"I'm Becoming the Family Blanket Maker"

 Yes, I've taken on a new project since finding out that I was to become a great grandmother! Notice I said BECOMING the family blanket maker.  My sweet "mother-in-love" was the consummate quilt and blanket maker.  She kept us in blankets and quilts and did our mending and made school and Halloween kid's costumes making for three families and many extended family members when she graced this earth with her presence.  And she did have a presence!  She influenced all of us for the better.  She loved and cared for us in her own way and yes, she chewed our butts out if we needed it.  And all of us did need it, more than once.  But she taught us by example, what loving someone unconditionally looks like.  In my life and in the lives of my husband and children and grandchildren, she mattered! And her influence still exists.  She left a legacy of love!

One of her acts of love was to provide baby blankets for all the grandkids and anyone else she encountered that had a baby.  And she made the good kind!  The kind that was big enough that you could take them out in a blizzard and that baby would be warm from the house to the car and it was big enough to cover you too, if you needed it to do so.  She made the kind that could be spread out in the den floor and it would take a youngun' at least 10 minutes of sustained effort to roll to the edge.  Yes, they were blankets of substance made by a woman of substance! And while I most likely will not be what she was to the world of blankets, I am none the less giving it the "old college try"!

Yesterday, I decided that it was time to get another blanket done for my 5 month old great granddaughter. I have made 4 for her --three for the shower, and one for Easter.  It simply isn't blanket weather in Texas during the summer.  So with September on the horizon, I decided yesterday was the time for me to get serious about a new blanket.  Any day now we could look north and see a "blue norther" blowing down.  And what great grandmother in her right mind would want her precious great to have to venture forward wearing last seasons blanket? 

So I put all my other chores aside and made our Blakely aka. Princess B. a Halloween blanket. And it is going out in todays mail. 

     

"Falling in Love With Fall"

" Falling In Love With Fall"

"Autumn leaves don't fall, they fly! They take their time and wander on this their only chance to soar."---Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

I know it's still August in Texas, but I do this every year, try to force my will on the heat and humidity that is like a wet blanket draped over literally everything. I want the high pressure dome to move west or east or over Russia, anywhere but here. I want to feel the crisp air that begins at the edge of the pasture behind our house and rushes to greet me as I step out onto the back porch, steaming coffee in hand.  Have you ever noticed that Fall mornings possess their own quiet? I love that about Fall!  No cicadas, crickets, neighbor's lawnmowers.  Just a quietening of the hemisphere that says we should all be getting ready to rest.  We need these restful days between the frenzy of summer and the bustling about of the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. I love those family times and all that goes with them but Fall is MY time. The days start to get shorter and meals at our house are simpler. A warm bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup and a big hunk of crusty French bread slathered with butter is God's way of saying, "I love you and I know you don't want me to wash your feet or anoint your head with oil so here, take this and bask in the love."  Yeah, He talks to me like that! My time for reading lengthens (always a blessing) and I cease with the quick showers and go for a warm soak in the tub and lie on the sofa in my favorite gown covered by a quilt Bodie's mother made for me.  Ohh, I could just extoll the virtues of Fall from now until the cows come home but the real reason for me writing this is because I want to share a recipe with y'all.

It is no great secret that I literally live for coffee!  Bodie and my kids believe with all their little hearts that I live for them and it thrills me that they think so but coffee is the great love of my existence and without it, I guarantee they would question whether I could love anything!  

During most of the year I drink Peet's coffee exclusively and even during recent shortages, I have never run out.  Not even close!  But let the middle of August arrive and I'm calling Central Market to see when Pumpkin Spice coffee goes on the shelf.  Not yet they tell me, but soon.  In this year's pandemic shortages, I'm a little nervous about this.  Pumpkin Spice coffee is essential to MY Time.  MY time would not be the same without it!  So if it never shows up in the coffee bins at my grocer's I have a Plan B--Homemade Pumpkin Spice flavored coffee creamer.   Made it this morning.  Choose which is right for you.

   Homemade Pumpkin Spice Coffee Creamer

2 c. half & half

1 14 oz. can Eagle Brand milk

3/4 c. pumpkin puree (Not pumpkin pie filling)

1/4 to 1/3 c. maple syrup

1 tsp. ground cinnamon

1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg

1/4 tsp ground cloves

1/4 tsp. ground ginger

Mix all ingredients together until well combined.  Pour into clean jar or bottle and refrigerate.  It gets better if you let it sit overnight.  Shake well before pouring into your coffee.

**You can make a healthier version by using almond milk or lactose free milk instead of  half & half.  You can use S-F maple syrup and I subbed about 1/2 cup milk plus a sugar substitute for the Eagle Brand Milk.

I hope you will enjoy this and think fondly of someone you love.  Or better still, share a cup of coffee with someone you love and reminisce about your shared life experiences.

And a final quote that speaks to me.  "How beautifully leaves grow old.  How full of light and color are their last days."

“The Coffee Urn”

 

I was just thinking today.  Something I seem to have plenty of time to do.  While some would say that I do too much thinking,  others with equal alacrity, would protest that I don’t do enough of it.  I do seem to have one of those minds that never shuts off.  And as I was pondering one of the thousands of insignificant thoughts that seem to just coming flying into my consciousness like so much space matter, I realized the significance of coffee in my life.

When one is asked to identify five constants or consider a recurring theme that is/has been significant in the course of a lifetime coffee probably does not make the cut.  But this is exactly the kind of things I sit around and think about.  So it is with a fair amount of surprise that this realization has not come to me before now.  I grew up with coffee!  Joining my grandparents in their bed to sip coffee is one of the sweetest childhood memories I have.  Nan would “load” the old percolator with water and Folgers coffee, bring three cups from the kitchen and sit them on the bedside table every night before going to bed so that all that was necessary the next morning was to plug it up and wait.  This was how my grandparents started their day—propped up in bed sipping coffee (so strong it could practically stand up in the cup) and discussing their agenda for the day.  And for me, the many, many mornings I woke up on the little loveseat at the foot of their bed and then climbed right up between them, I found a most comforting ritual that I would carry with me wherever life took me.  And it has taken me down the road to some places!

When I left home after graduating high school I moved into a dingy little apartment near the hospital where I was in training to become a licensed vocational nurse.  It was February, cold and dark every morning for that first month away from home where I’d always awakened to my mother in the kitchen preparing breakfast for us before school.  Instead I woke each morning to find myself lonesome for home, missing the familiar chaos of four kids getting ready for school.  I needed a familiar ritual to sustain me in those strange surroundings.  I used to sit at the window peering into the dark and wishing for warmer weather and a home of my own.   What sustained me was that cup of warm coffee, made in my little tin drip coffee pot, and the thoughts that this too shall pass. 

And when Bodie and I got married one of our wedding gifts was a nice shiny new Westinghouse 10 cup percolator.  Thus we began our mornings with a cup of my favorite brew.   As a matter of fact, the first morning after were married, I awoke and found that in the confusion of running to the car when we left the church, we had forgotten to put my overnight bag in the car.  That little piece of luggage contained my make-up, hairbrush toothbrush, etc.   Now I have always been resourceful and so when we ordered room service to bring breakfast and coffee I asked for an extra fork to comb my hair until we could go out and purchase a brush and cosmetics.   The coffee gave me the courage needed to stroll in the nearest five and dime store sporting no makeup and hair that everyone was sure to tell was combed with a fork.  Lord, how egocentric we are as young folks!  In truth nobody cares how you look or what you think. 

But it was with great pride that I used to think how we were just like my grandparents beginning our day with that courage- building cup of dark brown liquid and THAT was a good thing!  Many a morning Bodie and I would sit in our den with no light except for a nice fire in the fireplace and sip our cup of coffee and discuss our day or carry the pot outside and plug it in on the deck and listen to the birds as we talked about everything.  We’ve sustained careers, raised children and welcomed grandchildren into our lives all over a cup of coffee.   We have survived college educations both our own and our children’s pursuit of degrees; hidden Easter eggs and put up Christmas trees; held screaming teething babies and the hands of our dying parents all the while being sustained and comforted by a good old cup of coffee.  We have bought and sold houses, cars and boats; discussed the merits of a particular lawnmower, cookware, house shoes and insect repellent; made decisions regarding the mundane and fantastic issues of a shared life, all over a cup of Joe.  And now we are retired and enjoying a less frenetic more leisurely life style. We sit each morning and plan our day, talk about the kids and grandkids and about how well we slept or what joint needs a dose of Icy Hot or where we might go on the next road trip or what to serve at our holiday dinner, all over a cup of coffee.

And naturally with advancing age one of the thoughts I ponder is my own demise.  Not in a morose way or not with unnatural fear but just that it is a threshold also to be crossed.  I have long said that I want to be “cream”ated  (just couldn’t resist that one) when the time comes.  I’ve thought about how science says that matter cannot be destroyed but that it just changes form.  So rather than be laid to rest in an expensive metal box in a vault in the ground, I find the idea of my matter changing form and still sustaining life in such places that my family chooses to scatter my ashes.  And I am assuming they will need to carefully consider the best place or places for me.  I think I’d like to help bring new life to the earth somewhere.  I’d like to change the color of hydrangeas or in the minutest way feed fish in the beautiful azure waters of the Caribbean.  And while they are making plans for my distribution they will need a place to store me.  My suggestion is a Folgers coffee can.  If the old one I have placed on the kitchen table with a handful of zinnias is not fancy enough then by all means they should go to the expense of having an American silversmith fashion an urn bearing the name of Folgers somewhere on it.  I am a coffee can kinda woman but if crematory regulations and family sensibilities will not permit storage in my old tin then by all means get one in silver or bronze!  And this just struck me---this gives a whole new meaning to the words COFFEE URN! 

I hope all my coffee-lovin' friends will enjoy this little "dark roast" story.  And take it as it is intended--making light of a subject that is often difficult to think about let alone discuss with family.       

                                              "JAZZY THE ROOSTER"

Some of you have commented on my blog name and I have said, "There's a story about that."  And here is the story.  The original tale is in my cookbook, "Praise the Lord and Pass the Biscuits and the likeness of a Jazzy in all his regal plumage graces the cover of my cookbook. 

Just about the time I think I have attained a certain level of wisdom, I am challenged to learn more.  And nothing can inspire me like my granddaughters.  They are so confident in my love and adoration of them; of my experience about all matters of life as well as my desire and ability to make any situation a little fun.  Don't you just love it when the offspring of your very own children,  who not so long ago thought you didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain, think that you are indeed brilliant?! Lord you validate me in so many loving ways!  Let me say this boldly.  Macy and Katy think Nana knows all and can do all.  And yet, just as I start to believe that they might be right, my knowledge and patience are tested.

You see, my summer doesn't really begin until I have made a three hour road trip to Guthrie, Texas.  And not to offend the residents of that little west Texas hamlet, but the only significance of the journey there is that it is the halfway mark between where my granddaughters live and my house.  This trip usually means that Papa Bodie and I meet Matt, Kayla and the girls at the Texaco station where we load suitcases, CDs, DVDs, skate boards and whatever necessities they may require from Matt's pickup into our pickup. Before departing Kayla and I exchange pertinent information (the last of a round of antibiotics to clear up a sore throat are in the small ice chest; they had lunch at McDonald's in Lubbock; their church dresses may need pressing before Sunday).

However, this recent exchange was a bit more complicated.  For one thing, Papa had to work so I was alone in this venture and now I was to have an additional passenger on the return trip.  As fate would have it my afore-mentioned skills were about to be tested.  Macy, our oldest granddaughter was the proud "mother"/recipient of a baby chicken.  This came about as the result of a third grade science project.  She so sweetly explained to me, "Nana, I'm now Jazzy's new mother and I can't leave him while he is still so young.  I know you and Papa will just love your new great grandchicken."  Is that not just the sweetest thing you've ever heard?  How could I not want this new great grandchicken to come to my house for 10+ days?  So into the front passenger floorboard goes Jazzy in his box with feed and water.  We kiss and hug their parents goodbye and begin the trip back to our house in Lakeside.  Macy and Katy and I are having our usual visit about the important things in their lives and about what fun things I had planned for them while they we staying with me and Papa--ride the train from Palestine to Rusk, make cookies and fudge, paint with tempera on the back porch, build tents with sheets in the den and eat grilled cheese sandwiches and drink hot chocolate in Nana and Papa's bed.  (The bed where they slept was set up at the foot of our bed but each morning as soon as they awoke they climbed in bed with us.)

Our conversation is sweet but all the while we are hearing Jazzy's peeping increase in volume. Katy, my little one, says, "maybe if we play a CD he will hush."  We try one of their Granbury Live CDs.  It doesn't work.  Macy suggests something softer so I play Josh Groban's "You Raise Me Up".  The little chick peeps even louder.  Now desperate, I push a button for the next CD to play, just hoping to drown him out.  It's an old Buddy Holly tune.  Miraculously, the chick quits peeping so the girls and I resume talking.  We are making good, almost to Seymour where I plan to stop for gas, water, ice cream bars and a Slurpee. As we stop we notice that the "precious" grand chicken is going at it again--peeping at the top of his lungs.  Attempting to see what had caused this we discovered that we were now listening to a George Jones gospel CD.  Macy says, "play Buddy Holly again Nana".  I press button #3 again to return us to Buddy belting out "Peggy Sue."  I'm thinking this is too much!  Surely this is some kind of weird coincidence.  But NO!  We listen to "Peggy Sue" and the chick gets quiet.  We listen to "True Love Ways", "Oh Boy", etc. over and over again for two solid hours before we arrive back to our house.

Upon arriving, I tell Papa Bodie of our new family member, Jazzy, our great grandchicken, and of his discerning taste in music.  He gets a good belly laugh out of the tale and turns and whispers in my ear, "Nana, you are a clever old gal, convincing those baby girls to listen to your old Buddy Holly CD instead of "Veggie Tales."  I assured him that this was not the case, but I could see that he was not convinced--not until two weeks later when he rode with me to return Macy, Katy and Jazzy back to their parents at the Texaco station in Guthrie.  Needless to say, we loaned the Buddy Holly CD to them (although they were skeptical of our claims) so the could return home in "peep-free" comfort.

Later, my daughter-in-law, Kayla and I were discussing this phenomenon and we concluded that Mrs. Jones, Macy's third grade teacher, must have bought the hatching eggs, for the science project, in Lubbock.  Since then I have asked myself, "What is the lesson or lessons this small but memorable event has taught me?"  My answers are as follows:

     1. If I'd known grandchildren would be so much fun I'd have had them first.

     2. If your grandchildren love it so will you. (I actually miss Jazzy's soft nightly peeping).

     3. Music really is a universal language.

     4. God often brings children and little animals into the lives of adults to remind us that small          miracles of love happen everyday if we have our eyes and hearts and arms open for the gifts        in front of us.

 

      

Whatever else life holds, I am privileged to have spent the first two weeks of that summer with Macy, Katy and a Buddy Holly music lovin' grandchicken, appropriately named Jazzy.  Lord, I know that Buddy is playin' and singin' in your band in Heaven and could you please let him know that his legacy still lives on Earth in another generation of music lovers, be they human or one of our feathered friends.

So this is the tale of Jazzy!  I hope I have brought him to life for you and that this puts a smile on your face as you read it.  This is a special memory for me and it definitely brings a smile to my face and to my grandmother's heart.   

     

     

                           "Pity Party--A Place To Visit But Not A Place to Live"

I stood staring at the emerald green blades of grass, sprinkled with dew like loose diamonds carelessly tossed from a velvet jewel bag.  And from somewhere, many years ago, came the urge to walk barefoot through this display.  I remove my house slippers and gently step onto Mother Nature's carpet. It was cool from the night. The brilliant sun of morning had not yet heated it.
I wiggled my toes and just stood there taking in the moment, remembering such mornings from my days as a child.  Is this where we go when we age?  Back to days when life was simple and nothing hurt?  Are we blessed with those memories, so fresh after all these years, so that when walking from
one room to the next and forgetting why we went there is not as traumatic as it would seem?  Afterall I can still remember the smell of the cafeteria from elementary school and the feel of the first real coldsnap of late Fall on my bare legs covered only by a short drill team skirt. And now I chide myself for waxing toward self-pity because I'm aging.  I tell myself, "Shame on you!  You have been given a chance to age and to remember.  A chance to talk about how things were when you were young, with friends who remember exactly what you are talking about!  Shame on you for indulging yourself in a pity party!"

I write this and post it here because I know that this very experience is not unique to me.  I am fairly certain that all my contemporaries have at sometime or another gone down this dark rabbit hole.   However, we can admit it or not, indulge in it or not, or absolutely wallow in the mire of it, if we so choose, but the fact remains that WE ARE AGING. And that in and of itself is a gift.  And the pity party may be a temporary place to go but, it is no place to dwell for the long term.  Aging is a double-edged sword.  It cuts both ways!  On somedays we are blessed and on somedays we are cursed. I think perhaps my greatest fear of aging is not the decline of my physical body, nor is it that I fear losing all my cognitive abilities.  More, it is the fear of becoming irrelevant.  As I look back, I realize that I have been a force all my life.  I have done things and said things and written things that have made a difference.  Not on a grand scale but in the realm of my existence, I have done what good I could do.  I don't want that to end, not yet.  So I purge my mind today with this and get it out of my system, because tomorrow there are still things to do and people to do for that brings me a measure of joy.  And I refuse to let little bits of daily joy be overrun by a galloping pity party of one day. Not now and not ever.

Thanks for listening and if I can ever do the same for you, do not hesitate to ask.  I have a strong shoulders and big ears. When we shine a light into the closet at night, the scary things go away! Thanks for being my light!