardening somehow connects me to my ancestors, my grandparents, my father, and most of all my mother.

We always lived in the suburbs growing up, and my earliest memories of mom and dad were out in the yard. On any given summer day, there my mother would be with her horn-rimmed glasses, short auburn hair, and beige pedal pushers on her hands and knees with a kitchen paring knife digging weeds out of the yard. “Come and help me, Cathy” she'd urge. Bah. That was the last thing I'd want to do on a sunny summer day. Sometimes she'd force me—hand me the knife and make me do weed duty. I was good for 5 minutes top then wiggle my way out of it. It was an endless chore for her but mom was tirelessly vigilant. I remember my parents sitting in lawn chairs at twilight on the front lawn after working in the yard—sipping a drink and proudly perusing their verdant domain. We kids would be playing on the grass as well, doing cartwheels and playing hide and go seek. I always loved it when they sat outside and desperately wanted them to watch me play. But my memories do not include their sitting there as having anything to do with us kids. Looking back I imagine my father's purpose there was to watch the grass, flowers and shrubs with a jealous need to protect them from overly playful and exuberant children.

We visited my paternal grandmother once in 1960 on a family vacation to Missouri. She lived on a farm without running water, but she had a two-seater outhouse and a good sized vegetable garden with a root cellar to boot. She must have sensed a kindred soul in me because she used to write me long letters after that visit which, for the most part, described her garden, her dog and various wildlife they'd see on the farm. Her world seemed so small to me, yet so content and always filled me with wonder.

As my parents got on in years, they eventually acquired a gardener and discovered Weed n Feed. Mom's weeding days were over. I'd go visit on the weekends and she would talk to me about what she'd want to do in the yard. Even though she couldn't get down on her hands and knees and garden much anymore, she still had plans. “I want to hire someone to tear up that concrete patio and re-do it right this time. And plant some gladiolas and Easter lilies along the back fence. I do love Easter lilies.” I'd listen and nod my head, knowing the desert terrain would not support those flowers but determined not to burst her bubble.

My dad did put in a rose garden on the large lot on the side of their house several years before he died, along with a vegetable garden. He tilled it and cared for it and it was quite lovely—a rock path around each section that was squared off with railroad ties. I expect his green-thumbed ancestors called to him down through the years to do that just like they do me.

After dad died the vegetables went to seed but the rose garden still grew. Beautiful apricot, yellow and red roses. I'd cut them now and then and take them to his grave. I never felt his presence there. Although I feel no guilt, I took him flowers too seldom. But on the up-side, it was always quiet and windy and lonely in that graveyard. Just he way he would have liked it. And I imagine he would have preferred I not trample that beautiful cemetery lawn too much anyway.

Towards the end, mom became pretty much bed-ridden but never gave up her love of her flora and fauna. About two months before she died, she had the gardener plant rows of yellow and orange marigolds in the spot outside her bedroom window where she could see them from her bed everytime she looked outside. She was so proud to show them off to me next time I visited. She knew she wasn't long for this world and I think they soothed her soul in those final days.

I expect when I get to heaven she'll be there to greet me with open arms and that big smile that I remember so well. “Come here Mary Catherine” she'll say with delight as she tucks my arm under hers and leads me to her backyard. “Come and see what I've done to the yard. Just like I told you—gladiolas and Easter lilies. You remember—I've always loved an Easter lily!”


~ Mary Catherine

The Mystery of Motherhood

Lisa and me in 1977

I have always loved kids. As a young teen I made a bunch of money babysitting kids. I like the idea of children; their infectious giggles, wobbly first steps, and matter-of-fact honesty that we all lose as we grow up. (well, except Chloe O'Brien. Hers is totally intact.) I can't begin to imagine a world or a society without them. I loved being a mommy, though my boatload of doubts over my mothering abilities point to the contrary. So it's natural to say I assumed I would have had a dozen of my own kids. Half a dozen at least. But, it turned out, two were my quota. Two had to suffice. And the two I have are more than enough for me. They fill my heart with joy and pride. They have brought experiences to my life that are incomparable to anything but a mother's world. It can sometimes be the most simple and intoxicating kind of love imaginable. But honestly, a mother's love is such an impossible kind of love. Just when you learn how something works, it all changes. You hang on tight, then it's time to let go. You want our children to grow up, but it's too soon to cut out naps. You pack up boxes of their outgrown clothes and later remember you weren't quite ready to let that little striped shirt go. You hug them close and risk being pushed away. But only you know their fears and their faces, in ways no one else ever could.  It's a mystery that is really no mystery at all. Not to you. Not to a mother.

Waiting for the countdown. SMILE! ~ 1983

It takes a lifetime of learning a simple truth. You will never, ever, ever learn it all. And before you're ready, before you've planned your next step, they're grown and they're moving on. And they don't need you in ways you were not prepared for. They're doing the adult thing, just like you taught them. And it's too late to take it back. And it hurts. Sometimes the ache is so deep you feel as if your heart will break in two. And then someone shares a glimpse of the love that is waiting for you. A love that cuts through the pain if only you can wait for it. It's the love for your grandchild. You hear the stories and you watch the incredible joy spread across the face of a sister or a friend when they describe the realities of being a grandma. And, for me at least, the wait can seem an eternity. But then it happens. You find out that your baby is having a baby. It doesn't seem real and it doesn't make you feel so different. Not yet. But slowly, your own child's heart turns back toward you and you find that you are needed again, but in ways that are richer, and deeper, and you wonder if your heart can possibly ever hold all the love and warmth and blessings that you begin to feel. A new mystery begins and you have learned to set a slower pace in finding all its facets. There is a child within your child. And it's real. And he kicks and he hiccups and he has his own name. And he has a beating heart with sounds that fill your ears with wonder and excitement. And there is that specialist of bonds now. The love you feel for your grandchild is new and different and sweet. It's blossoming. But you find that the bond you feel now toward your own child has changed. 

Relaxing with my daughter ~ 2010

You feel a connection with someone who knows that no one else will ever, ever, ever love their child in the way that only you can. It's a new kind of mother's love. And maybe it's a mystery. But it's really no mystery at all. I love you, Lisa Marie.  

~Susan Renee

Grampy's Story

Mandee and Grampy (Lorynne in background)

Grampy is almost 86 years old and not too happy about it. He doesn't like the kinks, jabs and irritations that come with living inside an 86 year old body. He told me he looked in the mirror the other day and wondered who that old man was. But then, Grampy's not too happy about anything and never has been. As long as I've known Grampy he's been a whining, foul-mouthed cantankerous old goat—and that's when he's in a good mood. But I sure do love him. 

Being so hale and hearty for most of his life, old age has fiercely walloped him hard and completely taken him by surprise. He finds his life revolving around doctor visits, prescription pills, Gunsmoke and naps, leaving less time for his favorite past-time—lunch at Der Wienerschnitzel. He used to take his little dog to Der Wienerschnitzel every day to get chili dogs. One for him and one for Mugsy. They'd go park the car in the shade by Longs Drug store and eat their hot dogs. Only he had to lick the chili off Mugsy's dog as the puppy didn't like chili. In all my infinite wisdom, I finally told him one day “Why don't you get yourself a chili dog and that dadburned dog of yours a mustard dog, hold the mustard?” (I used to work there. I know the lingo). He stared at me for a few seconds like I was a complete idiot then shouted “Hell no. I LIKE licking the chili off!” But now that his little dog is gone, even during a good week some of the charm has worn off and Der Wienerschnitzel visits are sporadic and farther between. 

Grampy was born Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. Everyone calls him Tex. Quite a handle for a man who is 5'3” and weighs 120 on a good day. A strong wind could blow him over and we are careful to keep him inside on windy days. He is French Canadian which he's very proud of and speaks a strange dialect of French I don't understand and one they never taught me when I took four years of French in High School. So he'll come over in the summer and walk through the front door proclaiming it's hot outside “Ill faw fret!” He says. I told him his French doesn't make sense and that's not how I learned it. He told me the nuns in my high school were damn fools and lesbians and that they never lived in France. Well he's got me there.

He ran away from his violent, abusive father and none-too-happy home at the tender age of 13, taking his little brother Willie with him. They traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in search of kinfolk in Dallas who they were hoping would take them in. This was 1938, during the Great Depression. Two boys could travel with the hobos, jumping trains and sleeping out in the open around campfires without being bothered by the police. But they weren't scared of the police. They were scared to death their father would find them and really kill them for good. He didn't. They made it to Dallas. At 18 Tex was drafted into WWII which he refers to as “The war to end all wars”. I told him “No. They actually called WWI 'The war to end all wars',not WWII”. (Wikipedia Dad, it's called the Internet) He didn't buy it. He gave me that long, hard stare and none-too-gently reminded me again of the mentally deficient, wayward nuns who taught me a whole crap load of nuthin' in school. He's got me there. 

Grampy raised his three boys by his cardinal rule “Do as I say or find yourself on the wrong end of my belt”. Period. Oh the stories I've heard of Grampy chasing one of the boys down the desert road they lived on, waving his belt over his head, cussing at the top of his lungs. His boys learned early on how to run and run FAST. Two of them won medals on the High School Track team. You could say they were motivated to succeed. He taught his boys to fight, be strong, work hard and to do anything for your family, even if they are no account idiots who never appreciated their parents. He told me once many years ago (when he had been drinking) that being a father was not his best accomplishment. D'ya think? He looked sad and forlorn when he said it. I felt badly for him. Or maybe his eyes were just glazed over from the tequila. I don't know. 

Tex has been my father in law for almost 39 years now and he's the only parent we have left. The others were too nice to last that long...Grampy's just too honery to die. I told him once he's going to out-live us all just to spite us. He got a little twinkle in his eye then took out his teeth and started preaching to me about flossing and brushing. He did that at the dinner table one Easter Sunday when we had all the kids, grandkids and “company” over as well. I consider “company” people who don't know us well enough to discern our dysfunctions yet. They still think we're pretty normal. And especially people who have never met Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. He pulled out his dentures during dinner, wanting to show his great-grandkids what happens from a lifetime of not brushing your teeth on a regular basis. (hobo's don't have toothbrushes don't you know) I saw the wide-eyed, horrific stare from our "company" sitting across from him and quickly re-routed Grampy into another conversation, desperately trying to steer him, and us, away from the precipice of utter social doom. Our "company" has politely declined any further invitations to dinner. 

Tex has taught me many things that are check-listed on the hard drive of my memory. He's taught me to “look before you leap” and the pitfalls of jumping to erroneous conclusions, making a fool out of yourself in the grocery story when you raise a commotion at the check stand, swearing the carrots are on sale only to be calmly shown they aren't. He's taught me not to take life too seriously when, at that same check stand, he has no reservations about pulling up his threadbare, flannel shirt to show the astonished cashier the scar from his quadruple by-pass surgery. That's quadruple he says to emphasize the fact that his surgery was one better than triple. He's taught me that the acquisition of money is not the end-all to our existence and that the simple pleasures in life are not bought but they are enough. Watching the western channel with a good dog and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on your lap is as good as it needs to get. It's enough.

Grampy lives in a single-wide trailer in a Senior's mobile home park, pretty close to us. He calls Mike (My husband, his son, his caretaker and lifeline) on the phone at least once a day. He leaves angry messages if it goes to voice mail, wondering why the hell Mike's not answering. Then he calls me. I think I'm the next best thing. Oftentimes I'm in a meeting at work. I always take his call. "Hi dad, what's up?" "Well I forgot—what day is it today?" "Tuesday Dad. It's Tuesday". "OK thanks". click. Or, more importantly, "I pressed the wrong damn button on this clicker here and now all I have is snow on the TV and Touched By An Angel. I'm missing the Rifleman and I don't even like Touched By An Angel!" So I step out of the meeting and talk him through the buttons on the remote control. 

I like to think he needs us, that we are his raison d'etre—his reason for existence. And maybe it's true. He would say "Ray zone du et! What the hell kind of language is that?" I have experienced enough parental loss to realize he won't be around much longer so I try to savor and even enjoy him while he's here. He makes us laugh at his eccentricities. He tests our patience and makes us better people. And every once in awhile, every once in a blue moon when his defenses are down, he'll come over to watch Bonanza with Mike and when he leaves he'll give me a hug, call me darlin' and tell me he loves me. And that makes it worth it. That's enough.

~ Mary Catherine ~

Guilt-Free Blogging For Dummies

Let me start off by saying that I really have nothing to say.  And because of this, I have nothing to blog. I feel dried up and newsworthless. [Yes, a word. I just made it up.] And it's not like there's nothing going on in my life worth noting. I have lots of that. Too much, really. But it gets all jumbled up in my head and I have no filtering system. I can't compartmentalize like Lorelei Gilmore; her greatest trait, in my opinion. But the worst part of my non-blogging is that I feel so guilty about it. Like, it's my turn to blog, so what's the hold up?  "You should be blogging", I admonish myself. I feel the weight of those four little letters hanging heavy on my weary shoulders. In my mind's eye I see my head slumped over in shame. I feel the lurking guilt from my catholic upbringing pulling on my shirt. Will I ever be entirely rid of it? I don't know. But I'm not carrying my share of the blogging duties. I'm being flaky and irresponsible. I hate me! And moreover, I have absolutely no reconciliation plan. Non-blogging has become my new sin. Oh woe is me. And just now, as I type this, I realize how absolutely ridiculous this all sounds. When I say it out loud it's even sillier because who the heck is waiting for me to blog? Seriously. Well, other than my sister who joined this bloggish undertaking at my request because "wouldn't it be fun to have our own blog?" And it really has been fun. Until the fall. (That's  trip and fall, not the beautiful season that comes after a hot summer.) So today, by golly, I sat down on my bed, opened my laptop and just started writing. Bam! BLOG. This is it. And it's perfectly imperfect. Just like me.

This is me. Smiling.

I still feel the writer's block, but the guilt is gone. I'm free. For now. And somewhere deep inside I think I have accomplished something big. Monumental, even. I have stuck my tongue out and spat upon whatever it is that makes me feel so obligated to blog. I am breaking the insipid spell on this guilt-laden blogger. Whew. See. Me. Smile. I actually FEEL 10 pounds lighter. Awesome. Now, only 50 pounds to go. 
[See? Still lurking.]


~Susan Renee