We have become a much more health conscious society, and that is a good thing for the most part. It just seems to me that the whole concept of food now has drastically changed. It used to be that when families got together for dinner, there was a lot of baking, frying and buttering going on. No more. Nowadays, you can just make a salad, put out some grilled chicken, a little oil and vinegar, and you’re covered. We can all stand to be more aware and conscious of what too much of the rich foods from our past can do, and as we get older, even more so.  But sometimes I do still miss the comfort friends of my growing up days when there was a much different concept of what was good for you. Here are a few:

GRAVY – Everything was immersed in gravy. Mashed potatoes, pot roast, chicken, you name it. I can remember my father building a dam with his mashed potatos, and pouring in the gravy, full to overflowing. Today, gravy is considered taboo. Actually, so are mashed potatoes and probably pot roast, so looks like problem solved there.

BACON – Yes, the dreaded bacon.  My mother used to fry up a pound of bacon,  followed by sunny side eggs in the bacon grease. This with a few slices of wonder bread slathered in butter was considered a nutritious breakfast. I still love bacon, but these days it is a rarity.

BUTTER – There was for a while, a big controversy about butter vs margarine. My mother was always big on butter. With Everything! Anything that went in a skillet went in with half a pound of butter, with the exception of those eggs in the bacon grease. Now there are healthy oils to cook with that are much better health wise, but I have to say, I still really do like a hot biscuit with real butter.

MAYONNAISE- Well, this one is just bad. Even saying mayonnaise these days is frowned upon. For a while, the mayonnaise substitute was miracle whip, which my mother in law swore by. My kids will tell anyone who’ll listen that miracle whip is right up there with rat poison. 

SPAM- Back when everyone was poor and trying to stretch a dime, spam was very popular. This fatty ham wannabe could be fried up (with butter of course) or ground up with loads of mayonnaise, and we thought it was great. There are people out there who still like spam, but I don’t know any.

The list goes on – crisco, marshmallow fluff, real whipped cream, hamburger helper, and the like. We don’t eat any of this stuff anymore. Probably wise. All processed foods have been recognized as being unhealthy and potential carcinogens. I will always have fond memories of my Aunt Simone making me a fried bologna sandwich (yes, in butter) with buttered white bread, and loving it. But no more. Ignorance was bliss. Knowledge, hopefully, is healthier.

It has been 19 years since my father was here for Father’s Day. His last Father’s Day, he had been sick for quite a while, and we knew his time was coming to a close. The Saturday night before Father’s Day was his 50th class reunion and he was hell bent on going. Since he had not worn dress up clothes during his illness, he wanted a white shirt for the reunion, so I bought him one. Imagining he would be cold, as he barely weighed 100 pounds, I bought it long sleeved. He was furious! It was the middle of June after all, and he didn’t want to be seen in a long sleeved shirt! But he wore it. And he had a good time that night. The next time he wore the shirt was at his wake. But let me back up a bit.

My father and I never had that warm daddy/daughter relationship. We were very much alike for one thing . For another, he had a very warm relationship with his whiskey, which I had no use for. He was a good man, and never abusive in any way, but we never could talk about things that mattered. Feelings got buried under the rug, which is not a good place for feelings to be.  I grew up, married, had children,  and still my father and I kept our relationship on the fringe, minding our business. In early 1992, he had a stroke which left him paralyzed on his left side. Overnight, our lives changed forever. He was in therapy for weeks, and upon returning home, had many restrictions. No more whiskey, no more cigarettes, fatty foods, no drivers license.  Most people would have been discouraged, and thrown in the towel, but not my father. He got a friend to rig his car with a suicide knob, and teach him how to drive again. He rigged the doors in the house with clothesline wire he could keep in his teeth to open and close doors leading in and out of the house. He got his freedom back. He accepted the rest of his restrictions, albeit begrudgingly sometimes, but life went on. In late 1994 it was discovered that he had cancer and he had surgery in February 1995, removing most of his jawbone. Directly after the surgery, had a major heart attack. I don’t know but for the grace of God how he survived once again, but months later, he came home and resumed his life. It was during this time our relationship changed and we could finally talk as a father and daughter. Every night at 5:00 sharp he would call, and we would chat. He would tell me about his day – going to Mrs Murphys Donuts with his friend Dick, and driving around town checking out the wildlife, and whatever else was there was to see in a small town. I came to look forward to those calls, and we never missed a day. Things were good for a while, but sometime in 1997, the cancer came back. There was no surgery this time, as his health wss too compromised to withstand it. A year of chemo followed. All the while, he plugged along, not without complaint. There were times he would get frustrated, and need to regroup, but he always managed to bounce back. It was Good Friday 1998, when I spotted him driving through town. He never went faster than 25 mph, so I followed him, and was able to pull him over. I realized he was crying. The doctor had suspended his chemo, and felt he had done all he could. He knew he was failing;  still, my father forged on. April, May, June, he continued his daily rides to town, went to his class reunion, and kept going. He always had a wicked sense of humor. The day after the reunion, my mother was thumbing through the old yearbook, and rather tacklessly, she rattled off the role call – “He’s dead, she’s dead,” and so on. Finally my father had heard enough. His response was typical – “well, I’m more than half dead, and I was there!” He never wanted any talk about hospice, or the like, but one day in mid July he came home early from his morning ride, hung up his keys, and announced he was done. He did not leave the house again. The next 3 weeks we spent sitting by his bedside while he shared stories about fishing, berry picking, and old times. We laughed and cried. My brother came home from Vegas. Hospice came. People brought casseroles, and volunteered to take shifts overnight. As the days went on, there was less and less of my father as we knew him. By the last week he lost his ability to speak, and no longer opened his eyes. It was my shift to stay overnight on Saturday night, August 1st. My brother had to return home to Vegas earlier that day., and my sister was out of town. My father was restless and inconsolable.  It’s true what they say about hearing being the last sense to go. Somewhere around midnight, as he was still moaning, I went to him, and gently explained that it was OK, that it was time for him to let go. I covered him with a warm blanket, and put his window down. The rest of the night he was silent, and by morning I realized he had gone into a coma. We spent the next day with him. Hospice said it could still be some time yet, but no one knew how  long it would be. I left him and went home as our friend Donna came to spend the night. The call came about an hour later, telling me he had passed. I drove back to the house to say goodbye. I remember it was a clear, starry August night, and as I looked up, I sought out the brightest star. I knew he was already where he needed to be.

In the days and weeks that followed, things got back to “normal”. It was a while before I stopped listening for the phone at 5:00.  Upon reflection, I realized his illness had been a gift of grace for the two of us, and for that I will always be grateful. I finally had gotten to know and love my Dad. I see him sometimes in my dreams, and I smile. I cherish the gifts I got from him – love of nature, and a biting sense of humor. As I said, we were a lot alike. 

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Love you, and miss you.

Gray as an adjective is defined as “A color intermediate between black and white, as of ashes or an overcast sky.” And “dull and nondescript; without interest or character”

Regardless of this dreary description, gray is the hot color in decorating these days. Every reno project I see lately is putting a coat of putty or gunmetal on the wall. Honestly, I hate gray. Given the description above, I can’t think of anything I would rather see less on my walls. I don’t want to walk into my kitchen and think – “Wow! I feel like ashes and an overcast sky today”. This would not inspire me to cook, or eat. Same goes for bathrooms and bedrooms to a lesser degree. Dull and nondescript and without interest or character does not belong in my house. Period. When we were doing the kitchen over, people made all kinds of suggestions about the wall color – mostly neutrals. Several suggestions for gray. My husband was leaning on a beige, which is gray’s emaciated first cousin. Needless to say, bumblebee ended up being the color. When I walk into my kitchen, I smile. I want to cook. And eat. And be merry, drinking chardonnay. Sorry decorating gurus. No gray for me.

Came home yesterday from a great getaway in Maine. We were only gone 3 days, and two nights, but it was our first trip out since we got Indy and Sam, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Willow was always such an easy cat – she would only eat dry food – never jumped on the counters or tables. And since she was an only cat, there was no rowdy rough housing, no knocking things over, and generally no surprises to come home to when we went away. With these two I had all kinds of visions of what they might do in our absence. The planning for going away took a bit more time and calculation. I purchased two extra large cat boxes which could have easily been wash tubs for a couple of small kids. My “just in case” theory was that as long as they had a whole beach worth of clean litter, they wouldn’t be inclined to take their toilet habits elsewhere. I then tried to figure out how much food and water to leave out. These two are voracious and can blaze through tins of fancy feast and dry kibble like locusts, so I figured with just the dry food, they would need plenty. Two large bowls of kibble, and two troughs of water later, I figured they should be good. I closed all but two windows upstairs so they could get some air and lay on the windowsills.  Finally, I guessed they would be OK. The Drama! I didn’t spend nearly that much time packing my bags to go away! I don’t know what I was expecting them to do – light Matches?  Invite all the neighborhood cats in for happy hour? Rifle through my drawers?  Upon our return, I cautiously opened the door. They were waiting in the kitchen, looking bored, and more than a little miffed that we had shortchanged  them of their daily tins and bowls of cream. A few rugs were overturned. A few items were on the floor, but nothing broken. The two big cat boxes were evenly filled, but not overflowing . There was food and water left over, so they clearly didn’t starve. Still suspicious, I went upstairs. Nothing.  I was pretty impressed. Indy came around shortly, purring, and clamoring  for attention. Sam retreated to the basement, still put out by our absence, but he too is coming around. Looks like we can start planning our next getaway.

I have always been a strong swimmer, and in my younger days took every opportunity to frequent every pond and pool I could. However, in recent years I have developed a case of public swimming phobia. Two bad knees, lack of proper exercise, and general “retirementitis” have left me, shall I say, not a bathing beauty. Each time we  go away, Steve uses the pool, and I reluctantly hang back, letting my phobia get the best of me. I have kept my old lady black and white polka dotted swim dress in the recesses of my going away bag forever, never even reaching down there to pull it into the light of day. This morning as Steve headed for the pool, I decided today was the day.  Not even sure if the damn swim dress would even still fit, I cautiously unzipped the  bag. There it was, coiled like a venomous snake, daring me to stick my hand in and pull it out. A few minutes later, and with a little spandex wrangling I realized, much to my surprise, it fit! I donned a tee shirt and sweat pants for cover, and made my way to the pool. Calculating the time it would take me to disrobe and be completely submerged, I took the plunge. It was great. Newly confident, being in water up to my shoulders, I looked around and realized I had nothing to fear. People around the pool were every shape and size.  And none of them seemed the least bit interested in me in my old lady black and white polka dotted swimdress.