I get by with a little help from my friends!
There are dozens of songs out there that sing the praises of friendship. Ah, sweet friendship!
An all-time favorite tune is James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend. We’ve all been there before - down and troubled and need a helping hand. You know, when nothing is going right. I gotta say it’s a mighty fine thing to have friends when you’re in need…..need of a kind word or a sympathetic ear. When it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year. That’s when you turn to friends. You may be lucky enough to have many, but most folks would settle for just a few true pals. Even one true friend can make all the difference in your life. Everybody needs somebody.
When friends aren’t handing out warm fuzzies and Kleenex, they can set you straight, dress you down, tell it to you like it really is, and cut through the bull. They have our backs and our best interests at heart. We kid ourselves if we think for a moment that we can go it alone in this confusing world. It’s lonely out there and just a bit scary. People generally want to support one another, and helping someone else is an instant feel good.
A friend of mine once told me that allowing her to drive me to my chemo treatments was a gift I had given her. I surely had never thought of it that way. She wanted to help me and show her love and concern. I needed a ride all the way to Chapel Hill. She offered, I accepted. It was beautiful. Twelve dear friends took turns driving me there and back. Each and every trip was a blessing for me and a gift to them. I treasure those trips.
So goes the message here. It’s okay to ask for help. All you have to do is call.
Hey, ain’t it good to know that you’ve got a friend?
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29, 2014
Missing Woody
We lost Woody yesterday. It’s the hardest call in the world to make….when is it time? When has he reached the end of his journey? Have we done everything we could to help him? But, eventually you have to make the decision and you have to live with the loss.
Last night as the snow fell silently outside and the temperatures dropped, George and I sipped red wine and reminisced about Woody. What a great dog! What a good friend! After all, he inspired my blog Walking Woody. He has been a member of our family for a mere 8 years and has left a mighty gift behind.
Woody was named after my dad and lived up to the honor. He loved people. He embraced life with abandoned exuberance. And, he adored vanilla ice cream.
Folks who knew Woody may recall his ability to lift all four paws off the floor (at once) in a gleeful bounce…repeatedly, to better send his message “Yes! I want that! Yes! Let’s go for a walk! Yes! I do want to go outside, right now!” There was no mistaking his intent.
He loved Band Night when fellow Go Figure members showed up for an evening of music. Mike’s drums almost block the back door, but not quite. Woody played Mike like a fine-tuned instrument and smooth talked him into letting him in and out dozens of times during the evening. Wood y learned to tiptoe his way through the multiple speaker wires and squeeze his skinny self between the snare and the cymbals, around behind Mike, to slide through the door. Mike could open it from behind his back without missing a beat.
Golden Retrievers are water lovers, but it took Woody a few years to discover its wonderful attributes. He preferred to wait on the pier (and bark) while we played and swam in the river. We eventually lured him in and taught him to swim. Sort of. His physique (skinny and long-legged) made swimming hard. I’m sure he tolerated the huge effort just to cool off on hot summer days.
The beach was a favorite place for Woody – that makes him a true blue Jackson! He’d start to smile when we rounded the crest of the Wright Brothers Bridge. He could hardly contain himself by the time we pulled into 1023 N. Virginia Dare Trail. (It was impossible to use his gleeful bounce while riding in the back of the car)
I like to think of Woody as my dog…my best friend, but to be fair I have to admit that he loved George unconditionally. His all-time favorite time of day came in the evening, after dinner but before bedtime. George would often check around outside…walk the yard, safeguard the house. Woody knew this was coming and was airborne before George could get his coat on. It was their time together and I know George will miss the company.
My morning walks with Woody will be sorely missed. I’m likely not to go it alone. He’s been a wonderful companion and my constant companion since my retirement. Living away from Elizabeth City, and with George spending many hours on campus, he’s often been my only companion. Oh, how I will pine for him, but I’ll keep his memory and spunk alive and keep on blogging.
Walking Woody or Still Walking Woody or Missing Woody…..I’ll remember and it’s all good.
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22, 2014
Applejacks
The first week of January marked a milestone in my culinary achievements and I checked off number 15 on my bucket list.
Have you ever heard of applejacks, aka apple turnovers, or just plain ‘ole fried pies? If not, you are missing one of life’s finest delicacies and high on my list of favorites. I’m not referring to the tasteless impostors that many fast-food chains offer up and advertise as turnovers. Oh no. These delicious flaky pies are made with loads of rich ingredients, lots of time and elbow grease, and some TLC.
Making scratch applejacks is hard work and that’s exactly why the art and recipe is disappearing. I have an old recipe card of my grandmother's with a few notes and The Joy of Cooking has their rendition, but none of them can hold a candle to Louise Thompson’s fried pies and I was determined to learn her secret. “Will you teach me how to make applejacks Louise,” I asked? She was delighted.
She arrived at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning, toting sugar, oil and a frying pan. We commenced to stewing the apples…dried apples only, mixed with sugar and cinnamon and simmering on a slow burner. Louise had lectured me on the merits of the dried verses fresh apples and I had bought out the supply at the grocery (5 bags to be exact). Understand that nothing is exact when cooking with a master chef. I persisted on precise measuring and coaxed her into calling out amounts as she measured, dumped and stirred. I took notes. While the apples cooked down and delicious aromas filled the kitchen, we made mounds of pie crust dough. Louise showed me how to pinch off pieces of dough by squeezing it through your fist making the perfect amount for each jack. This is an exacting art I became quite adept at. The dough balls are then refrigerated. All the while the apples are stewing.
By mid-morning Louise said the apples were ready. She couldn’t be exact with this information…she just knew. Now I’m in trouble. When on my own this is where it can all start to break down and fall apart.
She began to mash the cooked apples with a fork. This looked like a long and tedious process lay ahead, so I sprang into action brandishing my newly gifted electric smasher. Louise laughed with delight. “What is that thing,” she asked. I responded, “It’s called a Smart Stick and I’ve never used it before. Never knew what it was for. Mash on!” It worked like a charm.
I rolled out a few of the dough balls into small circles and spooned apples on top, folding over and crimping the edges. Louise eased each one into the shallow frying pan with just a slip of hot oil coating the bottom. She fried two at a time until each was perfectly tawny brown and cleaned the pan of loose debris before sliding the next jacks in.
We made 32 applejacks that morning. We called in our neighbors Allen and Diana to savor the hot flaky jacks. Louise’s son Kenny happened to drop by for a taste. Rusty and Jimmy came in the back door to get two jacks to go, and George meandered down from his office to enjoy the fruits of our morning.
It was a roaring success. Can I make applejacks? Maybe. Will they taste like Louise’s? Probably not.
But what a time we had. We laughed and talked and talked some more. We enjoyed being together making applejacks and making memories. It just doesn't get any better.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 9, 2014
Winter Haven
We moved the Applejack today. The skies were blue and the temperature rose above 40 for the first time in days. The conditions were perfect.
Winter is a time for hunkering down and battening the hatches. We prep our homes with weather stripping and insulation. We fill our tanks with oil and stockpile wood for slow burning woodstoves. When the temperatures dip dangerously low, we leave a light on in the out- buildings and faucets on a slow drip. We watch the weather channel for closings and updates on predicted lows and sustained high winds. We want to be prepared for the worst that ‘ole man winter can blow.
Eight months out of the year (barring any hurricane) the Applejack is moored in front of our home in a mostly quiet bay. It can withstand the winds that blow up the Pasquotank across that wide fetch. Its lines are tied to ride up or down with the wind tides that are frequent in this upper sound country. Sometimes she sits on the bottom. When her mast and boom are festooned with lights for the Christmas season, she stands proud and shines like a beacon welcoming us home again.
We’ll be leaving tomorrow to head back to Farmville. It’s been a wonderfully long holiday with lots of friends, family and fun, but it’s time to return to Virginia. Today has been a day of prepping.
George cranked up the diesel on the boat as I threw all the lines on board. We headed out towards black beacon (buoy #7) and eased into Cobb Creek. The Applejack slipped right into place behind the O’Neal’s pontoon boat, and settled into her winter mooring as we tied the lines, positioned the bumpers and topped off the antifreeze.
She was looking pretty snug when we left her. It’ll be Captain Eddie that’ll be checking on her these next few weeks. We sure appreciate it. She’ll be just fine.
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 8, 2014
Loving Woody
As the holidays come to a close, we’re all faced with the dreaded annual task of putting it all away. All the lights and trimmings, and finding a new home for heart felt gifts. It leaves me a bit sad and more than a bit tired.
Coupled with this, Woody is sick. Really sick. For two weeks, we’ve watched and monitored his descent into his newly diagnosed illness. His back legs are going numb and his left eye is receding. He’s losing energy and vitality daily. It’s called degenerative myelopathy and it’s going to kill him…..and me.
It’s all very vague and so frustrating. You know, if they could only talk. Dr. Lannon, our vet, has been very concerned, kind and on top of this. She sent us home with 3 different meds and has called our home numerous times to check on Woody’s condition. As reported, he’s had some really good days and a few pretty bad ones. We're hoping for many more good ones.
What does one do? Dr. Lannon has suggested a specialist at NC State’s veterinary school. I don’t know.
He’s a great dog….best dog we’ve ever had. He’s been our friend and companion for a mere 8 years, and we're not ready to say good-bye. He keeps me company and makes my day. I love him. We all do.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2013
Bill's Bathrobe
Bill’s bathrobe was pretty typical of boys’ sleepwear circa 1950; navy blue corduroy with red piping, sash included. There’s a black and white photo of a Christmas morning with Bill posing on his new bicycle beside the tree sporting said robe….another year holding me on his lap grinning at the camera. Another Christmas rolls around and Allan is wearing the robe with his new gun & holster strapped on. I know it’s the same robe…but now kodachrome has enhanced our lives with color photos. Sure enough, it’s navy blue…red piping.
The bathrobe survived many cold winters keeping my brothers warm. Those were the days when my family lived on a dairy farm in a large, drafty old farmhouse. Winters were cold and the robe surely had its work cut out.
Then something wonderful happened to the robe…it was donated to the church costume collection. Christ Episcopal puts on a pageant every Christmas Eve. It’s a grand production…sometimes traditional, sometimes stretching a bit away from convention. The blue bathrobe had a new home and a new role. Some years it was a shepherd’s coat keeping him warm as he watched over his flocks on that cold starry night. Other seasons the robe was worn as a mantle covering the shoulders of a traveler finding his way to Bethlehem, and several years it served as the lowly drummer boy’s wrap. It was never quite regal enough to pull off the role of a king’s robe…besides older boys usually were cast for those parts and the blue bathrobe was a tad small….not fit for a king, one might say.
The years have rolled by…decades by now. I didn’t see the corduroy robe last Christmas Eve. Things get old and worn out. Change happens. You work with what you’ve got. One year we had three queens (instead of three kings) due to the lack of boys in Sunday school classes. It was great. They wore prom dresses that year to visit the Christ child.
It all works. The message is the same. Blue bathrobe or not….Christmas Eve will arrive and we will go to the pageant. It will be wonderful and I will be overwhelmed with memories of other years….all joyful.
Merry Christmas
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 2013
Bear of a Day
It’s been a brutal two days. Readying oneself for a routine colonoscopy is one for the books. The prep agenda is….shall I say, involved?
I’ve had this procedure done twice before. One would assume I would take it like a man. Oh, wrong adage. George had his procedure done last week and totally freaked out about the pre-cocktail beverage. I’m just saying.
I’m not about to brag here about what a marvel patient I was. For days (and days) I’ve dreaded this moment in time. I apologize to my friends and family who have tolerated the incessant referrals to “my upcoming procedure”. A great deal of worrying went into my thoughts on having to fast for 24 hours. Eating is a religion to me. I never miss a meal, and most days I manage to carve out an extra. Even before the countdown begins (an entire week) one has to forgo nuts and whole grains. I ask you….what’s left?
So experience aside, my anxiety was peaking when I woke up on D-Day (that stands for Damn Day that the prepping was to commence). My friend Faye was most kind to offer to distract me as I tackled the day armed with bullion, Sprite and tea….only clear liquids allowed. Damn, I forgot to ask about Chardonnay…clear all the way to the bottom of the stemware! Well, best to refrain from imbibing on prep-day. I’m sure it’s in the rules somewhere.
The day did manage to pass albeit s-l-o-w-l-y, and at 6:00 last night I launched into chugging back the most god-awful concoction that the medical community has ever come up with. It just defies swallowing. Somehow it managed to bypass that pleasant gag reflex and went down the hatch.
That started the ball rolling….I was perking. There’s no need to attempt to doanything (watch TV, read, relax….) while this part of the prep is taking place. One must stay mindful of how many steps it takes you to reach the water closet. My chair inched closer and closer.
I’ll spare the reader of any further details. Another 16 oz. bottle consumed at 5:00 AM had me completely ready for scoping. You’ll have to take my word on this.
The Procedure went well. The staff at Southside Community Hospital is spot on….professional and pleasant. I’m pleased to have met their acquaintance, but I’m thrilled (bar any catastrophe) I don’t have to see them again for 10 years!
I couldn’t wait to get home to EAT. My anesthetist’s parting words were, “don’t eat for at least 3 hours”. My response, “you bet”.
I just polished off the best scrambled eggs I have ever eaten. It’s a wonderful thing.
