Is it Pie Day Today?

My across-the-street neighbor, Terry, is an older woman with a lot of spunk and a keen appreciation of fruit pie. For many years she adjudicated at regional and national Bridge Tournaments, an advanced player in her own right. Now that she is no longer working full time or traveling, she has a part time gig investigating whether or not players in an online league are cheating, or simply too novice to realize what they are doing. Her eyes sparkle when she tells me about her latest trail of intrigue.

Terry and I have an arrangement that began a couple of years ago, not long after her husband Tom passed away. I’m her fruit pie dealer, and I often deal in the stealth of night. At first it was Sour Cherry, a personal favorite. Then we moved on to Meyer Lemon and Key Lime, followed by Pumpkin. Earlier this winter we both tried the Pear with Ginger and Orange Marmalade. This evening I brought home Blackberry “with a touch of lemon” because the lattice was so intriguing. 

Sometimes I provide just a piece, particularly if there’s higher risk involved. But often I buy a whole mini pie which she insists on paying for. On those occasions I round down, charging her only what I know someone of her generation is willing to pay for a store bought pie. Mind you, they are ACME Pies from a Douglas Park neighbor’s Columbia Pike pie shop, not just any old store bought pies. I live in mock fear of the day she ventures over to the pie shop herself and my price-fixing cover is blown.

But for now I supply her with touches of affordable comfort, in the form of occasional pie. And it warms my heart to hear the eager compliance in her voice on those occasions.

“Hi Terry. This is Enid. Is it pie day today?”

“Oh, I think so! Anything but apple this time. You decide!”

All Cracked Up

Flossing is not typically a harmful activity, but the other night I broke a tooth doing my due diligence at bedtime. As a result, this morning I sat in a dentist chair getting the full treatment: novocain, x-ray, drill, impression, and finally a temporary crown. Turns out what had cracked and chipped away was a major portion of a reconstructed molar from 15 years ago. 

"Hmmm... You were my dentist 15 years ago," I mused. "Is there a warranty on that reconstruction?"

"Only for seven years," Dr. Oh replied with a chuckle. "The lifespan of a reconstruction is 7-10 years, so you did well with that one!"

Dr. Oh is a great dentist. Always calm and thorough, this morning he worked quickly but carefully to get the job done and send me back down Glebe Road for the second half of the school day. 

"See you in two weeks, Dr. Oh."

Over the past two decades he has systematically reconstructed almost every single childhood filling as they've failed me in one way or another. But let me tell you, even the best reconstructive work is apparently not all it's cracked up to be!

Read the Room

I am, by nature, a judgy person. I don’t like that about myself, but there it is. 

And here we are, three years into a pandemic that might be subsiding, or might just be hunkering down for awhile before another surge, a new variant, emerges. We don’t know. But suddenly mask wearing is a “personal decision”. At school, on school buses, at social gatherings in public places we are being asked to respect other people’s personal decisions to wear, or not to wear, a mask. Fine.

When I walk into a room full of people celebrating an older person’s retirement, a school library say, and everyone else in the room is wearing a mask - and I mean every single person - then even if I had not worn a mask all day, that is the half hour that I wear a mask. My personal choice involves keeping other people safe, even if I personally feel safe without a mask. As Nike would say, “Just do it!”

But no, not the only person in the entire school whom I know for a fact to be unvaccinated. That person does not wear a mask. Around elders, around colleagues who may, or may not, have situations in their lives requiring them to take no risks, around the retiring guest of honor who IS wearing a mask, and probably wants to enjoy his retirement Covid free, that one particular person does not wear a mask. 

Is that one particular person respecting others’ personal choices? Am I capable of respecting hers? 

Back in the Saddle

Says I to myself on the eve of the first day of March…

Welcome to Year Three of the March Writing Challenge. Hoist yourself back into your writer’s chair, don your writer’s cap, and start tapping until you find a comfortable gait. Remember how it feels to exercise these muscles, and enjoy the beauty of the journey.

Before I go any further, I want to recognize a colleague who encourages us to join her every March in this challenge. Not only is T Shepardson an experienced teacher of writing to sixth graders, but she is also coming up on thirteen years since she began writing every single day. That’s right: she never misses a day! But March is the highlight of her writing year with all of us taking a lap alongside her. 

The pleasure is ours, Tracey.

Here we go…

R is for Roadtrip Rhymin’

Wide horizon

Clear blue sky

Miles of cornfield

Almost knee high 

Ohio, Indiana, Illinois today

Open road leading the way

Past truck stop, Candle shop

Construction, Speed reduction

Gassing up, coffee cup

Music on, and we’re gone.

Ohio, Indiana, Illinois today

Open road leading the way

Cousins to greet us

With warm embraces

Memories to meet us 

In long lost places

W is for Walking

This Spring I joined the Walk Arlington 8-Week Walking Challenge in order to get myself into the habit of daily walking. Walking is great exercise and easy to do. There is no special equipment required, other than good walking shoes. Walking can be social or meditative. Walking can be almost anywhere, or anytime, too. When I’m in the habit, I enjoy it. Just like with daily writing. It’s the getting-there that is tough.

In December, I walked 27 out of 31 days, usually at 4:30 in the afternoon. The reason I did so well in December is because the mother of a family in our neighborhood experienced a medical tragedy and the family needed help with dog-walking, so I volunteered to help out along with my daughter. By January, the family was getting back into new routines, so they let their dedicated dog walkers go. Inertia set in during January, so here I am fighting my way back to a new routine.

As a kid, I ran and played daily. As a teenager, I played sports and stayed active. As a young adult I ran and biked a lot. In middle age I took on lap-swimming, and I even had a personal trainer in preparation for knee surgery, along with physical therapists afterwards. Now I garden constantly. So I’m not exactly a lifelong slug, but also I am getting to that “use it or lose it” age, so I need to step up and create some healthy habits to carry me into the rest of my years, and keep my blood sugar in check. I need to do this for me.

Life Lesson: Create healthy habits to carry you through life. Do it for yourself!

Please Remember Me

Yesterday afternoon I spent an hour or so sitting with my mom, in her bright and cheery room at Yoder House, playing favorite hymn collections on CD. She mostly dozed, but woke to share non-sequiturs from time to time. This was our first unsupervised, non-distanced visit in about fourteen months. We are both fully vaccinated.

“Are you done cleaning the room?” she asked me, after I’d wheeled her into her bedroom from the common area where I’d greeted her. 

“It’s all ready for you,” I responded, side-stepping the question as I opened the blinds of both windows, and cracked the window facing Park Woods for a bit of fresh, cool air. 

On my prior two visits in February, one with my brother Donald, we both got smiles and what seemed to be recognition that we are family. Those were scheduled visits, so it’s possible that the staff talked us up beforehand. 

This visit was more serendipitous, in that the window for drop-ins had just closed for two weeks the day prior because of a couple of positive Covid tests. My special permission visit fit the loophole for “compassionate care”.

“Thanks for your communication,” the email from the VP of Supported Living read. “You understand our dilemma fully. If you would still like to come today I will let the house know you have been approved for a compassionate care visit with Doris. Just let me know.”

I never make Mom guess who I am. Why do that to anyone with Dementia?! But I take every opportunity to tell her who I am, and to reminisce a bit about others in the family, especially her family of origin, because you never know when something will click. 

Yesterday was not one of those days. Maybe next time.