TODAY I’M 69

Some time around 4:00 this morning, I became 69 years old. The first words I heard today were from my husband, “Happy Birthday” which actually stopped me in my tracks toward the bathroom…I’d forgotten or maybe wasn’t awake enough yet to remember. 


Already I’ve received lots of Happy Birthday wishes, a gift from my walking partner that included some yummy chocolate chip punkin bread (breakfast), and am looking forward to a great dinner today with John and cake and ice cream with the rest of the family on Saturday evening when we’re all available. Elder son has made his annual call with a wonderful, jazzy rendition of the birthday song…I really need to record him because I love his version.


Looking back, it’s amazing (at least to me) to see from whence I came and what I’ve lived that has brought me to this particular birthday. I was born in the hills of Tennessee in a cabin/shack that had no running water or electricity. My mother labored in front of the fireplace because it was the warmest place in the cabin. My birth certificate indicates she actually had a doctor present and I wish I could ask her about that now since I’m sure most deliveries were aided by the local midwife or a family member, in this case my grandmother. Swaddled, I was taken and put into bed with my mother’s brother. He was told, “Don’t roll over on the baby.” and family lore says he was my incubator because it was the warmest place available. 


There are a few pictures of me, my mom and grandmother from the first year of my life back in that Tennessee cove. The shack looks like a shack, my mom looks terribly young, as does my grandma, and it’s obvious they were taken some where in the country. When I was about a year old, my mom and grandma left there and took a train to Idaho to join two of my mother’s brothers. I don’t remember a single thing about the trip. In fact my first memory (which I’ve written about before) was meeting my dad.


We lived first in a shack that must have been similar to the one in Tennessee. The second place was more of a home and I remember my dad installing a real bathroom with a tub, toilet and sink. This really brought us up in the world. After about seven years, my parents went to visit my dad’s family in Seattle Washington. Only mom returned and that was to get us all ready to move again.


My mom had to sell the house and what’s amazing about that is she was only selling the house, not the land. The mining company owned all the land. Of course I didn’t know that then, but many years later I heard from the next door neighbor there that the house had sold again for $5,000. My husband and I had just paid $24,000 for the house we still live in and I told him then we had bought in the wrong place. 


Mom did sell the house, got us all packed up and moved us to join daddy in Seattle. We first lived with dad’s aunt and uncle because the house the folks purchased hadn’t closed. Eventually, we moved into an old house that included an additional two city lots that contained grapes, fruit trees, berries, and a garden. It was located in Fremont which is now the Center of the Universe (according to some people). Then, it was the wrong side of the railroad tracks so to speak and which became ever more clear socially as I grew up.


Even so, it was a great neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else. My mother convinced me early on that I could not lie. Grown I realized that one of the neighbors had tattled on whatever it was I did that I wasn’t supposed to do; but mom was so good with her inquisition I became convinced my eyes had to light up and flash the words, “LIE, LIE, LIE. Even now at 69, it’s hard for me to lie because I’m sure the person to whom I’m lying (even on the phone) can tell I’m lying.


I lived there with my family with only one change for about 12 years. That change was my grandmother moving to California to live with one of her sons. She came back years later, her sons having passed on, but her departure and absence was a real blow when she’d always been a part of my life…the first person to wrap and hold me at my birth, as well as share every single day since until she left.


Shortly after turning 19, I had to find an apartment because my parents were selling our home. Amazingly, they sold it for triple what they paid and thought it was a great deal, but imagine what they’d get now for three lots in the Center of the Universe. A year later I married John, we moved from my apartment to a little house in Ballard and a couple years later to the house in which we currently reside.


During all these years, I’ve gained and lost family members, made and lost friends, had a long career I enjoyed, raised two children, welcomed grandchildren, created memories that bring me both intense joy and sorrow, seen some parts of the world I never expected to visit, and lived a life which looked at today seems incredibly long and extremely full while also seeming far too short and not as full as it will one day be. At the same time, I don’t feel as though I am 69 years old. 


My earliest mental picture of myself at 69 was of a stooped and feeble woman who talked in a raspy voice and appeared to be very very old. I do not meet my own early mental criteria. I feel pretty much as I felt in what would be termed my youth I guess. I feel as though I still have places to go, things to do, people to see, experiences not yet experienced.  So, while I celebrate this birthday I do so with the realization that while my journey through life has perhaps slowed down a bit, going forward more birthdays, people, places, things and experiences await.

NEED FOR SKIN

Going on what has to be 50 years ago, I read an article for an English class at the University of Washington which had to do with how the elderly didn’t get enough skin. The point of the article was that as a person ages, contact with other humans lessens over time. I didn’t give it much thought then although I did attempt to hug my grandma and mom more often. 

As the years/decades passed, however, I’ve come to not only see the truth in that article, but to experience it as well. As a child growing up, there were lots of hugs and caresses in my family. One of my favorite memories is of my mother brushing and brushing my hair and how good it felt.  

Along came boyfriends and I certainly remember how good it felt to be hugged and kissed by them, not to mention the desire to “go all the way” in response to those raging hormones as well as to see why it was forbidden. Of course, I found the “one” and experienced years and years of not only amazing and fantastic sex, but all it entailed.  

I have memories of John and I spending entire days cuddled on the couch, our being warm and close and lazy making for a perfect day. Nights, before we went to sleep, we’d always cuddle and sometimes talk about our day or plans or dreams. Here again, we were skin to skin and who knows how many nights I drifted off to sleep with him nestled around me, his hand on my hip. 

We all know how babies are made (or we should anyway), so, of course, all that superb sex eventually led to the birth of our first child and ten years later the birth of our second child. Talk about having more than enough skin during those years. Whoa, I remember how it was with son #2, Thor. For four years, I was a stay at home mom. Yes, I loved being home with Thor, and I also loved being home for son #1, AJ, when he came home from school. But, by the end of the day, I’d had way more than enough skin to last until the next day if not the next year.  

Bedtime was at 8:00 pm for Thor, 9:00 for AJ. We’d get Thor ready…bath, jammies, stories, and then leave him in his crib. I would no more sit down than he would be calling from his room, “Daaaaaady, Daaaaady, can I have a cuddle, Daaaaady.” John simply couldn’t resist those plaintive cries and would go rescue Thor, bring him back to the living room and cuddle him on the couch. Thor, who sucked the two first fingers on his left hand, would twist around, look back at me and give me the biggest smile around those two fingers…I never did, but there were days when I was so tired, I wanted to slap the two of them silly. 

Children do grow up, and before I knew it, I had to beg for hugs, kisses and cuddles from my boys. Fortunately, John continued to provide needed skin with hugs, cuddles, kisses and sex. Not only do children grow up, but we as parents grow older as well and our bodies fail or undergo changes that require a different level of comfort. For a wide variety of reasons (think snoring, too hot, too cold, window open/shut, TV on/off, up and down often) as we aged we shared less and less skin to the point we now have separate bedrooms. 

John always goes to bed at 10:00 pm, gets up a few hours later to take his medication, is up for a couple of hours and then doesn’t get up until shortly after I do. I’m a night person and like to stay up late, go to sleep with the TV on, sleep all night without being disturbed, and sleep in the next day. (Walking five mornings a week with a neighbor doesn’t allow this, but I take great advantage on the weekends.) John naps during the day and I don’t. As you can see, our schedules don’t allow for a lot of skin to skin contact or cuddles. 

According to a report from August 2013, 30-40% of couples sleep in separate rooms, so it isn’t like we are an odd couple. Using the internet I tried to find some information on the important of skin to skin touch for older individuals. I found lots of information on skin care, but only one article about mental health and touch. Even this article didn’t go into great detail, but pointed out how it was important to hug older people, especially those who live alone.  

Researching further, I Googled, ”how many hugs a day to stay healthy,” and the first thing that pops up is: 

There is a saying by Virginia Satir, a respected family therapist, “We need four hugs a day for survival. We need eight hugs a day for maintenance. We need twelve hugs a day for growth.”  

If I base my skin to skin needs on this, I have a dangerous deficit and my survival and growth is in serious jeopardy. In a good week, I doubt I get anywhere near eight hugs, let alone that many in a day. Shocking isn’t it…at least I think so. 

Perhaps it’s having a new baby to cuddle that’s brought all this to the forefront of my brain. I know sitting and holding grandson Xander whether he’s asleep on my chest or we’re making faces at each other, I get such a sense of joy and peace. It’s like he’s filling up an empty place I hadn’t recognized because it slowly emptied over a long period of time. 

Well, there’s no way I’m going to get to have Xander on a regular, daily basis in order to get my empty skin need met, so I’m going to have to do something about it on my own now that I know it’s there. I’d say it’s up to me to seek out those hugs and cuddles from John. Since we are together every day, it shouldn’t be too terribly hard for me to snuggle up to him at the kitchen sink, lean over the back of his chair, or climb beneath his blanket when he goes for a nap. I guess this should also serve as a warning to family and friends...there's way more hugs in your futures.

For now, my goal will be those first four hugs a day to be followed by eight and then 12. You see, I don’t just want to survive, I want to grow, grow, grow and for that, I’ll need way more skin, just like that article stated all those decades ago.

SURGERY

The end of December I will have the sixth surgery of my life and it’s undoubtedly the most scary one to date. Scary because, quite possibly, I didn’t view the other surgeries as major changes in my life…at least at the time.

Two of the surgeries were performed while I was under the age of five, but I remember both quite well. The first surgery was to remove my tonsils. These days, it seems very few kids have their tonsils removed, but back then it was quite common. I have two memories from bad tonsils was the nonstop coughing. The first is my daddy coming home from the mine in Burke Idaho, washing his hands and then pushing a thumb’s worth of Vicks Vaporub into the back of my throat while my mom held me tight. Probably wasn’t a highly recommended treatment, but it did stop the coughing. 

The second memory is at the hospital in Wallace Idaho. I was potty-trained by then and one morning (I have no memory of how long I was there or if the surgery had been done by this time.), I really needed to pee. A nurse was bottle-feeding a baby and I was in a crib from which I could not escape. I begged and pleaded to be allowed out to the bathroom; and this nurse put the baby down, came over, paddled my behind and told me to be quiet. Of course I peed my pants because I couldn’t help it. When my mom found out what happened, I think that nurse was close to peeing her own pants by the time my mom got through being angry and having her say.

The second surgery was the result of two falls. Somehow, I managed break off an upper front tooth each time. The roots remained and the decision made (without my input of course) to put me out and have them removed. I knew this time what was up and fought with every bit of my strength to avoid the ether. In the process of trying to keep me still, some ether went into one of my eyes. 

Following this surgery, my eye had to be covered for a few days to allow it to heal. I remember laying on the porch swing behind the hop vines, my head in my mom’s lap while she stroked my hair. The other disappointment of this surgery was not getting red shoes. Mom promised that once the surgery was over, she’d buy me this beautiful pair of red shoes. She followed through on her promise, but they were too small and the store didn’t have a larger size.

Going forward, I didn’t experience another surgery until 1980. I was supposed to have my fallopian tubes tied with the birth of my second child, but after seriously hemorrhaging, my doctor told me I would need to return in six months. He also highly recommended I do so because having another child just might leave my husband with three children to raise on his own.

There were a couple of funny (to me) incidents with this surgery. Prepped and outside the OR, I was told my doctor would be along as soon as he finished delivering a baby. I opened my eyes to see my doctor bending over me. Thinking he’d arrived to perform the tubal ligation, I asked him if it was a boy or a girl. The look on his face was priceless because he knew he’d completed my surgery while my question made him think perhaps he’d gotten it wrong. It was only a couple of seconds before he made the link, told me it had been a boy and that my surgery was complete. I still smile when I remember the rather horrified look on his face.

The other incident was later back in my room. I had to spend the night and woke up to hear the woman on the other side of the curtain ask me a question. I answered and we had quite a chat until I realized she was on the phone and not talking to me at all. To add to my embarrassment, once she hung up the phone, I pulled the curtain aside and apologized only to learn she hadn’t heard me at all since my voice was so quiet due to the tubes that had been in my throat. 

Being an extremely fast typist and doing that for hours at a time led to carpel tunnel syndrome. Again, the surgery in 1989 wasn’t a big deal. A local anesthetic, a few cuts/snips, the tendon release was done and once healed, my hand was as good as new. The only disappointment with this surgery was they would not let me observe.

In 2000, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and scheduled for a lumpectomy. It was to be performed with a local anesthetic. All that morning while they prepared me, I kept asking if they were taking any lymph nodes. At the door of the operating room, the doctor finally informed me they were not. My response was he really had to take a couple to make sure they were clear. I believe he was rather annoyed at having to switch me from a simple local to general anesthesia. The surgery went well; however, the tiny cancer that was removed was extremely aggressive, so I got to experience the whole cancer treatment enchilada…eight chemotherapy treatments, 33 radiation treatments and five years of Tamoxifen. But, the cancer hasn’t returned and I’m alive, right…right. 

Now I’m scheduled for surgery number six. My left hip is bone on bone (and maybe my right hip too), and while I am not in pain 24/7, there are some activities I can no longer do because they do cause pain. One of them is sleeping in any position besides on my right side with my knees bent and a pillow between my thighs. Currently I am and have been on a regimen of Tylenol and an anti-inflammatory on a daily basis. There are what I call “Vicodin days” (or nights) when I’ve done something that seriously annoys that left hip…only took once jumping in the air to grab something up too high to convince me jumping was no longer desirable.

My fear with regard to this surgery most likely was generated by the 84 page booklet the hospital sent to me once the surgery was scheduled…”My Total Joint Replacement Journey.” It provides so much information about what I need to do between now and then, what I can and can’t do after, and I'm even required to attend a 1.5 hour class with my designated caregiver. I’m sure after this class I’ll feel much better about what’s coming.

Another additive to this fear is the fact I hate being dependent and unable to do what I want when I want. To help with this fear, I’ve begun putting meals in the freezer so my husband (caregiver) can easily feed us although he’s perfectly capable of cooking. I’m also going to re-read the “journey” booklet and highlight anything I either don’t understand or about which I have questions. 

Finally, I must choose to concentrate on the positive aspects of this “journey.” Next summer I will be able to kayak and garden without having to resort to a “Vicodin Day and/or night.” Beginning some time in the new year I should be able to sleep in a different position than the one I’ve been in for what seems like forever. I may even be able to make my walks longer, my exercise more rigorous, and no longer be surprised by a sharp, shooting pain whenever I maneuver my body into some position that’s no longer possible right now.

All in all, this surgery should be a piece of cake too. And, who knows, maybe I’ll walk away with results just as good or better than #5 or funny stories like #4. It’s up to me to choose to be fearless and positive as the “journey” moves forward, forward to my life changing for the better and the elimination of pain.

SUNDAY NEWSPAPER ADS

This morning as I perused the Sunday newspaper, I found myself wondering why I continue this time-wasting habit. Reading the actual news (unless it’s absolutely horrible in which case I turn the page), my favorite columns, etc., isn’t actually a waste of time, but going through all the sale papers does take time I could use elsewhere. 

I can’t remember when I first began reading the Sunday paper, but I know the first section was the comics. Both my parents would spend Sunday morning going through the paper, reading and talking about a variety of topics. My mom liked football just as much as my dad, so they even talked about the sports news. 

Mom also went through all the sale papers and noted what was on sale. She always had a very tight budget so if at all possible, she would buy whatever we needed when it was on sale. As I got older, I too, began to look through all those pages, mostly to see the current or upcoming fashions even though I knew I’d never be able to shop at The Bon Marche or Nordstrom. Still, all those pictures gave me an idea of what kind of look to aim for. A boy I dated briefly after high school told me that while he knew my clothes weren’t expensive I always looked very well put together, so I guess I achieved my goal.

Once I had my own money to spend, I continued to look in the paper for bargains and rarely paid full price for anything. After marriage and the acquisition of a house that actually echoed it was so empty, it was even more important to look for needed items on sale. Over the course of my 45-year marriage, it was a rare event when I actually paid full price for something we needed.

My family increased with the birth of first one son and then a second ten years later. The desire and need to count our pennies became even greater because neither my husband nor I wanted to put our children in day care or have them become latch key kids. Working for himself, my husband was able to do mornings and made sure the kids were up, fed and out the door on time for school. He even spent one year as the only father participating in a preschool program…he loved it.

I, on the other hand, am not a morning person, so it was easier for me to get up, get ready and leave the mornings to him. Instead, working part-time, I was able to be home in the afternoons when they came home from school as well as be a room mother, assist in classes and go on field trips. There were even a couple of times other neighborhood parents relied on me to have their children after school. 

As you must be able to tell, a big fat paycheck or expensive trips were not at the top of our must have list. Rather, we wanted our children to be able to rely on us whenever they needed us. We did such a good job of this that it didn’t matter who responded when one of them yelled for dad or mom…whoever showed up was fine and able to deal with whatever was happening. 

Of course, this made reviewing all those sale papers extremely important.  Yes, we wanted our sons to have the latest fashions from the most popular stores and learned early we had created at least one monster. He needed basketball shoes and my husband purchased them at K-Mart. He refused to wear them while his cousin was delighted to receive a brand new pair of shoes…we still laugh about this one. At the same time, this child had one saving grace…he walked to the beat of his own drummer, so what was highly fashionable wasn’t necessarily what he wanted. 

Even so, reading those sale pages for clothes, shoes, stuff for the house and food was essential in order to make our budget stretch as far as possible. At one time, when I did the weekly grocery shopping, I visited at least three neighborhood stores plus one of those warehouses depending on what was on sale and on the list. 

Over the years, as the kids grew up and left home, I continued to read the sale pages, but began to discontinue many because I knew there would be nothing in them that I could possibly need. This morning I found myself wondering why I continued to look at the few Sunday ads I still separate out from the paper. It really doesn’t make any sense. 

I am at a point in my life where I have everything I need. Of course there are things I would like to have only because they would be new and different and I would like them better. Case in point:  the everyday dishes are Fiesta ware and I’ve had them for years. There are no missing or broken pieces, but I would love to have a complete new service for 12 in the neon colors now available. That’s all, just a change in colors, but certainly not worth an investment of hundreds or thousands of dollars. The same can be said for everything in the kitchen…they have such beautiful and colorful appliances and cookware now, but what I’m currently using could, quite possibly, continue to be used when I’m done with it.

The furniture sale pages don’t even rate a peek and haven’t for a long time. When we bought furniture, we bought quality, and while I’ve had new cushions made a couple of times, solid oak is solid, so there’s no need for a new couch, end tables, dining table, etc. Yes, it’s all a bit worn here and there, but still comfortable and useable.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I have everything I need to last me until I either downsize or move on to the next unknown phase of life, at which point the sons will have to decide what to do with this “old” stuff. So why bother to look at the Sunday ads? Habit I guess more than anything, so perhaps it’s time to give them all a pass every Sunday and use that time to celebrate the fact I've already got it "all."

NOVEMBER/DECEMBER ARE DIFFICULT

My birthday is barely two weeks away which will, as always, be followed by the holidays. For the last however many years, I’ve thought it would be absolutely terrific if I could leave town the day after Halloween and return after the new year begins. I’m not sure from where or how this desire came about, but I can feel myself getting tense and stressed as soon as the candle in the pumpkin is blown out.

This attitude or feeling, if you will, wasn’t always at the forefront of the last two months of the year. I can remember being a child and viewing Halloween as the kick-off to two months of excitement, fun, parties, family get-togethers and gifts. Way back then, my folks didn’t have a lot of money, but my daddy was a baker so we always had extremely nice cakes. Plus, as each family member’s turn came, you got to choose a special dinner followed by cake, candles, the birthday song and presents. My parents always tried to get me something I really wanted for my birthday while holding back the special gift brought by Santa. I knew I was loved and appreciated, and had a great family with whom to celebrate.

November and December became even better once I was old enough to have a job and could purchase gifts for my family and friends. Then, after I was married, the fun/joy factor was multiplied even more. The first year of my marriage, I made Christmas stockings for everyone in my family as well as my husband and myself. My family didn’t have that tradition while my husband’s family did. It was one I happily adopted and even though my sons are 44 and 34, I still get this feeling in my heart when I see the stockings I made them their first year hanging from the mantle at their homes. 

Christmas dinner started being held at my house when AJ was a little over a year old because I didn’t want to take him away from all his Santa treasures. Previously, my mother had always done Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. Without arguing or making excuses, she graciously gave up doing Christmas dinner years before she stopped doing Thanksgiving. I think she stopped doing Thanksgiving after daddy passed away. Instead, mom substituted Christmas Eve dinner and dinner over and the kitchen cleaned up, we’d exchange our gifts. Pictures and memories of daddy getting down on the floor with AJ to assemble and play with gifts tends to make my vision blur.

These happy extended family times and memories came to a screeching halt the day after my 31^st birthday. We had celebrated my birthday the day before in my father’s hospital room. He and mom gave me the boots I so desired. The following day, the doctors came out of the operating room to tell us there was nothing they could do about my dad’s brain tumor and that he had six months to a year left. Daddy died the following year 18 days before my 32^nd birthday.

The following year, after the funeral my mother went out of town to her Aunt’s home to grieve, and it was the first birthday in my life she hadn’t been with me. For the first time, we went to someone else’s home for Thanksgiving. Three years later my grandmother (mother’s mother) passed away the beginning of December. For my mother, the two final months of the year were to be endured rather than celebrated. Perhaps that’s where my avoidance desire initiated.

For several years it was as if my birthday weren’t the least bit important to anyone. Again, this was 180 degrees from what I’d known my whole life. Because birthdays had been so important growing up, I’d continued the birthday traditions for everyone else. Then, one year my mother called to say she just wanted to drop by and leave off my present. I, too, had been grieving because not only had I lost my dad, but apparently my mother’s joy in and concern for me as well. Crying, I told her to stay home and keep her present because my birthday was apparently no longer special and had become just another day of the year. That birthday, I had two birthday cakes because my mom came and brought one and my husband bought one as well because he had heard me on the phone. Still, it was hard for me to feel as though we were celebrating or that I deserved to have dinner, cake, candles and the birthday song. 

Eventually, Thanksgiving and Christmas changed as I knew they would when my sons left home and created their own families. I guess I just didn’t expect these holiday mornings/days to be quite so silent and lonely. I came to understand how hard it must have been for my mom to wake up alone on Thanksgiving and Christmas mornings and to return to an empty, silent place at the end of the day. Now, I do so wish she had been more forthcoming about this and more agreeable to staying with me or one of my siblings during the holidays. So far, I still have John with whom I can still share these mornings. 

After our granddaughter was born, Angie began to do Christmas Brunch and include her family. These are always great events and the food we all bring is absolutely scrumptious. I look forward to these mornings. Then, AJ smoked a turkey for Thanksgiving for several years and we had Thanksgiving there as well. I began doing Thanksgiving again when Angie was recovering from breast cancer treatment.  

When Thor met Amber, she’d always done Thanksgiving and Christmas for her family. We are all always welcome to go to their home for either of these holidays.

Like my mother, a few years ago, I began holding a Christmas Eve dinner and gift exchange. These are also fun and enjoyable, especially when the kid’s eyes light up or become huge when the wrapping paper is torn off the box. 

In thinking about this and typing it all out, I guess I’m more like my mother than I really want to be when it comes to the last two months of the year. I’ve let the negativity brought into my life by my father’s death continue to affect my feelings toward my birthday and the holidays. It’s time to push the negativity away and concentrate on the positive. I have two grandchildren now and one day I want them to remember birthdays and holidays with the same joy and comfort I take from remembering the ones with my parents and grandmother.

SO VERY LUCKY/BLESSED

Just yesterday, on the way to see my newest grandchild and obtain some new baby snuggles and smells, I thought about how very lucky I was to have the life I have. I even began to think about and list all the things that bless my life pretty much on a daily basis. This morning, I’ve travelled about 180 degrees from yesterday afternoon, mainly because my printer has given me an error message that has me moving in circles as opposed to finding a solution. Pretty stupid/silly, hmmmm?


So, I’ve sat down here to move myself back 180 degrees to where I was yesterday. A solution to the printer problem will be found or (really don’t want to do this) I’ll just have to go buy a new one (any suggestions about printers appreciated). 

Right off the top, I am extremely grateful for my good health. Yes, at almost 69, my body does have some quirks that cause me difficulty now and then, but it’s nothing that cannot be lived/dealt with. I am capable of walking 3-5 miles a day, working in the garden, cleaning my own home, driving myself to and from; and I’m planning to remain this independent for as long as possible.

There’s also the fact I was able to retire and not have to worry overmuch about how the bills would get paid. True, I’m not planning any round-the-world trips in the near future, but having the funds to support my life show up on a regular basis without having to work 40 hours a week at anything besides what I want to work at is a great blessing.

Please don’t think I’m putting my “grateful for” paragraphs in any particular order because being grateful for my sons and their families is right at the top. Either son could have moved far away rather than barely five miles which would haven’t allowed me to be a part of their lives on a regular basis. The only possible outcome that would have been better would have been if they moved right into my neighborhood. 

Son #1 married a woman I like to think of as my friend even though we don’t spend the kind of time together we once did…life has a way of sucking up what were once free hours and minutes. Together, they gave me a wonderful granddaughter who is beautiful, clever, bright, silly and the apple of one of my eyes. In her 13 years, we’ve shared movies, trips, laughs, the Nutcracker each Christmas, shopping and just hanging out. My time with her and being able to see each of her achievements as they happen is true happiness. 

Son #2 took his time with regard to finding a partner, but when he did, he not only took her into our lives, but the two children she already had (reminded me of how my daddy took on me and my grandma when he married my mom). Again, I hope she views me as a friend while her children see me as a plus in their lives. Together, they expanded their family of two to three with the birth of my grandson (the apple of my other eye) this past August. To know I’m welcome to pop in whenever I want to (although I do always text or call first…just good manners), snatch the grandboy from whoever or whatever he’s doing makes my heart expand (to quote Dr. Seuss) three times its size. 

It’s also a comfort to know both sons are close enough and willing to provide assistance with projects that are now beyond their parents. I never knew the sliding glass door could be moved with my little finger…thank you, thank you, thank you Son #1. I love my deck swing, but the sun would have cooked me all summer and made the house hotter had Son #2 not stapled Goodwill sheets to the roof joists…thank you, thank you thank you. These are just a couple examples of how they’ve made our lives better by giving of their time. Surely those time donations will increase as we parents age; and surely our sons know how valuable their assistance with keeping us comfortable and independent is to us.

When it comes to counting blessings, I cannot forget the man who’s been a part of my life for 49 years this coming February. Our marriage of 48 years hasn’t been 48 years of solid bliss. Like most married couples, we’ve had our difficulties, failures to communicate, and times when (I’m sure I speak for both of us) we’ve wanted to walk out the door never to return. But, it’s the bliss we shared during those same years that’s kept us together…besides our children and grandchildren, those bliss experiences are too numerous to mention here (perhaps bliss blogs should be on the menu).

Rounding out blessings in my life are the people I am privileged to call my friends. They range from an individual who was once my boss and taught me so many things to individuals I haven’t seen in years.  I’m so fortunate to be able to see my local friends on a regular basis whether it’s for a movie, lunch, glass of wine or just to hang out. Those friends who live far away still bless my life, and I know if we were to come face-to-face tomorrow, our interactions would be the same as if we’d just been together the previous week. Of course, we do keep in touch via email, text or phone calls. Rather do miss those letters and tapes some of us used to exchange, but at least we have all stayed technologically relevant.

There are many other things I could list here for which I am very thankful, i.e., books, television, movies, birds, flowers, rain, snow and anything that adds to my enjoyment of life. Those above are the major ones and writing this has, indeed, moved my mental state back 180 degrees to positivity.  Who knows, perhaps the printer will become something for which I’m thankful once it’s fixed, especially if it provides me with a new learning opportunity.

HALLOWEEN THROUGH MY YEARS

Yesterday I read an article about how Halloween has become a huge holiday with spending on costumes, candy, parties, etc., having increased more than 55% since 2005. In fact, approximately 70% of the American public will participate in Halloween, spending about $7.4 BILLION dollars in 2014. This includes $2 BILLION for candy and $350 MILLION on pet costumes. 

It made me think about when I was of trick-or-treating age and just what kind of money was spent on Halloween back then. My family certainly didn’t spend a lot of money on a store-bought costume or on “fun-sized” candy either.  In those days, you spent time thinking about your costume and figuring out how you could make it from a variety of materials begged, borrowed or stolen from a variety of family and friends. I remember throwing a sheet over my head to become a ghost; a relative’s old suit to become a man; or someone’s fancy old dress to be a princess or movie star. If we used make up, it was usually the stuff our mother’s had on hand and volunteered. 

The adults in my youth were adults and didn’t dress up at all. If I was accompanied  by an adult (which ended fairly early in elementary school) in my rounds to collect free stuff (it wasn’t all candy then either), whichever adult was with me/us wore their normal clothes and the same if they stayed home and handed out the treats. Today adult costumes are a huge business and there are more adult-only parties then kid parties. As for our pets, if they were the barking (or biting) kind, they got closed up in a bedroom until the frivolity was over.  

So, there I was, dressed in my ghost costume ready for trick or treating. Did I carry a fancy bag or pressed plastic punkin in which to place the goodies…nope, I used a pillowcase. Groups of us would traverse the neighborhood, connecting to compare which house had the best stuff. Sometimes I think we even did doubles if the treat was extra special. 

Extra special had a different meaning as well. It didn’t mean full-sized (now those HUGE ones) candy bars, but the popcorn balls made by the old lady down the street or the special cookies made by another neighbor on the next block. I never knew the name of those cookies, but they were absolutely delicious, and thinking about those popcorn balls still makes my mouth water. At the end of the evening, my parents didn’t check my pillowcase to see if there was anything dangerous inside; nor did they throw out those homemade goodies…I got to eat everything I brought home; and I tried very hard not to gulp that popcorn ball down first thing. 

When my own kids were big enough to participate in Halloween, it was still a pretty laid-back holiday. Of course the kids weren’t laid-back because it meant candy, candy, candy. I don’t think I ever purchased an actual costume except for the time my high school son decided to go as a girl, and even then, the only things I bought were one of those long curly blond wigs and press on fingernails. I remember making ghost and clown costumes which lasted a couple of years each. One year, my husband’s mother made elder son a Star Wars costume. Other times, we hauled stuff out of the closets and used purchased make-up to turn the boys into something other than themselves. 

It was about that time, I think that we began buying those bags of fun-sized candy bars. Initially, the boys each got to trick or treat the neighborhood with mom or dad in tow; but as they became older, they were allowed to venture further on their own with other neighbor kids. Since my sons are ten years apart, the elder even spent a couple of Halloweens driving his younger brother on a huge route to collect candy (yes, he used a pillowcase) with the proviso that the younger had to share with the older. They had a wonderful time doing this together.  

Now, my sons have their own children and I’m so grateful it’s them and not me. I cannot imagine trying to decide which costume should be purchased or how much money should be allotted in the budget for this purpose. The miserly me shudders at the idea of buying some cheap piece of crap (for want of a better word) only to discard it the day after. Of course, I love to see them all dressed up and hollering, “Trick or Treat” at the front door; and, of course, we give them far more than just a single piece of candy.

About the time the whole Halloween partying began, my husband and I did participate for a few years. In the beginning, the costumes weren’t too elaborate or costly. In fact, I won first prize one year. I purchased a hat and cane, eyebrows which I cut up so I could use one as a mustache and wore an old suit and shirt that had been in the back of the closet for years. Voila, I was Charlie Chaplin. I think the fact I walked funny and didn’t talk all evening is actually what won me that bottle of champagne.  

As the years passed, however, the costumes became extremely elaborate, beautiful and spendy. Our last costume party, we donned black garbage bags, stuffed them with newspaper and went as the California raisons…we won zip. At that point, we decided these parties just weren’t for us and ceased to go. Now, it’s been a long time since we’ve received an invitation. Most likely it’s because the hosts figure we’d show up costumed as a couple of old people. Since we do a really good job of being old people, we’d surely win first prize.   

Instead, we’ll stay home as usual and pass out candy to the 15-20 kids who make it to the door and gorge ourselves on the left overs. That’s just as much fun as it used to be to imbibe alcoholic beverages and probably just as bad for us now as the alcohol was then. Not to mention the fact that four bags of candy comes to about $10. Clearly we aren’t doing our part when it comes to that $7.4 BILLION.

GREAT AUNT FLONNIE

I didn’t discover Great Aunt Flonnie until she was 95 years old. Yes, I knew she had married my grandmother’s brother, but I had never met her or her family. It wasn’t until one of her daughters wrote asking for information about my family because she was working on geneology that I even gave much thought to my mother’s/grandmother’s family in Tennessee.

My mother gave birth to me in Tennessee in Clark County which is just one county over from Oneida where Great Aunt Flonnie lives. My mom and my grandmother left there where I was a year old; and while my mother’s brothers often returned to Tennessee, neither she nor my grandmother ever expressed an interest in going back for a visit.

Of course, I provided the information requested and after thinking about it for a while, wrote back to this long-lost cousin and told her my husband and I were coming to visit. It wasn’t until after we arrived in Oneida and were waiting for my cousin to pick us up that I became filled with anxiety:

“Oh my God, what have I done? What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them? What was I thinking?”

We followed my cousin out to Great Aunt Flonnie’s home. She, another daughter and a man there to trim some trees were all outside. With great trepidation, I stepped out of the car, only to be met with outreached arms and:

“My land, I woulda knowed you was family anywhere, You look just like Adee [my grandmother] did the last time I saw her.” (all with a strong southern accent)

Enveloped in the arms of this tiny woman (85 pounds soaking wet), her words like music in my ears, trepidation and fears disappeared. For the next three days I was enchanted by this woman, her stories about her life and the various places she and her daughter took me and my husband to visit. I really need to get those stories down and will do so on this blog as time goes by.

This visit to Tennessee and Great Aunt Flonnie was the first of two. I returned five years later to be there with her and her family to celebrate her 100^th birthday. I tried to take her some homemade peach jam, but those nasty examiners at the airport confiscated it, so I had to settle for purchasing some small suncatchers which were immediately hung in her windows. I had purchased a card that wished her a Happy 100^th Birthday and which I noticed she removed from the basket of cards time and again as though it was a special treasure.

Great Aunt Flonnie was wished Happy Birthday by that fellow on the morning show, and President and Mrs. Obama, interviewed by the local paper, local television stations, and honored with recognition from a variety of people and organizations. It was wonderful to see this tiny woman with all her faculties intact laughing and joking and enjoying this great day even though she indicated she didn’t really think it required all this fuss.

When I left Oneida, I promised I would be back to celebrate her 105^th. She told me she didn’t think she’d be around by then even though she had just recently given up driving herself to Sunday School and the nursing home to visit her younger sister, was living alone, and had the previous summer (as always) planted a huge garden and frozen and canned the results.

The reason I’m writing about Great Aunt Flonnie today is that she has once again returned home from the hospital, her recovery being termed a “miracle” by her doctors.  This happened once already just before her 104^th birthday and the emails I received then indicated this was most likely it, she wouldn’t survive. Well, she surprised everyone and made it to 104, then 105 this past January.

Once again in the last couple of weeks, emails indicated Great Aunt Flonnie would most likely not see 2015. My cousin’s email from yesterday said the doctors had predicted she wouldn’t live through that first night. Now, she was home, could talk on the phone, eat and drink bits throughout the day, and sit on the bedside for a few minutes at a time. She’s very weak, but so happy to be home and seeing the sunshine.

The downside of this is, of course, that Great Aunt Flonnie may be bedridden from this point forward. After the last episode like this, she was unable to live alone so her second eldest daughter moved in with her and she began to use a wheelchair. Even so, Great Aunt Flonnie loved her daily car rides and visits to the park. She was even the Grand Marshall of the big high school parade this fall. The school was celebrating 100 years and honored Great Aunt Flonnie as the oldest living graduate and valedictorian of her class.

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to number 105 which was just as well as my cousin, her caretaker, was quite ill at that time. But, if Great Aunt Flonnie continues to improve and reaches number 106 in January, I really think I’d like to go back; and, if nothing else, sit beside her bed and tell her how much I want to be just like her when I grow up.

SOMETIMES ONLY MOM CAN MAKE IT BETTER?

Yesterday I cleaned up all the material I’d removed from the flowerbed on the south side of the house. I hadn’t expected to be able to do this because it was supposed to rain. When the sun came out I couldn’t resist being outside even if it was to clean up my mess. It felt good to bring order to the space, to be hot and sweaty and admire my own progress. It’s amazing how feeling good can change in a very short time.

My neighbor had told me about the yellow jacket nest at the edge of our properties. She’s deathly afraid of stinging insects and said she’d never go near it. I assured her that I would take care of it…they don’t scare me. I even related the story about the wasp nest in the raspberries of the neighbor across the street. The old gentleman who lived there then had been a welder, and when I showed up after dark in my tank top, shorts and sandals, he was waiting clad in all his welding gear. He held the flashlight while I used clippers to snip the raspberry cane just above the wasp nest and it fell into the waiting garbage bag which he quickly twisted closed. I still chuckle about our individual expectations with regard to those wasps after dark.

As of yesterday afternoon, I hadn’t done anything about the yellow jacket nest. It was still there and apparently, even though I was merely raking the leaves beneath the rhododendron, they took exception to my removing the leaves above their nest. They began to fly about and fret, but I ignored them and continued with my raking. I guess they didn’t like that either, or at least one of them didn’t, because I felt a sharp sting through my glove. I yanked my glove off, didn’t see a stinger or anything like that and sucked hard on the stinging area. This didn’t help much at all.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t just stop and walk away (well, I could have, but chose not to). I had to put my tools away, move the yard waste container to its proper location and close up the garage before I could go inside. By then, the sensation in the area between my thumb and first finger on the top of my hand had gone from stinging to painful. I wanted my husband’s bite relief pen. I rummaged through his lunchbox and desk (something I never do) before I finally woke him up to ask where it was. Should have been there he responded. Later, when he got up, he emptied out his lunchbox and couldn’t find it. This morning when he put everything back, there it was. Once again, my belief that items go to another dimension for a time is sustained.

Then, I tried to remember what my mother did when I was a kid. That’s the only time I can remember ever being stung which is probably why the idea of getting stung didn’t carry much weight. Besides “mommy-care” baking soda, meat tenderizer, ice all sort of came to mind so I gave them a try. Nothing seemed to work and I found myself wishing my mother were there to take care of me.

Now, that may seem a little silly, especially at my age, but it would have felt so good to have her tend my owie. Even more than that, I know if she could have treated me and then held me while I cried and felt sorry for my poor yellow jacket-stung self, she would have made it all better.

My mom’s been gone for more than 16 years now, and she surely didn’t provide much in the way of “mommy-care” for many years before her death because I wasn’t in need (or didn’t think I was). Still, I always knew that no matter how much something hurt (or felt good for that matter), she was always there to make it all better (or celebrate). I was rather amazed at how strongly I wanted her with me yesterday and how positive I was that she would have made it all better.

Instead, the sting continued to hurt for the rest of the afternoon and all evening until I went to sleep. This morning, before my eyes were even open, my hand itched so badly, I wanted to use a wire brush on it. The application of the bite sting stuff once it reappeared hasn’t helped much.  It still itches like crazy, but I’ve become sure of two things…(1) I won’t be so dismissive and glib about future stinging insect encounters, and (2) I’m sure mommy would, indeed, have made it oh so much better much sooner.

DEPRESSION SUCKS

More than a century ago when my great grandmother was alive and raising kids, I’m sure she suffered from depression. Who wouldn’t way back when in the coves of Tennessee? It was hard-scrabble farming, no electricity, running water, grocery stores, or any of the “conveniences” we now take for granted. At the same time, my great-grandmother most likely wasn’t aware of the “haves” since pretty much everyone she knew were have-nots as well. No major publications or television to show her the “perfect” world she didn’t have.

My grandmother didn’t appear to suffer from depression even though she didn’t have it any better than her mother. Married to a man 40+ years older than her, she raised his 11 kids from two previous deceased wives plus the five he gave her and took care of him when he became bedridden. This, all while working a hard-scrabble farm with no amenities. I was even born in her cabin in front of the fireplace which was the warmest place available, and my uncle served as my incubator until my mother was ready to have me with her.

Grandma, too, had a hard life and was part of my life from the very beginning. I don’t remember her ever dwelling on the hardships she endured or thinking or believing she had a hard life. In fact, she was upbeat, amusing and looked for and found silver linings in whatever clouds passed her way. She even had fond memories and often told stores about her good old days .

My mother was the antithesis of my grandma once we moved to the city. Before that, as a stay-at-home mom, she baked and sang and kept the house immaculate. I remember these as very happy times. Once we left the hills for the city, things changed. Dad was injured, then couldn’t find a job and so she had to go to work to keep the family going. That, and easy access to print, radio and television advertising (or so I think) did affect her view toward life, and it wasn’t ever positive again as long as she lived.

I had a wonderful childhood and life was very good until later on. The doctor told me I suffered from depression and prescribed antidepressants. I would take them for a time, then stop, become depressed and the cycle would repeat. Finally, my doctor told me I was to be commended for not becoming an alcoholic or drug user, but I simply had to accept the fact my chemical composition was such that without my medication I would be depressed. So, basically, knock it off and take your pill every day.

What made me think about this was some time I spent with a friend. I know this friend, like me, suffers from depression. I’m sure we both take our medication, but there are still times when life seems to be more than we can handle. So, we withdraw from our friends, stop doing much of anything and have private pity parties. Of course, we both know getting out and about, accomplishing a chore; basically doing anything that brings a positive gain to our lives will help alleviate that depression.

Today, depression isn’t totally viewed as a disease to be ashamed of, but there is still (I think) a stigma attached to being a sufferer of depression. I mean, really, logically, what do I have to be depressed about?  I’ve been married forever to a man who’s not perfect (but then neither am I); and together we have two independent and wonderful sons whose wives make them happy and grandchildren we absolutely adore. We both managed to retire; and while not jetting around the world on a regular basis, don’t have to worry about having a roof over our heads or food on the table.

Today, my life is a 1,000 (or more) times better than that of my great-grandmother with far fewer reasons to be depressed. I have learned I can choose not to be depressed by getting busy, calling friends, working out, accomplishing a major project, doing things that make me feel good. Most of the time, this is the choice I make. So, why are other days so difficult, and why on those days, do I choose to be depressed? I don’t really have an answer to this question, I just know now and then, no matter what, life and depression sucks.

THE BEST REASON TO BLOG

Sometimes encouragement and support comes from an unexpected source. Sometimes my own child, the child I carried and have known for more than 44 years surprises me with his insight and comments about something that is very important to me. It’s also a surprise to find that same something is very important to him. 

This morning an email from my son provided surprise and encouragement with regard to this very blog, i.e.,

“What the heck? No writings since August? You should keep doing them Ma. Even if no one comments. It's like a bit of history for me or you or us as a family. It's your insight to how you are, daily or yearly perspectives on things you do or the family did/does. Also bits of family loved ones who have been forgotten but are remembered for what they have passed on.

“Anyways, just my thoughts on your blog. Your retired, you have time (I think), you can be the writer you always wanted to be (and you are) by sharing your thoughts, ideas, wisdom, humor, experience & history of your life with us. 

“Sure it might be a small group of folks. But it's these folks who love you Ma.” 

He also said he’s printing them out and plans to save them to have when he’s as old, or older, than his dad.

Decades ago (and I wish now that I’d begun with the very first Christmas we were married), I began to write a Christmas newsletter. Each one had a paragraph or two about each family member. They celebrated each member’s success or reported on difficulties for that year…soccer team championship or the breast cancer battle are examples. Each newsletter is a little annual family history; and even though my sons are grown with families of their own, I continue to write and send these newsletters, which began with four members and now includes ten.  I’ve always imagined the boys having and reading them when I’m no longer around to continue creating these annual reports.

It never occurred to me until this morning’s email that I was doing the very same thing with my blog postings. From reading other blogs and thinking about what I wanted to do with my blog, I was more oriented toward a goal of obtaining what another blogger I read just achieved…10,000 readers. If I didn’t have readers or my readership wasn’t climbing, then what I was writing must not be of great interest to anyone. I hadn’t realized my blogging provided information, history, thoughts and ideas my own son would want to print and keep and treasure. Surely, this is the very best and most important reason to blog…at least in my opinion.

Thank you son, for your email today…it’s one I’m going to save and read again and again for inspiration.

THE BANE AND BLESSING OF GARDENING

As I sit here typing this, I can look out the window and see a lot of my garden. The dahlias are beautiful, the cosmos almost finished and the tomatoes are ripening. If I could sit in my swing and type this, I could hear the sound of the water trickling into my little pond…so relaxing. But, this is also the time of year when I am more than ready to be done gardening. The only problem is that there’s at least a couple more months before frost and rain arrive, and I must retreat into the house.

 

Every fall, I make a serious attempt to clean up the flowerbeds, rake up all the leaves, and prepare the garden for winter as well as have it ready to go when spring arrives. Since I am only a fair-weather gardener, I don’t always achieve all the fall tasks I set myself. Last fall, for the first time, my husband was unable to keep after all the leaves from the big red maple. I managed to blow them into the flowerbeds for the winter. Imagine what a mess when I began to clean out those flowerbeds in the spring. I vowed I would hire someone this fall to make sure all those leaves are in the compost pile and not in the flowerbeds. 

 

Throughout winter, I peruse the various seed and bulb catalogs that arrive in the mailbox. I make lists of the various bulbs and plants I would like to have for the garden.  I also peruse the photographs I took of last year’s garden and make lists of what I want to move, divide, yank out, or change in some way. That usually leads to my tossing the wish lists of what I don’t have because by the time I divide,  move and transplant, there won’t be room for anything new.

 

Come spring, I am excited to begin. While working, I would devote entire weekend days (or take time off) to getting the front or back garden in shape and ready to go. This, of course, often led to injury even if nothing worse than a sore back. Now that I’m retired, my mantra is, “You don’t have to do this all in one day.” This seemed to work pretty well this past year, but often I’d find that once I’d finished everything, it was time to start back at the beginning.

 

As spring progresses, I anxiously await those little spears of green that indicate the dahlias wintered over (I know…you’re supposed to dig, separate, store and then replant in the spring…too much work.) or that the cosmos, nasturtiums or sunflowers reseeded. I purchase tomato plants, squash, pumpkin and cucumber starts, plant pots of snow peas, green beans and lettuce. I water, fertilize and watch them all grow and grow and grow.

 

This last spring, I even tried something new…straw bale gardening. I bought a couple of straw bales (one had to be a hay bale because it grew grass like you wouldn’t believe) and placed them in the area of the garden that gets the most sun. I then prepared them as directed with water and fertilizer and inserted a tomato plant, zucchini squash and pumpkin starts in one and Danish and delicata squash and lemon cucumber starts in the other. Amazingly, all these plants have done really well although the pumpkins are already ripe and almost all of the plants (except the tomato) are suffering from powdery mildew. I’ll probably do this again next spring.

 

But, to return to the fact I’m ready to be done now. This happens every year and while others say my garden is beautiful, my eyes find, without even trying, all the areas that I’d like to change or fix. For instance, I want to dig up the entire bed of hostas, divide them severely and replant small divisions all along the back of that flowerbed. Then, I’d like to dig up three dahlia plants of the same kind, separate and replant them in front of the hosta. Well, this isn’t something that can be done right now. Well, it could, but most likely both hosta and dahlia would not survive…maybe in October unless the weather is really horrible.

 

I think my problem with wanting to be done this early is that in the past I’ve paid too much attention to the bane of gardening and not the blessings. Amazing how typing this blog brought me to that realization. So, when complimented, I’m going to accept the compliment with pleasure and not look for what could be better. I’m going to concentrate on all the satisfaction and enjoyment I get from working in the dirt as well as sharing and eating those tomatoes and vegetables. And, just for fun rather than sadly I think I’ll relish imagining what my garden might be like next year as I sit in my swing, listen to the water burble and delight in the beauty that’s now before me.

 

HUCKLEBERRIES

As a young girl in Idaho, my family would take me huckleberry picking. My daddy would hide in the berry bushes and growl, pretending to be a bear. I would yell and scream and beg daddy to rescue me (even though I knew it was him all the time). My mother would make huckleberry jam and huckleberry pie with these dark purplish berries. Huckleberries mean happy memories. 

When we moved to Seattle, the only time I had huckleberry anything was every year at the big family reunion. My great aunt would always bring two huckleberry pies and I always made sure I got a piece of that pie. 

Sometime in the mid-1970s, my husband took the family on a Sunday jaunt to some ghost town. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure exactly where it was and when we came to the top of the road we were following, he stopped and we asked the people camping there where we were. After they told us and we all had a good laugh about how we were about 100 miles from our goal, I asked why they were camping there. Their response was, “picking huckleberries.” I thought they meant the red ones, but, no, it was the purple ones. 

Of course, at a time like that, you’d think there would be something in the car that would hold a pie’s worth of huckleberries. A short distance down the road from the other people, we stopped and picked using everything we could scrounge up that would hold berries. And, I vowed we would return the following year and pick gallons and gallons. 

This we did every single year after that. For years, this location provided at least two gallons of huckleberries per trip. I’d clean and freeze and then make huckleberry pies throughout the year. I even wrote an essay about those trips that was published. Eventually, the pickings became very lean and I have no idea why. Did we go too early, too late; was spring too cold, too hot; did other people (or bears) get there before us?  

Not only did the lack of huckleberries sadden me, but my husband confessed how much he had actually hated those excursions every single year. I was very disappointed to learn he didn't share in my happy memories, but I guess he gets points for going along even though he didn’t enjoy it.  

A few years ago, my son and his family took me huckleberry picking, but again, the pickings were few and far between. My granddaughter ate most of what we picked directly from the bush, but I did get a picture of her holding a handful of berries. Last year, my granddaughter and I made the trek alone in the pouring rain. It did stop raining long enough for us to get out and look around to find that there were no berries. 

So, back home, I bit the bullet (or Visa as the case may be) and went on line and ordered two packages of frozen huckleberries. Each package made one very spendy pie, and I was loath to share with anyone. But, while researching how to buy huckleberries, I also found a site that listed huckleberry hikes…I saved that site for easy reference for this year. 

Last week, I spent some time on that site deciding which huckleberry hike my granddaughter and I should take. It couldn’t be 11 miles round trip which some of them were, and so I decided on one that was three miles round trip. On Friday, Haley and I ventured forth, picking cans, Tupperware, water, lunch, towels, in hand to pick huckleberries…we weren’t going to return home skunked.  

We drove to Snoqualmie Pass in order to follow directions to hike the Mt. Catherine trail. Amazingly, Haley recognized where we were…a place she had vowed never to return to.  Her sixth grade class had gone cross country skiing last spring and she hated it. She never wanted to see Hyak again in her life. Even though it was covered with snow then, she recognized various places of import…the bridge which had no side rails then and was covered with ice, the tree where she did a face plant, the point where she took off her skis and walked, the point where she put them back on and skied back to the beginning. 

But, I digress. We followed the gravel road for miles and miles, but never came to the Mt. Catherine trail. Instead, we came to a jumping off point for the Pacific Crest Trail, and I recognized a vast field of huckleberry bushes. We stopped there. We picked huckleberries…enough for at least one pie.

This year I also found another source of huckleberries right at the bottom of my hill. I knew there were lowland huckleberries because I have three nonproductive bushes in my back yard. One morning on my walk with my neighbor, I recognized the bushes in the landscape on the corner…covered with small purple berries.  

The house is empty and for sale, so I went back a couple of days later and picked enough off those bushes for a pie. Then, last Saturday, I returned and did a second picking and again, enough for a pie. It’s entirely possible (if the house remains empty) I might get in a third picking this coming Friday if the green berries ripen by then.  

This coming winter I won’t have to be quite so selfish with my huckleberries, plus I’m secure in the knowledge that next year, I can return to Snoqualmie and that huge field or continue on the road to Mt. Catherine. And, if that isn’t possible, I can always throw myself on the mercy of whoever moves into that house…or sneak down there at the crack of dawn when those huckleberries begin to ripen. In any case, huckleberries will continue to bring back great memories while making more in the coming years...at least that's my hope.