Reflections - Princess Mode

Janet with her Princess Blanket

 

I’m a worker bee. Life trained me to finish what I start before taking a rest. This September, I picked up the pace. I washed the screens and windows, clearing a year's worth of road dust. I deep cleaned the porch and suffered the ire of resident spiders that left a trail of itchy, pink dots up my forearm to my elbow. Plus I crammed laundry, loft-to-basement house cleaning, litter box scrubbing, and worm compost drying, into the last weekend.

The urgency to get the work finished? Impending surgery by Dr. Ackenbom.

I had fallen in love with Dr. Ackenbom five minutes into our two hour consultation in June. She asked what I wanted, listened, and explained my options for repairing the vaginal prolapse.

While still healthy enough to undergo surgery, I chose it, the only choice that wasn’t a Band-Aid.

“Surgery is ninety-five to ninety-nine percent effective and will last forever.” Dr. Ackenbom’s lips curled into a cute pout. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you every three months.” She gave me a long list of pre and post op instructions ending with, “To heal properly, you’ll need to be in princess mode.” Her laugh rang out like a peal of country church bells.

I followed all her directions leading up to and including the day of the surgery, September 26, even though it meant waking at 3:00 a.m. to shower and drink twelve ounces of Gatorade. At 4:10 Spence drove me through the dark and rain to Erie—a different experience from a daytime drive, like landing in an airplane on a runway at night. I checked into the hospital at 5:30 and was whisked to pre-op where efficient and friendly nurses took great care of me despite giving me canary-yellow nonskid socks that clashed with the tarnished-gold crescent moons on the green and blue hospital gown.

Dr. Ackenbom visited pre-op, asked a couple questions, and grabbed both my hands giving each a squeeze. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Nodding, I couldn't stop my eyes from flooding. At least the tears didn’t spill down my cheeks.

Though Dr. Ackenbom operated on me for three hours, I didn’t see her again until she burst into the recovery room while I nibbled crackers, sipped water, and chatted with Spence.

I had to pass the pee test before Dr. Ackenbom would let me go home. So Amy, the nurse who walked through the revolving doors that morning the same time we had, set to work. She piled more saltine packages on my tray. “The salt in the crackers will help you pee.” She refilled  my water cup and added another IV fluid bag to the hook by the bed. She even pumped water into  my bladder before shoving a walker against the bed and making sure I didn’t fall while I shuffled to the bathroom.

“Put your hand in this.” She stuck a bowl of warm water beside me then turned on the faucet. Running water. Hand in warm water. Full bladder. Of course I peed.

An hour later, Dr. Ackenbom came back to give me the delirium screening. I bungled a few questions. I said Obama was the president before Biden—wishful thinking—and dozed off in the middle of subtracting three from twenty. “Seventeen, fourteen, eleven, zzzzzz.”

In a polite voice Dr. Ackenbom said, “I’m waiting.”

“Did I answer?” I remembered having to subtract three from twenty. “Um, seven. No, twenty, seventeen—”

“That’s fine. You can go home if you can get your clothes on.”

If.

The IV fluid bag might as well have been pumping concrete into my veins. I couldn’t sit up let alone struggle into the elastic top jeans and bulky sweatshirt I’d worn. I surrendered to another nap.

When I woke, I gulped some apple cranberry juice and gazed out the window at Presque Isle Bay. Waves rocked under pelting rain and menacing black clouds. Spence read me well wishing emails from my sister, brother, and brother’s girlfriend until Amy popped into the room and stared at me. “You look rested. Your eyes aren’t glazed. Are you hungry?”

“YES.”

She picked up the phone. “Can you send a dinner tray to room five twelve?”

After eating a grilled chicken breast (from a very young bird by the size), green beans, and applesauce plus taking in yet another bag of IV fluids, my arms and legs moved. I slipped into my clothes. Amy wheeled me out of the room, down the elevator, and out the revolving door to Spence’s Maverick.

Spence drove through spurts of rain. The Maverick rolled up and down hills, around green fields, and past orange construction cones. Spence chatted about the cats and the proposals he’d worked on during the day fueled by coffee from the nurses’ station and a breakfast gobbled at three while I took my pre-op shower. Balancing on the seat so as not to put pressure on my bottom parts, I considered him a superhero for continuing to function.

At 7:30, Charlie opened the front door for us. The sleeping cats awoke, stared as if they’d never seen us before, then went crazy chasing each other about the great room. A satisfying welcome indeed.

Princess mode began the next morning when Ande followed me to the bathroom waiting to be picked up as usual. He paced around my feet at the bottom of the porcelain throne.

I petted him, cooed “What a good boy you are,” but didn’t lift his sixteen pounds to my lap.

He circled the bathroom then put his paws on my knees.

I rubbed his whiskers.

He sat on his haunches and lifted his front paws to my shoulders.

I stroked his sides and bent my forehead to touch his.

He purred.

Rills and Gilbert sat on either side of the bathroom door waiting for their morning hugs. I didn’t lift them either.

Ande Guarding Janet

After morning ablutions, I’d worn myself out so, instead of sitting at my secretary desk to write my morning journal, crawled back into bed. Pamper yourself, I whispered to no one in particular, and read to distract my thoughts, easing the pain. 

Three cats swarmed into the bedroom. Ande jumped onto the bed and walked around my legs. Gilbert pranced over me. He didn’t stay long enough for a cuddle. Rills contented himself by putting his paws on the foot of the bed and surveying the scene. When the small cats left, Ande snuggled against my leg and napped.

The cats had adjusted.

My other fellas did too. In fact, Charlie had prepared for princess mode at the end of August during Sunday breakfast. “Would you like to see Hamilton?”

“You mean drive to New York?”

He chuckled. “No. On Disney channel.” He subscribed to Disney at the beginning of September, and I lugged my laptop to the loft to cast the movie onto our wide screen TV. Charlie shook his head, put the app on my tablet, and made the sign-in a simple one click.

The first day after surgery, he climbed and I trudged upstairs before and after lunch to watch princess movies—though I did hear him snore through part of the second one. He’d gone to bed before I made the trip for my evening princess fix. I would watch five more princess features—some with Charlie, some alone, all sitting on a pillow or two in the lime green lounge chair, another of Dr. Ackenbom’s directives.

Charlie teased. “You need a pea under the pillows.”

Spence didn’t tease. He provided practical help with a plus. After the exertion of brushing my teeth and washing my face had me dragging back to bed, Spence dashed ahead to smooth the sheets and place pillows—three behind my back and two under my knees. “Are they at the right angle?” He tucked the cozy princess blanket, which my friend Maggie had sent, around my legs. “Sparkle side up.” He grinned and placed a green afghan beside my legs.

Gilbert hopped on the afghan and kneaded the yarn. Purring, the cat settled while Spence arranged a wood tray beside my torso.

On the tray Spence set a cup of steaming herbal tea, a journal, pens, and a brass cow bell. Clutching earphones he’d hung around his neck, he said, “I’ll be listening to news. Ring if you need me.” His footsteps faded down the hall. Water splashed in the kitchen sink. Pots clanked. Spence was washing the dishes—one of the many chores I’d abandoned.

The rest of the week fell into a routine: morning writing, meals at the table, strolls on the deck, photo processing, and evening princess movies.

My worker bee mode has dissipated. A dependent princess reigns, but she’s temporary. I may never whack villains with an iron skillet like Disney’s Rapunzel, but I’ll recover from surgery, put the pampering behind me, and help others. 

 

Janet Watching Princess Movies

 

Reflections - Letter from a Friend

Barb's Card

My fingers tingled. Holding the envelope with the recognizable script, I settled into the hewn-log chair. Three tabby cats dozed in the sunshine streaming through the screen door that late July afternoon. Outside daisies bounced in the breeze and a goldfinch twittered.

The large top loop and straight line bottom of the uppercase “J” plus the wide, squat “W” on the envelope meant I’d received a birthday card from Barb. She and I met at Wilson College in the fall of 1967. We giggled over Pepsi and hot pretzels in the Snacky. We challenged curfews—getting Barb locked on her dorm’s glass porch in slippers and bathrobe the night I raced over to borrow her biology notes. She knocked on the window of the assistant dorm mother, a softy, to get in. Luckily, my dorm mother hadn’t locked the side door before I ran back.

Careful not to rip the envelope, I eased it open and pulled out a card with cute examples of “Incredible Life Moments” which ended with “Getting a card from someone who thinks you’re the BEST.” She knew I would say “Aah.” I did. Cheek muscles aching from smiling, I read the letter which opened hoping I’d had a happy birthday and continued with—

I’m late as usual but have a good reason this year.

I chuckled. After two years together at Wilson, I left to marry Spence. Barb graduated and moved to New Jersey. I lived in Ohio then Pennsylvania. Though we visited a couple of times, our friendship continued via letters, long letters in cards every birthday and Christmas. Barb’s cards were often late, but welcome whenever they came. Reasons for lateness could be newsworthy—a big project for the insurance firm, caring for her sick cocker spaniel, or preparing for her daughter Sara’s wedding. Curious, I kept reading.

I’m in the final stages of ovarian cancer. I stopped      treatment in April . . .

The words on the page blurred. Gasping, I blinked and read the sentence again.

The cats’ heads swiveled toward me. Gilbert crept across the great room, jumped onto the coffee table, and eased onto my lap. Placing his front paws on my shoulder, he brushed his whiskers against my cheek. His purring vibrated in my ear.

Stroking his back, I read about Barb’s pain medication, being at home, and—

The worst part at this point is that I no longer drive     - awful to have to rely on others.

Though Barb couldn’t see me, I shook my head and mentally admonished her. It’s okay to accept some help. You helped Sara her whole life. You babysat her twin boys whenever she asked. Yes, Sara’s busy, but the boys are eight now. She loves you. Helping you is Sara’s gift to you and to herself.

Still have a long list of things to handle but can         only do a little at a time.

Kudos to Barb for keeping busy during the “final stages.” But she always kept busy and organized. One of the times Spence and I visited Barb and her husband Mac, she had saved a matrix of ideas for baking casseroles. She cut the page from a magazine, framed it, and hung it on her kitchen wall. A small thing, but indicative of how she organized housework, sewing, and life. What things did Barb still want or need to handle?

But I’ve had a good life for which I’m very thankful. And, at 74, I’ve substantially outlived everyone else in my family.

Barb was dying. She faced death with dignity and grace, with acceptance and bravery. I hope I can summon her peace and courage when death’s hand reaches for mine.

Love you, Janet, and wish the best for you and             Spence and the kids.

All of Barb’s letters had ended with, write, please write, or write soon. Though I’d sent her my email address and phone number, she preferred we write. And Barb made her final goodbye. I wouldn’t search for a phone number. She had things to accomplish.

I did write, though. The next morning I described my birthday assuring her that her wishes for a good celebration had come true. I also wrote, “I admit your letter brought tears to my eyes and impressed me. Your bravery and positive outlook are admirable. Thanks for being my special friend all these years.”

Labor Day has come and gone. I sit in the hewn-log chair holding Barb’s card. Outside cicadas drone and mourning doves coo. September girasoles blossom in the field. On the deck, bumblebees buzz in begonias dripping from rain.

My mind buzzes too. It buzzes with questions. Is Barb in pain? Is she home? Did she finish her “list of things to handle?” Is she still alive?

I won't receive another letter. But upstairs a folder is stuffed with half a century of cards to reread. I pore over my friend’s last letter—short for her, but long on honesty. All through the reading my mind keeps asking, Is Barb still alive?

The answer, of course, is she will always be alive in spirit. Barb lives in my heart.

Daisies

Girasole

 Reflections - Cracker Jack Challenges 

 

I'm A Writer Superpower T-Shirt

 

I love challenges. And the Area 1 Pennwriters picnic writing contest tickled my fancy many a year. This August I had planned to skip the contest and focus my attention on the Disappearing Blueberries blog. But I opened the email listing required words: 1. Cracker Jacks, 2. Flag, 3. Rebound, 4. Hooligan’s, 5. Nutmeg, 6. Bucket, 7. Ace, 8. Juggling, 9. Rush, 10. RBI (Use a sequence of words beginning with those letters.)

Cracker Jacks? A vague childhood excitement, of chewing the sugary snacks and looking for the surprise at the bottom of the box, tugged at my heart. Cracker Jacks yanked my imagination and wouldn’t let go. Maybe I could slip into the poem-a day writing mindset I’d developed in April and dash off something quick.

You’re kidding.

Miracles happen.

Rejected drafts happen more often.

Maybe I’ll need two or three days.

You’ll be writing and scratching out lines for weeks.

I haven’t written a word and you’re editing. Sheesh!

I didn’t write and scratch a poem. I wrote and scratched out a story.

* * *

    Rob kicked the inside of the hammock. He swatted flies with Dad’s tattered Spider-Man comic. If Mom would only ease her no snack rule.

“Robbie!” Jenny grabbed the shaking hammock. “Mom got Cracker Jacks! They were sticking out of the grocery bag.”

Swinging the hammock upside down, Rob dropped onto his hands and knees. “Let’s snatch the Cracker Jacks—”

She pulled him to his feet, “—and spend the afternoon like Dad—”

Rob headed for the house. “—did when he—”

“—was our age.” Jenny followed.

The two barreled into the kitchen and bumped Mom, who, juggling a handful of spices, dropped the nutmeg.

Rob caught it and handed it to her. “We came to help.”

“Goodness,” Mom pressed a hand against her chest. “Thanks, but if I put things away myself, I can find them again. Go play. The block club will be here soon.” She held the door open for the twins.

    They jumped off the back porch and ambled to the garage so Mom couldn’t hear.

Jenny spoke first. “The Cracker Jacks are on the fridge.” She ducked between the car and the bicycles to fetch a bucket then came out with her hand extended. “Give me your bandanna.”

He giant-stepped away. “Dad gave me that.”

“So? When Mom leaves the kitchen,” Jenny flapped her hand, “I’ll flag you.”

Clutching the bandanna, Jenny ran down the driveway and set the bucket upside down under the dining room window. She stepped on the bucket and peered inside. The bucket wobbled on the gravel, but she kept her balance by holding onto the window ledge.

The window flew open.

Mom’s head popped out.

Jenny fell on her butt, her hands grinding into the gravel.

Mom scowled. “What are you doing?”

Jenny rubbed stones off her palms. “Um . . . I was . . .”

Rob rushed up and grabbed the bandanna. “She cleaned bird doo-doo.” He helped Jenny up. “Off the window.”

“I didn't see any . . . ” Mom’s voice softened. “Come in. I’ll check your scraped hands. Then you two hooligans stay outside.”

Jenny tossed a tennis ball over the burning bushes and against the garage. “We’ve got to ace the next try.”

Rob caught the ball on the rebound. “Here’s the plan. The doorbell rings. I count three, tiptoe in, and grab the Cracker Jacks.” He threw the ball. The twins let it bounce on the ground. They raced back to the house and crouched by the back porch. After what seemed like a year, the front doorbell rang. Rob mouthed his silent count then tiptoed halfway to the refrigerator.

Mom came into the kitchen and picked up the coffee urn. “Robert Benjamin Irving! I told you to STAY OUTSIDE.”

Rob froze. “Um . . . er . . . well . . . ”

Jenny burst through the screen door. “It’s my fault.”

Mom scowled.

Jenny spread her arms wide. “I made him go in. I said you’d get mad if he peed in the bushes. Especially if the grouchy neighbors saw him.”

“Heavens.” Mom took a deep breath and mumbled. “They’re only ten. What will life be like when they’re sixteen?” Shaking her head, she pointed to the bathroom. “Go. Then skedaddle. My meeting’s starting.”

Rob lay in the hammock with Jenny—their heads at opposite ends, their legs side by side.

She bumped his knee with hers. “We could ask Dad, but—”

“—he won’t break Mom’s rules.” Rob sighed from the bottom of his empty belly. Holding his finger above his face, he closed one eye then the other. He watched the finger shift positions against the oak branch until the finger popped onto Mom's face. He stiffened.

“You two discombobulated me so much, I forgot.” She dropped an Amelia Rules comic onto Jenny’s lap and an Archie onto Rob’s. “I saw how your eyes sparkled when Bob talked about his boyhood summers. So I bought these for you.” She pushed the hammock. “You did try to help.” Before returning to her meeting, she gave the twins two boxes of Cracker Jacks.

* * *

 

I Make Stuff Up T-Shirt

I didn’t celebrate the completed challenge. Though the story pleased me, I drooped like I had when I finished the last stitch in the stole for my Regency gown only to discover COVID canceled the Jane Austen ball. I didn’t have the time or energy to drive to Presque Isle and share the Cracker Jack story with the Area 1 picnickers. I stayed home and concentrated every spare second on the Disappearing Blueberries blog—another challenge, especially since Cracker Jacks kept interrupting my thoughts.

I needed closure. I couldn’t buy a box and gobble a handful to sate the childhood craving that had lain dormant for decades. Cracker Jacks contain soy—a no-no for me. Maybe I could exorcise the snack obsession by sharing the story with my friend Maggie Tuesday evening.

“I loved it,” her cheery voice bubbled over the land line. “Especially the bucket part. My sisters and I were like Irish triplets being only a year apart in age. Mom wouldn’t let us take our dolls outside. We tied our hair ribbons together and lowered the dolls out the window in a bag. It worked for a week.”

Visualizing a bag of dolls being lowered on colorful ribbons could cast the Cracker Jacks out of my mind.

“We were concentrating on getting the dolls down safely. We didn't know Mom was watching the bag through the window downstairs.”

Maggie and I belly laughed. She always lifts my spirits.

“You know. My mom made us cracker jacks all the time. She used light corn syrup. Mmm. They tasted delicious.”

The cracker jack snack obsession compounded. I didn’t have closure. I had another challenge.

At the kitchen table the next afternoon, I searched the internet for homemade cracker jack recipes. I settled on the one that used molasses instead of corn syrup [link] and studied the details. We had the basic ingredients but I would need popcorn, Spanish peanuts, and a candy thermometer.

Jumping up, I sifted through the contents of the utensil drawer. We had three meat thermometers. I asked Spence, who was mixing pizza dough at the counter, “Can I substitute a meat thermometer for a candy thermometer? The recipe says I need to bring the molasses-sugar mixture to two hundred forty-eight degrees.”

Spence shook his head. “They don’t go that high.”

Our son Charlie walked in from the guest room, which should be called Charlie’s room now. UPS transferred him to Meadville in mid July. He’s been living with us and moving carloads of belongings out of his Seneca apartment on weekends. “I have one in Seneca. I’ll bring it.” That, the fourth weekend in August, would be his last load.

Friday Spence bought the popcorn at Giant Eagle and the peanuts at the Amish grocery, Windy Knoll. Charlie brought the candy thermometer Sunday. I would bake the cracker jacks when Charlie got home from work Monday so he could help with the thermometer.

My fellas enable my schemes.

Then Sunday, Spence finished his cheesy eggs in the oven. He pulled out the perfected eggs, shut the door, and turned off the broiler. Poof. Sparks of light shot through the oven. The broiler element broke with a big flash. After that, the bottom element heated, but the temperature control never left the preheat setting.

My body must have sagged as much as my spirits because Spence said, “The oven still heats. Just be careful.”

Judging “careful” on a new recipe seemed risky. I preferred to wait for the oven repairman even if it took weeks. Luckily, a young fella replaced the broiler element in less than ten minutes on Tuesday.

Before another dilemma or disaster could intervene, I set my laptop on the kitchen table Wednesday afternoon and gathered ingredients. “Charlie, I want to make the cracker jacks now. I need your help.”

He stood by the table and gave me the quiet “okay” he does when we finish lunch and I ask him to play Cat Lady yet again.

“I’m debating whether to make a half batch. A whole batch uses a half cup of popcorn kernels.”

“That amount would fill two of those.” Charlie pointed to the half gallon container he uses for popping corn in the microwave. “I won’t eat any. I don’t like cracker jacks,” he said.

Did I want to pop twice? Probably not. And Spence, a diabetic, wouldn’t eat any. I didn’t need all those sugary calories. “Half a batch it is.”

Puttering away, I halved ingredients and checked three websites.  “One-eighth cup equals two tablespoons or does —”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “One-eighth cup is two tablespoons.”

I measured the molasses and dripped it onto the brown sugar and olive oil. Substituting olive oil for butter, because of my dairy intolerance, meant the candy would have a different flavor. Worse, I wouldn’t know when the “butter”  melted—the signal to stop stirring. Wouldn’t the candy stick and burn if I didn’t stir it while the temperature rose to 248°? When the sugar seemed to blend with the oil, I stopped stirring and stuck the thermometer into the boiling mixture.

Charlie quietly walked to my side and adjusted the way I’d hooked the thermometer to the saucepan. “It shouldn’t touch the bottom.” He backed away.

The thermometer’s blue line stayed low for ages. I detected the faint smell of burning. Maybe that came from a dollop that dripped off the spoon when I stopped stirring. Finally, the blue line crept upward.

Carrying three grocery bags, Spence burst in the front door. “I got your almond milk.”

“Oh, dear.” I stared at the thermometer. “The table’s covered with baking stuff.”

“No worries.” He plopped the grocery bags on his all purpose sofa. “How’s it going?”

“I forgot to grease the cookie trays.”

“I got it.” Spence greased two trays.

Charlie shoved stuff around on the table to make room for them.

The blue line climbed fast then faster reaching its mark. A definite odor of burnt candy came from the stove. Pulling the pan off, I added the vanilla and baking soda. The mixture started cooling as I poured it over the waiting popcorn and peanuts. “Uh-oh,” I wailed, stirring then cutting with the spatula.

“It’s fine.” Spence pantomimed cutting in the air. “Keep cutting. That’s a girl.”

Using the spatula and fingers, I spread the mixture out on the cookie sheets, took a taste test—a faint burnt flavor mixed with the molasses—and put the mix in the oven to “dry” at 250°. The oven worked, but the cracker jacks didn’t dry. I left them baking longer. They still didn’t dry. Afraid the slightly burnt snacks would really burn, I pulled them out.

After dinner, I munched a handful. I had expected, rather hoped, to find the snack so sweet that I would dump the batch into the garbage to avoid consuming the unnecessary calories. Instead, the slight burning and olive oil gave them a bittersweet flavor reminiscent of coffee. They were intriguing and addictive—not delicious like the ones Maggie’s mom made. 

Yes, were. Thank goodness I ran out of brown sugar. I can’t make another batch. I’m planning to take up a new challenge involving zero calories before Spence’s next trip to the grocery store.

Homemade Cracker Jacks