Nothing Left Undone

A couple of weeks ago I lent my Mother-in-law a book. It was A Paris Wife, by Paula McLain; a novel based on the first marriage of Ernest Hemingway to Hadley Richardson.  I had bought it  for myself and had already started  reading it but noticed when we saw her that she didn't have a book,  which was unusual. I thought she might like it and passed it on.  The timing seemed to be right.  She mentioned she had just finished a book.

She passed away yesterday.  It's funny, the small things that stick in your mind when a loved one passes. I'm thinking of that book sitting in her bag, maybe, or on her bedside table, waiting for her to come back and finish turning its pages.

The unread book led me to think of other things she might not have gotten to finish. Was there a card she wanted to send, a person she wanted to connect with, a song she would have liked to have heard one last time?  Was her last thought about something left undone?

I don't think so.  She took  her last breath bathed in love and surrounded by the family she nurtured. I think it was all she would have wanted.  Nothing was left undone.

Safe journey, E.  Thank you for being the mother you were, which allowed me to have the husband I have.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

-an Irish prayer

Chicken out

Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

During a beautiful fall weekend in 2001 the Chicken family hosted an open house.

Twenty minutes before the start of the open house, someone saw Algernon streak across the kitchen floor. Algernon was one of S's three pet mice.  The mice were okay, as pets go, except for Algernon, who should have been named Houdini because he was always escaping from his tank.

Chaos ensued as we all chased Algernon, who promptly hid, jeering at us in mouse speak from behind various pieces of furniture.  He was enjoying the action, having been confined for several  days since his last break out.  It was now quarter 'til mouse infestation accusation time.  I gathered the three kids together for an impromptu brainstorming session.  We decided that we needed a trap.  S found a shoe box and some string, J offered up Ccoa Puffs, and R found a stick.  I grabbed a section of newspaper.

We put the newspaper on the floor in the general area of the last Algernon sighting.  Then we put a few Cocoa Puffs on the paper.  The shoe box was positioned at an angle over the cocoa puffs and propped up with the stick, to which we had tied the string.  Then we cleared out and waited for Algernon to go Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

It took about five minutes, but eventually Algernon stealthily approached the Cocoa Bait.  He sat on his haunches under the shady cabana and picked up a puff with his paws.  He took a tentative nibble, cocked his head to the side, and announced, "Not bad. Not bad at all!".  That's when I yanked the string and the box fell down, trapping the cocky little bastard underneath.

A raucous cheer went up inside the hen house and high fives were exchanged all around.  I wrapped the sides of the newspaper around the box and flipped it over.  S slammed the shoe box top over the newspaper.

The door bell rang.  It was Go Time.  I answered the door, with a welcoming smile on my face and a shoe box tucked snugly under one arm.

Chicken out

This mouse looks like Algernon but, apparently, favors cheese doodles.

Vi Chronicles: How to Raise a Thief

Hi World,

My  mother, Violet, had two sisters and seven kids. I was the youngest of my mother's kids, and the youngest cousin.

On the day I learned to steal, the three sisters, Vi (my mother), Tee and Lula,  found themselves a pick-up truck and a willing teen-age driver.  They packed a cooler with ice, coffee brandy and kool-aid, and hit the road.  I'm sure there was another cooler full of sandwiches, but the coffee brandy cooler is the one that sticks in my mind because I was sitting on it, and every time a sister would hand her travel cup through the back window, I would have to move so that one of the older kids could  whip up a White Russian, or a Vodka and 7, if the sisters were dieting..

The sisters were squished in the front, and the assorted kids piled into the bed of the truck, with the aforementioned coolers.  For obvious reasons, this is now illegal, but back then it was an acceptable way to pass a lazy summer day, and keep a lot of kids occupied.  My memory of that day is distilled to one long,  flat stretch of road. The driver hit the gas, and we  flew down that road, the  wind whipping our hair into our eyes and dust flying everywhere, as we laughed at each other, raising our hands into the air to feel the wind fly through our fingers. Except for me.  I did not participate in the finger waving because I was hanging on for dear life, trying to calculate my trajectory should we hit a bump the wrong way.  I'm not called Chicken for no reason.

We came upon a corn field, and I guess the sisters decided corn was as good a dinner as anything, so the driver swerved to the gravel.  The kids all piled out and into the fields, like well-trained soldiers.  We grabbed as much  corn as we could carry and ran back to the truck.  The whole operation took about five minutes.  Then we squealed back out, onto the blacktop, and headed for home, where the ill-gotten gains were husked, cooked, and gleefully consumed, under the watchful eye of Aunt Dot.  Aunt Dot was the Aunt of the Sisters.  She made the biggest chocolate chip cookies in the history of the universe, and she accused everyone of stealing and cheating at cards.  Aunt Dot was a sore loser at cards but we didn't hold it against her.  When you live in the company of a giant cookie architect, you forgive a few things.  Plus, given the corn thievery, it's possible that her paranoia was justified.

I'm  not sure why the sisters thought stealing corn was acceptable behavior. Maybe they assumed that the farmer wouldn't have planted his corn so close to the road if he didn't count on a certain percentage of his harvest being heisted.  Or, maybe, they thought the farmer should have built a fence if he didn't want to share.  More likely, after the White Russians (or Vodka and 7 if the Sisters were dieting), they thought it was funny.

For me, at an impressionable almost-eight years, corn was a gateway vegetable. I assumed  everyone's garden was up for grabs.  I wandered the neighborhood vegetable patches, helping myself to radishes, rhubarb, cucumbers and whatever else looked edible in its raw state.  I began hanging out with the wrong crowd, and moved on to night raids.  On crisp fall evenings, when we were supposedly having a sleepover, we infiltrated the neighboring apple orchard.  Then we went home, made popcorn, and got out the Ouija board.  We stayed up 'til well past midnight, chomping apples, throwing popcorn, and talking about kissing. Just a normal Saturday night in the life of a seasoned produce thief.

This behavior continued until I was about 12 and determined, for myself, that stealing is wrong.  The attack dogs in Lucarelli's Orchard may have played a part in my sudden streak of conscience.  Not that I ever actually  saw an attack dog in Lucarelli's Orchard, but that didn't matter.  We knew they were there.

Hello World, I'm Chicken!  I'm a recovering produce thief.  (Welcome Chicken).

These days, I buy my vegetables at the farmers market.   Or Whole Foods.  Basically, I'll  shop wherever there are no rumors of attack dogs.

Chicken out

Corn begging to be stolen