The Martin Boys

Yesterday, I received an email from my cousin telling me the last of my mother’s surviving brothers are gravely ill. My uncle Joe, Charlie, and Cliff are three of seven brothers in my mom’s family. She was the eldest, then came Earl, who we called Abe, Howard, called Fat, Herbert, called Hub, Robert, called Rob, Charles, called Charlie, Clifford, called Cliff, and Joseph, called Joe. Following all those brothers was my mother’s only sister, Matilda, called Til or Tillie. They never went by their given names, not even my mother. Her name was Hildegard, but understandably, she was always called Hilda. Only my grandmother used their real names. When she started to call for one of them because he was in trouble, she would always go through all seven names before she hit on the one she wanted. Of course, the guilty boy would not own up until she said his name.

When the Martin boys got together they all talked at the top of their voices and all at the same time. They loved eating, drinking, and having fun. They particularly liked my mom’s fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits. They all proclaimed she was the best cook in the county, stuffing down biscuits until they nearly popped. They cussed and told dirty jokes, smoked like chimneys, brawled and landed in jail more often than I should reveal here.

All but one of them served in the army during WWII. Fortunately, they all came home and none was wounded, at least not physically. All but one got married during the late ‘40s. I recall their wedding photos were all similar, consisting of the brothers; the only difference being the bride, and which brother was the groom.

They all lived in Ohio within 25 miles of each other. They worked at the Gulf Refinery, for the county, or farmed for a living. When the first one died, my mother said, “The circle (of her siblings) has been broken.” Slowly, they began to pass away of cancer caused by cigarette smoking or asbestos exposure at the refinery or other hazards of living. Now, the last three are all battling cancer as well, with only weeks to live.

It is hard to think of them all eventually being gone, leaving behind their baby sister who is nearing eighty. They were good old boys in the best meaning of the phrase. I wasn’t around them much after I grew up. I left Ohio when I was twenty, but I hope they knew how much I loved them.

Dabby's Rose Bush

Several years ago, my hairdresser moved to a house that had a gazillion old, well established rose bushes. When she inexplicably decided to get rid of most of them, she invited all her friends and clientele to come and dig up anything they wanted. I was there in a heartbeat. I dug up four rose bushes before I exhausted myself, one of which turned out to be the rose bush that enveloped and smothered Turlock.

Other than climbing, I don’t know what variety it is, but it has white blooms similar to the one in the photo. I planted it along the side of our house where it climbs onto the inner courtyard fence. The rose bush currently stretches across about 20 feet of the fence. If we did not have it trimmed every week, it would literally grow up over the roof of the house, across to the neighbors, down the street, eventually growing out to the highway where motorists would need James Bond type machetes on their cars to clear a path around town. Unfortunately, the trimming inhibits blooming, but the bush has become a very effective shield from the street on that side of the house.

It is a great refuge for small birds, so I put a feeder in it to encourage them to visit. The window that looks out onto the bush is my kitty‘s favorite place to watch them. Every morning, not even letting me get a cup of coffee, Teddy yells and carries on until I follow him into the room and open the blinds so he can begin his vigil. He gets up on the windowsill and yeows at the top of his lungs. I tell him to use his indoor meow, so he doesn’t scare the birds away. He won’t listen to me though; he has to tell those birds a thing or two. The rose bush has little openings where the birds can peer through at Teddy, thumbing their beaks at him because they know he is strictly an indoor cat. They do tweet a little different tune when the weather is warm enough to open the windows. Then they are a little more polite when he appears, not quite trusting the screens to hold back that ferocious tabby.

I am very proud of my town-devouring rose bush. Being from Ohio, where growing roses requires way too much effort, it is amazing to me that roses flourish like weeds here. I have roses all around my house, something I never imagined I could have. All they need is water and lots of sun and they bloom right through to Christmas. I will always marvel at that.

If you ever drive through the Central Valley of California, down Highway 99, be sure to bring your machete.

Purses, Bags, and Totes, Oh My…

I love purses and own more than I care to confess here. The last few years I have tended to buy the “organizer” type bags. Organizer bags don’t require a wallet for credit cards and money. They have several slots for credit cards, zippered pockets for change, a pocket for a cell phone, and other sections for makeup, a small notebook and calendar. I carry hand sanitizer, baby wipes, and Kleenex in the most accessible pocket, things I need to get to quickly for the grandkids. The other compartments and pockets hold lipstick, mirror, aspirin in case I start to have a heart attack, toothpicks, travel size toothpaste and brush, nail clippers, sunglasses, and pens. Yeah, I was a girl scout, learned to be prepared.

My four year-old granddaughter loves to dig through my purse. First, she goes for my cell phone and makes several international calls before I notice. She also changes settings and erases contacts, but that’s usually for the best. She then takes a piece of my “mean” gum. It is mean because it is very strong peppermint, which she doesn’t like and spits out in my hand immediately. In fact, the first time she tried it, she cried. I can never convince her it is not the sweet gum she likes.

Next, she tries on my lipstick, insists on applying it herself. (Ah, just a little crooked, honey.) She makes notes on my calendar, little scribbles on every page, jots things on my grocery list, and tries my lip-gloss, which is really just a little container of Mentholatum, which she does like. Finally, she gets to the little surprise I try to keep in my purse for her. A couple Hershey kisses or special dark chocolate miniatures, which ruins her dinner. Grammie is a hopeless spoiler, but it is amazing how just one little piece of candy can fill her up so she won’t eat the delicious meal her momma makes.

I bought a new bag yesterday and have been arranging and rearranging all my stuff in it. I haven’t taken it out shopping yet; that will be the test of how I ultimately like it. Since I am instilling in my granddaughter the love of purses, I can’t wait for her to check this new one out. And, the first thing I will buy while carrying this new bag will be candy for the “little surprise in Grammie’s purse.”

Grandson Nick's First Solid Food

Someday, Nick will probably really be mad at his Grammie for posting this, but these photos are so cute, I can't help myself. He quickly mastered eating solid food and started feeding himself soon after these pictures were taken. I can hardly believe that he will be 5 years old next month and starting kindergarten this fall. Nick won't be the only one embarrassed. Now that we have a new cousin, baby Jack, I'm sure Grammie will be posting embarrassing photos of him too. Now, where is that photo of Kaylie eating yogurt for the first time...?

Click on the image to read the captions.

Tabby Teddy Bear

I recently reconnected with a friend on Facebook who said I should write about my kitty, Teddy. It came about because I said since I’m retired I have no boss. She said she thought Teddy was my boss. I have to admit that is true.

We got Teddy when he was trapped at Cal State University, Stanislaus by the Campus Cat Coalition. He was brought to our house in a huge cage. We might have thought we had rescued him, but he thought different. The hissing and growling and snarling that came out of that teeny three-month-old cat were unnerving. After a few days in the cage and our continued talking to him, and more importantly, feeding him he started to calm down. That was three years ago and he is now a very loving and cuddly boy.

He still gets a little crazed though. He sometimes gets into fights with his own tail when he is up on his perch. When his tail gets the better of him he jumps down and tears through the house bouncing off the walls. He makes me a little afraid. My hubby says cats just have bad tail days. In the process of these tail fights he would often knock over his perch scaring the daylights out of me. We finally bolted it to the floor. Teddy doesn’t like that much. He liked knocking it over, getting an adrenalin rush when he would barely get out of the way when it fell.

Teddy doesn’t get much people food, but he does like his coffee. Every morning I have to watch him closely because he will sneak sips of my coffee by dipping his paw into my cup. He does the same with cola and tea. I may have allowed him to become a caffeine addict. Could explain the tail fights. I also get to share yogurt with him. His favorite is vanilla, which he could eat a gallon of if I would let him. One morning when I was eating cereal he very politely asked if he could have a taste. He daintily took a little bite then stomped off telling me I should eat something more nutritious than Frosted Flakes. He also added we should switch to Starbucks.

Teddy is strictly an indoor cat. However, we took him outside one day after we had put down new sod. When he got into the grass he was horrified by the feel of it, lifting his paws way up high trying to avoid touching it. He went streaking back into the house and started to bathe. He licked his paws, then his tummy, then back to his paws, then his face. He didn’t know what to wash first that yucky grass was so stinky. Of course, that was all done after he rolled in the mud.

Teddy sleeps with me, starting out curled up under my chin. He started doing that when he was little and sees no reason why it would be uncomfortable for me now that he is grown. After I start snoring he moves down to sleep on my feet. When he hears the coffee pot start up in the morning he starts tromping all over me to get me up. “I want my coffee, mommie!”

When I recently had surgery on my foot and had to stay in bed for a few days, Teddy decided it was his job to make sure I did. He wedged himself full length along my bad leg with one paw on my bandaged foot. He would meow very sternly if I moved around too much. He barely left my room while I was recuperating. He had to make sure my hubby was taking good care of me.

When he decides I have been on the computer long enough, he jumps up on my desk and sprawls out over all my papers and books, ever so slowly nudging things off onto the floor. Stop it, Teddy, now look what you’ve done. You are going to break that lamp! No, don’t tear up my calendar. Don’t eat tape, your insides will stick together.

OK, I guess I’d better get of this com…

OK, I had to reboot after Teddy hit cont+alt+delete.

Romance Novels

The subject on my mind tonight is how to choose a romance novel that isn't just a sexed up bodice ripper. Now, I want some sex, but not on every page. I don't want to read over and over how the skin on the heroine's heaving bosom is flawless ivory and how beautiful and irresistible she is. I don't want it repeated over and over how dangerously handsome and aloof her lover is. Reminds me of the Eagle's song, "Life in the Fast Lane," which has a line that goes, "he was a hard-headed man, he was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty.” Some of that sort of description is acceptable, but I want to know specifically why at the Hotel California you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. I like historical novels like "Follow the River." Or, stories about China and Japan like "Memoirs of a Geisha." I want to read about how the people lived, what they ate, and how they cooked it. I like descriptions of their clothing and house furnishings and their jealousies and treachery. I know I just haven't hit on the correct search parameters, so if anyone can help me with that, I would appreciate it.

One Year Later

Well, today marks the one-year anniversary of my retirement. I set only one goal to accomplish and that was to do absolutely nothing when I quit work. I've pretty much done that and I'm still not bored. It has been so nice not to have to get up in the morning unless I want to. I can stay up as late as I want and not worry about being unable to get up the next morning. I know these are simple things, but after 50 years of working they are luxuries I am so grateful for.

Actually, I should define "do absolutely nothing" as not having anything on my agenda that I MUST do. I have done a lot of reading. I've sewn several outfits for my beautiful little granddaughter. I've learned some new crafts and jewelry-making techniques. I have a mini bird sanctuary in my back yard where I feed crows, doves, and finches. I've had a few little dinner parties for friends when I was able to practice the art of tablescaping. I tried to start an herb garden, but I'm not much of a green thumb. So, I've learned to let whatever volunteers to grow in my yard to stay, weeds or not.

There is one thing coming up that I must do and that is to have surgery on my foot. I have a bone spur on my heel that has been causing a lot of pain and is making me limp. So, even though this is something I have to do, I'm hoping when it is over I will be pain free and can walk properly again. I'm not too apprehensive about the surgery, but I am about having a cast for six to eight weeks and being in a wheel chair. The doc asked me how old I am. When I told him he said, "Nope, not putting you in crutches, you get a wheelchair. " Hmmmppff. One more person indicating I'm old. My husband, the car guy, is already talking about lowering my wheelchair, putting fat tires on it, and painting on some racing stripes. You know, so I can autocross it. So, if you hear of a Seniors Scooter Club in the Turlock area, let me know.