Soda Pop

Sitting in the back of our green 56 Chevy, Dad pulls into a Standard Oil gas station, causing the cable stretching in front of the gas pumps to sound off a “ding ding”, announcing our arrival.  I draw my arm in from the open window and pull my sweaty body away from the seat.  While passing the attendant who fills the tank and washes our windows, I can smell the leaded gas luring me to linger long, to fill my lungs with its tantalizing aroma.  Dad warns me of death and so my sister and I follow him into the station.  Immediately we spy an icy chest of bottles.  “May we, Dad?” we ask.   Dad gives each of us a dime and we lift the lid.  

The choices are better than going to a picnic.  Besides the usual colas, the flavors that attract our attention are all fruity: grape, strawberry, orange, and the delicious renegade, root beer.  Mmmm.  Not only do their flavors explode in our mouths, they are excruciatingly cold, sitting in the chest filled with ice and water.   The art of the whole cooling process is not just the immersion in ice; the water melt-off is also a key element.  As the ice slowly melts it surrounds the sodas and keeps the temperature frigid and delightful.  Reaching in, my hand is transported from Iowa to Alaska.  I smile. 

The bottles are upright, hanging on a slit which causes them to dangle in the cold solution below.  After making my selection, I slide the bottle down the line toward the end of the row where the opening enlarges.  Lifting it up and out I find the bottle opener cavity in the side of the chest, pushing down on my bottle to release the cap. Vapor rises from inside, cold frosty air, appearing like a genie.  This is going to be good . . . and it is.  

This mid-century gas station does NOT contain glass-doored refrigerated cabinets holding cans and plastic bottles of internationally distributed sodas.  No, these sodas are made and distributed regionally, for the most part.  There are hundreds of companies, some giving their local brew corny names like Kickapoo Joy Juice, Yoo Hoo, Jic Jac and Nehi. The Kickapoo didn’t last long.  I hear it was because it contained alcohol.  Of course, the kids loved it.

The old-time sodas of the first half of the 20th century were several steps up from what we drink today.  It might be compared to the difference between a gourmet hamburger and one from McDonald's, or the difference between a glass of Welch’s 100% Grape Juice and mere grape Kool-Aid.   That’s the contrast.  Back then, many of the fruity sodas contained juice.  I worked with a girl who’s grandfather had owned the Orange Crush company.  She told me the soda did indeed contain orange juice in earlier years.  

Somewhere in the 70s or 80s soda companies switched from sugar syrup and a generous squirt of juice to high fructose corn syrup and artificial flavorings.  When they did that, the carbonated fruity kick was lost.  Gone was the intoxicating, addictive nectar which was so hard to stop guzzling.  To let that sweetness slide past my happy taste buds, down the throat was difficult to stop.  

Resting the bottle on my knee, a smile comes across my face.  This is my childhood and this is heaven.

Wet Eyes at Hallmark

Today it changed.  Finding the perfect Mother's Day card for my mother changed.  In fact, I got choked up a bit as I scanned the cards at my local store.  Mother's Day is in about a week so I decided it was time to get something in the mail.  Should I choose serious or funny?  I gravitate toward funny but today "funny" didn't work - not for my mother, and not for this year.

You see my mother has reached a place where the humorous cards hit too close to home.  I saw several that joked about their mother some day reaching the point where she would need them to diaper her instead of her diapering them.  Hmmm. Can't send that one as Mom now needs help with this sort of thing.  It would be cruel to make light of something so sensitive and probably humiliating to her.

Another card jokes about their mother reaching the stage of senility where she won't remember their name or some other important fact.  Nope.  Can't go there either.

Then deep in my heart I felt a sad ache.  We have now arrived at those stages, those aging challenges to the point where joking about it is inappropriate.  My mother is on the downward slope of mortal life. Clearly it is as hard for her as it is for me.  Neither of us like what is happening.  Neither of us want to say goodbye.  Saying goodbye will happen though and each new weakness or challenge is God's way of nudging me to say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done -- nothing huge - just simple acts of love is all that is required.  And loving her today means buying a serious mother's day card telling her I love her and always will.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Sin Is Crouching at the Door

It sticks and clings; 

     It lures and stings.

I hate it and love it;

     I grab it then shove it

Like Gollum’s dear “Precious”

     It’s precious to me.

Oh how I hate it; 

     “please come back to me!”

I’ve shut the door and turned it away, 

     Only to welcome it back the next day.

Who will deliver me from this strong sin?

     Only Christ Jesus can change me within.

And if I persist in ignoring His help,

      If I give in to the sin’s constant yelp

I know He looks softly into my wild eyes,

     And promises freedom in eternity’s skies. 

Canine Spa Treatments

Copper is by my side, upside down, luxuriating under my massaging hands.  His tummy is exposed to the world and I can't resist rubbing his soft furry underbelly.  Canine eyes glaze over as if hypnotized.  A rawhide chew is in his mouth, doing nothing.  It just happened to be there when I started massaging so there it stays, wedged  between his teeth.  Front paws flop over limp.  

Does it get any better than this?

I stop.  Immediately his eyes enlarge and focus - going back to normal.  The rawhide is dropped to the side and up he raises.  "Hmmm, why did you stop?" he seems to say.  "The spa treatment is over already?"

He's still in arm's reach and I can't resist rolling his loose neck skin in my hand.  There is something for me in this.  Maybe it soothes my soul too.  My breathing slows; I am calm.  God surely gave us to each other, two different species of His making, enjoying each other on a couch in the morning.

Conversational Games We Play

I like people who tell it like it is.  If they want to communicate something to you they come right out and say it without taking a detour through a tulip field. I admit there is a personality type that handles this better than some.  Those straight-shooters seem to have been born with the ability to say what they think and deliver it unemotionally, without sinister motives or destroying anyone in the process. Well, most of the time.

To be honest, I am not one of them.  Maybe that’s why I like them. You know, the old “opposites attract” syndrome.  Alas, I am one of those people who drive ME crazy.  At this point I should tell you an anecdotal story of how I have not said what I have said, or is it said what I did not say while saying something else?  You know what I mean. Instead, I will sacrifice making this about me.  Although I do love to talk about myself, this time I will forego being self-absorbed and choose someone else to expose!  See how nice I am?  

Victim, er, Example Number One: my husband.  Just this morning my husband needed information about a new doctor he was going to see and instead of simply asking his name, he asked, “Does he have a name?”  I looked at him.  “No honey, his parents didn’t think he needed one and it’s amazing he has gotten as far as he has in life without a name!”   Are names so private and personal we should be careful who knows what they are?  I am not being sarcastic, well, maybe a little.  But this is quite fascinating to me!

Example Number Two: people give you their opinion by slyly asking questions.  “Do you regret the way you handled your children in that situation?”  Sputter, gasp.  Obviously they think I should regret it!  They didn’t come right out and say it.  Are they being critical deep down inside? I don’t think so.  They want to encourage dialogue on something about which they have an opinion, but are afraid the other person will be offended.  So they don’t say what they want to say.

Sigh.  See my three fingers pointing back at me while pointing at them?

Ninety One

She is a Depression survivor and it shows.  At 91 years of age, her mind is alternately foggy and sunny, cloudy and clear.  Names are hard to remember as well as how people are related.  “Now who are you?” she might ask a grandchild.  Yet in the midst of forgetting these important things, she remembers little things that helped her survive her childhood in the 30s.  Today she needs help with showering, dressing, even going to the bathroom.  But that part of her that served her well her whole life, that part of her that is methodical, organized and frugal, is still alive and well.

Her morning routine is a study in who she is.  Visiting her recently to help my stepfather with her care as he recovered from minor surgery, I observed how her mind works to make life safe, controlled and functional.


“I put these three things on my left side in this order”, she tells me as she sits at her makeup table.  She is referring to a rubber encased 2 inch mirror she uses for applying lipstick, a container of blush, or “rouge”, and a foundation color.  They are placed on a diagonal line starting from the middle of the table going back to the left near the lamp.  To the left of them are placed two hair picks and kleenex.  In the middle is a mirrored tray holding lipsticks and miscellaneous other things.

After applying lipstick she blots her lips then carefully tears off the kissed corner of the kleenex, throwing it away while retaining the rest for her pocket.  “Waste not” is the unspoken commandment she is still obeying.

As she proceeds with her morning ritual, she narrates everything, not so much to inform me but more to inform herself, to keep things clear in her mind as to what she has done and not done.  Behind the tray, propped up against the large table mirror is a 7-inch fold up calendar with a pen attached.  She notices it as she sits there, deciding now is the time to make a mark on the day’s date.  With an unsteady hand she slowly marks an X on the day’s number.  She notes the day of the week and lets it sink in.  “Today is Wednesday, March 27th” she tells me.

Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays are her shower days. Before doing her makeup, on these days she will carefully enter the shower stall.  While I wait outside, having already turned on the water and checked the temperature, she soaps up a wash cloth and begins a verbal narration of her bathing progress.  “I’m washing my right arm.”  I wait.   “Now I’m washing my left arm.”  Having finished that she tells me, “I’m washing my right arm now.”  “Mom, you already washed your right arm” I tell her.  “Oh, that’s right.”  Now I help her wash her back, gently passing over her rounded shoulders that had been my burden bearer as a young child; the shoulders that gently stooped over her pie-crust in the making; and the shoulders that powered the push in kneading her homemade rolls.  How can there be so much memory making contained in the body and shoulders of one woman?

We turn off the water and she backs out of the stall to a waiting towel.  All is done a step at a time, again announcing each movement as if she were demonstrating how to get dressed to a classroom of the uninitiated.

“Now what do I do?” she asks as we leave her bedroom headed to the kitchen. “Which way should i go?”  “This way Mom.” directing her to the right while she constantly looks to the left, down the hall.

“Oh, yes.  That’s right.”

The last time I was inspired to blog, I couldn't get here.  Yes.  This is me through and through - I've become my mother (sorry mom).  Why is it that as I get older I find myself less willing to figure out technology?  Or unable to?

Before I was married I worked as an Administrative Assistant at Iowa Children's and Family Services.  This was in the dark ages.  Being a non-profit meant our equipment was often from the dark ages.  Case in point, we had a switchboard telephone system like Lily Tomlin used.  (I'm huffing on my fingernails at this point because I know how to use one.  Yep.  I'll sign autographs later).  Because everything was so behind the times I actually had the "opportunity" to use some sort of a dinosaur pre-computer to record minutes from meetings.  It was loud and clunky and so not today.  But there was a definite learning curve required to use it and I got to it, without any help, and figured it out.  It was a challenge.

Fast forward.  Christmas, 2012.  Dear hubby surprised me with an ipod touch.  I didn't ask for it.  I'm still not sure what all it can do.  I'm even thrown with it's name.  Is it an ipod or an ipad?  It has been sitting around the house for over a month and I still am looking at it sideways, wondering if the benefits of figuring it out are equal to the chore of learning how to use it.  Guess what I did?  I asked a daughter of a friend to teach me how to use it.  Uh huh.  There's no shame in this!  I've earned the right to let others do the hard work, right?  When I was younger, I did it for the old folks.  Sigh.  (May I insert here that I have a good reason for some of the delay in learning how to use it.  I can't read the small print!!!!  Argh!  The girl who used to thread needles for her mother needs a magnifying glass for her ipod.  I actually have a magnifying glass which I used for a few days before purchasing reading glasses.)

This is fast becoming a diatribe on aging, isn't it?

But technology IS changing so fast none of us can hardly keep up with it.  Each time I am ready for a new cell phone, there is another learning curve.  The last time I was at the phone store I realized simple little cell phones seem to being going the way of the incandescent light bulb.  Now you need a smart phone or other gadgets even higher in "intelligence" than the smart phone.  It's an old joke, but fits here.  Just give me a dumb phone and no one gets hurt.

All this to say I'm here!  I made it back to my blog.  What shall I write?