Digressions

Ode to Oatmeal

/ Lisa / 2 Comments

This morning, while running late, I threw water and Quaker quick-cooking oatmeal into a pan, put it on high to force it to cook faster, and tossed in some frozen blueberries. Then I put the scorched pan in the sink to soak for the day while I rushed off to work. Driving down the highway in the snow, I thought of past oatmeal.

As some of you know we lived off grid for several years. We left behind a lowland countryside of small farms where, as kids, we’d build forts with the neighbor’s hay bales. In other words, we weren’t prepared.

Initially my parents lived in a minuscule cabin and I had a homemade, equally minuscule, 5th wheel trailer. With no heat. The first winter I priced propane heaters and made the, by now infamous, statement ‘I’m not paying two hundred dollars for something I’m going to use one or two months out of the year!’.

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Mishma was not amused by winters

Some of you already know what happened. I spent a winter going to bed wearing wool leggings that went from ankle to crotch, socks covered by wool socks, a shirt, a flannel nightgown, a robe, a big stack of blankets, and a dog and cat under the blankets. I’d wake to blankets frozen to the wall and my breath frozen on those blankets.

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Blurry photo of Vaila, who slept under the blankets.

It was not enjoyable. And obviously, I eventually spent two hundred dollars. The heater kept the cat’s bowl from freezing but that was about it.

But anyway, one thing that is still a warm memory from that time period is oatmeal.

My father would get up early and mix steel-cut oats with heavy cream. He’d start a fire in the wood stove and put the pot on the back, where it would slowly simmer for hours.

By the time I came in frozen, the cabin would be warm and the oatmeal hot, thick, and creamy. I’d stand in front of the fire, turning in circles to thaw out each side, and eat breakfast to thaw out from the inside.

I think of that now, and not just because of the difference between his oatmeal and mine. It was a rough way to live in many ways. There were a lot of hardships both emotionally and physically. But as with anything else in life, there were also many good things.

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And one of those was a father who would get up on those cold, dark, winter mornings and start a fire.

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An Old Fart And A Cat

/ Lisa / 4 Comments

The tiny town I lived near for many years was inhabited by a lot of unique characters. A few still live there, but the town has lost a lot of its character with the loss of those characters.

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View from the bridge named after another old fart

Some of them were old farts. My father included. But here’s a story about Old Fart #1.

He lived in an alley, in a small house with a large quantity of cats. There were assorted outbuildings also full of cats. Many were feral but those allowed in the kitchen were favorites.

He had a lot of favorites.

A local woman had taken on the job of helping Old Fart #1 get his house clean and to help him get health care. Both were in bad shape and she was (and is) a brave, compassionate, and caring woman.

The first time I met O. F. #1 was the morning after a night I’d spent hunting for a woman screaming. He told me it was a cougar. He was right. Then there was the time he was sitting on the bench outside the general store when my future husband and I walked by. At that time we were fellow firefighters going to the store for drinks, with no romance on the horizon. O.F. #1 said, loudly, ‘Looks like you roped yourself a fine heifer there!’.

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View from the General Store bench

This was back in the days when I was still cutting people’s hair. The compassionate woman asked me if I could cut O.F. #1’s for him. I agreed.

The kitchen was a smelly disaster. Dirty dishes, food debris, stinky cans of half empty cat food stacked everywhere. The distinct smell of cat pee and over-used cat litter. As I pulled out my scissors, he pointed out a dainty little gray and white female cat just out of kitten stage. She was lying on the floor and  in obvious distress. The conversation went somewhat like this. Somewhat because I remember my exact words but not his. Horror does that to memory.

“See that cat? I stepped on her. Broke her back leg.”

“Are you going to take her to the vet?”

“No, vets don’t know anything. I want  you to fix it.”

“Me? How?”

“Just take your little scissors there and cut her leg off.”

“WHAT? I’m not cutting her leg off!!!”

“It’s easy. Right there above the joint.”

“I’m not cutting a cat’s back leg off!!!”

At that point I didn’t even want to cut his hair off.

If I remember correctly, the compassionate woman I mentioned got the cat to the vet. And got the kitchen clean.

Eventually O.F. #1 got his hair cut. The cat survived. So did the old fart, who upheld his status in town for a few more years.

I feed feral cats in his memory.

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Kind of empty with the old ones gone. And their bench.

Sick Humor

/ Lisa / 2 Comments

I’ve struggled to come up with a blog post about writing while my brain is briefly occupied with other matters. So I thought I’d write about what is on my mind.

I’ve joked around lately about being an expert barfer. Radiation treatments and anti-nausea pills have brought that home. I’m actually serious.

When I was pregnant the doctor said I was the only patient he’d ever had who got tendonitis in their feet from kneeling so much in front of the toilet.

When I was an EMT I could work on a patient, grab up the handy little waste basket, and go back to work without the patient (and sometimes without the paramedic or driver) knowing anything gross had just happened.

Over the past year I’ve provided hilarious moments for doctors and staff as they try to teach me to gargle without barfing. I can’t gargle. It’s unnatural. They want me to gargle numbing medication so I can have endoscopes. They now tell me that swallowing is okay, too. Oh, and they have to give me a double dose of the amnesia anesthetic because – you guessed it – even when I’m unconscious I’m busy.

And let’s not forget sympathy. I feel so sorry for someone else barfing, that I have to keep them company. The dogs in particular. And especially while trying to clean up a dog that’s rolled in dead salmon. But if the dog does something on the rug, I have two options. Join in as I clean. Or, stare at the wall as I drop paper towels in the vicinity, hoping to hit the target, and then leaving the neatly covered bit for the husband.

The husband told me once that I was a ‘dainty barfer’. I had no idea what he was talking about until the first time he got sick in our life together. My god, that man is a pro. I swear he puts his whole head inside to make it echo. You could be down below in town miles away and know what he’s doing.

I sympathized.

I know blog posts are supposed to have photos so people read them. But I don’t believe in ‘selfies’. Especially when I’m being dainty.

And now I’m going to get in the truck for the drive to work. With ginger tea, handy little barf bags from the doctor, and a roll of paper towels.

Yep, I can barf and drive at the same time.