Twenty-five years

Tom and I just celebrated our 25th anniversary. Twenty-five. Years. Whoa. It doesn't seem that long but when you think that you've been with the same person, outside your parents, for that amount of time it is long. And mind-blowing. Twenty-five years!

I'm terrible at gift-giving. It's probably one of the reasons why I'm late with birthday wishes. I never know what to get people. Sometimes I do. Sometimes it is so easy that I don't have to think about it at all, but that's rare. Now, especially as everyone ages, I rarely don't have any good ideas. I'm to the point that when I see something that someone would like, I grab it now or write it down in my notes app in my phone under gift ideas for people.

When we were first married, and even before, when we dated, Tom was the best gift giver. He always did creative things and came up with fun and romantic ideas. He was big with going the traditional route like the first anniversary is paper, and the twenty-fifth year is silver. I just thought the whole notion of exchanging gifts silly. I mean, we spend each day together. How is a present going to celebrate what we really do every day?

But this year, I was all over it. I figured twenty-five years is a big deal. Look how far we've come! I was determined to get something perfect, and so I started early. I researched ideas. Silver. One year I had a keychain made and engraved, so while that would have maybe worked for twenty-five years, I'd already shot my wad. I didn't really want any other silver in my house. I barely know what to do with the stuff I inherited from my mother. So, eventually lacking creativity, I turned to Amazon. And I found it!

An artist on Amazon paints a tree made of hearts, silver hearts, and perched in the tree are two red birds lovingly staring at one another. In the bark of the tree, she paints either your names or your initials. Sort of like a lovers' carving in a favorite tree with the date. 

Bingo! It was the type of thing that Tom would get me when stopping by an art festival, and so after much discussion with friends and my daughter, I ordered the picture and went with the initials, starting with mine on top. C.M. heart T.B. I was tickled pink. Not only was I ahead of schedule, but I also had picked a winner.

The package arrived in two days. It was a nondescript, slightly larger than 8x10 box and I opened it and danced around the house with joy. I had gotten the ultimate, rare, silver gift without bowing down to a silver engraved item. Now the only question I had was where to put it?

Three days later, my doorbell rang, my dog barked frantically, and I went to the door to find a replica of the package that had been delivered already. It lay on the ground where the Amazon Prime driver had placed it, and the following ran through my head at lightning speed:

• I had not done an excellent job of proofing the tree, but the artist had discovered the mistake and fixed it.
• Amazon messed up my order and somehow sent me another of the same print.

                                    

AND, FINALLY

• Holy shit, Tom ordered the same damn gift!

I checked the recipient's name--Tom. 

I checked the sender's name--same artist. 

I started laughing. 

I laughed until I cried. 

I couldn't help it. That's the story of my life, people. 

It's rare for me to pull off a great one, and just when I thought I'd actually done it, Lucy pulled the football out from under Charlie Brown!

SueG: "Maybe he put his initials first, or maybe he wrote the names instead of the initials. It could be different."

No such luck. We both did the tree the very same way. Tom didn't appreciate the humor at first, but by the time our special day arrived, he got into it. I mean...come on. 

Madison: "Well, you were right! Dad did like it, obviously."

Happy 25th to the man who makes me laugh. 

May we manage to limp along through the next twenty-five!

Easter/Passover 2019

Tom and I spent Easter/Passover at my friend SueG's house. Both girls were at school getting ready for finals and for the end of the year, so we spent Easter morning watching Elliot hunt for eggs. I attended church to celebrate Passover, Earth Day, and Easter, and then I headed over early to help with the dinner preparations.

I was in charge of appetizers and the egg hunt. I had ninety eggs filled with goodies, and each egg had an initial to eliminate one-up-manship. SueG and I hid the eggs. There were so many we quickly ran out of "hidden" hiding spots.

The food was plentiful. The company was entertaining. Even the dog enjoyed himself moving from the kitchen where the food preparations were happening to the table of appetizers in the living room.

The big reveal of the night came with the cake. SueG's SIL had ordered it and picked out a Spring pattern. Our local grocery outdid themselves with that. We spent more time sitting and inspecting the cake then we did in eating it. Very intricate.

Happy Spring Everything!

Five

Once upon a time, my mother was my best friend. After she got really sick, our relationship changed, and since her death, I've struggled with that. It wasn't a good time in my life, and I have a lot of resentment, plenty of bitterness, and so much sorrow. 

For five years, I've tried to analyze--to justify--both of our behaviors without any solution or peace, and as the anniversary of her death grew closer this April, my feelings made it difficult to be me.

There are good memories, but no amount of forcing those to the forefront has helped. The ugly always rears its head to push back against what I'd rather remember. Some days I work so hard to not be who my mother was at the end that I've lost sight of me. 

It's been a lot of floundering, with stomach-churning anxiety that has led to many off-kilter days, and last week I determined it had to end.

I'm a big believer in signs. Sunday, I got one. 

It hit me smack dab in the face when I least expected it, and the tears flowed. 

An olive branch extended if you will, and I took it. 

On Wednesday, the fifth anniversary of her death, I was alone at my MIL's house sitting at her kitchen table. I was supposed to be writing. I was trying, but I sat facing the front window, and spring was outside it, and my mind wandered--to the beauty of the morning, to my mother, and to the calm I'd been feeling since Sunday.

I was abruptly interrupted by a female cardinal on my MIL's birdfeeder. She flew in out of nowhere, while I was in the middle of conflicting thoughts.

It's said that a visit by a cardinal is a message from a lost loved one. I've seen males often outside my house at home, but never a female. This one pecked at the feed, and then her head turned, and she stared right at me in the window. No kidding.

So, I spoke to her. I didn't say aloud everything that's been in my head for five years, but I did tell her it was time to let go, how I needed to move on. 

Forgiveness is a step forward. I forgave me. I whispered what I needed to say to that bird who sat and took it all without flying away. 

And when I finished and wiped my tears, we sat in silence, staring at one another. For quite a while. Then the female was joined by a male cardinal who hopped right up to the window sill and peered inside. 

The three of us had a moment.

Then one by one, they flew away, and I returned to my writing.

Out of the mouths of my babes

Me: "I'm going to ask how much it is to add Darcy to my gym membership for the summer. Would you like to do that too? I told Darcy she needs to work me out. She's like this super gym rat with all sorts of daily workouts."

Madison: "I know."

Me: "I mean, you should see her upper body! She's buff!"

Madison: "I've seen her. Darcy has muscles in places I didn't know there were muscles. And I've taken anatomy!"

Inside/Outside projects 2019

Our Spring projects this year include some inside and outside honey-dos. First on tap indoors, is redoing our master shower. We've been collecting bids for over a year, and finally, hubby had enough. He picked a guy, made some purchases, and we are patiently waiting for the eight week back ordered products. This was done while I was not at home--as my hubby loves to do things when I'm gone--so this redo shower project will be a surprise to me.

Each time we did have a bathroom company come to give us an estimate (when I was home), they wanted to demolish and redo the entire bathroom. The space is small, more a closet than a bathroom, and there really isn't much to do in the area. But companies want to make a huge mess by chipping away and drywalling my tiled walls, and because there is nothing wrong with the tiled walls, I said, uh, no.

The designers shook their heads, and I read their minds: this poor woman doesn't understand the increase of value.

But I do. It's just that I like breathing clean air. The shower will be bad enough.

Our outside projects began first with the screen. Scroll down for those stories if you missed them. Because we did so well with that project, we kept on moving.

Our backyard once held a slab of concrete, a grapefruit tree that mass-produced delicious pink fruit during the season, and an avocado tree that produced one avocado every two years. We eventually redid the back yard, not once, but twice, and it currently houses a pool and screened porch.

Outside the screen, running alongside, we have...mulch. Not grass. Mulch. And some rocks that hubby apparently thought lovely although I've yet to see the aesthetic value. Oh, and my mother's pineapple plants with my own additions from the fruit those plants produced.

It isn't pretty.

Once upon a time, we had grass, but it eventually died in the Florida heat, and hubby refused to replace it because it meant a sprinkler system. I decided this year that I'd had enough and that was all it took for hubby to act. Obviously, it bothered him just as much.

We set about calling patio companies, and the first guy who arrived to give an estimate got the job. He worked for himself, had large muscles that I could observe for writing research, offered up useful advice, and did the job in four days. We now have a lovely outdoor patio and walkway.

I've tried to commission my SIL in Indiana to plant some flowers along the walkway and/or decorate but she has yet to jump on a plane. Apparently, the hubby is set to tackle that project this weekend. Along with changing out the toilet in our bathroom. I've arranged to be gone on Saturday. There will be no blog posts on either of those unless the project flows into Sunday...

Here's hoping that doesn't happen...

Blueberry picking 2019

The blueberry season opened in Florida a couple of weeks ago. The hubby and I got up early on a Saturday and made the hour drive to the nearest blueberry farm, where we split off on our separate way to fill our buckets. Since it was early in the season, we had to work a little harder to get the ripened fruit without destroying the green, but the day was a beautiful one with a slight cooling of temperatures that allowed us to work for over an hour.

It's peaceful out picking. Silence among nature; chirping crickets, buzzing bees, and singing birds. Then there are the parents of toddlers who awake before dawn on a Saturday. I imagine these parents want to wear these kids out with some activity and sunshine so that they'll take naps, but instead of using these little tykes to pick low on the bushes, these parents break the tranquility by shouting. 

Them: "Slow down. Stop! Janey, over here. Joey, don't touch."

One family had their kids loaded in a wagon, and to keep them entertained, just kept feeding them blueberries. I only hoped the kids didn't upchuck blueberries on the way home.

I out-picked Tom. My bucket came to 4.5 pounds while his bucket hovered around 3.9. A total of $42 for all our hard work, but I made two blueberry crumbles, and we shared with my MIL and my friend Jim.

I'll probably send Tom off one more time before the season ends to replenish our supply. The berries should be a tad sweeter by then, although the weather won't be as cool. Hence, the sending Tom part...

And the rest of the story on the screen

I have a weekly Thursday breakfast with a male friend of mine. We meet at the same restaurant at the same time each week and sit in the same booth. Around us are regulars that we've gotten to know enough to stop and chat either when coming or going. Last Thursday, as I headed to my booth, I recognized the man sitting in the booth before me in a hmm-that-guy-looks-familiar-how-do-I-know-him sort of way.

When I sat down, this guy was directly behind me, so my eyes in the back of my head could stare the back of his head. I was very aware that he would hear the story I wanted to tell regarding my screening episode, but as I'd blogged it and put it out on the wide world web, what did I care?

I began my story as only I can tell it, with many DETAILS and EMOTIONS because, hello, it's a story. My friend, who prefers talking to listening, interrupted often, and I know my voice raised several times if only to regain control of the conversation. At some point, the name of the company came up, and shrugging, I admitted I'd forgotten it in all of the brouhahas.

Me: "It begins with an R."

That's when a voice behind me said the name of the company. He was correct, and when I turned so that the eyes in front could meet the eyes in front of him, I saw a business card instead--from a screening company. The guy worked for the screening company THAT WE'D PLANNED TO GO WITH before the slashers appeared. He got out of his booth and stood next to our table, and pretty much gave me what I'd long suspected.

This is a way to get business. Screen Slashing! Who knew? I mean, I'd jokingly said that to the two razor-blade-wielding slashers after we'd all calmed down and were playing nice, and a part of me wasn't joking, but seriously? Are companies that desperate? In hindsight, I wished we'd just let them hightail it off our property. I don't think they did a bang-up job, feel they left out a few pieces of sline and certainly didn't care for their attitude.

Now my fellow Thursday breakfast eater screen guy is coming to check out what needs to be done to finish the job completely. Because boy, can we now see how rotten the old screens genuinely are, and the sheen across the surface of my pool every morning is starting to get old.

Me: "So, if you could just pop on over and slash up the rest of my screens, so we have to replace it sooner rather than later, I'd appreciate it. Mums the word, of course."

I think he thought I was joking...

What's with the trees?

As parents age, children keep a close eye out for the dreaded loss of memory. Here in Florida, it's just par for the course. We have a lot of elders, and many are missing some brain cells. My MIL, however, has her wits, and all we need to do is keep her from getting knocked down by Christmas trees.

Wednesdays, my SIL, niece, and I have dinner at my MIL's house. I arrived first last Wednesday after my drum lesson, and my MIL and I sat and talked about the week. She started telling me a story about a tree that had toppled. She has a glass-roofed atrium between her den and extra bedroom. It's an odd thing to have, and I sometimes try to imagine what the builder thought when he dreamed up that little gem, but my MIL has plants and a waterfall in the atrium. Occasionally on chilly evenings when she has guests, she opens the sliding glass doors.

As she talked, I pictured a plant out in her atrium. The woman lives in a townhome in an association that takes care of the trees and shrubbery outdoors. The only place I could think of that she'd have a plant as large as a tree was the atrium. I did not get up to go look.

MIL: "I mean, it just toppled right over." She made a clucking noise with her tongue and a hand gesture of cutting a tree at its base. "Right at the end. It fell over. I heard it. It made a loud noise. What would cause it to do that? I have no idea. It's a fake tree. I paid a lot of money for it. It's heavy. I drug out what I could, but I'll need to hire someone to get the rest, I suppose."

When people talk to me, imagines appear in my head. Tell me something, and I immediately picture it, and nine times out of ten, it isn't the same picture as the reality. At this point, I had an image of the atrium, a fake palm tree, and my MIL hauling out palm fronds.

Me: "Why would you hire someone? Can't your grandson do that? Or better yet, your daughter, who is always telling us how much iron she pumps on Wednesday? When Julie gets here, we shall assess the situation. I'm sure if she can't do it, her son can. I would do it, but I'm not supposed to lift things. We'll worry about it later."

Cut to later. We were playing cards and discussing Julie's MIL, who has dementia, and eventually, the topic turned to the toppled tree.

Julie: "Where is it?"

MIL: "In the other room. I just don't understand why it would do that. Just topple over. I can't lift it. I don't think you can either. I'll have to get someone."

Me: "Julie can get it. She just finished telling us she lifted two fifteen-pound weights today at the gym. She's a beast. She can handle a fake tree."

Julie: "I can do it. Where is it?"

Me: "I'm not sure, but I think it's in that little atrium area. Let's go assess it."

I got there first, peering through the sliding glass doors of the atrium. There was no tree. Confused, I turned in a slow circle taking in my MIL's surroundings as my brain tried to figure out where she had a fake plant as big as a tree. Not by the piano. Not in the living room. Not on the porch. By the time I'd circled back to the atrium, Julie was peering out the glass doors.

Julie: "Where is the tree?"

Me: "I don't know. I thought she meant it was in the atrium, but obviously, there isn't a tree."

Julie: "What? Where did she have a tree?"

Me: "I don't know. Listen. I know you were talking about dementia earlier. If your mother comes out here and can't point to a tree, we are going to have to be very concerned."

I was joking. I have no qualms about my MIL and her mental stability. Julie and I snickered. Rolled our eyes. Old people. Ha.

My MIL appeared.

Julie: "Mother. Where is the tree?"

MIL: "What tree?"

Julie and I were struck dumb. I mean, struck into total silence, dumbfounded, and we stared at my MIL with our mouths agape.

Then I lost it. I started laughing so hard I had to bend over and clutch my stomach. Julie, however, with her MIL's condition at the forefront of her brain, panicked.

Julie: "What tree? WHAT TREE? The tree you told us about. WHERE IS IT?"

MIL: "You mean the Christmas tree?"

Julie's horror-stricken face brought me to my knees. I mean, seriously? What was happening just now? One minute ago, we'd just discussed this tree. 

My MIL's brain suddenly caught up to where we were, and then she too started laughing. The two of us cackled like hyenas while Julie stared at both of us until she also decided it was better to just join in.

I had been correct. The fake palm tree had been in the atrium--in a basket placed into a planter the size of a small pony. It sat in the corner, and for reasons unknown, had broken and toppled over. My MIL carried out the broken tree but left the basket inside the planter. 

Julie and I went into the atrium and stared into the basket inside the planter. The fake tree had real dirt in it, and parts of a stump could be seen poking out of that. I thought maybe my MIL was mistaken about the tree being fake. Who puts real dirt for an artificial tree?

It took two of us to get the basket out of the ginormous planter. I used my foot to hold it down, and Julie wiggled it out, resting it on the planter as if it were heavy.

MIL: "You can't carry that."

Julie: "I can. It's fine."

MIL: "Well, I don't want it to drip dirt and water all over my house. We should put tin foil on the bottom. What do you think?"

Me: "I think we're not baking it. How about a plastic bag?"

MIL: "That's good. There are trash bags in the garage."

She and I headed in that direction, and when we turned around to go back into the house with the trash bag, Julie was carrying the basket. I quickly opened the trash bag, worried that her muscles might be over contracting with all that weight. She set the basket inside it.

MIL: "Did you get dirt all over my house?"

Julie: "I didn't."

But Julie went to double-check, and my MIL got a broom to sweep up the dirt that had fallen out during the bagging. Unfortunately, the basket was sitting on top of some of the soil, and since Julie wasn't there to lift it, and since I couldn't lift it, I decided to drag it out of the way. That's when I discovered that 90 percent of the basket contained foam, not real packed dirt. Julie played that off very well.

More giggling ensued when Julie came back and realized she'd been caught. We still don't understand why there was a fake tree in a basket of real dirt inside a planter inside the atrium, but frankly, Julie and I don't care. 

We're just glad to know that dementia thus far has escaped my MIL. 

Trees, however...well, that's what we still have to watch out for.