Riding More

        When I retired two years ago, I wanted to write more and ride more. I haven't done more of either. Life keeps getting in the way. I spend more time with my grands, which is a good thing, but it’s amazing how quickly I can fill the hours in a day just piddling.

This week has been the exception that I dreamed of when I retired.

It started with the beautiful weather we had over the weekend. I rode Mallory, my TWH mare, about an hour Sunday afternoon. On a Quarter horse, it takes that long to traverse my trails. On Mallory, I have to double back a bit to stretch it to an hour. That’s okay. It’s amazing how different a trail can look riding one direction versus the other.

I also rode Monday afternoon for at least half an hour, then another half hour Wednesday afternoon. Thursday I spent the day with a former barn mate at the Bessemer barn where she still boards. There are miles of trails there, and she knows them by heart. She has been riding them for 20 years, helps keep them trimmed, and helps cut new ones.

While it was a bit chilly, we still enjoyed the ride, just the four of us (I’m counting our horses) and Mother Nature. The sound of horses’ hooves pushing through dry leaves provided a backdrop for our constant chatter. I hadn’t ridden with Pam since spring, so we had some catching up to do. We spent half an hour snacking at the mouth of a small cave beside a brook that didn’t babble near as much as we did. Yet we still managed two and a half hours in the saddle.

I’m trying to get into shape for an equine vacation. A company called Equitours sponsors horseback riding trips all over the world. I’m torn between Ireland, where you can ride Connemara ponies from castle to castle and sleep in those castles each night, and sunny Costa Rica. However, when I read the “fine print” about the tours, I discovered that a rider must be able to post and to stay in the saddle for six hours a day. I can learn to post, but six hours a day in a saddle?  Geez Louise, I normally get fatigued and sore after two.

Thursday was the exception, however. I did fine, and could have ridden another hour or two. I wasn’t terribly sore last night, just comfortably tired and content. I like to think it’s because I’ve been working out at the gym for several months, and because I had ridden three times this week already.

Or did the two hours we spent at a local bar drinking margaritas, eating fried pickles and playing Gin Rummy have something to do with that?

Manicures and Karate Classes

          A few weeks ago,  my manicurist left the Springville hair salon where she had worked for several years and started making house calls. Kathleen has about a dozen customers, and sees half in her home and half in theirs. That’s what she does each weekday morning. In the afternoons, she teaches karate.

Kathleen holds classes after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Margaret Elementary and Wednesdays and Fridays at Springville Elementary. She has a second-degree black belt and teaches Yoshukai-style, which is the Japanese version of this martial art. Her husband, 10-year-old son and 15-year-old daughter have black belts, too, and all continue to take lessons at IKF Karate on Center Point Parkway. I’ve watched her enthusiasm for karate grow over the past couple of years, and it’s one reason she stopped working at the hair salon.

I feel so decadent having my nails done in my own home. Sometimes I miss not being able to get my manis and pedis when I get my hair cut, but I really like the relaxed atmosphere of my own Great Room. We can enjoy cookies and all kinds of libations without having to provide enough for a salon full of customers.

During the Christmas holidays, for example, I mixed us a Candy Cane Cocktail. This yummy drink is made with vanilla vodka, peppermint schnapps, white chocolate liqueur  and heavy cream. I like to serve it in my crooked-stemmed margarita glasses with tiny candy canes as garnishes. Directions suggest the option of a drizzle of grenadine for color and/or a dusting of crushed candy canes for fun, but the former turns the pretty white drink red, while the latter just sinks to the bottom of the glass.

This week, I put on a pot of coffee and we enjoyed the Thumbprint Cookies I had made over the weekend. Not as exotic as the cocktails, but still fun.

During the 1980s, there was an all-night gay bar on Birmingham’s Southside called Mabel’s Beauty Salon and Chainsaw Repair. I told Kathleen that if she ever set up shop in a permanent building, she should call her establishment Kathleen’s Nail Salon & Karate Studio. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? On the other hand, it might attract folks looking for something besides polished nails or karate lessons. 

Happy Birthday, Gabe & Jack

     Today is the 8th birthday of my first grandson. It’s the first time his birthday has fallen on a school day, and he was excited about that. What a happy day for him.

     It would have been the 75th birthday of my late husband, Jack, had he not chosen to leave us at the age of 58. I still don’t understand that. After all these years, I still shake my head and wonder, “Why?” I still miss him every day, but especially today.

     I know Jack is in a better place, but he left us in a state of shock, bewilderment and grief beyond compare. He left a big hole in our hearts and lives. He didn’t get to see his youngest daughter graduate from high school or college. He didn’t get to walk either daughter down the aisle on her wedding day. He’ll never know the joy of having grandchildren, but what’s worse, they’ll never know the fun of having their Grandpa toss them a ball or teach them to fish.

      I guess I should have put flowers on his grave today. But I didn’t. I rarely go to the cemetery,  because he’s not there and it just reminds me of my loss. I took Gabe there a few months ago (see photo), because he wanted to know where his Grandpa Jack was buried. His mom and aunt usually change the subject when I bring him up, but Gabe and I talk about Jack often. One day Gabe asked me, “Do you think Grandpa Jack would have liked me?” “Oh honey,” I replied. “He would have adored you.”

     I have a close relationship with my daughters and grandsons, I have many wonderful friends, but on days like today, I feel so alone. I ache to have Jack’s arms around me and to lay my ahead against his big, barrel chest. 

     Happy birthday, Jack. I wish you were here so we could celebrate. Yes, I know we’ll dance together some day when I get to heaven, but I’m not anxious to go. Loretta Lynn put it succinctly when she sang, “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”

     I know I’ve rambled, but it’s hard to think coherently with tears streaming down my face. 

     Happy birthday, Gabe. I’ll feel better when I see you tomorrow. You have given me something to celebrate on an otherwise bloody awful day.

Security Blankets

Toddlers often have a favorite blanket that they drag around with them everywhere they go. Usually, it will be a baby blanket that was used in his crib. As he grows into a toddler, the child will want to sleep with the blanket for naps as well as bedtime. It  becomes tattered and worn, but it continues to provide a sense of security for the child, often into kindergarten and first grade. Linus, a character in the cartoon strip, "Peanuts," is a prime example.

While I don't drag one around with me, I do use lap quilts. They provide warmth when I'm sitting on my front porch in cool weather, drinking my coffee and watching the squirrels jump from tree to tree. I keep the temperature low in my house, and use lap quilts while I crochet or read a book. As a child, I would take a pillow and quilt to my front porch and lie down to listen to the rain.

A few years ago, I started requesting a blanket at my dentist's office. This habit began because it was so darned cold there. I quickly noticed that it had a psychological affect, too, by calming some of the anxiety of being in a dental chair and having that needle or drill coming at me.

There is something so very comforting about wrapping yourself in a blanket. Not only does it provide warmth and security, but if it was made by someone special, it can provide a connection with that person or even a sense of place. I'm not the only person who recognizes this. A friend makes kid-size lap quilts for the local sheriff's department to give to children taken from their homes by child welfare services. I know others who make quilts or crochet afghans for beds at veterans' homes, and others do the same for folks undergoing dialysis. 

We make blankets for babies as shower gifts, too. I've read that swaddling a newborn snugly, even tightly, calms it because it gives her the feeling of being inside her mother's womb. Maybe that's what it does for some of the rest of us. I don't know. I only know that cuddling up in one makes me feel less vulnerable. 

In a world full of uncertainty, we could all use a security blanket now and then.

Christmases Past & Present

Gabe & Mati making cookies

     It’s two days before Christmas. The boys are here, and we’ve made sugar cookies and decorated them. The boys also managed to decorate the countertop, the floor and themselves as well. But what the heck, we’re not just making cookies. We’re building memories.

I still have some candy to make, and the dessert and vegetable to prepare for Christmas Eve dinner. I also have a couple of gifts to wrap. It’s raining, so the boys can’t play outside. But while the little one naps, and the older one plays with a friend, I sneaked into my office to post this blog.

There isn’t time to write a full-fledge post, so I’m re-posting a slightly revised version of last year’s Christmas essay.

Merry Christmas to all, and have a blessed New Year.

A Touch of Holiday Nostalgia

I usually get very nostalgic and sometimes sad around Christmas. This started long before my husband died, but his death certainly adds to the sadness. I think it has to do with remembrances of Christmas past, when my dad's side of the family got together to celebrate.

Most of my dad's three brothers (a fourth died when I was a toddler), three sisters and their children would gather at Thanksgiving at my Aunt Vera's. She's dead now, and so are all but two aunts. I miss the missing ones most during the holidays. Like they say, when the generation ahead of you is gone, so is the umbrella between you and eternity.

I can still see those long tables set up in Aunt Vera’s basement, laden with the yummy foods my aunts would bring. That's how I learned that mac 'n cheese didn't originally come in a box, the way my mom made it. My Aunt Rubye made the most mouth-watering mac 'n cheese I’ve ever tasted.

After lunch, we’d draw names. Then we'd get together again around Christmas and exchange gifts. Grandpa Hobson used to buy something for everyone, but because there were so many of us, he couldn't spent much on each. They were token gifts, but I appreciated the thought. My mom, however, didn't. He often gave the women hosiery, but at 5'9-1/2" tall,  her legs were too long for any of them to fit. She always resented that.

  As the family grew, exchanging gifts became expensive. My cousin Ed had five children, and announced one Thanksgiving that he could no longer afford to buy the extra gifts. He suggested we let the kids draw and exchange, and that worked out fine. I can't remember when we stopped the name-drawing altogether.

After Aunt Vera died, my Aunt Rubye and I took turns hosting the gatherings. Once I had a friend come to my house dressed as Santa Claus. We took pictures of the kids (and a few grownups) sitting on his lap. No one knew him, and because Ed had not arrived yet (like income tax refunds, he and Diane are perpetually late), everyone assumed it was he. You should have seen the looks on their faces when Ed and Diane walked in! 

(Back) First cousins Pat, Ed & Elaine, with
Elaine's niece, Lennon (center)

One Thanksgiving stands out because of a game. It was my cousin Pat's idea to play "Oldyweds," based on the then-popular TV game show, "The Newlyweds." She picked out three couples who had been married for various lengths of time.  Pat sent the three husbands into one room, their wives into another, and everyone was instructed to contemplate three questions. One of them was: "When was the last time your spouse made you mad?" When my Aunt Violet recalled the last time Uncle Alvin had made her mad, she got angry all over again just thinking about it.

When I moved out here to the country, I tried to keep up the Christmas gathering tradition. It was hit or miss, because aunts and uncles were aging and cousins became their care-givers. Everyone had so much to do during the holidays, so many church and school obligations, that it was difficult to get many to come. So I stopped. It took a cousin's funeral to get us started again.

This year, only two families showed up, but I still had a house full. There were 12-15 of us, including three first cousins. I didn’t have time to decorate for Christmas, because it was Thanksgiving weekend. We chose that time because my brother’s daughter was visiting from California and wanted to meet everyone.

We all agreed we should get together more often.  We’re considering a barbecue and pool party at a cousin’s house next summer. There's nothing like seeing a bunch of old geezers in swim suits to get the nostalgia juices flowing.

No more surveys!

        If I get one more request to complete a survey, I’ll puke on my computer.

        It seems that every time I call a service or tech rep, place an order online or take my car to the dealer for a recall, I get a request for my “feedback” via a survey. Yesterday, I even got such a request from American Express. The first question was, “Do you recall logging into your account December 11?” Hells bells, I can’t remember where I logged in yesterday, much less four or five days ago!

        I’ve gotten to the point where I  delete most of them. They take too much of my valuable time. Individually, it doesn’t seem like much, but collectively, I could spend an hour a day on them.

        Usually, their questions are skewed in their favor, and they never ask the one you would really like to answer. Like the hotel survey that failed to ask, “How was the maid service?” Because I’d really like to tell them about how she forgot to leave me any coffee one day. I guess she was too busy changing out the soap that I’d used only once.

        Then there’s the aforementioned American Express survey, which wanted to know how many times I had to log in to get my question resolved. Good grief, I only logged in to check my balance. How many times does that normally take?

        Netflix usually sends an email wanting to know which day I returned a DVD. If you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t recall on Friday whether I mailed it Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday! Does it really matter? Geez.

        I don’t know how to avoid these surveys, so until I do, I’ll just continue to delete them.

Planting Rye

I’m always running late, whether it’s for appointments or doing chores. So it should come as no surprise to most folks that I didn’t get my winter rye sown until the first week of this month.

When the summer bermuda dies down, it’s great to have a winter grass take its place. But that rye should have been spread in October or November.

I started on Monday afternoon, December 1, but quickly realized I had a brush as big as Texas to remove first. I should have burned it last year, but let it sit. It was too late in the afternoon to start a burn, because I didn’t want it to smolder overnight unattended. So I spent an hour and a half scooping and piling the woody brush into my tractor bucket and dumping it over the fence. By the time I had finished, it was too dark to spread rye.

Horses enjoy grain, even when the grazing is good.

Next day, I loaded the rye grass into my spreader, read the spreader chart for the rye opening, then took off. I figured it would take about six to eight passes up and down myhilly pasture, but the seed was gone in 40 feet! 

Back I went to Central Seed for more rye.

“What setting did you use on your spreader?” asked Lamar, one of the store’s employees.

“I used the rye setting,” I answered. 

“Which rye setting?”

“There was just one.”

Turns out the "rye" setting on the spreader is for cereal rye, which is much bigger than the seed for grass rye. Who knew?

So I bought another bag of rye seed, enough to cover two acres. I’m not sure how big that section of my pasture is, but I figured that amount would do it. 

By the time I got home with the bag of seed, I had to get ready to leave for an appointment. 

On the third day, I actually spread the rye seed. I set the hopper opening so low that it took repeated passes over the same territory to get it all out. But I didn’t mind. I love being on my tractor, and I was just happy to get the job done. 

When the rye starts coming up in February, I’ll have to spread some nitrogen to fertilize. If I had planted in October  or early November when I should have, perhaps it would have come up earlier. Or perhaps the November frost would have killed the young buds, as happened with a friend’s pasture. 

Sometimes being late turns out to be a blessing.