Bill was a little late getting home tonight, and I began cooking as soon as he got here. Now he's out in the shop doing the Thursday night radio check, a system to alert both sides of the state in case of an incident, like Mt. St. Helens, that might prevent the news traveling through the regular methods, like telephone. Seems less likely now in the cell phone age, but nevertheless....

I was thinking about dinnertime when I was growing up. Unless it was a night when the store was open till 9, (which was Thursdays at first, and then Fridays too, and on and on, but not before I left home for college,) my family ate together. On those nights when Daddy was working, Mother and I would go to Emory University cafeteria, or we'd have tuna salad or canned stroganoff at home.

On regular nights we'd have meat (or fish, if someone had been fishing,) a salad, a vegetable, and a starch-- potatoes or bread usually, sometimes rice or pasta. Daddy always had a slice of bread and butter anyway. Sometimes we'd have dessert, most often fruit or jello. The vegetables were usually frozen, unless it was summer. Then we had green beans or corn on the cob, and always fresh tomatoes.

A few hours after dinner, Daddy would fix himself a peanut butter, mayo and onion sandwich. Mother quit fussing about it and being insulted after a few years, just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

I didn't have a lot of regular chores, but setting the table and fixing the vegetable were mine. When I was little, we had Fiesta plates, and I spent a lot of time deciding who got cobalt blue, or orange, or yellow or green. All the food was in serving dishes on the table, and we passed them and served ourselves. (If we had company, Daddy always served the plates from the head of the table.)

We usually ate at the dining room table until we moved to Atlanta and had a kitchen table in the kitchen/family room. Whichever place it was, we always set it with place mats and full place settings of silverware. Butter was served on a plate with a knife, and bread on a plate as well. If there was milk, like for cereal or berries, it was always poured into a pitcher. We did use paper napkins, and only went to cloth napkins with napkin holders later on.

(Not that this is particularly noteworthy, but I almost lost the blog. Found it by using the back arrow!)

I can't remember what Mother used as a centerpiece, but I'm pretty sure she had a fruit bowl or epergne as a permanent fixture. Later, when I saw a friend who did this, she stacked the place mats in the center, with her pewter candlesticks and salt and pepper on top when she cleaned the table after dinner. I forgot to say we often used candles.

We always talked at dinner, although I mostly remember Daddy telling stories of his work day and me of my school day.

We usually began dinner with Mother saying grace. She wanted Daddy to do it, but she usually was the one who thought about it and made it happen.

Only after we moved to Atlanta and ate most dinners at the kitchen table did we watch TV while we ate, and then not very often. Mother was strict about that, but she didn't always win. Daddy could trump her if he really wanted to.

We never took dinner into the den or the living room and ate off TV trays or in our laps.

That was a long time ago, and things have changed. Bill and I usually eat in the kitchen, not watching TV, but talking and reading. I dish up the plates straight from the kitchen, and we don't use placemats. The round wooden table is always crowded with the mail, magazines and other things to read. Occasionally we eat in the living room, despite the Oriental rug that was my mother's on the floor. She'd be livid!

What was dinnertime like when you were growing up, and how has it changed?




 

We're having another short dose of summer, three or four days in the 90's, and then it will be back to the 60's by Wednesday. It sure made the grass grow! Fortunately, (I say that as if it was just good luck instead of Bill's hard work) the sprinklers are now working. We knew one line had been pulled up by the root of the tree that fell, but didn't know what else might have happened. Not much, as it turns out. So, we're back in the grow and mow and grow some more business. Does that seem like good sense? I'm never sure.

My little turnip greens are sprouted out in two nice rows. I've never tried them young and fresh in salad, but that was a suggestion on the seed package. They're full of vitamin K, and I need to keep a regular dose of that in my daily diet, so we'll see how they taste like that. I like them cooked, southern style, but that means bacon-- not exactly health food.

The green beans are coming up, the little arches of their stems sticking out with the fan of leaves just showing through the hole in the dirt. I love to watch them every day.

I planted some corn tonight, but the seeds aren't new, and it probably won't grow. Didn't work too well last time either, but what the heck. There's a lot of space in the garden.

Two cucumber looking plants have volunteered, but they might be melons. I planted some of each last year, and they were shaded out by the sunflowers which I'm pulling up by the handfuls this season. I planted some more cuke seeds nearby, hope they aren't one of those cross-pollinating veggies. One year I put something too near something with disastrous results, but it was so many years ago now that I can't remember. Squash and gourds? Cukes and loofahs? Something like that. Last year I had yellow and green striped crook neck zucchinis, but they tasted about the same as always, just fancier.

Special thanks and to Nada for the wonderful merit badge. This particular award means a lot to me, and I'm really proud.



Do you think that brown thumb on top of the green hand is any indication of my gardening skill? You'd be right. Just remember loofah cukes.




 

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There are a lot of different ways to be poor. Mabel told me about one of them today.

Mabel has had a stroke and can talk, but doesn't talk much. Maybe she never has talked much-- that's possible. She has a quiet voice and a way of smiling with her head down, looking over the corner of her glasses at you that makes me think she's a little shy. She does like to be visited though, and is content to watch her shows on the TV along with her visitors.

The program she was watching today, until her favorite quiz show came on, was America's Top Models. We talked about the clothes they wore and which dresses we liked best, and she said she'd love to wear the filmy yellow one if she had it.

I asked her if she remembered any favorite dress she'd ever had, and she thought a minute. "I remember one my aunt sent me from California. I think it was yellow too." She didn't look like she had a clear picture of it, and she went on to say, "My aunt had a girl who was older than I was and she sent me all her clothes. Otherwise I just wore striped overalls."

"You probably didn't have a lot of places to wear fancy dresses," I said, knowing she grew up in the country. "And you probably had plenty of work to do around the farm," I said.

"It wasn't exactly a farm," she said. "We didn't grow anything. And I didn't have any chores to do or any thing like that." She looked very sad. "There were just us kids, and our mama, and she had to work. " Suddenly I pictured an old house with a dirt yard and no parents around, and I felt sad too.

Then she remembered, "There was a blue dress I had, that Mama bought me herself." She didn't have anything else to say about it, but she was proud.

The house she lives in now belongs to her granddaughter. It is in a run-down part of town, but her family has done a wonderful job of remodeling. It has a big, airy kitchen with pots and pans on hooks and a big butcher block in the center. The walls between bedrooms no longer go all the way to the high ceilings, and there are ceiling fans to increase the air flow. Mabel has her TV in her bedroom, and a comfortable chair next to the window. She watched a magpie pick on a neighborhood cat and enjoyed their little drama in her driveway.

Another woman, Stella, in another town is dying, inch by inch, and will probably still be giving orders with her last breath. Her house is authentically old and far from tidy. They heat with a wood stove, and the living room where she holds court from her hospital bed is always cozily warm and smells of wood smoke. When I knock on her door, I am always greeted by no fewer than three small, noisy dogs who do what they can to protect Stella. As does everyone. Family members and neighbors are constantly in and out, and the respite between peals of barking is short. The most ferocious of the dogs, a Chihuahua, retreats to Stella's bed, walking all over her bony frame beneath the blankets.

The bed has been moved recently to make room for a slot machine with bells and flashing lights. Stella likes to watch people play. She has a glass candy dish next to her bed that someone gave her, and it's filled with what looks like sayings from fortune cookies. They are scripture citations, and she asks each person who comes in to "pull" one, look it up in the Bible and read it out loud. The social worker and I do the reading, because few of her family members are able to, for various reasons including illiteracy. The Bible was a gift also, along with the scriptures, and is a book that Stella is not very familiar with but loves.

On the wall are framed photos of family members from several generations, and Stella loves to tell about them. She was married to one husband twice, and shouldn't have married him the second time because he beat her; but she did so to keep him from leaving the state with their young son. The son is in his forties now, and looks as if he's had a serious head injury at some time; but he remains positive and works hard in a local restaurant, hopes to run one of his own some day. Stella's significant other has been taking care of her for years now, and he is devoted. He is kind and generous of spirit, and works hard to understand how to deliver her medicines and treatments. He is a dandy.

If poverty meant just a lack of money, this family is one of the poorest I've ever met, but their lives are rich with love.

 

I've been thinking a bit more about being offended and being offensive, and the old line, "Pardon me, but your slip shows," came to mind. (Does anybody wear slips any more? Does anybody care if anyone's underwear shows? Or is that offensive to some people too? Probably.)

(Second paragraph, same digression: I've seen strapless outfits in church with bra straps clearly showing-- along with a lot of skin. That is a mite offensive, but I don't feel offended by it. I just chalk it up to bad taste and bad judgment.)

The thing about being offended, to me at least, is that the action or remark has to be somehow personal, and directed at me to offend me.

Here's where I was headed for with this post script topic. Our underlying attitude about a person or situation may well show without our even knowing it. Like when I told the priest I used to work with that I blogged. His response was, "Whatever for?" accompanied by a look of complete scorn. Now, I'm fairly sure he didn't mean to be offensive, but he was. He had a track record of making similar statements, either to me or in front of me, (but not to, or in front of, everybody.) The fact that I heard him be just as tactless with other people, just as disparaging, did point to a character flaw that he managed to conceal from the people he wanted to impress. I didn't take his remarks as personally after that, but have always been sorry he didn't care if he impressed me.

Funny thing is, he now has a blog of his own!
 

Why do people get offended? Particularly, why do some people get offended so easily?

I only have a few minutes, so I'll just play around with the idea. If something smells offensive, I either avoid it or hold my nose. If the offensive odor can be eliminated or disguised, I might complain to someone who can do something.

The On-Line dictionary defines offended this way: To cause displeasure, anger, resentment, or wounded feelings in.

I can't think of a lot that offends me. Okay, I wouldn't like to be made fun of.

I probably would be offended if, in a group, I were totally ignored. Depending on the group.

I'm offended when someone talks to me like I'm stupid.

I'm not offended by people's religion, lack or religion, or politics-- unless they suggest by word or action that anybody with any sense should believe as they do.

Maybe that's it, the reason my friend Arlene is offended by Qi Gong and Buddhism. Maybe she feels that the rest of us think she should be open to those things too, not afraid of them the way some fundamentalists are afraid of anything that smacks of New Age as a work of the devil.

That would make sense, because I do think she, as a professional, should be open to new ideas. So her response, to be offended is defensive! Aha! I've always thought that there was a connection between being offended and being defensive, and not just the obvious connection between the words. I'm talking about the way people act out their feelings.

What do you thinkk? What offends you? What makes you feel defensive? They're not always the same, but sometimes, yes sometimes they are.






 

I called a new patient yesterday to make an appointment to come see him for the first time. His son answered the phone and, when I'd identified myself as a chaplain, he said they weren't religious. I assured him that was all right, that I would be coming to offer support. I've learned to avoid saying "spiritual support" when someone sounds that opposed. It tends to mean the same thing to most people, whether they're for it or ag'in it. I also try not to say, "That's not important," even though I mean it isn't important to me that he be religious for me to come visit. I don't want to go around saying religion isn't important, because that would be very offensive to many people.

Anyway, after that short discussion he warned me that I needed to know the rules, that there were certain words they didn't use in their house. Well dumb me-- I didn't ask what they were! I thought he meant religious words, considering the rest of the conversation. I was pretty sure he didn't mean swear words, because it didn't seem likely that he'd think he'd have to warn me about those.

When I got there today it became apparent quickly, fortunately for me, that the patient is hoping to get better and that his son is fostering that hope by not using the words death, dying or the like.

I suspect the patient is not entirely fooled by this. When he told me how uncomfortable he'd been, how difficult it was to breathe (although he wanted to talk regardless,) I asked him if was good to be out of the hospital and at home. He was positive about that, but said he wasn't getting better. His son disagreed, said he was much better than last week, and at the same time made a gesture, hidden from his father, of a downward spiral.

I had noticed an restored old VW bug in the carport, and asked him if he did it himself. He began talking about it, and several others he and his son had done, and about other hobbies and jobs he'd had, which were many and varied. Several probably contributed to the asbestiosis that he's dying from.

The house they live in is small but immaculate, and very tastefully decorated with an up-to-date color scheme. The pots by the front window held, among other things, avocado and nectarine plants that they'd started from seed. The whole feel of the place, and the father-son relationship, was one of tender, loving care.

Later today I went to the office to preview a video about the need for caregivers to take care of themselves and some of the ways they can do it. The chaplains and social workers get together every Wednesday at noon to check out a video and discuss it.

We are a diverse group: two Adventists who have been there longest; me, an Episcopalian; a Methodist; and, the newest staff member, a Buddhist.

The film today was a good one and one we will purchase. Arlene, the social worker has been here longest, said she really liked it until the topics of Yoga and Qi Gong came up. She was sure many people would be offended by that, but thought there were several other valuable points concerning self care that came afterwards. She was afraid people would quit listening and miss them.

I could see that she was offended by the Qi Gong, as she is by many things the Buddhist says, and probably things I say too, now that I think about it. It was the first time she has sounded defensive about her literal beliefs, and probably is fearful of other understandings of the Bible and other faiths.

The woman who demonstrated the Qi Gong talked about people getting in touch with their life force as she did these lovely, slow movements. She went on to talk about the importance of people becoming mindful of what they are doing rather than multi-tasking.

I asked Arlene if she couldn't visualize the Qi Gong as a kind of prayer, because, to a Christian, what else could it mean to get in touch with the life force? She seemed surprised by that, but thoughtful, and evidently accepted the possibility. She suggested we start a group for caregivers; but if we showed that film, she said I'd have to explain that part to make it palatable.

I think those two men I saw earler were in touch with the life force, whether they know it or not.
 

Bill surprised me this morning with a new oven. He bought it at an auction for $400, and it's brand new. As I read the booklet, I discovered it has a feature I'd never heard of: the Sabbath feature. It is for use on Sabbath and Holy Days when orthodox Jews can can't do any work. Pushing the buttons to turn the oven on constitutes work. With this feature, the oven will come on when it's supposed to automatically. Now I wonder how a person gets around the work thing without at least opening the oven door and placing the meat, in a pan, inside. Surely you aren't supposed to put the meat in a day ahead too?

Oh well, it looks like I don't need to worry about it. The oven measures 27", as does the one we have that doesn't have a working timer any more. The problem is, the hole behind it is only 24". This new oven is considered a 30" model, for a 27" hole. No, I don't know why they list it as 30" when the measuring tape says 27". They must count the trim.)

Now, how to get rid of it and get our money out of it?

Other than that disappointment, it's been a beautiful day. We went to the airport, where Bill installed a new ELT battery in the plane, then drove around to see how the new stretch of Highway 12 is coming, and bought some fresh asparagus. yum.

Then the usual things, balance the checkbooks and stuff. I cleaned out a cupboard and made more room for some casserole dishes. That was good. Filled the hummingbird feeders. Intended to color my hair this morning, but then we had the oven drama to contend with, so it was delayed. Maybe tonight? Nah, not likely. We have a funny movie to watch, Hot Fuzz (not for those who are easily offended,) and I'm reading a good book, Wicked.

Enough for now. Happy Sabbath to you all. Hope you don't need to cook and can't.

No wonder no one commented on Seamus in his shawl! I set last Friday's blog to Private access. I'll post it again at the bottom here so you can see.

The crusty old bartender lady I met a couple of weeks ago as a new patient has grown on me. She has a tender heart in there after all, and a lot of determination. She is legally blind, and last week she had me helping her with recipes she'd written large with magic marker. She wanted to get them separated out to give different people. As I identified each recipe for her, she'd rave about it, swearing that I'd never tasted anything as good as her oxtail soup, or her rhubarb cake, or her zucchini bread.

This week she wanted the social worker to help her get a will made, and he passed on to me her request for a priest to hear her confession. I was about to make the call when I heard she'd fallen and would be taken to a nursing home where she would probably die soon. I couldn't find a priest anywhere, so I took my prayerbook out and read through the confession with her while I waited for the ambulance. She slept through it all.

Since she has no family, I'm really sorry she didn't get the will made. She has a very old house, which looks dilapidated from the outside but is quite charming inside and neat as the proverbial pin.

Along with her recipes was a stack of "funnies"-- visual jokes she'd tack up behind the bar that were always a little raunchy but usually funny. One was titled, "You're at a baseball game. What's happening?" Beneath the words were pictures of a clock with the big hand on the eleven and the short hand on the four; a whiskey bottle upturned with the last drop coming out into a glass; a woman with one strap of her dress off the shoulder, revealing a breast; and a toilet.

Can you figure out the message?