“and I ain’t got nobody/I’ve got some money cause I just got paid/Now how I wish I had someone to talk to/I’m in an awful way.” Cat Stevens
I may have identified with this song in high school but not as an adult. I was seldom asked on dates in high school. I don’t know why and couldn’t care now. But, I cared then. It fed my insecurity at that time. It garners a smirk now.
Over the decades I’ve kissed plenty of frogs. None was a prince. Though it could be difficult to sit “on the sidelines” while old friends discussed children and grandchildren, my life was fulfilling without all of that.
Does that mean I have a chip on my shoulder? It’s a small one. I’m happy to be responsible for my own destiny. I worked hard to achieve what I have. While my lifestyle may seem non-traditional in that I’ve never married and have never had children, those are society’s expectations. I’m fine where I am, thanks.
I’ve dated, declined a couple of proposals, had a serious relationship in the past ten years. And here I sit, on a Saturday night, very happily. The football game is on, cookies are in the oven, a good book awaits, and I’m writing. Oh, and I’m humming a song in my head from back in the day.
My mom, who lives in assisted living and is 95, visits here on Sundays. The cookies are for her. As I mixed them, the recipe in my memory since my youth, it brought me back to many Saturday nights during the early years of high school when I often baked cookies on a Saturday night. And read. And watched tv. I don’t tape record songs from AM radio anymore though.
Oh yeah, have I told you I wrote a book?
Bar cookiesHigh school! Happily cropped my date out of the picture.
Throughout our lives we have become accustomed to familiar pairs of items and/or concepts. Things like peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper, macaroni and cheese, bacon and eggs, Bonnie and Clyde, etc. We simply accept them because we understand their meanings. One term, the combination of bitter and sweet is a bit more difficult to comprehend.
I’ve come to understand the term ‘bittersweet’ as that combination of happiness along with sadness. They may seem incongruous, but they are very much intertwined. It’s explained well in the following passage from Nathaniel Hawthorne:
“And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising out of a grassy and weed-grown cellar?”
At a simple level, it’s that mixture of feeling happy along with a feeling of loss or regret. Similar to Nick Carraway’s advice to Gatsby that Gatsby would never be able to recreate his past. The age-old advice, “you can’t go home again,” isn’t meant literally. Physically you can return to the places of your past, but they will never spawn the same feelings you had in a previous part of your life.
Why am I talking about this again? I suppose because my mind works in ways that might be different from others. I really don’t know. But as to the concept of bitter and sweet, I find it tough to handle. It’s like an adrenaline rush that doesn’t last. Sort of like the anticipation of an important day, and then it arrives and is over in a flash.
For me it’s also a book from a favorite author that finally is in print and I devour it in two days. It’s gone and there will be a long time until the next. I feel empty. I had the sweetness of the words and the bitterness of nothing more when it’s done.
Case in point. I’ve been working for several years to write a book. I conducted interviews, did loads of intense research, and pored over the materials I could find. I searched for relevant photographs. Then came the process of organizing and planning the format of the book. Writing ensued. More research was conducted at various stages. Photos were inserted throughout the book. A bibliography was created along with a list of all of the folks with whom I spoke.
The materials fill a 3” binder and then some. My work represents my heart and soul. Though it grew to be 30,000 words and 150 photographs, it all fit on a flash drive no bigger than my thumb. I had a hard time letting go of that flash drive when I turned it in to the publisher recently.
Call it trepidation, call it perfectionism, call it bittersweet. My adventure to create a book is over. Will it be good enough? Will readers find it interesting? Will I be happy with it? Will I find a way to fill the void?
Bittersweet. The feeling of turning the product of my heart and soul over to someone else. The chase is over. But the investment of myself in the project is immeasurable. I’m fully aware that I was unable to cover all of the areas of my subject matter. It was difficult to have to decide to push things aside and hope that someone else will do that work.
Bittersweet. It’s the flutter and flip of the stomach while anticipating that long awaited date. If the date went well, it’s the reality that it will never be recaptured in the same way.
Bittersweet. It’s feeling the wonder and awe of something well done, all the while knowing it can never happen again in the same way.
Because I’m an individual who feels very deeply, this may seem a bit sad and/or gloomy. In all honesty I feel that bittersweet events, feelings, experiences, allow us to open ourselves to others that will occur in our lives. It’s transitional. We learn to enjoy and let go of each experience, thus to allow us the ability to embrace those yet to come.
“So let’s sink another drink/And it’ll give me time to think/If I had the chance, I’d ask the world to dance/And I’d be dancing with myself…”
These lyrics by Billy Idol speak about that feeling of being lonely in a crowd. It’s a good way to describe the feeling of a bittersweet moment. You’re empty, unable to connect, but it doesn’t last.
Bittersweet vine-pretty but invasive and somewhat toxic.
This is a snippet from the lyrics of a song by the same name written by Dave Mason. It dates back to the 70s, an important time period in my development. It invokes a few thoughts for me and I have a feeling my writing will take shape as I think, rather than what I’ve already formed in my mind.
As is the case with many, I’ve been through many different things in my life. My life has tested me in ways I never dreamed possible. But you know what? It’s ok. My challenges have shaped me into the imperfect person I am today. Those same challenges have also gifted me the insight to recognize trauma in others. Others aren’t always happy about that.
Even when I was 15 and began teaching tennis as a part-time job, I frequently ended up teaching the “difficult” kids. You know them. They stand out by way of negative attention. The trauma of witnessing domestic violence as I grew up evolved into a gift. It allows me to see the discomfort and pain in others. And it moves me to want to help ease that pain.
No one knew, and few would guess now, what I experienced. It’s taken decades for me to recognize the PTSD signs that emerge when voices are raised, when I see someone imbibing far too much, when I see a hand raised in anger, and so many more scenarios. But it has allowed me to “stay and play” rather than run and hide.
It’s had its negative impacts, believe me. I doubt I’d be obese if I hadn’t turned to food to cope. It’s better than drugs I suppose, but being obese brings many other issues to the table. It’s a cause to sustain more abuse by way of being shunned, being looked at as lazy and worthless, being told innumerable times to “have some self control” or to “get hold of yourself.” Do you really think I enjoy looking and feeling the way I do?
I look back at my teenaged self and I wish I’d had a teacher, like I was, who would have talked to me and guided me. I wish my guidance counselor would have taken an active role. But, the reality is I probably wouldn’t have listened. In those days you kept your mouth shut and didn’t talk about troubles. How did that work out?
Please keep an open mind. If someone like me asks you questions and suggests you might want to talk to someone, don’t take offense. My intentions are good, they come from my heart. I care and recognize you live with pain that could be helped. Don’t go on the defensive and feel you’re being disrespected. It means someone cares about you.
“When your day is long/And the night, the night is yours alone/ When you’re sure you’ve had enough/Of this life, well hang on…”. R.E.M. “Everybody Hurts”
Normal weight – age 15Decades and many pounds later
I enjoy the holiday season as much as anyone else. And I have as many mixed memories as most do of holidays past. It seems there’s a mix of good, bad, and ugly.
I think I might have been in sixth grade the year of the ping pong debacle. It was Christmas Day and we were hosting my grandmother, my uncle, and our aunt Agnes. My brother would have been in tenth grade. My grandmother was in her early 80’s but was never very ambulatory due to arthritis. Agnes was of indeterminate age due to (add a knowing nod and wink) her relationship with “the drink.” In reality she was only about 70, but was an old 70. She was a small, slight woman with bird-like facial features…sharp and bright. And she carried a cane.
Long story short…I was playing ping pong in the basement with my uncle. My uncle Bill was a fabulous man, good and kind, but he was not blessed with coordination. He bent down to retrieve the ball and, upon standing, rammed his head into 4×4 post. Head injuries bleed…a lot. I ran to the utility sink and wet a washcloth I found on top of the dryer. I slapped it on his head and ran up the stairs to tell my mother.
My mother had to take him to the hospital. My brother and I were left in charge of nana and aunt Agnes. Agnes was a tad confused about what was happening and didn’t like that my uncle was leaving. As my brother restrained Agnes, she began hitting him with her cane. My brother picked Agnes up and carried her back to her seat. We settled her down with a generous helping of “enriched” egg nog.
Meanwhile, at the emergency room, my mother was giving my uncle’s info to the triage nurse. The nurse’s mouth dropped open as she said to my mother, “his name is Kringle? Are you kidding?” My mother explained that his name was Pringle and the nurse looked relieved.
It turned out okay though my uncle received stitches and had a concussion. Merry Christmas.
A few decades later I began a tradition of holiday cookie parties for my fellow teachers in the English department. In my small carriage-house apartment, thirteen of us squeezed around the decorated tree and munched cookies and chocolates along with coffee, cocoa, and soda. A blissful hour or so after school to relax. I’d always done quite a bit of baking around the holidays.
As my residences grew in size, so did the parties. They began to include platters of various sizes…crackers and cheese, veggies and dip, and shrimp. At first I made them myself but quickly learned to order them. There were still cookies, fudge, and chocolates. I’d invested in a coffee urn at Kmart. That was a smart purchase.
I loved watching everyone have fun though I never had a chance to have much fun. It was my gift to them and the reward was their company and enjoyment. No sooner were people arriving and I’d turn around to find they’d all gone home. But there were always a few kind stragglers who would hang around and help clean up.
One of the best pre-party preps was the Sunday afternoon before the party when my friend Tracy would come over and we’d decorate the cut cookies I’d already baked. Neither of us was particularly creative nor were we skilled decorators. We were just goofy people who had fun and lots of laughs while inexpertly decorating cookies. Tracy’s gone now, almost eight years. I miss her a great deal, especially during this time of year.
On a funny note, over the years I discovered that people did indeed snoop through my stuff…bathroom medicine cabinet, crawl spaces, dresser drawers, etc. Determined to provide a meaningful experience, I purchased some condoms and stocked the medicine cabinet. In one crawl space, I tied a stuffed elf to the light cord by its neck and attached a sign that read, “I’m on the naughty list.” In various dresser drawers I left notes. Never had that problem again!
Oh, there was also a year when one of my friends changed the Christmas music I was playing because she didn’t like it.
The last gathering was at least ten years ago. It got to be too much. The last party had upwards of fifty people. People came and went so there was always room. I do miss it, though.
What is that? I haven’t cracked myself up for awhile. I did today. Now I’m not the greatest housekeeper but I keep the important things clean. It’s not that my mother, aka Mrs. Clean, didn’t instill household cleanliness in my soul. She was the epitome of keeping a clean house.
I, on the other hand, had weekly meltdowns in my bedroom as a kid because I couldn’t leave the house on Saturday unless my room was clean. I can remember sitting on the floor glaring at the old canister vacuum cleaner and crying. That’s how much I hated cleaning. I was also eight years old.
Fast forward to my young teenage years where I developed an odd love/hate relationship with one of the neighbors. A widow lived next door. She wasn’t any ordinary widow. She drove an original aqua-colored Mustang, wintered in Florida, and rented bedrooms in her house to businessmen who worked in the area but didn’t live here.
She was a little hard of hearing and never called me by my correct name. And, of course, the manner in which she said it was highly imitable to cheeky pre-teens. Her voice was gruff and she had a tendency to curl her lip when she was speaking. She’d holler, “Beth Ann!” This summons was directly followed with a snort. It was hard to keep a straight face.
What has this to do with mirrors you may be asking? Be patient. At various times, I was hired to mow her lawn which was good-sized. I never minded mowing but tended to trot as I mowed. She complained to my mother that I ran with the mower and the grass was jagged. Ok, I slowed down. Then the grass was too long. I adjusted the mower and then it was too short. Then I was fired…three different times.
One winter I was asked to do the weekly cleaning at her house while she was in Florida. Her roomers went home for the weekends so I could clean on Saturdays. As much as I despised cleaning, the $10 weekly looked good. I was very conscious to do a good job.
Well, she arrived back in town at the end of the winter and my mother was summoned next door. The lady was outraged. She led my mother to the bathroom where she pointed in horror. My mother didn’t see anything and questioned her. She jabbed her finger at the mirror. “There are spots! Toothpaste spots! Beth Ann didn’t clean the mirror.”
My mom, even with her high standards, was my mom. She laughed. “She’s fourteen years old and was very responsible about coming every week and cleaning. Is this the only problem?” The woman nodded. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t meet your expectations. I’m sure you’ll find someone better for next year. And her name is Beth, not Beth Ann.”
My mother returned to our house. Expecting to be chastised for something, I was taken aback as my mother began to laugh. She relayed the story to me and we had quite a chuckle as I punctuated the story with an imitation of the woman saying my name. My mother looked at me and said, “I bet you’ll never forget to clean the bathroom mirror again.”
Fast forward fifty years, give or take. As I was electrically brushing my teeth this morning, I happened to glance into the mirror. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as I finished brushing and rinsing I headed to the kitchen. There I grabbed paper towels and the Windex. As always, my mom was right.
There is a ritual to it. As I’m spraying the Windex, I glare into the mirror and say, “Beth Ann.” Then I laugh like a crazy person as I wipe away the memory.
P.S. if you’re keeping score at home, my middle name is Ellen.
I’m one of those people who enjoys the old-fashioned memories from days gone by. My grandparents were always just a bit older than those of my peers, especially my maternal grandmother. My nana Pringle was born in 1888 and didn’t get married until 1926.
She was a lady through and through. She grew up in New Haven, CT, and retained her New England accent as evidenced by the dropping of her r’s in conversation. Due to being married in the 1920s, she received lots of lovely wedding gifts.
I’m fortunate to have some of her things, including her China. And now, since my mom lives in assisted living I also have hers as well. I like my mom’s, but I love my grandmother’s. Sometimes I take it out and use a piece or two just to feel her near me. It works for me.
Stories swirl around these dishes. So many weekly dinners that my mother and uncle talked about as they aged. So many special dinners for me attached to my mom’s dishes.
One thing I always notice is the size of the plates and bowls in comparison to dishes and flatware we use today. Theirs were smaller. The soup bowl I used tonight was so much smaller than the gigantic bowls of today. Even the bowl of the soup spoon was smaller.
My grandmother’s dishes are almost 100 years old. While they ate those rich weekly dinners, they likely didn’t consume as much due to the sizes of the physical dishes. Plus they walked a great deal more than we do today. They also weren’t in a hurry and lingered over their food instead of bolting it down.
Tonight I had dinner with my nana, my mom, and an old friend at whose estate sale I bought some linen napkins. It cheered me to share time with them and it lifted my mood. Part of me understands why people don’t want to keep and care for these things. Most of me enjoys having them, using them, and remembering the long ago.
Haven’t had time to visit the cabin in my head because my writing has taken over most of the space up there in my noggin. So many words and ideas are swirling in my head that sleep is elusive in the traditional sense. Sleeping at night is not my most successful activity. Napping has become my method of sustaining sanity.
Luckily, napping is somewhat of a superpower for me. I’ve been a champion napper since birth and am also pleasant upon awakening. I was so good early on that I was selected the permanent nap fairy in kindergarten and wielded the magic wand each day to wake the students.
I was a busy, active kid. Napping restored my energy. It was soon to become a defense mechanism for me. After a serious car accident when I was in the third grade, I was fearful of riding in the car. I learned to fall asleep while riding in the car in order to get past my fear. This behavior lasted many years and took a lot of effort to overcome my fear.
My method of writing entails a great deal of thought beforehand. I do my research to learn the fundamentals of what I want to write. After mulling it over for many days, I write a rough draft. Depending what type of writing I’m doing, research may be an ongoing activity. I enjoy learning and there is so much available at my fingertips thanks to the Internet.
Right now I’m involved in editing and revision. And I’m stuck on one area in the final chapter. It will unravel itself with some help, but today isn’t that day. I’ve sat in front of the computer three different times today. I’ve looked at text of the chapter, the editor’s comments, my notes, the caption list for the photos, and the photos themselves. Finally I realized I need to rewrite one lengthy paragraph. Then I can move the pictures around to match the text and then put the captions in order.
Easy enough, right? Why isn’t it done? Well, I’m rewriting that paragraph in my head. In a few hours I should be able to sit down and write the paragraph so it makes more sense and more accurately presents information as I intended. As for rearranging photos and captions, that will have to wait until tomorrow when my mind is clearer.
My writing process might be simply compared to assembling a recipe. I assemble the basic ingredients, and add and subtract additional ingredients, and cook it very slowly until there’s a finished product. I write in bursts. When I’ve braised all of the ingredients for a lengthy time, many of the thoughts are then transferred to paper. That’s right, I write longhand first. Typing it allows me to edit and rewrite the draft.
It works for me. It may not be your style. If there’s anything I’ve learned about writing, it’s that there is no one correct method for doing it. It took me many years to find what works for me. Maybe it will change at some point. For now, it works even if it means sacrificing some sound sleep. After all, I know I can always nap.
“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” F. Scott Fitzgerald
I’m sure you had some of these in your family. My mom always wanted to put her best foot forward, so there were set procedures in place for holiday foods, table setting etc. More on that in a moment.
Early on, my mom packed my lunch for school. I was never surprised by my sandwiches though some other kids were. For some reason my mom would go through a cream cheese phase from time to time. Neither my brother nor I were fussy eaters so she had some fun.
Cream cheese and jelly was a nice break from traditional pb&j though I enjoyed pb&j especially if it contained grape jelly. Cream cheese and olives was another favorite. I can remember watching my mom spoon a little of the olive brine over the cream cheese to soften it up a bit. The most unusual cream cheese sandwich offering was when she mixed chopped walnuts with the cream cheese, then sprinkled a little cinnamon-sugar mix on top.
I’ve always been the type of eater who likes odd combinations. On the subject of cream cheese, blobs of cream cheese would appear in our soup when we were kids. We had this set of small plastic trays that fit a sandwich and had an area for a bowl or glass. My mom would often use that spot to place one of the white petal-shaped bowls she used to serve soup (Campbell’s mostly). Any of the following soups could be served with a tablespoon of cream cheese floating in it: tomato, pea, squash. As it melted, the soup became a little creamier and savory tasting. Happy memories.
Back to other traditions…when we were an intact family of four, Thanksgiving usually included my father’s parents. The extra leaf would be added to the dining room table and the crinkling of plastic indicated the good tablecloth was being unpackaged from its trip to the dry cleaner.
My most important job prior to holiday dinners was to polish the silver. Forks were the most difficult to do because of the tines. We used salad, dinner, and dessert forks. Lots of forks. Lots of polishing. Lots of grumbling.
I set the table with care. Thanks to our World Book Encyclopedia, I’d looked up how to set the table properly. I was five. What was my problem? Nothing. I loved to read the encyclopedia. I knew where certain dishes went, blah, blah, blah. Add to it that I was a left-handed kid in a right-handed world and had to visualize it in the opposite way in my head. The electric knife rested at my father’s seat for when he carved the turkey. Dessert plates and forks were stacked neatly along with fresh spoons for coffee.
I enjoyed those traditions, no matter how much I complained about polishing the silver. I trot out the china and silver on occasion. Polishing the silver is still a despised chore. But I like tradition and history and the warmth of the memories.
“Love when you can/Cry when you have to/Be who you must/That’s a part of the plan…” Dan Fogelberg
Partially submerged cream cheeseLotus bowls, we called them petal bowls. A 60 s fixture.I’m craving a cream cheese and olive sandwich.We didn’t have room on the table for #’s 2 &3.
I often chuckle as I pass beverage centers or the beer aisle in the grocery store. My thought, “now that I’m long ago of age, I don’t drink anymore.” Seems that’s the way of things.
Beer was my drink of choice from the time I was far too young to be thinking about it. I drank my fair share of yucky beer during high school: Pabst, Schaefer, Utica Club, Rheingold, whatever was in a dad’s stash. Those were the days when you split two cans amongst 5 or 6 peers…or so I’m told…:::wink:::.
By senior year of high school, where due to my November birthday, I remained 17 years of age, my tastes had upgraded to Michelob and Molson Golden. As I matured, I grew to appreciate better tasting beer. And I made sure to try many varieties. I discovered weissbier, a heavily wheat-influenced beer. And I discovered dark beer which I enjoyed on occasion. I will admit that I’m not a huge fan of ale or pale ale, all the rage lately, but once in a great while, an icy Smithwick’s goes down a treat.
I’m much more of a Pilsner or lager fan. But now that I seldom imbibe, what difference does it make? My twenties, which coincided with the decade of the 1980s, was a beer-soaked mess of a decade. Early in that decade, my mental health issues were diagnosed. I continued self-medicating until I woke up one morning in the late summer of 1987 and resolved to stop. And I did.
Alcohol never impacted my ability to attend school or work. My tolerance was pretty high and I wasn’t one to have horrible hangovers. I didn’t consume alcohol on a daily basis. But when I did, I consumed a great deal. I liked it and it liked me.
Instead of binge-drinking, I became a binge-eater I’m afraid. I gained a tremendous amount of weight and have struggled with it since. Most of the reason I don’t imbibe is that I don’t need to nor do I really want to. I was never a wine drinker as it made my face feel on fire and gave me a terrible headache. I did enjoy bourbon and scotch on occasion, and drambuie. Can we say Rusty Nail?
I liked my drinks ice cold. I mean, ice cold. A trip to the drive-in meant bringing a can of my favorite beer at the time, a mini keg of Dinkel Acker. I shared but not a lot. I miss the beer-drinking life at times but not enough to revisit it. I’ve got enough problems, haha.
A nice lager I’ve tried within the last several years is brewed by Innis & Gunn, a Scottish-based brewery. If you say the name fast it sounds like “innocent gun” which appeals to the mystery writer in me. So, when, and if, you tip a cold one, smile and think of me!
A nice can of beer and made a great lamp base when empty!With a slice of lemon, pure heaven!Innocent gun?
It’s imprecise. While tangible, it’s slightly out of reach. I’m talking about measurements for cooking. In my mind, people have a feel for cooking/baking or they don’t. Those who don’t dutifully follow recipes to the letter. They don’t “feel” the food. I dare say they eat to live.
I fall into the category of being able to feel the food. As I’m cooking, I can create taste sensations through thought and then create them in the cooking. I do measure when I use recipes but a teaspoon may become a pinch, a 1/4 teaspoon may become a dash…do you follow me? Inclusion of imprecise terminology really confuses the dutiful recipe followers.
I brought some homemade butternut squash soup to school one day for lunch when I was still teaching. One of my colleagues was fascinated by it and wanted to know the recipe. I shrugged and said I didn’t follow a recipe, I just put it together. The colleague wanted to know how I knew what to put in it. I said I’d roasted a butternut squash on a cookie sheet in the oven along with some quartered onions. Then I threw those in a stock pot along with some chicken broth and seasonings and pulverized everything with an immersion blender.
Oh my. The questions rained down upon me and my soup became cold. I tried to explain that I don’t make the soup the same each time. I wanted it savory this time so only included sage and thyme along with salt and pepper. What do you mean by savory? How could it be sweet? Well, I would have roasted some apples along with the squash.
Apples? What kind of apples? How many? I told her I’d use whatever I had on hand. And I’d add some cinnamon, maybe nutmeg, maybe a little brown sugar, honey or maple syrup. Yeah, but how much? A pinch here and there, a splash of anything liquid. It’s important to taste as you go along.
But what if you ruin it? It usually can be saved with the addition of some other ingredients. I thought her head would explode at this thought. I’ve been cooking/baking since I was a kid. I have a feel for it though I’m no gourmet cook nor am I a foodie. I just like flavor.
By this time I’d heated the soup once again and rummaged through the nasty faculty room fridge until I found a specific item which I started adding to my soup. “What are you doing now,” she exclaimed. I told her I wanted some Worcestershire in it. Why? I could only shrug. It was not the time to tell her I was craving an umami flavor.
Savory with croutons and chivesSavory with Pepitas and thyme
Stories Are For Eternity 