Relations and Relationships

Relations. When I say relations I am talking about relatives, people to whom we are directly connected by DNA via procreation and indirectly connected  via marriage and co-habitation.

Relatives. I have quite a few relatives. My father was one of eight children, my mother had three brothers. My mothers parents each came from very large families. When I was growing up it was not uncommon for family gatherings to be counted by the dozen. We are talking outside  get-togethers, with enough food and milling about to resemble a movie set filled with extras.  The stereotypical Southern Family Reunion. These were often timed around a birthday of one of the elders, or the hometown visit of those who had sought their fortune and future outside the hometown and off the family farm.

When they married my father had 2 sons, as did my mother. They had three children, meaning that in the end I can admit to 5 brothers and one sister.

I do not feel especially "close" to any of the surviving four (one half-brother is deceased).

All of my life, for as long as I can remember, I have been an observer, and often feel the one on the outside looking in. Peeking around the edges to see what everyone else is doing. There is a great deal in my individual history that I am sure can explain the reasons for this feeling of disconnect I have, much of which I shall not or cannot share in a forum that is as public as a blog.

I was thinking about this today, because my mothers younger brother is ill, hospitalized out of state. He and his family are some of the relatives whose visits used to trigger the gatherings at the family farm near Bluefield. In the past ten years, I have become adult friends with his daughter, and my first cousin. I am very thankful that we have been able to have the opportunity. I really hope her father is not in too much pain. 

And I came across the following, a blog post I started yet never completed:

We all have them. Stress points. Sensitive topics. Pet peeves. Those people who can with a word, an intonation, a glance or gesture raise our hackles. Very often they are relatives, and very often the sensitivities are heightened during holiday and/or family celebrations. Situations that reduce us to a quivering mass of nerves, total brain paralysis and a state of altered consciousness where we will ourselves to be elsewhere, doing anything but dealing with the current scenario.

I have a friend whose parent is a frequent trigger in their life. This friend is no slacker in life, nor are they inexperienced at dealing with people. They have been self-supporting for all of their adult life, and are well-respected in their field. The parent can trigger guilt and stress with barely a lift of the eyebrow or turn of phrase.

Another friend's parent has never been shy at expressing their disappointment and disapproval at lifestyle and choices, yet they dutifully drive over three hours one way to attend family events and holiday gatherings. Without fail they depart early, pent up with suppressed emotions and responses choked back.

Some stress points are less apparent, yes just as damaging. Paralyzing.  Triggering past events, unhealed injuries, affronts that were never confronted much less resolved.

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These are the things on my mind this chilly, foggy January evening. 

Fractured Friday

Odd weather we are having these days of January. I am not really complaining though. Less cold equals less heat pump therefore lower AEP bills and I am definitely all for that.

Etta James has passed away. People always pile on the accolades when a musician. author or artist passes away. When you go back and read their biographies you often see they were beset by misfortune or plagued by obscurity in their time with us. I wonder why we only sing praises when they are gone?

I have been unemployed for 15 months this week. I truly never imagined this would happen to me. I will never view social/public assistance programs in the same way as I did two years ago. Nor the recipients.

I think people fixate so much on things they cannot control, like the weather, because they are so ill-equipped to handle the things they should be able to control. And yes, I am including myself in that collective.

More time spent understanding and less time spent trying to impress or condemning may solve more problems than we think.

Listening without offering opinion or serving up one's own issues is likely the greatest of the graces one can employ.

Graciousness and civility seem to be traits, in my opinion, that would benefit society if encouraged and cultivated more.

I heard it said once that the best measure of character would be to face whatever life brought you with grace and dignity.

I am less reliant on income for contentment than I would have thought. It must be true that the best things in life do not have a price tag attached.

I find myself editing my vocabulary a great deal, even when I write this blog. Not for profanity, but for words I fear the average reader may not be familiar with.

One of my favorite phrases is "unmitigated gall".

The everything topping they put on bagels and bakery breads is really tasty and is applicable to both sweet and savory usage. Not many foods are that diverse.

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Peanut Butter on a Bald Head

There are women I know who are my real life heroes. They face those situations in life we all live in fear of with grace, courage, dignity and humor. Perhaps not all the time, but in the end with grace, courage, dignity and humor. 

These are not traits you wake up one day and say, Today I shall be courageous or graceful. These are traits that are inherent to your character, often forged of pain and disappointment. Character is built over time.

I once knew a woman when I lived in North Carolina whose name was Diane. The pains and disappointments in her first 40 years had been legion, and she had developed a strength and depth of character that inspired. She was raising her two granddaughters at an age she had thought would be her time. She worked, went to church, was a wife, mother, teacher, friend, loved to play golf. Then she was diagnosed with non Hodgkin's lymphoma. 

Chemotherapy. Nausea. Debilitating pain. Visit after visit to a medical clinic for treatment, followup, tests. 

The facility that was the sudden center of her out of kilter universe was very close to a large shopping mall. She had realized after a few weeks of this new bizarre life that was suddenly hers that her appetite window (the time in her treatment  when she was able to eat and actually wanted to eat) was very specifically the day of but prior to her chemo. She would go to a carefully selected restaurant to have the one meal she could actually enjoy prior to the next set of days of pain and agony. 

On a dreary February afternoon, as she strolled through the mall, having enjoyed her lunch, she was stopped by a young woman who was taking a product survey.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, would you mind answering a few questions about your personal hair care routine and the products you use?"

"Not at all"

"I am struck by how thick and healthy your hair is. Would you care to tell me your 'secret'?"

"Peanut butter"

"Peanut butter?"

At which point Diane adroitly removed her wig, having lost her hair weeks before. "I massage it into my scalp every night before I go to sleep."

I am not sure what triggered this memory, perhaps the many brave courageous women in my life who know the value of humor in maintaining equilibrium. How blessed I am to know each of them.

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White Guilt

I suffer from white guilt. You will not find this in a search of physical or psychological disorders, or I do not think you will. I have not really tried. I use this term to describe the gut feelings of shame and remorse and empathy I feel when I see racism and bigotry and discrimination. 

Case in point would be this article about the treatment of Native Americans by whites and the US government. I have been told, and do believe, that I have at least a small portion of Native American ancestry. One day I will locate pictures of my father's mother and his oldest sister to share, and you will see why. 

The White Owl in my online presence is in honor of these ancestors. 

Yet when I see news stories or blog posts about the treatment of Native Americans, or blacks, or Hispanics, or Muslims,[ or or or or I could keep going!] I feel this guilt and shame. I am not sure why I feel this way. I am not aware of anything I have ever done to anyone that would leave these feelings so deeply embedded in my psyche. I may have ancestors that were soldiers or settlers of some sort, but as far as I know there are no glaringly obvious examples of greed avarice or murder lurking in the branches of my family tree.

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I am left to wonder if in our society's obsession to be "correct" we are becoming a horde of overly sensitive ineffectual lemmings.

Biting My Tongue

I usually don't get all steamed about things right off the bat. I used to in my younger days, but the years have mellowed me in some respects. Now, you may think that is a good thing, but it is not  always. Because I let things simmer. They lurk around somewhere in my wrinkly grey matter and when I address or try to resolve the matter at hand, I have days of complicated thoughts to try to make sense of without totally exploding.

There are a couple of situations like that I am dealing with right now, and I am being so cautious. My gut, primal reactions are to be harsh and lash out. The problem being that should I do that, I may damage relationships I do not want to, or cannot afford to, damage. 

I will pose a hypothetical question to people at times, trying to work through a problem like this. I want input, and I invariably get less and more than I want. Less constructive perspective, and more unwanted advise. So I have started talking to my cat.

Yes, I have started talking to my cat Smokie to try to navigate my way through complicated human issues and situations. At first, I thought I had really lost it. Now I am not so sure. She listens, does not judge, keeps her mouth shut, and gives me the opportunity to hear my thoughts and emotions as they will sound to others. I can tighten things up, edit myself where needed.

Writing does not always help, because I tend to hit send on a comment, post or e-mail without careful consideration. 

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That's all.

Food Memories - The CDA store

In the heat of July, 1989, I moved to a small town in Gaston County, NC, Dallas. Gastonia is the largest town in the county, which borders Mecklenburg County, and Charlotte. Gaston County was an important part of the textile industry in the early 1900's and there were still a few mills operational when I lived there. In Gastonia there were at one time three large mills operated by the same family that were named after family members, Clara, Dunn and Annie. 

In close proximity to the mills there was a small grocery, a precursor to today's convenience stores. The name of the store was CDA. They sold tins of Vienna Sausages, bottles of soda pop, loaves of bread, bags of potato chips and Little Debbie snack cakes. There was also a flat-top grill, and a sandwich press. You could buy a hot sandwich there from early in the morning until about two in the afternoon. The sandwiches all has the unique character of that part of the state. There were fried  livermush, bologna {all the way was fried bologna with mustard onion and chili}, steak {not Philly-style but cube steak chicken fried then simmered in a brown gravy} and pimiento cheese sandwiches served on hamburger rolls and pressed in the sandwich press to flatten, heat and very lightly toast the product.

I suppose they had hot-dogs. I do not eat those, so I never notice. Hamburgers I am fairly sure were available as well. Truth be told, I only ever ate a lunch hour sandwich from there maybe once or twice, because there fame, the apex of the CDA experience was breakfast, or a mid-morning snack. 

When you walked in there in the morning, the aroma of fried pork products and eggs would greet you at the door. Bacon. Ham. Sausage. Livermush. Bologna. There would be a line to the door, snaking around the shelves and by the coolers that held bottled juices, cans of Sundrop and cartons of milk. You grabbed your drink on the way, called out your order the minute one of the servers caught your eye. The order would be written on a brown paper bag, and made so fast you would have it in your hand in minutes. The fried eggs were tender, the yolk barely firm. The bun was run across a butter roller, slapped on the grill, the egg and toppings were piled on, it was wrapped in waxed paper, pressed to compress and melt the sliced American cheese, and handed to you in short order. 

When I saw the soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld, it reminded me of the CDA. Oh, but it was so good!

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Today I made egg, ham sausage and cheese sandwiches a la CDA for us, but they were not the same. I do not even know if the store is still there. I moved from the area in 2001, and a lot can happen in 11 years. But those sure were good sandwiches. 

gotta make the doughnuts

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Do you remember that commercial? Dunkin' Doughnuts, way back in the day [as they say]. That is the way I feel right now.

I made a commitment to blog everyday, not everyday I feel like it. And oh, my, today I do not feel like it. I have a headache, combination of sinus issues and not enough caffeine I suspect. I am determined however, so I soldier on.

I have been dealing a bit with drama the past few weeks, and that probably has not helped. I even dreamed about the whole mess last night. Actually, I think my subconscious was trying so hard to decipher the mess that I was working out escape scenarios in my sleep.

I get tired of deciding what to eat every day. Deciding what to cook is hard for me. I do enjoy cooking, and enjoy it most when there are people other than Roger and me to eat the results.

Doughnuts. I do like to make doughnuts, though I have not done so in ages. I have not deep-fried anything in quite some time. I worked in fast food and in the high school cafeteria years ago, and still despise the smell of deep frying in progress. I bake a great many things that others fry, from chicken to french fries. I even roast green tomatoes and summer squash in the oven.

Nonsense from my brain just to say I blogged today.

gotta make the doughnuts