2 posts tagged “journal”
I have noticed something about my mother: She can never leave well enough alone.
In reflection, this really is nothing new. Over the last few weeks I seem to be really aggravated by it.
EXAMPLE:
No knead bread recipe.
The same recipe that has been making the rounds on the internet has become a weekly part of my kitchen experience. I figured mom would enjoy this easy recipe as much as I do. Before Christmas and before my sister printed out the recipe and sent it to her, which she has lost already twice, I thought I would go over it with Mom on the phone. Things were going along fine until I got to the cooking part of the recipe.
ME: "Ok, you are going to need a pot that you can use in a 400 degree oven...with the lid on it. You heat the pot-"
MOM: "What if I cooked it in a loaf pan instead?"
ME: "The recipe calls for a pot that you can use in a 400 degree oven...with the lid on it. Ok, so you heat the pot while you are warming up the oven-"
MOM: "What if instead of a lid I used tin foil?"
ME: "The recipe calls for a deep pot with a fitting lid. Ok, so when your pot and oven are ready you throw the dough in the pot, seam side up. Put the lid on-"
MOM: "I think I would rather make it as little rolls than a loaf, do you think that would work?"
By this time I didn't care if she wanted to roll it up like pretzels, cook it on a campfire, then wear them on her ears.
I'm all for being creative and inventive, but why reinvent the wheel? There is nothing wrong with this recipe as is - just make the goddamned bread the way the recipe says for Pete's sake!
I bought her a journal for Christmas. My idea was for her (and dad) to just sit and write when they felt like it. A simple plan. Nothing elaborate.
Her idea included going out and buying a voice recorder so she could first record herself, then transcribe from the recorder to the journal.
To me this sounded like a stall tactic. I told her if she felt all that was necessary, then go ahead...do what you got to do.
I just got off the phone with her. She said she had mixed some sugar, baking chocolate and peanut butter together but wasn't sure what to do with it now. I told her she could make some of those no bake drop cookies by adding oatmeal to the mixture.
ME: "Just drop by the spoonful on wax paper or a plate and let them cool."
MOM: "What if I spread it out on sheet and cut them like bars instead?"
At this point all I could say was, "What if you did?"
There’s a joke that goes like this:
One person says to another, “ask me what the key to great comedy is.”
The other person says, “OK, what’s the key to great co--”
“TIMING!” interrupts the first person.
That loses something in print, but when said out loud it is kind of funny and very true. Timing is everything.
Every Christmas it is the same: What do I buy for my mother and father?
My parents are both passed the age of 80 and they have years of “artifacts” cluttering shelves and closets. Each year it gets harder to get them each something special, thoughtful and functional. I say functional because things I might have bought them a few years ago are not an option for me now. Interests and abilities change. My father once tended a garden that covered nearly 1/4 of an acre. His garden dwindled until it was reduced to a few tomato plants and herbs in pots. Last year was the first year in 30 he didn’t plant anything edible. Garden supplies have lost their function.
I have, in the past, resorted to specialty foods and gift cards. My mother loves Barnes and Nobles, Wild Oats and a place called Garden Ridge. Garden Ridge is so expansive and crammed with stuff, when I am in there it makes my head feel like my eyeballs aren’t connected to it.
My dad is partial to a store called Big Lots: a Big building with Lots of crap.
On the food front I always like to try and find German things and good coffee for my mother and soft, easy to gum and swallow items for my dad. My father hasn’t worn a set of dentures in I don’t know how long. He likes those neon jelly candies shaped like fruit slices. He used to love peanut brittle…but peanut brittle has lost its function. Since my mother got new dentures, fancy ones that snap into her jaws, she eats everything. When she takes them out it looks like something from SAW going on in there. I would get her some brittle, but that seems like a cruel joke to play on my father.
One year I bought my dad a chiminea. It was cast iron. I got it because even in brisk weather he likes to sit outside and stare at the space where his garden used to be. I figured it would be nice to have a fire going out there to give him a little warmth. Now that is thoughtful and functional!
A few weeks later I was back at the house and setting in the corner of the living room was the chiminea. My mother snatched it out from under my dad! She put candles in it and called it “her” little fireplace! My dad never even got the chance to burn a log or warm his hands with it. It never even got live up to its function.
This year I came up with what I thought was a special, thoughtful, functional and in many ways a gift to me as well as from me: JOURNALS! I would buy each of my parents a journal. What better way to spend a grey winters day than reminiscing on paper? I imagined my father in his chair at the dining room table with a cup of instant coffee and a pen, the ink a vehicle for the things he never said out loud or admitted to feeling…
It would be fair to say that my father is a very walled up little old man. He never speaks much of his past. He doesn’t express joy, sympathy or empathy. He would rather alienate you forever than get involved with you for 5 minutes. He never really bonded with us in the fictional family sense of the word. Oh, sure, he would take me fishing and to the zoo or the circus, but when I reached the age of boobs and pimples he took a step back and became as hateful and scornful to me as he was to my mother.
What do I know about my dad other than my first-hand experiences? He grew up very poor. As a treat his mother would give him a green onion stem and a glass of milk – the stalk was used as drinking straw. He is one of six. He had a thing for married women and they had a thing for him. His grandmother on his father’s side was blind. He once got arrested for feeding rationed meat to a starving dog during WWII. The things I know about my father seem very random and cold. Having a text written in his very own defined cursive script would be golden.
My mother, on the other hand, likes to tell stories. She grew up in Nazi Germany and she has more than a few stories to tell. She has funny, interesting and frightening tales of her childhood, life during wartime and her introduction to America. With mom, I know details of her life, not just arbitrary sentences. It would be nice to have some of it written down in her hand, though.
I knew I couldn’t force either one of them to cooperate on this, I could only suggest and hope for the best. My mother, always ashamed of her English skills, might be a hard sell. My father would either do it or not. His handwriting is precise and his language skills are strong. He used to write me the most eloquent of sick notes. His only excuse would be contrariness. I hoped that they would both see this as me offering a way to get to know them better - and not a chore.
For my father I picked out a nice masculine book that looked to be covered in worn brown leather. For my mother I chose a nice elegant book that looked to be covered in burgundy leather with some gold embellishments. Both journals had a flap with a magnetic clasp and a built in envelope for flat keepsakes. I included a gift tag with each that read, “WRITE – Your stories are important.” I felt really good about my choices.
I sent them a note before the journals arrived explaining I didn’t care what they wrote in the books; memories, dreams, favorite recipes, notions, things they did 50 years ago or things they did 5 hours ago, just as long as they wrote something.
I got a call from my mother around 7:00 pm last night. The package had been delivered Monday.
She said she LOVED the Il Divo cd I got her and that dad opened the Jim Reeves cd and listened to it right away. He put it in his car. We talked a little about Il Divo. She was surprised that she had never ever heard of them. We talked about the No Knead bread recipe I had emailed my sister, who in turn printed it out and sent it to her. She joked that she was going to make a loaf of the bread and give it to dad for Christmas. That’s all, a loaf of bread. I told her I had made a loaf of it just that day and that I used spelt flour in the mix and we talked about spelt. We talked about flax. Then we talked about what she was going to cook for Christmas. She said that dad had been feeling a little sick last week and that he had gone to the VA hospital where they fitted him with a heart monitor, but there was nothing to worry about. Then, in a very serious voice she said, “Mona, about those journals…”
I was ready to hear, “…your father thinks it’s a stupid idea and I can’t write English good enough so you can have them back…”
But what she said was, “…your father and I talked about your idea and we decided to start writing after Christmas. He said he wanted to wait until the New Year.”
I wanted to say, “don’t wait…just write” but all that came out was, “great.”
She wanted to know if we received the snack basket dad had sent and I told her we had. She mentioned how much they liked the music again. She thanked me for the journals again, promising one more time that they would use them, and with that the conversation ended. I felt very light and relieved and hopeful.
I got a call from my mother around 7:30 am this morning. She asked if I was awake. I asked her what was wrong and she told me my father had passed away in his sleep sometime before daybreak.
Timing.
