Divine Pie

Years ago I had the privilege of lunching at Miss Belle’s tea room in Cameron, North Carolina.  For those of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting Cameron, picture a small blink of a southern town in the image of To Kill A Mocking Bird.  Sand sidewalks wrap around gingerbread houses turned into antique/treasure shops and Miss Belles, a rambling Victorian, held court over them all.  My lunch buddy and I looked over the daily specials…corn chowder, yes please! tomato pie, yes please! curried Rice-a-Roni salad, sure why not! and homemade coconut cream pie, but of course!  We were so enthralled with every bite that after a little cajoling, we left Miss Belle’s with the coveted recipes of all four items. 

Flash forward to the present.  For years now, I have paved my way towards good will and friendship with care givers and administrative staff at my parent’s retirement community by regularly sharing pieces of Miss Belle’s coconut cream pie.  I even go so far as giving whole pies away when extra gratitude is merited.  Fellow residents of my mother’s skilled nursing floor also enjoy my pie.  About eight months ago, a new resident (a victim of Alzheimer’s) was having difficulty settling in to her new (unasked for) living accommodations.  Her name is Isabelle and although she may be confused about her surroundings, she is spot on with her piano playing.  She fills the dining room daily with beautiful hymns and folk classics brightening everyone’s day and has become instantly beloved.  I always make it a point to compliment and thank her for the gift she shares with us. One afternoon, she was extremely agitated and begged for me to take her home and I considered giving her a piece of pie to soothe her, but not knowing her dietary restrictions thought best not.

This past week I was standing near the nurse’s station on my mother’s floor and someone mentioned my pie.  I explained the recipe came from Miss Belle’s Tea Room in Cameron (which closed several years ago) and an Aide pointed out to me,‘Well you know, Isabelle used to be the mayor of Cameron!'  I looked at Isabelle….Isabelle…Miss Belle…and discovered yes, she was the proprietor of the Tea Room and it was her recipe I had been passing out all around her these past months.   Needles to say, the next day I invited Isabelle to my mother’s room for pie.

I held my breath as she took her first bite.  She looked at me very seriously, shook her head and said ‘now that’s reeaaal good’ in her low southern drawl.  I was elated.  As I walked her back to her room we chatted about the Tea Room.  I asked her if she remembered making corn chowder and she said ‘Yes’.  Tomato Pie?  Her response a little more pensive, ‘Maybe a long time ago’. Curried Rice-A-Roni  Salad?  She looked at me as if I was absolutely batty…perhaps a fellow kitchen worker had snuck that in.

Little did I know how drastically my world would change after our visit to Miss Belles’.  My vibrant mother would become a prisoner in her body due to the cruel twists of Parkinson’s shortly thereafter and the Tea Room would close due to Miss Belle’s failing mind.  And now we find ourselves literally and figuratively miles away from our former lives brought together as strangers, but leaving as friends through the simple pleasure of sharing a piece of pie. 

Do Something.

Sometimes glum is the order of the day.  Today was one of those days.  Glum. Glum. Glum. Strange word that oddly, phonetically, nails the emotion it portrays.  And I am choosing to wallow in it.  I know all the platitudes...what real reason do I have to be heavy of heart?  Well, maybe a couple.  The recent, unexpected and unfathomable loss of a very dear friend at a relatively young age is one.  But compared to his wife (a treasured BFF) , who is doing her best to sally forth and muddle through, my sadness is grief lite.  I hurt for her hurt and it hurts.  And then there's my recent visit with my Mother, who at 87 exists in her prison of a body with atypical Parkinsons.  For some unknown reason she has decided to quit talking to us.  I spent my first day of my visit trying to ascertain why...did her throat hurt from a recent endoscopic procedure, was she angry about something, was she too sad to talk, or had she lost her 'mind to voice' connection?  I did not press though and wanted to be accepting of her new choice.  Imagine my surprise and yes, disappointment, when during the evening hours a caregiver walked by us, stopped and greeted my mom and asked her how she was doing and all of a sudden my mom responded with a booming "I am doing very well, thank you".  Hmmm, thanks Mom.
Back home and facing my newly established 'empty nest' status, I was happy to learn my son, whose a  senior in college, planned an unexpected visit home this weekend.  He's a philosophy major though facing the daunting prospects of graduate school admission and was full of pragmatic comments.  He was astute enough to notice my demeanor, and questioned why I was emitting big sighs. "Oh, honey, sigh, it's nothing, sigh, except this big bad world out there might not be ready for one more philosopher, long sigh."  The Glum Anne just wanted to crawl into bed, covers pulled up, pillow over face and stay put until the first signs of spring.  But the phone rang and it was my other son, my freshman in college who we will see tomorrow as he performs in the marching band at UW-Madison.  His immediate response to my quiet hello was 'whats wrong?'  "Nothing Sweetie, what's up?"   "No, Mom, what's wrong, I can tell, is it something bad?"  "Everything, is fine, why are you calling?"  "I was wondering if you would make me some chocolate chip cookies?"  After a quick perusal of my cupboard, I found myself hauling out the Kitchen Aid and the next thing I know the butter is creaming with the sugar and I am starting to feel a tiny, little bit better. As the dough stiffened and I greased the baking sheets I actually found myself smiling.  And once the baked chocolate aroma filled the air, I realized the platitudes of good health, loved ones and being grateful for the here and now are realities to keep front and center.  If anything, the loss of a friend or a parent teaches us that, once we can get past our pain.  And it's good to pick ourselves up and do something.   Small or large, for others or for ourselves, do something.  Wallowing isn't all that it is cracked up to be.

Book Buddies

Sometimes in the midst of life's bleakest, most challenging moments we are given little pearls that brighten our way.  Dealing with aging parent issues is not easy.  I had the luxury of spending two weeks with mine, (mother, 87, severe Parkinsons, and my father, 89, severe age denial), and spent my time bouncing from one to another addressing their needs.  The bleak part set in when my Dad's pharmacist misfilled his pain medication and he ended up in the ICU (15mgs Oxy, instead of 5mgs, suggested geriatric dose is 2.5 mgs and he is tiny! Dear God.) . That was on a Sunday. By Tuesday he heard the words 'skilled nursing facility' and he put his denial in full drive, checked out of the hospital, and was home walking around, albeit a bit unsteadily by Wednesday.

Taking a break one afternoon, I walked the picturesque village where my parents live and decided to check up on my book in the village library.  I like to look at it on the shelf and check out it's check out status.  They still use 'the card catalog and index card pasted in the the back cover of the book system' , which I love. It feels like home. I must back up though to explain the pearl.  While I was writing my book, I had the distinct honor and true pleasure of attending a writing conference where both Maya Angelou and Anne Lamott were featured speakers.  Both have been favorite authors of mine and each of them blew me away.  Laughing, crying, and then laughing again, I was beyond inspired.  I used Anne's book Bird By Bird as gospel as I tried to fill the imagined one inch picture frame writing my own story.  And when my book was published I sent each a copy thanking them for their inspiration.  Maya sent a lovely note back, I never heard from Anne. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the bookshelf in the library, and there was 'Stay For Lunch' nestled up snugly against it's neighbor, Anne Lamotts' Grace (Eventually).  Seriously, in the Given Memorial Library in Pinehurst, North Carolina there is nothing between Goodwin and Lamott in the inspirational memoir section.
Why that feels so good to me, I don't know.  It just does.

Still A Little Work to do....

I am not a huge fan of the 'launch your son into the world' era that I am currently entered into with my youngest, and senior in high school, Ben.  I remember acutely my 'not so proudest moment' as a mother when his older brother Rob, who had requested my help at the computer with 'The Common App' website ( things were obviously not going well at all, my son asking me for help on the Internet?), and I exchanged some tense words.  I  looked at him after the situation had struck my very last nerve, and matter-of-factly stated, "You know, I wasn't even sure I wanted to have children, so you are on your own." and left the room.  Before I stood up, Rob turned to me with surprise and disbelief and replied, "You can't say that to me, Mom" as if I had broken all rules of fair conduct. And shamefully,  I had.

Anyway,  back to Ben. He is one of those guys where in grade school we, as parents, shook our heads in bewilderment at conferences and said,  "We want to be just like him, when we grow up."  Seriously, an all-around stellar guy.  And I could not be more proud of him in all aspects of his life. One especially is his natural tendency to be a good friend. 'Empathetic, caring and kind' are words that describe Ben.  Jump forward to the launching process and this is where things get a little sticky.  I feel like I have a few short months to teach him so many important, big and little, random things  ( like stepping back for people to exit an elevator, or when and if you choose to drink, make sure it is not a punch made with grain alcohol).  I liken it to the fabulous songwriter Ellis Paul who while travelling through O'Hare, learned from  his wife that they were pregnant. He sat down and wrote the song " Nine Months to Fix The World".  There is a sense of urgency to this.  Here's how my son Rob reacted to his experiencing my ultra attention, "You know Mom, not everything is a life lesson".  I beg to differ.   I experienced one such opportunity with Ben yesterday morning.

[A little aside...my friend Jeanne whom you've met in my book, asked both my boys if they would be there for her as she grows old since not having her own children, she is 'another mother' to mine.  They both solemnly assured her, 'yes, yes'.  I think she also mentioned something about knowing how to craft a Perfect Manhattan and being able to deliver it extremely well chilled....]

Earlier this week I developed a glitch under my shoulder blade that was painful and irksome.  Yesterday morning Ben entered our room (6:30 AM) to discuss what tie he should wear for his Rotary Student of the Week honorary lunch.  I turned quickly to get up and set that little glitch into full nerve overdrive where it slammed me on my back and when I tried to raise my head I couldn't even breathe through the pain.  As I lay writhing and panting on my bed , Ben stood looking at himself in the mirror.  Without turning around, he looked in the mirror behind him and said,  "Are you OK, Mom?" I answered with a big Noooo groan and then he said "Do you need to go the hospital" and even though I felt like the exorcist contorting  to find relief, I gasped out ,"No." and then he said "Which one, yellow or red?".  "Oh, red ,Honey," I mustered, after which he left the room.  Next, as I tried to find comfort in the 'Child Pose' with my face buried in the blankets and crouched back on my heels, I could feel Ben reenter my room.  "Hey Mom, which shoes, boat or dress?" and I replied as I lifted my, by then, perspiration drenched face, "Oh the dress, sweetie" and thought to myself as I put my head back down, "What the hell is going on here???".  Where did the empathy chip go?  Where was my compassionate Ben?  I thought I had covered this ground the time I was sick in bed when my guys were young and my husband was immersed in our new small business tunnel and no one fed or watered me for five straight days.   Life lesson: take care of the fallen in front of you. Even if they are that invisible person you know as Mom.  Life lesson:  lay your hand on someone in pain, a nice gentle pat just to show you care.  And now somehow I have to break it to Jeanne not to age any time soon, we have a little work to do.

Be Open.

Greetings... a common word and I've found a maybe not so common action.  That's why I love my community, Beloit, Wisconsin.  We are a city of greeters.  And I am not talking about the ones Walmart hires to man their front doors.  I am speaking of our every day lives. We make a point to greet each other on a regular basis.  Walking down the street, in store aisles, strangers passing... actually lock eyes and acknowledge each other.  As I travel, I make it a point to test other places' 'greetability pulses' and am often surprisingly disappointed.  Cities and towns that I love to visit and explore, amaze me with their singularly focused citizens passing each other by.  One of my little  ' Francina's Calling!'  life lessons bookmarks states 'Be open. Choose To Connect'.  And Beloit is a place where we choose to connect.  Thank God.  Maybe it translates to a Wisconsin tradition, where else can we gather 80,000plus people in four square blocks, coexist passionately and civilly without one recorded  incident of  true disconnect?  Sometimes I am hopelessly naive about the willingness of strangers to choose to connect.  I was so pleasantly surprised one fine, sun-shiny May day in Manhattan. I was just plain happy strolling down 38th street and about fell over when a man sitting on a stoop said aloud to me 'Hey, how ya doin'!.' Just as I smiled back at him and started to reply, I heard him say next 'What time are you comin'?" which is when I noticed the  Blue Tooth in his ear and realized he was not greeting me after all.  Ever hopeful, I smiled at him and moved on.  And continue to greet, in true Beloit fashion, one and all.

And Moonglow Magnolia was her name....

Thank God I am beyond child naming years.  If  I had a daughter,  I might have had to name her Moonglow.
Sitting under an old, twisty magnolia...every branch unfolding with plate-size creamy, dreamy blossoms.  And it is evening. The sun sets and the scents rise.  I'm a lucky girl.


PS.  I just realized this is another post about a tree.  Yikes.

It's a Tree Thing

I think I've always had a thing for trees. (See post below). As children, my friend Miki and I were late for school one day because we performed a marriage ceremony between two trees...one had a protruding 'pregnant' bump so we thought they should be joined in matrimony in case any unexpected saplings arrived.  And I've already talked about the Tall Pines.  What I haven't mentioned is my morning bath shared with a tree.  I am a bath taker, really do not like showers at all. There have been studies regarding the differences between bathers and shower takers....but I digress.
So every morning I sit in my soaking tub and look out my window at a huge maple that fills the entire frame.  Living in Wisconsin, my backyard tree changes with each season dramatically. And this is how I measure and see the passing of time.  During Autumn, I treasure the blazing reds and oranges that greet my day.  Throughout the long Winter, I see the huge squirrels' nest perched between the stark, black limbs blowing in the gray gusts and feel if that squirrel family can hold on and make it through what seems to be an endless parade of cold, dark days than I can as well.  Then slowly but surely, the green fuzzy glow begins to appear with the budding of Spring and before I know it, the tree is fully dressed in bright green leaves and I have no clue what the squirrels are up to.  It's officially Summer.  Somehow, I am comforted by this visual daily record that confirms that today is different than yesterday, again and again.
PS.  Nobody has ever commented on this blog site, which makes me think these really are Notes to Myself.
If anything strikes you, please share so that I know I am not chatting with a cyber black hole.  Thanks!