I don’t know anything about where and when Dad snapped this photo of Mom and his car. I have absolutely no story to tell about it, or really anything to yammer on about beyond saying Mom is far from 90 in the photo. I can, however, tell you that I have teased Mom many times about how I think she only married Dad because he had a car, and bees, and indoor plumbing. Mom gets a kick out of my musings about her chasing Dad for those three reasons. I am certain the fact that they were crazy for each other had nothing at all to do with them getting married.
Half of A Bow Tie o’ the Day is better than none at all.
Hey, earlier this week, I posted this pic in a set of pix about Mom and Skitter, but it’s the perfect photo for what I’m writing about this morning, which is Mom and Suzanne. They have been chums from the beginning. I think they trade secrets about me, and they conspire against me—if only to keep me on the straight and narrow. I am not necessary to their conversations. They talk sewing and cooking and house decor. Blah, blah, blah. After one of Suzanne’s surgeries, I took her to Mom’s and dropped her off for a week of recovery, while I drove back up to Ogden with Rowan so he wouldn’t have to miss any school. Mom pampered Suzanne with lots of quiet and plenty of tasty food, as we knew she would. I wasn’t worried about either of them. When I picked up Suzanne at the end of the week, she was nearly healed.
One of the first times Suzanne and Mom met was in 1985. We were all in Mom’s kitchen, and Mom was concocting cookies—chocolate chip, I think. (No surprise there.) The three of us gabbed and guffawed about who-knows-what. Mom plopped the cookie dough on the baking sheet and put it in the oven. I think she even sat down with us for three or four minutes. (Mom rarely sat down in her kitchen: She ruled it and hovered around guests from a standing position, always at the ready to start cooking something else, or wash a dish.) So there we were—just the three of us chatting away in Mom’s kitchen kingdom, when Mom jumped up and screamed, “I forgot to finish putting all the flour in the cookie dough!”
She did not skip a beat. She flew to the oven, retrieved the cookie sheet, and scraped the partially baked cookies back into the mixing bowl. She folded-in the rest of the flour, then plopped the cookie dough back on the sheet, and stuck it back in the oven—hoping the treats might work out. OMGolly, if I—or anybody else—had tried to correct the same mistake the way Mom did, my cookies would have come out barely worthy of going into the trash. But Mom’s “ruined” cookies were sooooooooo yummerific. It was an impressive feat to see. I think it was right at that moment when Suzanne decided she better keep me, if only to be around Mom performing her miracles.
In this photo, we see Mom donning some work duds to help Dad in one of his bee yards. From what I can guesstimate, this was probably taken in 1948 or ’49—either right before, or soon after, they were married. In fact, it would not surprise me if this was where they spent their honeymoon—visiting Dad’s bee yards, from Delta to California and back again. Look at Mom’s expression! I think it’s so cute that she looks undeniably giddy at the prospect of venturing into a buzzing bee yard with Dad. Now that’s what I call love.
In the fairytale truth of Mom and Dad’s love story, I’m sure it was not one of Cupid’s arrows that struck them. It’s more probable that a stinger from one of Dad’s bees was what pierced their young hearts to make them fall into eternal, old love.
BTW Here’s where I pester you again: Send Mom a “90th Birthday” card/note/ice cream cone, etc. before the 26th @ Helen A. Wright, Millard Care and Rehab, Room #104, 150 White Sage Ave., Delta, UT 84624. Thanks to y’all for always watching out for Mom—especially during that last year before she agreed to peacefully hand over her car keys to us. 😎😉
After Dad died, whenever I was in Delta, Mom made two or three daily trips across the alley to my Delta house—carrying her little glass of Pepsi. If weather permitted, we hung out on the front porch. In inclement weather, she sat in my living room—where we chatted and laughed and solved the problems of the world. Then Mom would be off to her house again to cook, or read The Chronicle or The Tribune for the umpteenth time, or otherwise putter around her full, but empty, rooms.
Mid-evening, Mom would show up at my place again to spend the night. She never slept in her house alone after Dad was gone. She wasn’t afraid of being alone at night. It just made her miss him too much. I always offered her a bed, but she liked sleeping on our couch, where she could hear the noises of our house: the tv, dishes being done, the washer, dogs being let out to potty, etc. She would wake early and walk the 40 feet back to her house, where she climbed into a bed that wasn’t hers and Dad’s, in a bedroom that hadn’t been theirs. She would sleep a few more hours, and our routine would begin again.
Such a simple sight to see: Mom, in her outfit of mixed pj’s and coats, holding a tiny glass of Pepsi, strolling up the sidewalk—just to sit with me, so we could share good gossip and cure the ills of the world. Memories can be quick snapshots in your head. One of my deepest felt “snapshots” is simply Mom walking slowly to my front door, glass in hand.
After Mom broke her hip in June of 2017, she could no longer live in her own home in Delta, so she moved to St. George with my brother, Ron, and his beautiful wife, Marie, for the next year. We brought Mom “up north” with us when we could, and she’d spend part of her “up north” time with my oldest sister in Pleasant View. We kids traded Mom back and forth like she was a fragile, prize baseball card we were trying to share with each other. (“It’s my turn to have her!”) But Mom was not done with her beloved Delta, and when a residence space opened up for her at Millard Care and Rehab in October of 2018, we were pleased and sad at the same time. Mom would be in a safe and happenin’ place for the final chapter of her long life, but she wouldn’t be having sleepover camp with her kids and grandkids anymore.
Ron and Marie were out of town being grandparents for a week when the MCR space opened up, so Suzanne and I were down at their house doing our Momsitting when we got word Mom needed to be checked in at MCR almost immediately. Suzanne and I helped Mom go through her St. George bedroom to make decisions about what she could move with her to her new digs. To say the whole process was tearful is to underplay the upheaval Mom was feeling. She knew it was time for her to make the move, but it was a huge and probably final move, nonetheless. We had all cared for her until she needed more care than we could safely provide.
That October morning we were packing up Suzanne’s SUV to move Mom from St. George to Millard Care and Rehab, I had to wake Mom up. She had a check-in time in Delta, and we needed to get on the road. As I woke her, I sat on the edge of her bed and explained, step-by-step, what we were doing that day. She said in all seriousness, “Well, I’m not going. I was quite restless in the night. I finally decided I’m not going to the care center, and then I fell asleep. I slept like a log.” I don’t know exactly what I said after that, but we talked and cried and talked some more. She got up and started to gather things together, but she had to choose which of her home-made porcelain dolls to take with her. She could not have them all in her new room. I told her we could trade them out occasionally, so she’d have them all—but only one at a time. Mom’s tears were fierce. I eventually went and got Suzanne, who was packing up the car, and said, “I need you to do one task right now. Help Mom choose a doll. We have to leave.” Suzanne was somehow successful. We eventually ended up in the car with Mom’s belongings, including one bigly doll. Skitter was in the backseat, by Mom’s side, from St. George to Delta. Mom petted Skitter the entire way. Again, we talked and cried and talked and cried, across all the miles of our journey. Gee, I’ve gone through some rough things, but this was the worst day of my life.
By the time Suzanne and I left Mom in her room at MCR later that day and headed back to Centerville, Mom was still a bit flustered. The saving grace was that she knew almost everybody in the place—residents and staff. Every one of them made a fuss over her arrival. She was already the Queen Bee of the prom. It wasn’t her home, but everybody was familiar.
I learned one thing that day we drove Mom to what will likely be her last earthly home. (Honestly, I already knew the thing. But, like any human being, I’m stubborn, so I had to re-learn it that day.) And the thing I learned is this: The right thing to do for someone you love is sometimes the most difficult thing you could possibly ever think to do. But you have to do it. Because you love them. And it’s what they need.
Damn it.
That’s why I was wearing my broken/bandaged hearts Tie o’ the Day. I knew it would be appropriate for our mission.
FYI I drove to Delta to visit Mom three days after we moved her to MCR, to make sure she was doing okay. She was already absolutely jubilant to be there. So many family members and friends were stopping by to welcome her, I only stayed with her two hours. Heck, I was in the way, and I had never been so happy to be in the way. I decided Mom’s best trick is to carry her contentment with her wherever she goes. We’d all feel better if we would do that.
Another FYI You can see Mom had already temporarily “lost” her sunglasses and her tooth on moving day, but you can also see she had her all-important clip-on earrings on her elderly earlobes. No matter how old one is, one must always wear something with a touch of class.
TIE O’ THE DAY brings you a selection of pix of Mom and Skitter during some of our visits with Mom at MCR. Mom has always been kind to all of God’s creatures—except ants, flies, mosquitoes, and mice, of course. Even so, Mom has never been a petter of anybody’s pets. But for some reason, Skitter and Mom hit it off, from the get-go. I’m sure it has a lot to do with Skitter being abused prior to her life with us. Mom’s got a whole diatribe she goes into about people who abuse animals, which usually ends with, “They oughta be shot.” Hey, you’ll get no argument to the contrary from me.
Anyhoo… Last week’s devastating winds here in Centerville were a thing to behold. The tree carnage was incalculable in Davis County. The damage to homes and cars was hit-and-miss, but homes and cars that did get hit, got hit bigly. Thankfully, our home was mostly missed. Skitter was the real victim of the winds, as far as our people and things are concerned. How do you explain the sound and feel of torrential wind to a mutt who is already chronically skittish from her previous abusive life? The power was out, so there was no cranking up music or the television to cover the sound of the storm. You have to understand that our tv is always on. When Suzanne and I are out of the house, we leave the television on for Skitter so she knows we’ll come. back home. Skitter is not stoopid. She knows if the television is on, I will definitely be back. When we go out of town and Suzanne’s sister stays here with Skitter, she knows the television is to remain on if she has to leave the house. It’s the law!
Anyhoo, again… With winds gusting into hurricane range, Skitter still had to go potty. Winds can’t prevent that need. I guiltily had to push her out the patio door. Out she went, into the bluster. She stared at me with eyes that said, “What did I do wrong?” I had to turn away. When I turned back to her, she was dutifully pottying—claws clutching the grass to keep her from being blown away in the awful wind. But I noticed something that made me feel relieved. Skitter’s pee was falling almost straight down into the ground. I immediately thought, “Skitter’s got this!” I knew for a fact Skitter had braved stronger winds in her life. We had spent tons of time at our tumbleweed ranch in Delta, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. I had seen Skitter’s pee fly sideways in the winds o’ Millard County at least a half-dozen times, and it was dropping straight down in the once-in-a-hunnerd-years storm in Centerville. After all was said and done, and despite its wrath, last week’s storm o’ wild winds was just a hullaballoo of wimpy city wind trying to blow with the bigly winds o’ Delta, Utah!
[Yesterday, I re-posted a photo of Mom slicing her cheese bread. I told about the importance of cheese bread at our family holiday meals. Today, here’s a second re-post of the recipe.]
Five red Bow Ties o’ the Day are proud to provide a recipe we think you’ll find tasty. It’s cheesy and bready. Who could find fault with that?
Actually, I really can’t call this a “recipe.” Mom’s recipes ranged from easy-peasy to intricate and near-impossible. This is a simple one. Three ingredients are all you need. You’ll also need an oven.
1 loaf of French bread. 1 stick or 1/2 stick of butter. And one jar of Kraft Old English Spread.
Lay a sheet of foil across a cookie sheet. You do not want to have to clean baked-on cheese off your cookie sheet. Use the foil.
Hand-mix the cheese spread and butter together until it’s creamy. Mom generally uses the whole stick of butter, although I’ve seen her use just half a stick. I always use just the half.
With a bread knife, skin ALL the crust off the French bread. Ditch the crust.
Cover the bottom of the skinned loaf with the cheese/butter spread, then place it on the foil-covered cookie sheet. Continue to cover the sides and top of the loaf with the cheese/butter spread. Spread the spread as evenly as you can. Since the size of French bread loaves vary, you might or might not use the entire amount of spread. Plus, you’ll definitely want to experiment with how thick you like your cheese spread layer to be. If you want a thin layer of the cheese/butter mixture on the entire loaf, you’ll probably have enough to cover two loaves.
Bake for 10-ish minutes, at 350 degrees. Ovens vary, you know. Experiment with how crusty—if at all—you like the top of your cheese bread to be. The more you experiment with the variables, the more cheese bread you’ll “have to” eat.🤤
I recommend you slice the cheese bread (an electric knife works best) while it’s still hot. And put it on the table hot. But it’s still yummy when it has cooled off.
As any good cook knows, even with an easy recipe the taste is in the details. Mom’s excellent cooking was the result of tweaking good recipes to make them better, as well as her knack for timing. Still, she cooked primarily by sight, smell, and taste. Measuring ingredients wasn’t much of a concern to her. She guesstimated a lot. That’s what makes it difficult to pin down her actual recipes.
If someone wanted a recipe, she’d give them one. She’d also invite them to come to the house to watch her make what they were asking about. Her complicated candy-type creations are especially almost impossible to re-create, even if you watched her make it and tried to write everything down. She was always changing the way she did it or adding a new twist or a different ingredient. And, of course, exact measurements were not always Mom’s way.
Oh. About the potato chips and Diet Coke in the photo. Those food staples are for you to snack on while you make the cheese bread. Substitute a bottle of wine for the Diet Coke, if you are so inclined. Chocolate is also allowed.
[The Skitter v. Wind post will have to wait until tomorrow. Here’s a repeat of a Mom post from a couple of years back. The soon-to-be Birthday Dame could cook up a storm.]
Entwined hearts Bow Tie o’ the Day is perfect for Mom. I have been told she’s having an extremely tough time missing Dad recently. Even though he’s gone, their love lives. It’s a time-space continuum thing.
This photo was taken almost 20 years ago. I think Mom is in the kitchen at the Palomar. Most likely, this was a Thanksgiving bash. Check out Mom’s attack face. She is darn well gonna conquer those two loaves of cheesebread. And note the oven burns on the back of Mom’s hand. You’ve heard of rug burn. Well, this is cheesebread burn. She burned her hands on the oven coils every time she made cheesebread. Every time, I tell you. Mom never met an oven glove she’d use.
In our house, the electric knife was used for cutting only two things: carving turkey and slicing cheesebread. It was basically used only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. And then the gadget was put back in its little 70’s original box, and into the kitchen cupboard where Mom and Dad kept the checkbook. The knife la in its skinny box all alone for 363 days a year. Poor thing. I should have put a bow tie in with it for company.
Mom’s cheesebread is a sacred food. Many of you have had the privilege of tasting Mom’s confections over the years, and you know she was an excellent all-around cook. But Mom’s cheesebread was something she made almost exclusively for family holiday dinners. It was a rare gem. And it was the key food item of those dinners. Dinner did not happen without the cheesebread. Kinds of salads changed. Different versions of potatoes joined the basic mashed potatoes. You’d think the turkey would be the star, but it was always about the cheesebread.
And it was war. The most desired slices of cheesebread are the ends, where the cheese-to-bread ratio is the highest. If you managed to score one of the ends, it was only because you managed to steal one before someone else stole it.
At some point after dinner, there was what I’ll refer to as The Semi-Annual Battle Over the Tinfoil On Which the Cheesebread Was Baked. The tinfoil was like the cherry on top. It was like the prize in the cereal box. It was covered in baked-on, cheesebread drippings. Dad usually won that war. And then he would sit at the head of the table, picking carmelized blobs of cheese off the tinfoil– obnoxiously, so we couldn’t help but watch it happen. And we drooled through the torture of witnessing the results of our defeat.
I have made this cheesebread for parties and dinners and potlucks in three states in this U.S. of A., and I can attest to its lusciousness. A couple of enemies became my friends because of this cheesebread. Its powers know no bounds. Hell, Mom’s cheesebread could probably find a way to balance the federal budget AND create world peace.
TIE O’ THE DAY was impossible for me to create for a few days this week. As you may have heard, Centerville was the recipient of some bigly winds which began on Monday night. The worst winds were more or less constant for nearly 18 hours. We got at least one 100 MPH gust, but most of the gusts were in the 75 MPH range. It was no surprise when the power went out FOR DAYS, taking the internet with it. Even our cell phones were stunted and could not entertain us. Posts about neckwear and/or Mom simply could not happen. Personally, I was most put-out by not being able to watch television. In fact, I was in such tv withdrawal that I finally managed to hook up a small tv in my car to get my fix of the local news. I thought I’d be okay again when the power came back on, but I wasn’t. The power going off and on blew up my Directv box, so I’m without all the good tv channels until the replacement receiver shows up. Oh, boy! My life is difficult, eh?
These pix are just a taste of the wind-devastated foliage in our neighborhood. This tree went down just north of us. Apparently, part of the sprinkler system in the grass got pulled up with it.
Coming up in the next post: Skitter v. The Bigly Winds o’ Centerville.
I forgive Mom for wearing no Tie o’ the Day in this photo. In fact, she gets a complete pass on any missing neckwear until she turns 90 on September 26.
As far as I’ve been able to calculate, Dad took this snapshot of Mom some time in 1948, a few months before they got married. The location is somewhere on the Utah west desert—probably close to Baker, NV. They were both 17, and they were ga-ga for each other. Mom says they still are. I have no doubt. Smitten, the both of them.
After Dad died in 2007, Mom received a sympathy card from “one of the Lyman girls” (I’ve temporarily forgotten which one.) who grew up in the house directly across the street from our home. She wrote that watching Mom and Dad as she was growing up was like watching a love story unfold. “The Lyman girl” wrote that once—when she was well past middle age herself, and Mom and Dad were old and gray—she had been at Top’s Cafe in Delta, where Dad sat at the counter chatting with his coffee buddies. When Mom happened to walk in with her gang for lunch, Dad’s blue eyes immediately lit up. It looked to “the Lyman girl” like all Dad could see at Top’s was Mom. I saw that very look between them more times than I can count. It was the tenor of their way with each other.
I was lucky and blessed to grow up in a house with parents who were so clearly and openly in love. So many of my childhood friends weren’t raised amidst the security that comes from watching their parents take good and constant care of each other. From my vantage point, even in their rare bickering, Mom and Dad never said or did things that diminished each other’s dignity. Their respect for each other always ruled the day.
