The Grandma Factor

Every Sunday we would drive about 45 miles into the hills of Missouri arriving at my grandparents house. There was nothing fancy about their place but to this day I can tell you the exact floor plan and cite experiences in each room; the screened in porch, the tire swing hanging from the cedar tree, the cattle, swinging from a rope in that huge barn and fishing for perch with my very own cane pole. This was where I had the happiest days of my childhood. My country Grandma, after whom I'm named, was a pinch and stir cook. Every Sunday we stuffed ourselves with homegrown potatoes made into mashed potatoes liberally seasoned with fresh cream and butter and homemade yeast rolls. There was also fried chicken from the chickens she had raised, and chicken and homemade dumplings that we always ladled into the cratered mashed potatoes. We had fresh sliced tomatoes, homegrown greenbeans and corn on the cob, all from Grandma's garden. For dessert we always had cobbler or cake, something she had just whipped up especially for us kids. There were no limits on the amount of food we would pile on our plates. We would always happily eat ourselves into oblivion.

My city grandmother, Mema, was a quiet woman who lived in a two bedroom house with a man I now realize she did not love. I think she was a very sad woman. She was a nurse and that's about all I know about her. When we ate meals there they were mainly vegetables with very little seasoning, no bread, with a bowl of fruit if you wanted dessert. We did on occasion get to enjoy a bottle of Grapette pop which was a real treat.

Here's the epiphany: It slammed into my brain today that my eating habits were formed mainly from eating at Grandma's house. Since my mother was her daughter she also cooked and served similar meals. There was never a salad on the table, no one even knew about portions, and we stuffed our faces until we couldn't eat any more. Thinking back about Mema's table and the food she served, hers was most likely the more healthy of the two. And I'm just now learning that at age 60.

It's All About Choices

In my own quiet way I've managed to live my life on the edge. Not in the typical ways you would think but in an area that I devoted my life to exploiting. Let me quickly explain here so my kids don't freak out; it wasn't sex, alcohol, shopping or shoes. It's food. To those of you who happen to read this blog, take heed. I wish I had.

I met with my doctor last week. We reviewed the results of my blood test and he indicated warning areas. Yay, Yay, Yay I already know my cholesterol is somewhat high, my blood pressure is prehypertensive and sodium is out of whack. So what. I'll just cut back on those obvious things, pop, chips, fast foods (I LOVE fast foods). The doctor didn't even make any suggestions. Maybe he knew that I wouldn't do anything about these issues anyway. Then we get to the bottom of the page and he glosses over an area and says I have 'mild kidney disease'. WHAT! How'd that happen? I try to be a good person. Nothing like that in my family that I know of. I'm stunned. The doctor gets up and walks out of the room. My attitude is cavalier which is typical if I see the results of the blood tests. So what, I say. So what. And I'm thinking of what foods I can comfort myself with as I leave the clinic.

Late last night the results of the blood test began to haunt me so I drag out my copy and reread everything. Then I reach the bottom of the page and I grow a huge knot in my stomach. The doctor misread the report. It says instead 'moderate kidney disease'. I'm petrified. I pray but am so restless I can't reach Amen. So I get dressed and armed with a flashlight and a can of Mace I head down the street. It was calming and soothing and I was able to talk to God. After I reached home I had calmed down and even slept.

This situation demands research so I get on the computer and begin putting some facts together. Moderate ain't a good thing but it can be treated with (you'll never guess!) diet!!!!! Low protein, high veggies, no sugar, whole grain bread only, beans, etc. You know, Healthy! This is definitely comforting to know. I also found out something else that greatly eases my mind. The name of a new doctor.

My Aversion/Diversion Diet

Sitting here
All alone
Been to the doctor
Sugar's gone.

No more donuts
crullers are out
just thinking 'bout it
makes me pout.

Cut back portions
Eat less red meat
Pretty soon
I should look neat.

Like all those salads?
I really do not
When it's salads or air
. . . . . . . .

Okay it's not really much of a choice but maybe I can cut up a boiled egg to go with some crumbled bacon to top my salad. Lots of Ranch dressing, just today and those yummy garlic croutons and walnuts would be nice. Oh yes, and a slice of 5-cheese Texas Toast. Just for today you understand. And a bowl of hot apple crisp that I made for the kids topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. Think I'll have a mocha, mocha latte too. . . . . . . .

And that's how I got off my last diet.

Back In The 2nd Grade Again

There was an announcement from the church pulpit asking for classroom monitors during testing at Fowler Grade School. I signed up and some time later I received a phone call. The woman sounded vaguely surprised that anyone would have volunteered for this project. Anyway, the morning arrived and I signed in for the quicky tutelage, 5 minutes, and received assurance that all would go well. We were then given plastic boxes full of testing material and escorted to the classrooms we were to monitor. I found myself planted in the 2nd grade class along with 22 students. . . . .and Mrs. Middleton. The desk arrangement was bewildering with all of them arranged haphazardly around the room. Several desks abutted each of the walls. It was strangely quiet in the room and I was soon to find out why. Mrs. Middleton wasn't a Drill Sargeant, she was the DEBIL!! I wasn't just intimidated, I was afraid. Immediately I forgot what I, as classroom monitor, was supposed to be doing. Mrs. Middleton took the testing materials from me and pointed to a chair. I sat. The next few hours were torture for those children. They were not allowed to move, cross their legs, cough or scoot their chairs and they could breathe only with permission, something she did not did not allow much of . A little girl, Jade, that I sat next to grinned and gve me a tiny wave every time I looked her way. I smiled back at her. I think that's what got me moved the first time.

A tiny lull in testing, Mrs. Middleton and I hand out snacks, 6-packs of peanut butter crackers, and one intrepid boy raises his hand to ask for a drink. There were 21 students and a volunteer classroom monitor in that room that already knew the answer to that one. Something told me to not eat my crackers. I think it was an angel. I can't imagine sitting rigid in those chairs, LLP, (whatever that means but it was serious because Mrs. Middleton kept repeating it), trying to concentrate on Mrs. M's droning voice, working on test questions with my mouth so puckered from those crackers that my lips kissed my tonsils.

It was an experience and one I'm not likely to sign up for again. The kids each looked at me with suspicion, maybe even dislike, after they had finished the testing and were filing out to head for the lunchroom. They didn't invite me to come along. They also didn't invite me to recess.

I turn my head to find Mrs. Middleton standing next to me. She said "I'm sure glad my paycheck isn't based on the results of that one." Tuckinig my head I aim for the door and escape.

My Grandpuppy

I've had Hammie these last few days in anticipation of taking him to the local vet for a little >>>>alteration<<<<. Hammie, who is a 6 month old Bosti-huahua, is one of those little dogs who carries everything too far but doesn't have any idea why. For all his small frame he's bigger than anything he tackles. He has 'killed' more stuffed animals in these last 3 days than the total of all previous visits. He has also given as much as he got from Sammie, my Japanese Spitz. They have played endlessly, bounding through the house and out the back door, then back in, all the while quarreling over a dirty rawhide chew or one of those now soggy teddy bears. All this doggy play is endearing unless you're really pooped and want to take a nap. Then suddenly you become part of the runway for their playtime. Why is that? They don't want you napping because you're not up giving them snackies? Or they just like the feel of a soft, warm playground upon which to wrestle? I don't know. I just know going into my bedroom, closing the door and lying down doesn't work. For all the yelping and whining you would think they were broken hearted, or maybe just remembered that they hadn't seen their birth mothers in many months. More questions. But the sweetest time is when Hammie begs to be in my lap and curls up, falling asleep before his head touches my leg. Finally.

My Experience With The MOB

Many years ago I lived in Wichita. This was when I had even less common sense than I have today. Somehow I met a young man who seemed okay (what did I know)and we had a date for dinner. The guy is telling me he's with the Mob and some of the things he does for them. His name wasn't Guido as I recall but it also wasn't anything like John or Matt either. After dinner, I guess to impress me, he took me to a few places that he said were Mob hideouts. They were down alleys behind ordinary bungalows with detached garages. The garages housed the hideouts. One was very lavish, every convenience available and all located in this 2-car converted garage. The other was cedar paneled inside, rustic, but again with all the conveniences. Okay, I tell him, so maybe you are with the Mob, but then maybe you're not. So prove it. Guido (okay let's call him that) says, read the front page of the Sunday edition of the Wichita Eagle. A bombing of a business north of town. Yea, yea, I said. I yawn and tell him I had an okay time and I'm ready to head for home.

Sunday morning as usual, fixed a bowl of cereal, and went outside to get the paper. Settled down with my coffee, open the paper, front page, and there it is. A north side trucking firm, bombed. Because it was at night no one was there so no one hurt. Just a warning he had said. Gave me the chills. Guido really was with the Mob.
He was telling truth. I still have trouble discerning whether a man is tell the truth or not. I wish Guido had been shinin' me on. And to this day the burning question I would love to have answered is this: who lived in the bungalows in front of those Mob hideouts?