Category: Dad

Just Another Marble in the Brain Jar

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of memory.

Mainly, because my own memory sucks.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.

Some of this memory loss is, I think, is a hazard of having put in a few years on this ol’ planet. Over time, one tends to collect a few things in the closets like bottle tops, tattered paperback books, and stacks of memories, both good and bad.

I sometimes think of my brain as a big storage device. Lots and lots of space. Too many bits of memory get shoved in there, and it’s time for an upgrade.

But maybe that’s a little too Silicon Valley for my tastes.

Let’s try another metaphor.

Maybe my brain is more like a big glass jar filled with marbles. Some are large, some small, some are in between. So as I go about living this crazy mixed up life, these marbles roll their way toward the jar and drop in. These new residents tend to push out the old when I’ve run out of space.

There is only so much room in the jar, of course, and once filled to capacity, something’s gotta give.

As I was getting my hair cut last night, I spent the color “cook time” working over this particular visual metaphor. Unfortunately, I was thinking about it while also pouring over the pages of the current “People” magazine.

Without my consent, some fresh, small marbles found their way into my jar.

For example, I don’t really need to know that one of the Jonas brothers broke up with his girlfriend. *plink*

Or that Jon and Kate plus 8 lady just celebrated the birthday of her sextuplets. *plink*

That some blonde chick named Heidi needs “time alone” from her overbearing husband. *plink*

And that weird Svengali-like husband of that sad, tiny, actress that recently died has now also shuffled off this mortal coil. *plink*

These are not vital memories. These don’t need to be kept in the jar. If they do manage to stay in the jar, then other, better, memories have to slip out.

Oops, there goes making Thanksgiving turkey drawings by tracing my hand onto the paper.

And there goes the name of my childhood friend who lived by the park, across from the swimming pool. We took gymnastics class together at the YMCA. What *was* her name?

Don’t tell me a Jonas brother shoved my friend out of the brain jar!

I suppose the trick is to let those lightweight worthless marbles flow in for a moment and then find a way to shove them right back out.

If I get too many of the trivial marbles, there’s no room left for the big meaningful marbles to find a permanent home.

Of course, some of those big marbles are so heavy, they can’t possibly be washed out. My wedding day. Holding my oldest goddaughter for the first time (I cried). Cracking jokes with my pops while he was in the hospital.

The big ones stick around, no matter. The middlin’ sized tend to go all floaty without my permission. They are the hardest to hold onto.

But I try. Oh I try.

Let’s just hope that at the very least, I can manage to hang on to most of my important marbles.

Because I surely would hate to, you know…lose my marbles.

Photo from the KM&G-Morris public Flickr photostream.

Happy Memorial Day

And on this day of hot dogs and beer, sunshine and fun, please take a moment to remember, to have memories, as the name of the day would imply.

While driving up the 280 freeway yesterday, I saw the Golden Gate National Cemetery right off the highway.

It had been decorated with flags and bunting in anticipation of today.

It looks beautiful and my heart is with all of the people who will pay a visit to that cemetery today.

I also think about the Santa Fe National Cemetery where my father’s ashes reside.

Rows and rows of neat white markers reflect so many New Mexicans who have served their state and their country.

It is for them, today, and for all our active people still in service, that I feel honor and I have memories.

Cheers! And Happy Memorial Day.

Merchant Marine cemetery at Fort Stanton, New Mexico:

Oh my mortality

I had a doctor’s visit this morning. Nothing special, just a routine check up for blood pressure and all of that.

My doctor was running late so I had some time to sit and entertain myself.

When all my email was read on the iPhone and I’d caught up on Twitter, I started people watching. You know, people watching at a medical center is quite a thing. You see a lot…

Anyhow, pretty soon, a nurse came down the hall pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.

They came into our waiting area and the nurse helped the man to get up onto his feet, and he then took a few steps with the aid of a cane.

As he shakily got to his feet, he said to the young nurse, “Who would have thought it would come to this, eh?”

He said it in a wry way, but it carried a deep note of sadness.

The man was, by all appearances, pretty healthy. He was probably in his late seventies and from what I could see, was suffering a very bad hip.

The nurse helped the man get settled into the seat, with a groan.

He gave me a weary smile and I smiled back.

The nurse said to the man, as she departed, “one of my patients told me that his best advice was simply this: just don’t get old.”

“Yes, certainly,” said the man, with a sigh.

The whole exchange made me a bit melancholy. I remember when my dad struggled with rapidly advancing lung disease. His mind was fine but his body crapped out on him way too early.

How angry that must make a person, your legs, your lungs, your eyes, your whatever body part you want to name just doesn’t work like you know it should.

Ugh.

And me. Still fairly young but full of the knowledge that I’m not taking care of myself as well as I should. Now is the time to tend to these things.

Time marches on, whether I’m keeping step with it or not.

And even now, I know some parts of this ol’ rig don’t work like they should. But I still have time.

Time to remember to enjoy my legs that still carry me easily, a heart that still beats strong. Lungs that take in air without coughing.

Yes. It was just a nice reminder, a needed wake up call.

Because one day I might be uttering to a kindly young nurse, “who would have thought it would come to this?”

Sorry for the sort of down post today. The rain and the doctor’s waiting room has me in a very thoughtful place.

A belated ode to the Queen Mum

I know that Mom’s Day was yesterday, and was well celebrated, but today, in searching for a blog topic on my favorite idea generator, this little bit popped up onto my screen:

“What happened in your mother’s life when she was exactly the same age you are now?”

So I thought about it. And then thought to myself…whooooa.

My mom’s life at age *mumblefortyonemumble* was quite a bit different than mine.

And by quite a bit, I mean a LOT.

Let’s see. Well, for one thing…mom and dad were juggling three kids aged thirteen, ten and six at the time.

For the record, when I imagine what that must have been like, let me just say…GAH!

On the fun side, back then we used to go bombing around the wilds of New Mexico in an 1972 blue and white Chevy Blazer (“Karen, get out and lock in the hubs!”). My dad was big on road trips.

The back seat was bench style. I’d cram in the middle between my brother and sister.

Mom would pack up a lunch of cold fried chicken with all the sides and we’d head up to Cuba, New Mexico, in the Jemez mountains, to spend the day.

It was on one of these trips that the now infamous piñon nut up the nose incident took place…I’ll spare you the details.

We’d spread a blanket under a tall, shady tree and eat. After lunch we’d all head off in different directions to explore.

Dad would bring a portion of his vast gun collection and each kid would take turns learning how to load and shoot every one. Our target was an old, soft tree that had been felled by lightening.

It was important to him that we weren’t scared of any of the guns kept in the house, and we weren’t curious about them either. We knew what they were and what they were for, and were very respectful of them.

Yes, I was shooting guns at the age of six. It was big, huge fun!

Mom wasn’t much for shooting. She’d participate sometimes, but mostly she’d be off to the side keeping a wary eye on us.

It had to about that time in my mom’s life, too, when we were taking a hike up in at our Cuba property. My mom, who was always looking down at the ground in search of a geode, instead found herself a genuine arrow head.

No, not one of those you find in a tchotchke shop in Arizona.

A real, honest to goodness, genuinely used by an actual Native American, arrowhead. The land we were on was once the hunting grounds of the Jicarilla Apache, among others.

Let’s see…what else was going on in mom’s life at that time….

She cooked dinner every night. Homemade tortillas and venison burrito meat were faves. (At the time, I would balk and get weird about eating Bambi meat. But in honesty, it tasted pretty good. Ssssh, don’t tell mom, okay?)

She volunteered as a librarian at my elementary school so she could be out of the house, but still around for her kids. She was running my sister and me to our ballet and tap lessons. She would proofread my homework, too.

A career secretary (now known as an executive assistant), she was hell on a typo or misspelled word.

Back then, life at our home wasn’t always perfect. It wasn’t always bad either.

So at the age I am now, Mom was managing a constantly in motion family focusing on kids and husband and work and home and putting a lot of effort into her days.

Me, I focus on work, my still fairly new husband, and spoiling my overindulged pets.

You know…in comparison…I have it pretty easy. And I owe my fairly easy, happy life to my mom. She worked hard so that her kid’s lives could be better than hers had been at the same age.

And in that, dear mom, you are a resounding success!

Thank you!

P.S. to mom: I’m sorry we couldn’t be together on Mom’s Day this year like last year. I hope my stinky brother** took good care of you this year. I’ll bet he didn’t give you a hand crafted present like I did last year.

I’m still your favorite…right? Right?

** (because all boys are stinky)

The poor, downtrodden, much ignored lunchmeat

Liverwurst.

Poor lonely liverwurst sitting there in the corner of the deli case, wishing for somebody to love it with a slice of swiss and generous helping of mustard on a nice marble rye.

I think it’s that word “liver” in the name that puts people off, despite there being only being maybe 10%-20% of actual liver in the product.

I suppose if McDonalds served a McLiver and fries, it might be hip and people would eat it without thinking.

But sadly, no.

Liverwurst and its lonely brother braunschweiger get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

I, myself, am a HUGE fan of braunschweiger (owing to the partial German heritage of both my parents), but when I eat it, my loving, studiously liver-avoiding husband refuses to give me a smooch for quite some time after consumption.

This is obviously a big point of consideration.

So if it comes down to smooches or sandwiches, I’ll take the smooches and leave the braunschweiger to the “only very rarely” category.

However…that being said, we have a well understood agreement that whenever we manage to find ourselves in a real deli (like Molinari or Carnegie) I will order a chicken liver salad, no questions asked.

These sorts of negotiations keep our marriage humming along, I think.

Anyhow…..

By the by, in case you are wondering why I am opining about liverwurst? It’s because it was the word of the day on my WordBook Dictionary iPhone app.

I had open that app today so I could look up a ten cent college-level word that my friend NewMexiKen threw out there on Twitter. It was a doozy!

And then I got lost in thoughts of lunch.

To you, that may look like a brown lump, but to me, that’s a lump of tasty goodness!!