Month: August 2018

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Another Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Every time I travel with my husband, I end up creating a new life for us in my head. It doesn’t matter where we go; a quick getaway an hour from our home, or halfway across the globe, I always wonder what it would be like to live there. I don’t know if everyone does this, or if my imagination goes a little wild at times, but in the space of 5 minutes, I’ve created a whole new world in my head. It can be triggered by a charming piazza, a quaint library, a little hospital, or a homey restaurant that I can easily envision becoming “our place.” Anything that is familiar, but different; common-place, but new. This past weekend, on a spur of the moment road trip with my ever-ready travel buddy, I did it again.

It all started with a rainy day, a bustling bay on the banks of the St. Lawrence river, an enticing coffee shop with geraniums in a window box, and a few tables and chairs set cozily by a rain streaked picture window. My husband and I had just paid for our ferry tickets to see a castle on a heart-shaped island in the middle of the river. A tourist attraction, the story behind the castle is both romantic and tragic, and I was eager to see it for myself. It was raining hard when we left our motel, and I had given myself a mental pat on the back for remembering our rain coats. But now, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and my husband had shucked his off, while we strolled through the town looking for a place to get coffee and maybe a pastry while we waited for the ferry.

We wandered in through the open door of a tourist shop that sold t-shirts, hats and souvenirs, because it had a sign out front offering us coffee and warm cinnamon buns. Finding an empty spot at the window, we plunked down to while away the minutes until it was time to depart. Chatting about how good the cinnamon bun was, while watching the passers-by, some with rain coats, but most without, we both turned our heads when a heavyset elderly man, wearing stained Dickies work pants, and a baseball hat that had seen better days, sat down beside us. He joked with the college-aged girls manning the counter; clearly he was a regular. “Hi there!” he wheezed heartily in our direction, “where are you folks from?” We told him we lived about 450 miles away, in Maine. “Maine, huh?” he said remembering, his milky blue eyes smiling, “The wife and I used to like to go up there in the fall, sometimes clear up the coast.” My husband continued chatting with him conversationally, while my mind started to wander.

“What if we lived here?” I thought. “What if we were regulars at this cute little shop too? What if we often saw Bud (no idea what his name was, but Bud seemed appropriate) and knew the names of the girls behind the counter. What if I worked at that adorable hospital, right on the banks of the river? It doesn’t look too big, maybe just slightly bigger than the hospital where I work. I bet I would like it there. I could take patients for walks on the path that leads right from the hospital door, and goes along the river. Tiny could work anywhere; he’d probably find a job in a day. We’d live right in town, and walk everywhere. We could eat at that dockside restaurant that we went to last night, every week. And that ice cream place! that could be a problem… but at least I’d be walking a lot. We would definitely want to get a boat. I wonder where the nearest grocery store is, and a church…”

Suddenly I was brought to my senses by “Bud” who nudged my arm and smiled in a crinkly, way, “So, you two are going to Boldt castle? That used to be helluva good place to party, got my name written on one of them walls before they started restoring it.” he said giving me a conspiratorial wink, making me like him right then and there.”Yeah,” I thought, I could get used to this place, we could make it a home.” I smiled at my husband who was finishing his coffee, while talking to Bud about the proportions and dimensions of a cargo ship we had seen last night, and what kind of cargo it carried; the kinds of things that men say to each other that make me think that they are adorable, but also boring, allowing my mind to continue to create my new microcosm.

“Bud’s probably actually a millionaire, one of those really frugal ones, who wears the same thing everyday and has money squirreled away all over his crumbling old mansion. I bet his real name is something like, Robert Edward Worthington III, (the ridiculousness of creating a fake name, off of an already made up name, lost on me at the time, so caught up in this reverie was I), he never had any children and is lonely since his wife died and he stopped caring about his appearance. Tiny could help him out as a caretaker and I bet he would eventually leave his inheritance to him….”

Before my mind could venture any further, my cellphone binged; a text from my daughter. She was sending me a picture of our granddaughter, and I instantly switched gears. Chloe! Emily! Isaac! I would never leave them, and start a new life so far away from my heart’s delights. I sent back a heart Emoji, as my husband stood to clear the table of our cups and plates, while telling Bud that it had been nice talking to him. I gathered my backpack, and put it on over my pink raincoat, while my husband threw his yellow one over his arm.  I looked over my shoulder and waved a goodbye to Bud, who was already turning his attention away from us, toward a young couple sitting at another table.

We walked out of the shop and into the warm soupy air, turning in the direction of the water, our shuttle boat having just docked. I was feeling a little guilty, like I’d betrayed them all for even thinking about a new life, when suddenly, Tiny leaned over and said, “I could get used to this place.” I smiled, experiencing one of those rare moments of clarity that a new experience can sometimes bring….”This is why we travel,” I thought, “to physically escape our daily routine while absorbing new ideas, new people and new thoughts, and to store all these things up inside our memory banks so that we can make a mental withdrawal anytime our emotional wallet is empty. No need to feel guilty…Traveling sparks my imagination because I feel alive when I travel, and when I come back, I’ve fallen in love all over again with the life I’ve already made…at home.”

 

“To travel is to live.”   ~Hans Christian Anderson

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Age is Just a Number

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband turned 53 two days ago, and our daughter 27. They were born on the same day, and although my mother-in-law crowed at the time it was same hour, it turns out that was a bit of an exaggeration, according to his birth certificate. But, both were born in the wee hours of the morning, on August 19th, so that’s close enough. My mother-in-law’s amplifications notwithstanding, it is pretty cool that 50% of my little family was born on this day, and even more impressive is the attitude that my husband has about his age; which he basically ignores, or in the wise words of Mark Twain, “age is a case of mind over matter, if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t get this attitude from his father. That man was one of those people who lamented constantly about being old when he was but a young pup of 60. I can say that he was young because after 3 decades of caring for the elderly, I really don’t consider anyone “old” until they are in their 90’s. Even then, there are still those vibrant nonagenarians, who although might move a little slower than they would like, have the mind and attitude of a young person, so to me they seem no older than 50. Conversely. I have seen people in their 40’s and 50’s, moan and carry on about being old (!?!?!), which tends to makes me agree with them. To be fair, some have serious mental and/or physical problems but I can’t help but wonder which came first, the ailment or the attitude?

I’ve decided that I want to be just like my husband’s uncle, whom I recently met, and instantly liked. He and Aunt Carolynn, are “snowbirds,” at least that’s what they are called in our area, which means they live in Florida, but spend summers up north, which in this case, is upstate New York along the St. Lawrence river. His only complaint about living in Florida is that there isn’t enough to do. He doesn’t mean recreationally, as no doubt there are a myriad of ways to relax, including  five hours long Bingo games, which Aunt Carolynn enjoys, but he eschews… “I can’t sit that long! I’m only good for about two hours.” He is talking about puttering around the house: fixing, repairing and maintaining a home inside and outside which are all things that have kept him active and fit as a fiddle. “I like to keep busy,” he explained, as we sat on the back deck, watching the ships cruise by on the river while enjoying a cup of coffee. I told him that I always ask my 90-year-old patients about their longevity secrets. Was it proper nutrition, working out, or maybe getting 8 hours of sleep every night that helped them live so long? Nope, they all have said the same thing…”I always kept busy.” That’s it. Not one of them said, “I took time to pamper myself,” or, “every day I would lie on the couch, watch The Price is Right, and eat potato chips.” Nope, according to these “old people,” all they did was keep moving. And so does Uncle Charlie, a man who, by his own admission, once smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day, but now has a perpetual cup of coffee in his hand. “You traded in three packs, for three pots!” I joked with him.

I’m thankful to have many “busy” role models in my life. My stepfather Jake, who could easily be sidelined, as most are, by an advancing case of COPD, not to mention four prior heart attacks, always answers “excellent!” when asked how he is, and he never stops working. My mother too, a retired nurse, always keeps busy; swimming with her friends, going to prayer meetings most mornings, baking and puttering around the house (Mom! I know just what you’re going to say here…”Ohhh, I spend a lot of time reading on the couch, and I like to take a nap every afternoon.”…What she doesn’t realize is that if you were truly a lazy person, the whole day would be spent on leisure pursuits, not just a couple of hours in the afternoon). My husband too, always keeps moving. He is something of a natural due to the fact that he has ADHD, and restless leg syndrome, so awake and even sound asleep, he always moves. Anyone who lives with someone with ADHD, is well aware of the downfalls, but here is one of the benefits! He likes to work (by work, I mean carpentry, or any other physical task that involves a lot of swearing and sweating), hike, walk, climb, jump out of airplanes, kayak… basically anything that propels him forward, or in the case of skydiving, hurdles him downward. The proverb, “a rolling stone gathers no moss,” would be an accurate description of the way he lives his life, and maybe it is the same for those 90-year-old patients I’ve talked to, as well as Uncle Charlie, who will soon be an Octogenarian himself,  but I’m convinced it’s also a mental game as well.

I suppose you could argue that a busy person doesn’t have time to think about how old they are, and that is true, but what makes someone refuse to grow old gracefully, and instead choose to fight it every step of the way?  Maybe it’s a love of life, maybe it’s a positive attitude, or maybe it’s a stubborn streak, a refusal to give in, or give up. Either way, I’ve learned that if I’m going to ponder these mysteries, and other deeper philosophical subjects, I had better do it while I’m moving my body in some form or fashion. I want to be like Uncle Charlie when I grow up and say, as he did to me… “I went to a high school reunion recently, and it was just a bunch of old people.” I guess it’s really true that age is just a number, thank you for that reminder, Uncle Charlie, and thank you to my husband, that AARP card-carrying grandfather, who thinks, acts, and looks young; therefore he is young.

 

 

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Fight or Flight

Posted on by Susannah Warner

D1A62D9C-8964-4F5C-800E-D29DFBBAD4BDThere I was, innocently flipping the switch on my bedroom wall, reminiscing about the nice evening my husband and I had just had; riding bikes, watching the sun set over the river, watching a movie, my head in his lap so that he would play with my hair…When out of nowhere I felt a swoosh go right by my head, followed by flapping wings. My feet registered what was happening and started moving towards safety before my head did, my fight or flight instinct alive and well. Evidently, the flight aspect is my go-to when faced with what my body thought was grave danger. I screamed and ran, ducking at the same time as if under fire, to the bathroom, where I promptly slipped and fell, while trying to slam the door. After I assessed that I wasn’t seriously hurt, I opened the door a crack, to see a bat, frantically making a bee-line, or maybe a bat-line, for my head. I slammed the door shut, only to realize too late, that my phone was on my bed; I had no way to summon help.

“Wait, yes I do,” I thought, “I can open my window and yell to Tiny,” who was in the garage at the time. I’m not much of a yeller, so when that failed to elicit a response, I resorted to whistling, actually more of a high-pitched squeal until I saw a shadow and heard my husband say incredulously, as this is the first time I’ve summoned him with a whistle in 28 years, “Is that you Bugs? WHAT are you doing?” In a shaky voice, dripping with adrenaline and fear, I shouted to him, “I’m trapped!!” “Huh?” he said, struggling to reconcile the peaceful easiness of the night, with the note of hysteria in my voice. “I’m trapped!” I cried again, as my plight came out in a tumble of strung together words. “There’s-a-bat-in-our-room-and-I’m-stuck-in-the bathroom!!” And, just like any hero who is worth his salt would, he replied, “I’ll be right there!”

And he was, work gloves and an old flannel shirt on, a hat on his head, and a towel in his hands, as if he had a “bat disposal kit” at the ready, for just such an emergency. “C’mere, c’mon,” he cajoled the frenetic bat, while I peered through a slit in the door the width of a dime, and shouted unhelpful exclamatory remarks. “Get him! Get him! Oh, he’s terrible! I hate him!” “What?” he said, huge smile on his face. “He’s beautiful! Look at him!” ” I don’t want to look at him! I want him to go!” Just then, he lighted in the corner of the room, and my batman snuck up to him, covered him completely in the towel, and with a triumphant look towards the slit in the bathroom door, said “Don’t worry Bugs, I got him, you can come out!” Breathing a sigh of relief I emerged shakily from my hiding place, while he brought the bat outside and freed him.

It was at this point, I noticed that I had skinned my knee and bruised my thumb while I was fleeing. It made me think of how ridiculous I had just acted, especially considering that I am a nurse, and should be calm under pressure; and I am, but apparently not when frenzied, flying mammals are involved. I mentally added bats to my growing list of fears that I’m developing in my advancing years: surly dogs, mice, heights and now bats. I also realized that I am more of a runner than a fighter, and that conveniently my husband is a fighter. I don’t think this is just a gender thing, because I know for a fact that my own daughter is a fighter, something I learned quite by accident, when taking a walk with her when she was 16, and I cowardly jumped behind her when a German Shepard lunged at us. Using my own daughter as a human shield was not my proudest mom moment, but it did allow me to get a glimpse of her strength and fearlessness. “Get out of here! Go on home!” She demanded with such confidence and authority that the dog, who no doubt outweighed her, stopped in his tracks and slunk back to the decrepit, elderly house trailer he had attempted to defend.

Winged intruder gone, I conducted a thorough search of the bedroom for guano, then gratefully dropped into bed, but not without a wary, soured feeling which particularly distressed me as I had taken advantage of the beautiful day earlier, and washed and hung all the bedding out on the line. The sun-drenched, fresh smell I had been looking forward to all evening now felt tainted, but at least the bat was gone. “That was fun!” Tiny chuckled, reliving the moment with a smile on his face. When I didn’t respond, he looked at me and his expression softened, “I love that you were so afraid of that bat, it was very endearing.” I smiled at him, grateful that he relishes any opportunity protect me, even if it’s only from a bat. “Well, I love that you weren’t.” I said. So, content with our day, the fresh linen and each other, we slept.

 

 

 

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What’s For Dinner?

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m not sure why I can’t decide what I want to eat. Maybe it’s from almost 27 years of being a mom. You know, like when the kids are little and your “meal” consists of toddler leftovers; three spaghetti strands (with no “red stuff because it’s yucky! only butter!”), a drying crust with a smear of peanut butter left on it, three bites of cold scrambled eggs, and a triangle of soggy toast…that kind of meal. The sad remains that you could not coax, or guilt, as my mother used to do -“there are starving children in Armenia!” – ( btw, I had to text my mother and ask which country was deemed the most appropriate to ship leftovers to for those poor kids in 1979, because I was thinking it was either China or Romania for some reason. I’m ashamed to admit that I had to google, “where is Armenia located?” after she promptly texted back the answer. It’s in Asia, in case you’re wondering too…), your child into consuming. So, you nourish yourself on what was left behind after declaring that they need to “take one more bite. ” This is a statement that I learned to regret when my then three-year old daughter would absolutely not take one more bite, and sat there, alternately crying and stamping her feet for over 30 minutes, until her father tried to intercede on her behalf, but seeing the grim set of my jaw, wisely determined that I would not give in, at which point he turned to our tiny tyrant and cajoled her into taking a little nibble. The story ends on a sour note in my mind, even 24 years later as I vividly recall her letting that “one bite” dribble down her chin, rather than swallow it, as she slid out of her booster seat and ran away. Clearly this was a power struggle and not about food at all, but at least I can console myself with the fact that she has turned into a strong, independent woman, which soothes my still ruffled feathers a little. But, I digress…

Obviously toddlers and pre-schoolers dictated my diet, but even when they were babies, and just starting to eat the oatmeal that comes in a box, I’d usually match every spoonful I fed them with two in my own mouth. Hey, don’t judge! It’s really good, and goes great with cold coffee. In more recent years, when my children were teenagers, they still called the sustenance shots; Pizza! McDonald’s! I just went with whatever everyone else wanted, hoping that I could find something I liked, or in the case of the fast food option, something with the least amount of guilt attached to it, and if nothing else, a bowl of cereal has always been my go-to, often eaten standing up by the sink, because why get comfortable when cereal takes like 10 seconds to eat?

But then they grew up, and my husband and I are left asking each other the same thing whenever we decide to eat out…”What do you feel like eating?” The response? If I am the one answering, I have a standard reply, “I don’t care, what do you want?” Except apparently I do care, I just don’t know that I do until he presents options that I find objectionable…

Husband: “Chinese?”

Me: “Nah, we just had Chinese, I can only eat that when I’m in the mood for it. ”

Husband: “Pizza?”

Me: “Ugh, I’m sick of pizza!”

Husband: “Big Mac?”

Me: *makes face while inwardly crushing on the “special sauce” …and those onions! How do they make them so tiny and yummy?!?* …”No.”

Husband: “Mexican?”

Me: “Alright, I’ll go, but I’m only going because all I really want is a margarita…and maybe just a bite off of yours.”

It sounds like I’m not very good at making decisions, but actually my job requires me to make decisions for 12+ hours a day, some that could be life or death, so I think its safe to say that on my days off, I succumb to a little “decision fatigue.” My husband seems to be used to my indecisiveness and since neither of us are very adventurous eaters, generally we agree on where to go. By not adventurous, I mean that we aren’t really fans of fruits and vegetables. I mean, I do love mashed potatoes, so much so, that my co-workers can vouch for the fact that I eat them every day at work in the hospital cafeteria, because the only thing I like better than institutional mashed potatoes, is institutional oatmeal. I also have corn on the cob once a year, when a local farm sells them, but I’ve been told by a dietitian where I work that they are starches and don’t really count and besides I think you are supposed to eat them like three times a day, not three times a year. I’ve also heard that potatoes are “nightshades” and therefore evil, but they don’t scare me.

My husband, for his part, eats more vegetables than I do, but never on a daily basis and certainly not the epic proportion that our daughter insisted on when she was little and inexplicably thought that peas were his favorite food. Every year, for years, for her “birthday dinner” and for her father’s as they share the same birthday, she would choose a “feast” (her term, not mine!) of steak, french fries, both liberally doused with ketchup, and “peas for Dad.” Poor Dad, who barely tolerates peas in a chicken pot-pie, had to choke down double portions, on his birthday no less, so as not to hurt her feelings.

In re-reading what I’ve written so far, it appears that what started out as a commentary on my indecisiveness regarding food choices, took a rather nasty veer towards the unsettling effect children can have on one’s ability to know your own mind. My husband and I sound like a couple of shell-shocked war survivors, trying to get a grip on our own lives, after 20 years were commandeered by little hands and big hearts. There is some truth to this, as any empty nester can tell you, and we wouldn’t change a thing. Especially since our “tiny tyrant” will be turning 27 in ten days, it actually was quite easy to decide on serving peas with her birthday meal.

Post Script: Upon reading this to my husband before posting, he blurted out… “I actually do like peas! Especially in potpie! I like they way they squish! It’s creamed corn I don’t like, but that’s ok, you can keep it that way, since it’s ‘loosely based’ on your life and apparently mine.” After I read that to him… “Jeez, you can’t say anything in this house!” Nope, not when you live with a blogger.