Call me a farmer

I did not inherit my parents' green thumbs. To be honest, playing in the dirt was never my thing, but there have been rare occasions when I felt inspired to plant something. After our pool was built, I placed large flowering pots and palm trees around the deck. One summer, I tried growing herbs, and during springtime several years, I tended to the hanging plants on my front porch. After a month or so of watering and conversing, I become tired of the heat and the effort it takes to maintain plants, and more often than not, they wilt, die, or never grow. My husband will tell you he takes over responsibility from any of my attempts--yes, that is true.

I have more of a blue thumb--from ink--than I do a green thumb.

My father's thumb planted flowers and trees. My mother's thumb cultivated items first in our kitchen before they went into the ground. She'd take the seeds from the food we'd devoured, jab them with toothpicks, so they rested on either side of a cup of water, and those cups sat on our kitchen sill until green shoots appeared. Avocado pits were a favorite of hers. Eventually, after moving to Florida, she took to growing pineapples.

You can read HERE and HERE, where I wrote complained about having to maintain her plantation of pineapples when she was forced into a wheelchair. She'd sit in it and direct, pointing at this plant, pointing at that plant, and making me bend over in uncomfortable positions to trim the leaves and clear out the debris from the pots. I was always a sweaty mess when I was finished, bleeding from holes in my arms where I'd get poked from the plant's spiky leaves. Frankly, I think they were telling me to leave them alone. I mean, how much pruning actually goes on at a real plantation? My gues--very little.

My mother always wanted me to take the plants home and put them in my yard. She thought they'd do better in the ground, but while I didn't know if my husband would like a pineapple plantation, I also didn't believe my mother could get along without her plants. So, I never took them home--until she died. Then, I did it as a tribute, especially after I offered her plants to her condo neighbors, and her downstairs neighbor took the most abundant, healthiest plant, throwing it in the garbage so she could use the pot for something different. Lesson learned.

I brought home four plants, I think. Every year I've had a pineapple. Every. Year. Some years I get one, some years more. The little pineapple pops out in April, the month when my mother died, and by July, they are ripe and ready to pick. We take every top from these pineapples and stick them in our yard. We genuinely do have a pineapple plantation, although we've lost a few plants. This year I harvested three pineapples.

This pineapple is the second fruit from a plant near my mailbox. It is from a pineapple top of my mother's plant, and it gave us fruit last year. We picked this fruit second this summer, and some parts of it weren't as sweet, so I used it to make pina colada.

This came from another top we put into the ground in front of our house. It got so large, I had to stake it so it could finish ripening. When it came time to harvest it, all I did was remove the stake, and the pineapple fell over and popped right off the plant. This fruit was very sweet, and we ate it in one sitting.

The last pineapple was from my mother's plant in the backyard. These plants aren't as colorful, large, or as healthy-looking as those in our front yard, and this little pineapple never grew any bigger. I found it odd, so I turned to the Internet, where I learned more than when I originally researched growing pineapples. Most of it entailed getting out into the plantation and getting dirty if I want my next crop to not be as small as this little sucker.

My plants are a ratoon crop and require the least amount of work. Yep. My kind of farming. Unfortunately, ratoon crops grow smaller each year if not plucked from the mother plant and replanted. Ugh. Since my mailbox plant already has three new shoots, I will have to remove these eventually and place them separately in the ground if I don't want them to kill one another off by competing for light, nutrients, etc. 

Looks like if I'm going to continue being a pineapple plantation owner, I'm going to need to invest in gardening gloves. My mother would be so proud.

She was our resident seer for sure

My mother was what some now call a prepper. She wasn't too extreme, but she did plan ahead for something catastrophic. We had a basement with a utility room, and in one corner of that room, she stored her supplies, including specialized food, much like that of what the astronauts used in space, masks, matches, and lanterns. Everything was sealed in large, white boxes we knew not to touch.

I didn't understand until into my teen years precisely what she had and why. Before that, it was known to me only as a doomsday prophecy my father and a few others, thought silly. I don't know how many people she told, but eventually, she quit discussing it, although she never stopped warning people. 

Always have cash on hand.

Have something tangible to barter. 

Keep your gas tank full.

She was an extreme coupon clipper and the queen of BOGO. Every Sunday, she cut and organized, and then as the grocery stores released their ads, she planned accordingly. She bought in bulk from paper goods, cleaning supplies, health products, to storable food like canned goods and nonperishables, and the excess went on shelves my father built along one utility wall. We referred to it as Connie's market. When we ran out of something, she sent us to retrieve it from the basement. If it wasn't in the market, it went on her list to replenish that week. 

We also had an extra refrigerator/freezer and a large freezer in the utility room. The freezer was stocked with frozen meats from the cow we split with the neighbor, and with various other meats she purchased using her coupons, and the refrigerator carried items that would last longer than a month.

She had guns, and she knew how to shoot. 

With everything, my mother believed she had enough supplies to last a year in a shutdown of life as we knew it.

When she finally sold the house, she had to let go of her thirty-plus year stash due to expiration dates on the food and to downsizing into a smaller home in Florida. Even then, in her small condo, she kept one closet for her overflow. I'm still using her cleaning supplies, her dishwashing detergent, and her plastic sealable bags four years later.

Several months before she died, she predicted what has already happened in this country, from politics to the environment and to where we sit today quarantined in our houses.

Suddenly, those white boxes and that corner of the utility room doesn't seem so silly or blown out of proportion.

Pictures and memories - Pennsylvania house

This was our house in Pennsylvania. I have 1965 as the year it was built, so the date must've been on a slide or picture. My parents built the house. Before that, we rented a home in the same neighborhood or close by. At least, that is the story I remember.

I'm not sure if that is the house above, but I'm guessing it was the rental. I don't think we moved into the built house until 1966, but that is a guess from pictures. 

I have few memories of the house. I don't remember my bedroom at all except that the window faced the front of the house. I remember looking out that window and watching my friend Kim walk away after knocking on the front door to see if I could play. I couldn't. I was being punished or something and was supposed to be taking a nap.

I remember the upstairs bathroom. It was pink. I remember the family room, the dining room, the living room, and I have a vague memory of the basement and kitchen. Also, the king-size bed in my parent's bedroom. My mother had a red velvet spread with matching pillows on the bed. Very royal-like. The red velvet spread made all of the moves with us, but she never used it after we left Pennsylvania. I remember her in that bed when she got violently sick from eating mushrooms, and the doctor made a house call to care for her. I think that's why I don't like or eat mushrooms to this day. 

There was a neighborhood park built behind our houses. I recall my mother telling us the neighbors had it built. I remember riding one of those animals on a spring where you rock back and forth. I had broken my collar bone and wore a sling. I remember taking it off so that I could use my arm. My mother caught me. She whistled--the woman had the loudest whistle that could be heard for miles, I'm not kidding--and she yelled at me to put it back on. The park is still there.

I remember once playing with a friend of ours, Peter. He and his mom were at our house, and he and I were in the family room. I was going through some stuff on a table, and there was a mask on it leftover from Halloween. I put it on and roared, forgetting that Peter was deathly afraid of that holiday. I remember going into the bathroom under the pretense of having to use the toilet, but really, I went in there to cry because I felt so bad for scaring him and making him cry. I can still remember that filling in the pit of my stomach for causing harm to someone else. A lesson learned.

My dad planted flowers at that house. Apparently, he loved to be outside planting. That is weird to me because I don't remember him doing that in Indiana. He'd putter around outside, but we never had the flowers there that we did in Pennsylvania. I know that living there was the best time of my mom's life. I wonder now if it had also been my dad's. I think when you build a property, you do so with forever in your mind. A good piece of that house was in both my parents' minds always, I think.

In 1967, my mother designed and built her pool. The shallow end was two feet deep for teaching, and it was ten feet at the deep end. The sides of the pool were corrugated aluminum. We had a deck, and then outside the pool, we had this little patio outside our living room sliding doors. 

My parents threw a lot of adult parties and family parties. We always had the neighborhood kids over to swim. I have a lot of memories in that pool. It was a great pool. I had these colored dive rings--much thicker and sturdier than those you find today--and I could dive and get all ten rings all over the pool without taking a breath. My dad would have me perform that for visitors. It was the first time I learned that accomplishing something could make my parents proud. I also remember worrying that I would fail in that endeavor and let my dad down. I had those rings until this year when my husband threw them out without my knowledge.

My mother was a swimming instructor, and she started a swimming business in our backyard. All the neighborhood kids learned to swim in that pool. She had over one hundred students and threw a big graduation celebration at the end and made her own certificates. It was the most significant time of her life. She resented moving and giving up her business. She never got over that. 

We had big neighborhood birthday parties. I only remember my sixth birthday. We played games in the basement--London bridges, musical chairs--and I remember being upset when I lost. I mean, really, it was my BIRTHDAY. Luckily for me, my dad captured that moment.

We moved the summer of 1970 because my dad got transferred to North Carolina for his job. I actually remember saying good-bye to everyone, then driving down the road. I looked out the window at everyone and waved and waved until we made the turn, and I couldn't see them anymore. Then I cried.

I used to wonder how different our lives would've been had we stayed in Pennsylvania. Usually, when I got down in the dumps. I'm fortunate that our family stayed in touch with our next-door neighbors. Over fifty years!

It was an excellent beginning to my life. I'm grateful for the memories and friendships. And that pool. It led to a great career in the aquatic industry, where I made even more memories and friendships. 

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.

I need a Leverage Team

One of the good things about my mother was her generosity in helping others. It was also her downfall. It fell under the category of lending money to people. One such person was an acquaintance of her therapist. Right there, a big red X. 

But it happened, we were aware and objected, but, as usual, my mother refused to see our concerns. She met with the therapist and the acquaintance (whom I'll refer to from here on out as AH for asshole), heard their ideas, and wrote AH a check as an investor for his company. 

She did have the foresight to draw up a legal document. 

Payments began. A few months later, my mother wrote another check, and then another--three checks totaling enough money to pay for a year's worth of tuition for my out of state daughter's college. 

For several years, AH paid with interest. Sometimes regularly. Most times not so much. My mother would have to put in a call to his office, remind him of her goodwill, and he'd send his payment. 

Then the recession hit, my mother was forced to pinch pennies, and she began counting on that monthly check. Eventually, AH stopped taking her calls. By that point, my mother was wheelchair-bound, and so I was sent to his office to confront him. 

While I pretend I'm fierce and full of vim and vigor, I'm not. I'm more meek than pomp, and I abhor confrontation. It takes a lot for me to go toe to toe with someone, and rarely do so unless it involves sticking up for my kids. 

But my mother always managed to make me do things I was uncomfortable doing, and thus after a phone call with much arguing, I stopped off at his office on my way back from a trip to Disney World. 

The office was in one of those buildings where a visitor must stop at a receptionist's desk before proceeding forth. The woman there made a call to the man's office, and when he heard my relationship with his investor, he came downstairs to greet me. 

AH was all smiles and compliments regarding my mother, and since I was riled up, I cut him off at the knees with a talk I'd rehearsed on my drive home from Orlando. I was a badass. My favorite line was, "Please don't make me bring her down here to confront you in her wheelchair. You don't want the wrath of (my mother's name). Believe me."

AH immediately called my mother. It didn't help the situation much. The payments weren't made, but by then, my mother was trying to fight to stay healthy and alive, and AH was not a priority. 

When she died, of course, that debt went into the estate. My brother, my aunt, and I went to discuss the debt after the funeral. We could not even get past the receptionist who insisted he was not in the office. Other than waiting around for him to exit after hours, we gave up. We left messages, etc. but never heard from the man. 

My lawyer suggested hiring a PI. I hired myself. I used to be a PI back in my childhood, so I went to work and discovered my mother was one of several people AH owed money to, including the IRS.

My lawyer sent the man a letter asking for payment. He responded by mail, wishing us luck in squeezing juice from a turnip. The company was dissolved and owed thousands and thousands of dollars to the government. 

In any legal form, the government gets its money first, and if there are leftovers after that, then people like my mother receive their payment. We wrote it off as a bad debt to the estate which didn't do us any good and which doesn't absolve the man. He still owes us the money.

Last week I received a junk envelope made out to my husband's name with a JR at the end that had me rolling my eyes. My husband is not a junior. 

It was one of those invitations where a company offers to pay for a delicious meal at a high-end restaurant in exchange for your time in listening to a spiel. Florida does this often, usually with Medicare and/or retirement homes. 

The company was an investment group offering to help me invest in my retirement. In fact, the owner of the company had written an Amazon bestseller on the topic, and attendees would all receive a free copy. 

The name of the company caught my eye as the last name was the same as AH's. I turned over the invitation and read all about the financial representative and his expertise. The blurb came complete with a picture. You guessed it...AH.

The man who scammed my mother is now working at a financial company where he is handling people's retirement money! 

Immediately, my brother and husband signed me up and offered suggestions on how to handle things, what to say, etc. 

• Ask him to sign the book and tell him to make it out to my mother. 
• Stand up and tell him I'd like to invest the amount of money he still owes me. 
• Or tell him how I'd like to be able to retire, but because I don't have the money he owes me, I can't do so.

Those two have a lot of pointers, mind you, yet my brother is unable to handle it himself because he'll be on vacation. My husband swears he is going to go.

My suggestion was to contact our local news team who investigates scams. Daughter number 1 said we needed the Leverage team. 

If you haven't watched that show, do so. It is precisely the group we need, but unfortunately, I don't know how to go about finding such a team. While I have visions of forming one, I'm not the badass I portray in my head. It was one of the things my mother disliked about me, and I guarantee she is scowling from her perch on my china cabinet.

I have a couple of weeks before the dinner. So far, my husband has not RSVP, although he claims he is going to the presentation. 

If anyone has any suggestions, please email me. Better yet, if you want to take the role of Timothy Hutton, I'll pay for your ticket and lodging to FL. Let's form our own Leverage team! I'm a good wingman.

From the purge - what is a thing-a-ma-bob?

In seventh grade English class, we were given the assignment of writing a paragraph answering the question, "What is a thing-a-ma-bob," and we were to draw a picture of it. I don't remember why this was a topic. I only remember coming home and telling my mother the assignment. 

She thought it was stupid. My mother, who was once an English and P.E. teacher, very rarely agreed with us that school assignments were ridiculous, but this one annoyed her. While I was busy writing my paper, she too wrote an essay.

She was very proud of her paper and wanted me to turn it in with my own writing. I refused. 

She told me to do it. 

I argued. 

She pushed. 

I cried. 

She got mad, and as always where my mother was concerned, I caved. I took the paper to school, my stomach churning, and wondered how I would get it to the teacher without her noticing. It turned out much easier than expected. 

The teacher, whose name I do remember, but will refer to her as Mrs. Y, had us read our paper aloud at the front of the room, so I put my mother's essay behind mine so that after I was done reading mine, I laid them both down in the pile. Relieved, home free, I returned to my seat the task accomplished. Unfortunately, it didn't end there.

We had also had to draw a picture, and suddenly Mrs. Y remembered that we had not shown those. Back she went through the papers, reading our names and holding up the pictures. 

When she came to my mother's paper, the name read, "Anonymous." My mother had wanted to put, "What's her name," but vetoed that on the final draft. Mrs. Y asked whose paper this belonged to, and when no one responded, she went nuts. 

She was so mad. She kept reading the paper silently, then threatened the author with all sorts of punishment for using "inappropriate words." I was horrified. I could not come clean in front of the class because I was embarrassed, and the woman was furious. She finally moved on but said that if the author didn't fess up by the end of the school day, he or she would face expulsion. I was scared to death.

I was a shy kid back in the day, and very quiet in school unless around my friends. This whole incident had me so worried I'm lucky I didn't vomit in class. When English ended, I waited for the room to clear out, gathering my belongings slowly, and went up to Mrs. Y. 

I started crying and told her my mother had written the paper, that she was an English teacher and that my mother had thought the assignment funny, and that she made me turn it in as a joke. 

The poor woman had no idea what to do. Now that I'm an adult and have spent time teaching in a classroom as a substitute teacher, I can feel for her, but back then, she was not a favorite. I was shaking and sobbing, and she stood there, probably thinking in her head, "What the hell kind of a mother is this kid's parent?" Outwardly, she gave a fake laugh and told me it was a fine paper.

That should have been the end of things, but that night happened to be our Open House. Of course, my mother was pissed at the teacher's response to her paper. She made my dad go into the classroom, walk up to the teacher, and introduce himself as "Anonymous' husband." 

In Mrs. Y's defense, she did laugh. She laughed and laughed, and when my mother entered the room, she told my mom how much she had enjoyed the paper, and the next day when the document was returned to me, she had written, "I must say, this is most imaginative and descriptive. The vocabulary is "out of this world!" I think this was a clever idea!" 

The vocabulary was all made up, but honestly, what was Mrs. Y suppose to do?

I do have to say that after the incident, Mrs. Y treated me better than she had ever treated me before. A few years later, my mother ran into her at the grocery where she had her newborn baby with her, and when my mother peeked into the stroller, she told Mrs. Y, "She looks just like E.T." 

Thank god I had graduated by that time! (Oh, and I apparently did not keep my own written paragraph on a thing-a-ma-bob)

Here then, is Anonymous' English 7-1 paper written on my birthday in November 1976.

A Thing-a-Ma-Bob

A "thing-a-ma-bob" is a very important part of a wha-cha-ma-call-it. Without it, the stabisat on your framminger will not lucrete. What's-his-name- told me about the time his "thing-a-ma-bob misfractionated and shoofited his do-hikey, leftending him with a prolooped asprite. Mestron accondrys deponate on a "thing-a-ma-bob" a lot. - © C.Mason 1976