Kneejerks

In many ways, Lick Skillet is a step up from Woodchuck Acres.

The house is bigger, there is a three car garage (our first functional garage in 40+ years of marriage), we have 3 acres instead of 2, the land is soil instead of rocks, we’re in hardiness zone 6 instead of 5.

But stepping up comes at a price.

We lived at WA for 10 years. That was 10 years in a one story house at ground level. Even though the terrain was hilly, my legs forgot what it was like to climb stairs.

Our Indiana home not only has a second story reached by 13 steps but each entrance requires clambering up 3 steps also.

I thought this would constitute great exercise but my knees have rebelled. I am now lurching awkwardly downward every time I go outside and avoiding the upstairs all together.  And I am shopping for cheap knee braces. If it gets much worse I will be crawling up and down.

In old age we return to childhood, as Shakespeare said,
       

        “That ends this strange eventful history,
        Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
        Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

And I would add, sans knees.

For now, I’m managing but starting to walk stiff-legged like a zombie, at least I haven’t developed a taste for human flesh.

Fitting into my genes

Along with Howdy Doody, roller skates and the neighbor's talking crow, the background of my childhood included the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, fallout shelters, and air-raid drills. Yes, we really did prepare for a nuclear war while at school by kneeling in front of our lockers and holding our hands over our necks.

My mom decided the fruit cellar, a room off of the basement, was our safe room for disasters. Mom was too much of a pessimist to think even a well-built shelter would help us survive those Russian bombs so I don't think her preparations ever got farther than some bottles of water and jars of her chili sauce (Mom's chili sauce was never canned, just ladled into jars, so they represented danger of another kind).

My mother was a complex woman. She escaped a hardscrabble, abusive homelife by packing a suitcase, tying it closed with rope, and riding the train 20 miles south to the bright lights of Oneida, NY.

She and Dad were opposites. Dad was gregarious, easy going but with a quick temper. She was introverted, a worrier, and internalized her emotions. The one thing they did share was being short, a trait all of us kids inherited.

There are four of us siblings and I often wonder what we picked up from genes and what from environment. I've got my mom's eyes, straight hair, and thighs. I too am introverted and quiet and subject to mood swings.  But while she told of hiding in her bedroom when chicken killing time came, I've dispatched birds on my own and have no qualms about doing more. She liked beauty parlors and perfect nails, I don't feel right if there isn't dirt under mine. I'm her match in stretching the family budget but have never equaled her housekeeping.

My sisters and brother are also a mix of nature and nuture and as I get ready to move four states away from them all, I'm glad to have had them all in my life. My brother is the image of Dad and shares his vocabulary but is more openly loving with his family, my older sister has my Mom's classy style but is a real people person, baby sis seems to have gotten the best physical characteristics of both but surpasses us all in brains. I miss my parents but Mom and Dad live in us all and I hope their heritage lives on in our children.

Best dressed?



My work pants AFTER being washed.



I don't understand fashion.

I recently ventured into a clothing store, the first time in several years. I felt like a person blind from birth who has just miraculously gained eyesight. Nothing made sense! I saw colors and shapes but couldn't conceive any way these objects could be worn as clothing. Racks of poorly made items with prices that made me gasp; someone must design this stuff and someone must buy it although I question the sanity of both groups.

Part of the problem may be that I reached puberty at the time of love beads, Indian print tops made from tablecloths, and bra burnings. I was a child in a world where it was required to wear a hat to church and a major faux pas to be seen in white after Labor Day and a teenager in bell bottoms and paisley. No wonder I'm style challenged.

I guess we can conclude that the fashion industry doesn't exactly cater to overweight, sixty year-old women and especially mature women who need their closet full of items to wear to muck poultry manure. That's an altogether different chic.