Today, my first day of retirement, is the first day of the rest of my life. I am building.
Kayaking is my passion. I ride road bike, and snowshoe. My blog will be driven by paddle, peddle, and plodding.
I am an artist. My projects will appear on my blog, along with comments and stories.
I enjoy cooking and have often felt that I could offer a different perspective on food. So my blog will be about food.
I'm told I can write. We shall see.
Please don’t judge my bread to harshly. Or any thing else coming from We The People across the pond for that matter.
Every day I wake up to some new kind of fuckery. I am just trying to keep on keepin’ on until….when? Impeachment? Have you seen the order of succession?!
Until the weak chin, lily livers in Congress stop drinking the kool-aid? Their thirst for power and/or wealth is appalling!
Until revolution? Again. Maybe.
Anyhow, I humbly apologize that we can’t get our shit together enough to take this orange fucker down and out. Or that we were dumb enough to let him happen (again) in the first place. And that now the world is fucked because we are fucked.
At least for today.
I still have hope for tomorrow.
Also, sorry for using the F-bomb so often, but it works.
Also, over worked, or under proved? I mean the bread, not the country. Thanks.
I am proud to say that yesterday I participated in the largest display in exercising the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America seen in decades. An assembly of peaceful, cheerful, welcoming individuals stood in the wind and rain to express anger (cheerfully?), fear, and resistance to the agenda and attempts by the current administration to effect a coup on our democratic republic.
This occurred all over the world in solidarity against the denial of every human beings right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It occurred in public spaces, streets and city blocks, towns, villages and neighborhoods, in living rooms and in kitchens. It was millions strong!
I was at the Empire State’s capital. I expected to see a turnout. I expected the wind and the incessant rain to keep some away. What I didn’t expect was that the ride to the protest would be more impactful and memorable for me.
❤️
My smart, sassy, 6 year old grandson was determined that he was going to seize his opportunity to speak his truth. He made his own signs and stated that “as long as there were snacks” he was “100%” in no matter what the weather. He and his mom picked me up in time to make the 10:23 public bus downtown. This was to be his first ride on an other-than-school bus. It was my second in recent weeks for the sole purpose of protesting without possible parking problems. Say that three times real fast!
Our stop was at the beginning of the line. When we arrived we were pleasantly surprised to see a small line gathered of other like minded individuals carry signs.
The CDTA 18 travels the roads that I have known for 60 years. I was tour guide to my grandson as I pointed out the duplex where his mom spent the first five years of her life, the Town Hall where she “practiced law” and the library where “everybody knew her name.”
The next stops were frequent and filled with others carrying signs and dressed for the deluge. Progress through the town I had grown up in was slow and the bus filled. Soon there were few seats left and the windows began to fog. My family removed layers of clothing to keep from overheating and snacks were served to the boy.
A majority of the passengers were persons of a certain age. Older, and probably wiser, and maybe ones that had the resource of time to commit to this necessary task. My daughter had left her husband home with my one year old granddaughter and the list of weekend tasks that not all younger parents have the luxury of splitting. My grandson was the only child on board.
As the bus whined, rattled, stopped and started I reflected upon memories of this community. Twenty-two years ago I had left it, angry and sour from the lack of empathy the residents had for my family during a difficult time. Then today I was seeing literal signs of support and push back from possibly some of those same people.
Shortly after reaching the city limits the bus driver turned on a NOT IN SERVICE sign because the bus had reached maximum capacity. There were a few “regulars” who needed to get somewhere but for the most part we were “an express to a protest.”
One of the keys to successfully navigating this time of chaos is to find community. We the people on the CDTA-18@10:23 were a community. We smiled. We encouraged. We bonded. I cannot say that I forgave the past on that bus ride yesterday but I can say that I do have hope for the future.
I consider myself a fortunate being. Somehow, after working since I was 11 and paying into the system since I was 15, amazingly I am in this beautiful space of post-work, post-parenting (but not really), and pre-death. What I am NOT in is post-learning, post-participating, or post-protecting.
I am number 5 of seven children. My mother miraculously managed a household of 9 people and one (downstairs) bathroom with military precision. I think of Henry Fonda and Lucille Ball in ‘Yours Mine and Ours” (1968) with my mom being the OIC. Dad didn’t bring any children into the marriage but there were 5 of us when he signed up.
There were rules in our household; written and unwritten. One fast rule had to do with the prizes. Whether it be the cherries in the can of fruit cocktail, the little package on the bottom of the box of Cracker Jack or the “free inside” toy in the cereal box, all of these had the rule of oldest served first. Being low on the pole I was often left with an empty box, bag or can and a serious longing for whatever the older ‘winner’ was holding.
Recent events have led me to compare that cereal box decoder ring with our nation’s current administration and what is being referred to as “signalgate.” It has led me to the belief that maybe all our high ranking leaders need is a spoon, a bowl, a gallon of milk and a few boxes of good old fashioned CHEX cereal to secure our most secret of secret secrets.
The threat is not just to our national secrets. It is also a threat to our personal information and well being. There is a term called “scraping,” new to this old lady, that has invaded my mental space and aided in inducing constant doubt and suspicion of everything I see or hear. If the nation’s “finest” can get caught signaling than what is happening to my text messages as well? Should I be developing my own de-coder ring to communicate with my loved ones so that I will not be spied upon (by my own government), become a suspect, and be relocated to an undisclosed location in the deep south? Maybe. Can I befuddle the AI mind as much as it has befuddled mine?
This is a lot. And on top of all this is the real news that the FFOTUS has declared war on Big Bird and Elmo. WTF, man?! I need cute winter boots and a bowl of cereal. Help, Mr. Wizard!
It’s Saturday morning and I am trying to stay on task, keep my train of thought from derailing and get this said. Thought, singular.
This is a second try at articulating something that has been on my mind since January 20, 2025. Something that has gotten louder and more urgent as the world that I chose to believe was real has shown it’s real truth through the attempt to force the vile and disgusting beliefs of the few onto the rest of us.
With Trump’s first administration I said out loud that his putrid behavior was giving permission to those who have always believed to take it out of their living room’s and bring it onto the streets. I was not wrong.
Now here we are on the brink of losing what Ben Franklin said, “was ours, if we could keep it.” Only about 250 years later this “experiment’ is threatened. Google says a generation is about 20-30 years. With that in mind one can say that our nation is only about 10 generations old. Maybe 30% of our historical population was THERE in the beginning?! If I am mathing correctly then all of this proves out what we all know; our nation is in it’s infancy. We are a baby nation. A baby nation that is cutting it’s teeth on each other and fighting over favorite stuffies and who gets to rule the playpen.
As an aging member of this nursery school I have been asking myself what I can, should, or want to do with what I believe to be my limited time on this side of the dirt. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a terminal illness or even limiting health issues. With proper care, feeding and good genes I may even make it into my 90’s; stuff my children’s nightmares are made of. But I have paid taxes, voted, contributed to society, and raised my children, I think pretty well. So, now I receive my hard earned pension and social security.
The world is a very different place now than in my youth, my child rearing years and even since I retired in 2016. Almost daily I have had to re-learn processes just to participate and it is exhausting. I have been a regular target of scammers. These days every email I get, web site I visit and contact I make leave me doubting authenticity. The amount of necessary time I have had to take to navigate all this is astounding. It’s been like a part time job. So I ask, “where is the joy?” Where is the unlimited “time” in this time of life in which I can just live and not worry? Where I can just paint, and not have to paint a protest sign. Where I can shop and not have to boycott.
This is my personal struggle. Every day I feel that more and more ugly is rearing it’s head. And I am wondering if ANY of it is really worth “saving” or if letting it all break just might be a good thing. Would I say that if I relied on government assistance to feed and cloth and keep a roof over my head? Maybe not. Am I a bad person for thinking it? Possibly. But I am thinking it. How much skin do I have in this game?
I have just returned from a fairly successful yoga class at the Y. If the goal of practicing yoga is to remain present than I was about 85% successful today. That means that I was able to focus on my physical self for 50 out of 60 minutes and my addled brain did not wonder away from thoughts of breath, stretch, balance and breath. But, then those last 10 man; back to all things currently filling not just my thoughts, but my very soul.
Some of the things I am reading on the interwebs are saying yes, participate, but protect as well. Stay informed and make good decisions about what you want, can and need to do to protect all that is on the chopping block of the only sort of Nation you have ever know as home. BUT, don’t sacrifice mental health to do it. BUT, all hands on deck! Now is not the time to sit on your hands!
Yesterday I participated in a bus trip to NYC to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. *SEE: The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg for more information on my frame of reference. The trip was sponsored by a local historical society. And “history” has been on my mind more than a little bit as of late. I shall blame it in part on my daily dose from a brilliant historian, Heather Cox Richardson, who manages to word it in ways that I can understand and retain. Unlike the Social Studies tomes of old.
I was up before the sun which is highly unusual for me. But it was well worth seeing a beautiful sunrise that brought the promised crisp, sunny day of cloudless blue sky that only early Spring can produce. As the old but not uncomfortable bus roared down the thruway I was glad to have a window seat to the unfolding scene.
The trees are not yet leaved out and the grasses are just beginning to green. This lays bare all the detritus and debris living along side the thoroughfare. I love the landscape of bare boned trees and the early morning sun cast stunning shadows to entertain me. But what struck me most was the number of antique stone walls. These walls at various levels of deterioration run both parallel and perpendicular to the road we traveled on. Some of the walls run at right angle nearly up to the roads edge. Does this perhaps signal where originally a cart path ran or where the wall was destroyed to make way for the modern pavement?
Seeing the shell of what used to be or even a wide open field and imagining what it once was is one of my favorite mental games to play. Often as I approach a kayak launch site I imagine what the body of water must have looked like to the indigenous peoples, before buildings, bridges, boats and buoys. When paddling on the Mohawk or Hudson Rivers I wonder how deep the quiet must haven been and how dense the flora must have grown. So yesterday I was wondering for whom these stone walls, beautiful in themselves, served a purpose. Was it to mark property lines, secure livestock, or just to get the rocks in the field out of the way to plant? Perhaps some of all of it.
Having only visited The Met a handful of times I still had a fair idea of was instore. I was appropriately awed by a particular Picasso of his Blue Period. I had to sit down for Monet’s water lilies, of which there were a few. The list goes on. But what impacted me the most were the really ancient pieces; carvings from Asia and tombs from Egypt; from dynasty before dynasty. These physical memories from well before old stone walls in Poughkeepsie, NY.
And it led me to wondering about just how young our Nation is. We have not had to survive invasions, annellations, and erasures of our existence. Certainly we perpetuated those things on the peoples who came before us here. That is something that should never be forgotten and has never been properly addressed. But, we as These United States of America are mere infants in the timeline of humanity. And the thought has crossed my mind more than once that maybe this experiment HAS reached a natural end and we DO have to suffer through growing pains just like most EVERY other nation in the history of the world has had to do at one time or another. This is a very heavy thought. And one that I truly hate entertaining because the “that’s not-fair” little girl inside me says why can’t we be the winners and always have a democracy without all the growing pains?
This was not were I wanted this thought to travel today. But I have taken enough time from other tasks (mopping the kitchen floor comes to mind). Enough has been written and enough has been read. For today. I will address my “skin in the game” deuxieme partie another time.
I spent the day making golumpki. That’s stuffed cabbage to persons not of Polish heritage. It takes the day, or longer to make them so it doesn’t happen but maybe once a year. You need a large head of cabbage and the month of March is when cabbage is on sale. On sale for the Irish, not the Polish. Golumpki is one of only maybe a handful of things I ever stood by my mother’s side to watch and learn to make; another was her coleslaw. Both of these dishes she was always asked to provide for family gatherings. Both made with cabbage. She owned the cabbage.
Naturally when making golumpki I think of my mom. This time I thought of her skill at making this traditional Polish dish. My mother was not Polish. Not even a little bit. So where did she get the recipe? In whose kitchen, by whose side did she stand watching and learning?
My Polish comes from my father’s side; Marauszwski. My mother’s golumpki were better than my paternal grandmother’s. She, I discovered fairly recently, was mostly French Canadian. And she made pale, bland golumpki of which now, understanding her heritage, I can forgive her. If you put a pan of her golumpki next to a pot of my mother’s golumpki there would be no comparison. I know this because at my grandfather’s funeral there they sat, side by side. And my mother’s were gone first. This really bothered my grandmother, as I am sure my mother noticed and secretly crowed over. There was no love lost between those two. My mother would never have taken a lesson in anything from my grandmother. So where did the WASPy girl learn how to make an ethnic masterpiece?
My paternal grandfather was second generation Polish American. I know this because on his death certificate his father’s birth place is listed as POLAND, all in caps. Just like that. No village, town, city or anything other than POLAND. At some point in my pursuit of trivial information I learned that the -ski at the end of many Polish names you see means “son of” and when asked by customs staff what their name was they all said “the son of so-in-so.” and customs staff being as they were recorded it as spoken; hence the many -skis.
My grandfather died at 65 years of age when I was in the 8th grade. I have few memories of him as my parents divorced when I was still in diapers. It was not a amicable divorce. My father re-married quickly and was rarely seen. My grandfather was perhaps more present in my younger years and there are a few very special memories I have of times spent with him.
Baby Doll. If she ever had a name I don’t recall it now.
The earliest is when he gave me a gift. It was a beautiful baby doll in a red and white pin strip pajama and stocking hat. I still have that doll, pictured above. I have had to replace her eyes and give her new hair as 60 plus years has worn on both of us. And of course the pjs are gone. But she is still beautiful and I still remember my grandfather sitting in his chair smoking his Camel (no filter) cigarette watching me as I unwrapped her. He had to help me take her from her box as I was too small to know how. I am pretty sure it must have been Christmas time but I couldn’t swear to it. Years later my adoptive father, Frank Sheridan, took me to College Point, Long Island to visit his mother and she gave me a carboard box with string on it to pull my baby around in. I had that box with string for a very long time.
Another memory of adventure with my Grandfather Marauszwski was, I think, an indicator of the kind of woman I would grow to be. I must have been about 5 years old and he put me in the front seat (!) of his pale yellow Cadillac. I remember the color well. The roof when closed was soft and black. And that day, with the roof open, he took me to his mother’s house. She lived in an upstairs apartment with a short sloped driveway off a busy street in town. I didn’t know my great-grandmother. I have no memories of her now. But that day my grandfather told me to sit in the car while he ran in to speak to his mother. And I, being who I am, thought it would be fun to make believe driving the car. I remember pushing the big black radio buttons and turning the dials and then moving in place behind the steering wheel. I turned the wheel and hummed car noises, happily making believe that I was driving. Then I reached over and pulled the long shinny stick toward my self and moved the car out of park. The next thing I knew me and the car were really moving, backward into the street. My grandfather came running out of the building and hopped over and into the car to step on the break. To me he was a hero. My mother wouldn’t have thought so but she probably never found out. And was it from my great-grandmother that my mother learned to make golumpki? Maybe.
One final story of my grandfather; again just he and I off adventuring, this time in one of his many large trucks as he owned a moving company. One hot summer day we went to a swimming hole. Where, I don’t know, but my grandfather told me to say away from a particular section because that was where the snapping turtles lived. I do recall that there were other people in the water and in retrospect I wonder if he was just pulling my leg. But at the time I was too young to understand the humor. Truthfully though I still don’t “get it” often times.
By this time I was older, maybe 7 or 8. My grandfather very gallantly hung towels in all the windows and over the doors of the cab of the truck making me a dressing room. He then stood guard so I could change into my bathing suit. He understood that I was shy and I was grateful.
It is fascinating how a smell, a sound, or even a task can trigger a memory. A memory so vivid that you can still see the sun shinning or feel the heat from the stove rising. I am grateful for these records; for the ability to recall them now. Just a few months ago my 22 year old grandson asked me to sometime tell him my stories; difficult to do on cue. Perhaps this is a beginning.
Successful Sourdough Sandwich Bread to Serve with Golumpki. Another All Day Task.
I started making a simple pocketed, wired mask to wear during this pandemic. Not because it was recommended by the CDC, but because my instincts told me to start wearing one. Simple turned out to be an exaggeration.
Two things enter into this equation of “simple”: 1) I am an over thinker. Yup, it’s true and I know this about myself. Therefore nothing, repeat, nothing is ever simple. And 2) the anxiety and angst, let’s call it what it is, Fucking Mental Covid19, is infecting everyone. No one is immune unless you are in a coma. Even our pets are suffering; with us and for us.
I know a little bit about functioning under high stress as I was primary care giver for my dying father for 3 years, the last three months of which were under Hospice care. In many ways this pandemic is dealing with a looming death, obviously in the 2% literal sense but also in living day to day with the unknown, to be on high alert, the need to switch gears constantly, always being off balance. Yet still carrying on with the normal.
Making the masks is also my way of feeling useful, fighting the battle, contributing. In a matter of 5 hours I watched tutorials and read instructables of which there are quite a number, until my head hurt. I struggled especially hard with pleats, literally banging my hand against my head. Until I remembered that I made my first dress at 9 years old. Yes, the zipper was in backwards and I never wore it. I can still see the beautiful lavender and white print of the fabric in my minds eye. And I made it in the 4th grade. When I was able to battle through the anxiety and see that I had the tools to do this I was able to let go and make it sew. Pun intended Captain. Pleats be damned the masks are made, or at least being made.
Today, after finishing two more masks and waiting for more fabric to wash and dry in preparation for more I sought to find that balance again. I needed to ground. And where better than in my garden. It is probably too early to remove the blanket of leaves that protect everything from Winter’s cold. We may even still have more snow. But I needed to see growth. I needed to see that life progresses and Nature perseveres regardless of what is thrown at it. It adjusts, it compensates, and it keeps on. Something that we, as the Human Family are being asked to do now. We must ground. We must find balance. No easy task. But the battle does not wait.
Today is my third day home from a long planned and then abbreviated sojourn into the southern parts of these United States. It was a journey of discovery and adventure as travel should be, but all the way home the tune from that song in Disney’s Aladdin, “One Jump Ahead…..” kept playing over and over in my head. I was literally 24 hours ahead of New York’s Governor Cuomo’s (Andy to those of us who have a little crush on him) announcement of major steps to combat this national health crisis. More on all that later.
Now as the sky brightens and as this cold early Spring day begins I would like to share my thoughts on marketing; as in going to the market; as in grocery store; as in food, which is often on my mind, she says with a grin. As it should be.
It was initial thought that CORONAVIRUS (CV for short) was most deadly to those over 60, which I am, as I proudly announce that I am due to collect my first SS check next month. With that understanding the local markets deemed it safer to offer this senior demographic the opportunity to shop early in the morning, after stores have been cleaned and stocked and ideally with less chance of contracting CV. So last night I prepped for my mission: to wear a mask or no? Still undecided, but probably yes. Washable cotton gloves, yes. Washable, reusable grocery bags, yes, because in NY there are no more plastic bags in stores (Kudos to Andy). Into the store with a list organized by aisle for quickest in and out. Cash or card? Still undecided. Should I be lining the cart with something? A washable table cloth? Is that necessary? Helpful? Maybe. Probably.
Dad’s Subway Series 2000 T-Shirt; Now Grocery Bag
The hours of “senior shopping” are 6AM to 7AM. As I am now fully immersed in this lovely land of retirement as illustrated by my participation in the Q-tip Migration this Winter I had to set my alarm clock for 5:15. This was a real “wake up call!” No pun intended. I had to set my alarm to go grocery shopping so as to possibly save my life or the life of those I know and love. TO SAVE A LIFE.
I did NOT set my alarm. I woke at 5:58. I made coffee. I am not ready to confront this reality. Tomorrow. Probably tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow. After all I still have coffee.
NOTE: I have decided that the reusable bags that can be washed are best. Wash them after every trip. I have made some out of old T-shirts. No sewing required. This is a nice little tutorial, however I recommend that you always cut the hems off the shirts first as it makes a nicer finish and use square knots, because who doesn’t know how to tie a square knot?! https://helloglow.co/recycle-your-t-shirt-into-a-no-sew-reusable-grocery-bag/
I have been reading blogs, posts, and news feeds about how today’s generation of new nesters don’t want Grandma Ethel’s china dinner ware, Aunt Elizabeth’s chest of drawers, or sadly not even Great Grandma Edna’s silver tea service. Second hand stores display them in pleasing array with clearance prices. Etsy and Ebay are inundated with listings. These items are often high maintenance requiring hand washing to maintain the gold rims; dark, heavy and huge space hogs, or considered just plain unusable dust collectors.
Being an upcycler before upcycling was a thing and having a passion for repurpose I have given much thought to this sad trend. I see it as a disconnect. A lapse in memories. A breakdown in family. A loss of history. And the new nesters are not at fault.
Having recently lost another family member, a sibling this time, I am on my third estate desolution. It is full of anxiety and sadness and remembering. The anxiety comes from the shear mountain of stuff that I am now responsible for getting rid of. And being the earth minded person that I am I literally look at every nut, bolt and tea cup to see if I can find it a new home not in the land fill.
The sadness is real. It is loss. It is the knowing that that mug will never have his hand around it again or that he will never sit in that chair again. And to look at the sum total of a life and know that this is what it came down to can be sad. But it can also be a joyful celebration of a life well lived.
I can trace my memories of seeing a particular nest of blue and white bowls back to my grandmother’s corner china cabinet. And after her the cabinet and it’s contents became my mother’s. And now they sit in my (different) cabinet and I remember. Quite honestly I’d be afraid to use them. They are old and the glaze is cracked and they probably have a few chips. But they are a family heirloom nevertheless. And then there is the ugly pewter plate circa. 1750 and the useless silver pitcher with pin holes in it, and so on. Not treasures, but treasure-able. Treasure-able because I remember. I have a living memory of the associations and presence of these items in my life. I grew up within an hour of my maternal grandparents. My father’s parents were only three hours away. We were familiar: adjective fa·mil·iar \fə-ˈmil-yər 1: closely related, intimate 2: relating to a family
Recently I had tea, complete with beautiful china, crystal goblets and silverware at a friend’s home. These treasures had belonged to her mother who now lives with her. The elder spoke of a friend who was traveling to meet her growing grandchildren for the first time. The children live in Alaska and have lived a good part of their lives without ever having known their grandmother. And this, in a nut shell, is why the new nesters don’t want Grandma’s dishes. There is no connection to them.
They have no memory of eating Thanksgiving dinner off of Grandma’s good china. No idea of the ritual of opening the corner cabinet door and pulling out the depression era fruit bowl and see it over flow with purple grapes, bright tangerines and dark shelled nuts. They have never seen that old dark sideboard filled with still warm pies and popcorn balls wrapped in waxed paper tied with shinny ribbons. Social media cannot replace the smells, sights and sounds of the familiar.
Friday is the final garage sale. Stop by if you are inclined. The unearthing of treasured memories will go on – forever I hope. They say remembering doesn’t require visual aides. When someone passes you are told that you will always have them in your memories and in your heart. But, this I have learned; memories fade. So, use the china. Eat with the silver. And every morning when you spoon sugar into your coffee from your mother’s familiar fragile sugar bowl you remember and your heart stays warm.
Back in the 70’s I lived in Baja, Mexico. I met a man wearing a beautiful, tiny mask of silver around his neck. I admired it and he took it off and gave it to me. And then he told me that he was from Oaxaca, Mexico.
Hypertufa Pots
He said it was a region known for it’s masks. Great crafts-persons made masks out of clay, paper, and silver. Masks into pots, pipes and jewelry. He said it was a place of beauty and I should visit some day. I never did visit Oaxaca and my time in Mexico came to an end. I wore the necklace often and eventually gifted it to my daughter upon her graduation from high school.
I spent a good part of this week with 80 pounds of Portland concrete and some flower pots. I experimented with peat moss and perlite to create a fire bowl for my new deck. In the process I learned a bit of the art of concrete. And I broke things and learned of the art of Gorilla Glue. I swore; alot. All in all it was a good week for me.
While my concrete shattered at my feet my mind returned to that man and his pride in his people; the crafters of the masks. The people of Oaxaca. The people of Mexico.
Concrete, a seemingly strong substance that builds walls of homes, schools, and workplaces, breaks in earthquakes. It turns to heavy dust and rubble. I KNOW this and so do my toes. I pray that the hearts of the people of Mexico can withstand the weight of the destruction and that they can piece their lives back together again. It will take more than a little glue.
I needed to see that life progresses and Nature perseveres regardless of what is thrown at it. It adjusts, it compensates, and it keeps on. Something that we, as the Human Family are being asked to do now. We must ground. We must find balance. No easy task. But the battle does not wait.
swansroost 