Picture and inspiration borrowed from BluebirdChris. Thank you.

How to tell if you are Mom's favorite

In my home there would have been seven little puffs of fluff lined up along that branch. The amazing thing is that I don't really remember any one of us getting more attention than another. Except, of course, for whomever was the newborn at the time. They naturally needed more of mom's attention. In retrospect I can truthfully claim that mom was consistant, magnanimous, and wholly fair in her treatment of her brood.

She stood on all our heads!!

I am so frustrated with myself. Here I sit... trying my best to remember the name of my favorite 'alone' toy. Alone toys were a rare and special treat in a household of multiple crumb crunchers. Please excuse me a moment while I shake up this cranium of broiling memories of ...  I remember now ...

COLORFORMS

Colorforms, invented by Harry Kislevitz, are toys produced by the Colorforms Corporation. Colorforms are paper-thin, die-cut vinyl sheet images and shapes that can be applied to a slick cardboard background board, much like placing paper-dolls against a paper backdrop. The images stick to the background via static cling and can be repositioned to create new scenes.

That's it. Colorforms; wonderful, quiet and all mine.  I loved the colors and all the tiny pieces made to meld with the larger main pieces. But mostly, I liked the texture. Yes, I'm sure that was reason for my delight. They were so smooth, silky, slippery yet at the same time they would stick the background... without glue. What an improvement over cutout paper-dolls. I liked those too but was always so impatient to have them ready. I felt one spent entirely too much time cutting, trimming and sorting the pieces. I wanted to have at the fun part right away.

The disassembly was as anticipated as the assembly. I must admit that ever since I can recall I have had a slight (?) case OCD. So each time I would finish my carefully planed and manicured scene, I would remove each individual vinyl form and reset it into it's original cutout space exactly as it was when brand new from the box. This took time. All playing took time back then but this especially took time. Once all had been returned carefully and tenderly to its original state, I would turn again to the coated cardboard to carefully redesign and layer another new scene.  With my Colorforms each piece was a part of an evolving story; an imaginary narrative that always accompanied the choice of apparel or scenery. That was important. Did the placement fit the mood. Was 'she' pleased with my choices. When I say 'she', I mean Cinderella, of course. Colorforms came in all types of setups much the way Mickey D transforms the look of their Happy Meals to reflect the newest movie characters. Everyone knows that Cinderella was the best.

I know that's not the way it's done any more. You simply go to your computer and click,drag and drop. A quick flick of a button and voila your page is clear and ready to start all over again.  I believe click,drag and drop becomes too boring too soon. No nuances; simply click,drag and drop. Wipe. Next. Repeat. Done. Not so with my beloved Colorforms. Today I struck out in search of Colorforms. And I found that you can still get them. But they are not the same. Learn this.. Educate that...  Where is the joy of creating what only you can understand. I'm glad Dora will help you learn all the states of the union.. whoo hoo. (NOT). I would be happier if we could do it in Cinderella's pumpkin coach with the tiny mice and the fluffy gowns and a happy ending born somewhere deep in the heart of this child.

  Can't be... No Cinderella!!!

None!!! They are all reruns or reality themed shows with a whole bunch of people who really need to get out and get a life. And that's just the judges.

   

I just surfed the channels in a continuous loop for this Featured Question, you will end up surfing them too since there is not much happening on any one of 2000 digitally optomized yet brain dead, eye bleeding and boring channels! Medusa lives!

There seems to have been a little bit of confusion about what kind of insect this is. So for my clarification and your edification; this bug is...

A Japanese Beetle

bane of the T & K garden; devourer of Roses (petals and leaves) and creator of random bald patches in my lawn.

The Japanese beetle (Popillia japonica commonly referred to as the jitterbug) is a beetle about 1.5 cm (0.6 inches) long and 1 cm (0.4 inches) wide (smaller in Canada), with shiny copper-colored elytra and a shiny green top of the thorax and head. It is not very destructive in Japan, where it is controlled by natural enemies, but in America it is a serious pest to rose bushes, grapes, canna, crape mytrles, and other plants.

It is not

Calosoma

The Forest Caterpillar Hunter, Calosoma sycophanta, is a large, bright green, metallic ground beetle that is native to Europe. In 1905 it was imported to New England for control of the Gypsy Moth The species is a voracious consumer of caterpillars during both its larval stage and as an adult.

Nor is it a

June Bug

Green June Beetle aka Peach Beetle

All three are primarily green but the similarity ends there. So we all now know that:

1. Japanese Beetle...   BAD guy
2. Calosoma....  GOOD guy
3. June Bug...    EHH guy, sometimes GOOD and sometimes BAD.

Japanese Beetles and June Bugs are both a type of scarb beetle. Cool, huh!

I’ve mentioned before that I consider myself a culture orphan. Although descended from peoples with formidable histories, neither side of the family ever shared their childhood circumstances or ancestral stories with their children much less their grandchildren. Affection was absent on all but the most obscure levels. No hugs, no kisses, no tears…..

It makes one ponder the apparent hardship of life or horror of experience that molded these tightlipped and militantly secretive personalities. Perhaps this is not as unusual as I think. These people had survived so many tough situations; The Great War, The Great Depression, The Second World War, Korean Conflict, Vietnam.  I can understand their parsimonious ways. All of them squirreled everything away. Nothing was ever too old to keep. My grandfather had cases of out of date food in his small senior living apartment when he died. Was this hoarding born of near starvation? Very well could be. We have no frame of reference to understand what years of rationing and gas coupons can do to the psychic wellbeing of a child. The result was an almost neurotic suspicion of any type of demonstrative emotion.

G’ma-dad lived in a small insular community a short way out of town. A little village tucked into a crease that was more of a large ravine rather than a small valley.  Many people would refer to it as a hollow. G’ma-mom lived only a few blocks from home. In fact, mom had two sisters and a brother who lived less than a block in various directions from home. Today, I find it interesting that while both mom and dad came from large families only my father and one other of his brothers went on the have correspondently large families. The remaining multitude of siblings had two or no children of their own.  And of my contemporary cousins, a few have had two children, as I did, or more likely no children of their own. My parents have only eight grandchildren between my seven siblings; three voluntarily have no children at all.

My grandmothers could not have been more different if they had consciously tried. I assumed they loved me mostly because I could tell they didn’t hate me. They fed me; to them that was love. G’ma-mom could take shoe leather and make it taste like anything… G’ma-dad could take anything and make it taste like shoe leather. You could eat off G’ma-mom’s floor because it was so shiny clean. You could eat off G’ma-dad’s floor because most of last week’s scraps were still there. G’ma-mom would make you manga, manga, (eat, eat) because you were always too thin. G’ma-dad could carve so thin a slice of roast you could read through that slice. G’ma-dad gave me home made cocoa. G’ma-mom gave me home made wine. G’ma-mom would give me candy to eat. Sorry to say, G’ma-dad would eat my candy.

Other little things come to mind. They both wore aprons whenever they were home; G’ma-mom’s was bright flower patterns edged with bright red or yellow binding.  G’ma-dad’s was made from flour sacks or other such materials. Some were quite interesting patchworks of mismatched ends and squares. Both kept their hands busy. G’ma-mom was always in the middle of making a doily, many of them elaborate sofa and chair sets. G’ma-dad always had a cat in her lap; hands busy picking fleas. (Gross then, more gross now).

I wonder what memories my g’babies will have of me. Will they remember our dancing to their kiddies’ music? Will they remember the times I slid down the carpeted steps on my fanny? Will they recall the hundreds of cups of ‘invisible’ tea I gleefully swallowed?  Will they remember burying each other in g’ma’s bed pillows? Will they remember the pumpkin patch we are now growing? Days at the park? Popcorn for breakfast?

I know for certain that they will remember that I loved them. Not because I fed them but because I told them every time I saw them. I hugged them every time I greeted them. I kissed their ouchies and wiped their tears; I told them I was proud of them. I told them….  I love you…. In words and not left to hope as I did.

 I have been at battle for the last three weeks. Great fluorescent hoards of barbed green meanies have endeavored to devour the labor of my hands. How is one to fight back an enemy that seems to be immune to all bug killing remedies. Ok, everybody tells me Seven will work. Yes, but I can't use that because of the pets and kids. My, roses my poor poor roses.

This fellow is in full fighting pose

Here is one they seem to have overlooked.

Gratefully they seem to have abated. Soon the youngin's will be leaving for a weeks stay in the great State of Florida and I will renew my attack with the Diaz iz az iz  ..... oh, whatever, poison and kill the little grubs trying to bed down in my comfy lawn for the winter.  HA!   I'll get them and their little friends the sand fleas too.

Imagine a Mad Scientist insanely laughing.

Sunday dinner; Eaney, Meany, Miney, and Moe are all clustered at one end of the table. DIL, myself, and g’daughter are stationed at the other end. Lately the four P’s have been up to mischief. I think the goal is to thoroughly indoctrinate and induct the youngest P into their Adult Conspiracy. Methinks 5 is a bit young. But they do say the only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys. And this kid’s toys are quickly gaining in stature.

As in all manly households the grill duty is proudly attended to by the manly men of the home. Today it was Eaney’s turn.

Meany              Looks good….      What is it?

Eaney               Whacha mean, what is it? It’s chicken.

Miney               Ya sure, looks like it’s still moving.

Moe                 (begins to grin)

Eaney               Movin’? Get outta here!

Meany              It’s all good. The flame must have been 3 ft high. It’s done.

Eaney               Yeah. Stata zeet (his pronunciation)

Moe                 (begins to rock in chair)

Miney               Coulda swore it was burgers or hockey pucks… your choice.

Eaney               Man!!!

Meany              Well it is kinda round, sorta…

Eaney               It’s boneless what do you expect?

Miney               I thought it would be more recognizable than that.

Moe                 (ROFL and continues for the remainder of the

                         conversation)

Meany              Next time you cook.

Miney               I’ve seen better looking road kill.

Moe                 Road kill! (in complete meltdown)

At this point my ears picked up. I was the one who had prepared this meal. It was the unholy trio (Moe being too young to grill) that had flambéed it beyond recognition. I was miffed to say the least.

These men, ne, boys, continued for the next 5 minutes on the different types of road kill they had seen; which townships had the best road kill; when the optimal time to gather road kill was and, of course, how long it was acceptable to allow the road kill to cure. Meanwhile, Moe, is nearly melting with laughter. Every time one of the unholy three would say the word, he would repeat it and cry with laughter.

More proof that no matter how big the man’s body the child within is master.

Two days later, we, our family, and friends met for a mid-summer’s night of conversation and treats at a local coffee house. Moe slides into the center of the group, settles his cute little bottom onto a chair, folds his angel hands in front of him and announces to the world in an articulate, clear and much too loud voice.

Guess what G’ma made for dinner on Sunday?

 ROAD KILL.

He collapsed laughing on top of the table. Me? I slowly disappeared under the table. Somewhere in the distance, I hear…

Hey Moe, you ever been to the Road Kill Café? First thing they ask is, “Bloating or no Bloating”?

Men or boys, I’m slowly losing the ability to tell which is which.

Let me preface this with: 1) I’m not blond 2) I’m not buxom 3) I’m not quite or complacent 4) I definitely do not bob (as in animated empty minded bouncing) after any guy.

PaulsShar asked; how did you meet your husband. It’s more like, how did my husband meet me? After all I was in no way looking for him. I was sick to death of narcissistic males looking to scratch their itch. Looking back, I think he was in no way looking for me. He was very happily ensconced within a bevy of beautiful buxom blonds.

I’m still amazed that the guy was able to rouse himself enough to look beyond that well bumped bumper of babes. Besides it was not me who did the big fall down flip-flop instant gotta have that guy whoop when I first saw him. That was AM my good friend and fellow early morning car pooling companion. We three had somehow been placed in the same Interpretive English Class (Don’t ask… it was the 70s).

I, of course, had more to do than to sit in the lecture room waiting for prof to waltz in like some charismatic judicial regent expecting the masses to bow in adoration. Flash and Flurry… boring. I had to eat breakfast, you know. So I would dump my books randomly on a desk at the back of the room and dash out into the corridor and wolf down whatever was passing for food at 7:40 in the morning. I remember the taste (eh, sort of) but have no recall of whatever it was looked like. In fact, I don’t think I even remember the drive to college… and I was the driver. Thank God that he protected this fool and her passengers.

Anyways, the bell would ring and I would reluctantly return to the lecture room to find… my books had been moved. Usually closer to the front and always next to AM. No problem with that. AM was shy. She had not yet realized that men are always more trouble than they are worth. So, she was still trying to catch her one of those critters. Bad move, so I thought. But I had failed to notice in my sleep deprived zombie state that AM had the googley eyes for the guy up front; the one fluff of black curls bobbing blissfully amongst the several blond blobs.

Every class was another opportunity for me to go on another treasure hunt as my belongings had once again transported themselves to an alternate location somewhere within that lecture hall. Eventually, my bag and books ended up next to that guy with the curls. I felt very much like a monkey in the middle; AM, me and then He. Too bad for AM. It backfired big time. Maybe it was his sense of humor, maybe it was his smile….. maybe it was his way cool apple red, super hot sports cycle?   I wonder.

I ran into AM the other day. Quite by chance really. She had her g’son and I had my g’son at Micky D’s and bango actually ran into each other. It was fantastic. She was still the same gregarious, refreshing friend she had always been. She never did catch her one of those critters worth all the trouble; definitely somebody’s loss.

My H works for a company that for all intents and purposes can be called textile in origin. If anybody out there knows anything at all about the textile industry in general, they definitely are aware that “China” is the first and foremost problem textiles have faced for the last 15 years.

Over time close to 75% of manufacturing and product development has quietly and quickly emigrated to the Far East. This has had a severe, deep, and unrecoverable effect on the industry on a whole and the old manufacturing centers of upstate New York in particular. While most of the country complains of entering a recession we only shrug because we have not rebounded from the last recession and feel this as just another deepening of the current economic disaster. So many factors could be cited as to the cause and effect of our micro-depression but for the matter of this discussion we are not ‘going there’. My point is an observation my Honey brought up over dinner a couple of three days ago.

First let me state that the company H works for will not be found on the Fortune 500. Yet, I can almost guarantee that close to 95% of you have been ‘touched’ by the work of his hands. Even though they are not an end producer they provide the materials for items we have all used at some point in our lives. So ladies when you dress each morning, gents when you pull your cap down low over your eyes, brides when you walk down the aisle, babes when you are warmed by that fuzzy blanket, and anyone who has ever enjoyed a Broadway show or small town production; thank you from the bottom of my small town heart for providing my H and his pals a paycheck every week.

“So and So dropped us a big order this week.” He said. “Really” I thought they had switched to China? Turns out they had but they and several other wayward clients are coming back. Why? Well, several reasons. One: China will promise you the world, on time, every time and deliver… maybe. US manufactures operate on a strict time control for production; in the back door and out the front in a matter of days sometimes hours. Excess inventory is money sitting on a shelf. Delays wreck havoc with the cash flow. Secondly: the quality control sucks. Sorry. But it’s true. America does not expect fabric that could stand in for sandpaper in a pinch. They want the color to stay in the fabric not your skin. They want their items to not fade. Honey says to look around you, patio cushions and shelters that lose color and degrade after a couple of seasons… no UV protection. So you pay less, again and again and again. Thirdly: extras in the packing. It’s a paradise if bug collecting is your passion otherwise they are welcome to keep their creepy crawlies home. I opened something the other day and found the cello bag from some line workers lunch. Thank you Beijing.

Finally: the cost of shipping. For years China has been undercutting the cost of manufacturing products. Everything from toothpaste to dog food to that faux designer hand bag have been shot our way for a cost less anything the US could ever match. They have driven company after company into bankruptcy to the point that we have to settle for the ‘crap’ or go without. Now the cost of shipping has skyrocketed over the last 6 months. China is now forced to pay the same as anyone else to move their goods across the wide, wide, wide Pacific Add that to the additional transport costs in country and bingo the bargain is no longer a bargain. Sad for them; glad for us.

The price of a barrel of oil is what drives this economy. Oil AKA:  M. O. N. E. Y.   Late orders can be complained about. Bugs can be swatted. Got itchy fabric? A little scratching will fix that. If it breaks, that’s just a chance for a repeat sale. But touch the money, the almighty dollar that should be profit and is now fumes disappearing into the ozone... I know that it is now becoming cheaper to pay higher US-made per item purchase prices because the vendor has a much smaller transport charge to tack onto the total cost. So, get out of the way China and look out small town USA. And look out customer because you too will be able to buy USA and get a product that is not contaminated, is not pre-designed for failure, and is providing income to your friends, neighbors and countrymen.

And that, after all is said, is probably the last great hope for the Manufacturing Centers in the US. Maybe, the automotive jobs won’t be coming back to Detroit but it just might put the Glove back in Gloversville.

It happened this day, eight years ago, today. My mother died.

In reality, it never really happened on any one single day. It had been happening everyday for the last six years. She had cancer. She never had a chance. It was always a matter of when, not if.

“She's gone, Kathryn. It’s over....” my dad nearly whispered, quiet voice catching. “Ok...When?” I asked. “This morning about six”. As I held my car keys limply in my hand my mouth continued to move to say the right things; to ask the pertinent questions.   But my mind, my mind was screaming...why did you wait so long to call me? Why do you always wait so long?

It wasn't a surprise. We all knew that this hospitalization was going to be the last. The hospital had given her the 'suite'; the corner room on the fourth floor. Windows were on two walls...a panoramic view of the beautiful Mohawk Valley. Located at the end of the wing, it afforded the family the space and the privacy to come and go at will. Every so often an aide would refresh a trolley of coffee and snacks; a quiet, thoughtful service for visitors to the 'suite'.  My mom would spend the last week of her life there. She was never alone. We, her children, had always arranged that she was never alone whenever she had been in hospital. We took care of her toilet; we bathed her, fed her, confirmed her meds, changed her bed gown, changed her bed; kept her as safe and clean as we possibly could. We just couldn't save her.

It was in all ways a wake for the living. Macabre perhaps, but looking back it was so very fitting. Closure had to be made now, not later. My mother had decided to donate her body to The Albany Medical Center's Teaching College. So when she passed that early summer morning, her body was unceremoniously whisked away. No wake, no viewing, no funeral.  It would be nearly 24 months before her remains would be returned for internment; Another year before her memorial service at the Saratoga Battleground National Cemetery. My father will have remarried by then. How could I fault him? He didn't know how to be alone.

It's the tiny, seemly insignificant details I remember. Helping to give mom her last sponge bath. Already in a drug induced coma, she was so quiet, so still, so small. Asking the nurses to discontinue her blood sugar testing and insulin injections. She's had enough pain … so much pain. Soft prayers, quiet begging for Jesus to take her home. She and I.

Day four: She's spending more time with the morphine. In the quiet time in the morning she asks, "Is K coming?" "Yes mom. She has to drive." Not too many years before, Mom and I had spent more than a week at Sister Five's bedside in Chicago. Her brain tumor was gone but so was much of her inner ear. Flying would be much too painful. In denial my dad still believed that mom was coming home. He had just called K the evening before to tell her to come. Come Now. [Why does he always wait so long?] I had called the day before. So K was on her way, having already begun the two day drive before dad’s call. Out of the blue mom begins to give me instructions. Call so and so. Check on Mrs. you know who. Pay this and that. Take care of the cats. Take care of your father. Tell your sisters I'm sorry.

I remember being so angry. My father denying the inevitable. My mom trying to live up to his expectations. My mind tallying up the transgressions. Angry at the aunts chattering away about everyday life. Chattering about memories....Chattering just as is if they were at her viewing. Didn't they realize? My mom, their sister, in all likelihood could still hear them. Mindless, worthless, miserable, empty chatter.

My mom's last words were whispered to Sister Five when she finally arrived late afternoon of Day Five. At that point my mother had been nearly comatose for 24 hours. I'm glad for my sister. Somehow Mom reacted to and recognized her. Moments only, her last semi-lucid moments. If there is any irony, or wry humor in the moment it's that mom spoke into my sister's "dead" ear.

There's more but what's the point? I still, to this day, wait for her to call. I half expect her to, really. Dad still has her voice on his answering machine.

He wonders why I don't call him more often.