Chief Cook and Bottle Washer

Dear Lucy,
Sorry I haven't written lately but I am busy in my temporary role as Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.
Suzie had her surgery last Monday and is recovering nicely, but she still can't do much at home but rest. That leaves me with all the house work, cooking and dog walking right now along with my full time job of being crazy and generally morose.
Suzie was walking Lucy twice a day usually 3 miles at a pop so Lucy is used to lots of exercise. I, unfortunately developed a new hemorrhoid while lugging my backpack around on my trip, that is the size of Mount Rushmore and feels like walking with a bowling ball up my ass, so am unable to walk Lucy that far.
Fortunately, we have a big off leash dog park a few miles away and I have been taking her there in the morning and then walking her about 2 miles in the evening.
The hard part about cooking is not the actual cooking, it's figuring out what to make. I can live on spinach salad with "fake chicken" myself, but doesn't work well with Dad or Suzie.
Of course Suzie was married to a Mexican man for 27 years and cooked Mexican food. Dad can't eat Mexican food and I don't cook Mexican food well so she has been struggling with cravings for hot and spicy. I bought her a bottle of Tabasco sauce, but it isn't the same.
As far as bottle washing, I LOVE THE DISHWASHER! Need I say more?

--Kathy

Gold Fever

Elsie walked down the hall of her high school toward her 6th period class--Public Speaking. She had to rush, her sandals clicking and clacking on the cement as she tried to beat the ring of the bell and a tardy slip. Her “quick” stop to the restroom to vomit, turned into a much longer trip of vomiting and crying.
She loathed even the thought of public speaking, and now she was having to take a class in it as part of the requirements of Freshmen. And her first speech was due today--right now.
As Elsie walked through the door, the bell rang and she grabbed the nearest desk to where she was standing. The room was filled to capacity, that of 35 students, every desk being taken and every face looking excited, or nervous.
The teacher, Mr. Blackburn, had been teaching forever by the look of sheer boredom on his face along with the red pressure marks of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Probably a World War Two vet. Probably got through college on the GI bill that was so popular after the war. Now, he was just happy to be teaching for minimum pay, and raising his post-war baby-boomer family.
“Today as you all know,” he said with an air of propriety, “is speech day. I hope you all have come up with a startling new issue to argue before the class, for you have to speak for two minutes each.”
Mr. Blackburn took his seat with his clipboard and red pen, and began calling out victims. He had mixed the names up to keep the class at the ready. Elsie could feel her stomach clench each time a speaker finished and sat down.
Sean Carter, captain of the freshman football team and son of Sean Carter Sr., heir to the Carter Emporium, the biggest high-end department store in Union Square, was up and speaking on the unfairness of curfew the night before a big game. When he finished his two minutes, Mr. Blackburn clapped unenthusiastically.
“Leave it to Mr. Carter to argue something as inane as curfew for football players. Well Mr. Carter, you have underachieved again. Next,” Mr. Blackburn said looking over his glasses to his student list, “we will hear from Elsie.”
Elsie shuffled to the front of the class and stood behind the podium. Setting her notes up, she cleared her throat, looked out at the room full of people and froze. “I,” she hesitated and then coughed, “I think that compulsory public speaking class for girls is wrong.”
Mr. Blackburn looked up from his ledger at Elsie and raised an eyebrow.
“That is,” Elsie went on, wringing her hands and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “it should be an elective like home economics or wood shop because most girls like me will never need to make a public speech. I mean, I plan on getting married and raising a family. What do I need public speaking for? It’s a man’s job to make speeches, like President Kennedy or Martin Luther King.”
Elsie shuffled her papers once again, cleared her throat, and looked at Mr. Blackburn who’s face was a violent red. “That’s all I have to say,” she said meekly and hurried back to her desk in the back of the room.
Mr. Blackburn had nothing to say in front of the class about Elsie’s speech, but he kept her after class for a teacher-student discussion.
“I just wanted to say that public speaking is wrong for me, Mr. Blackburn,” Elsie said hoping he wasn’t going to give her detention and get her into trouble with her mom and dad, “it’s wrong to make someone do something that’s going to make them wish they were dead.”
She knew she had done it now. Gave a World War Two vet an opportunity to pontificate about having to do something they don’t want to. And she was right. The talk went on for several minutes, Mr. Blackburn ending the sermon with the old, ‘you gotta reach down for some guts or you will get no where in this world’ line that he was known for.
Trouble was, Elsie didn’t know if she had any guts to reach down for. Or if she did, what she would do with them.

Bon Fire on the Beach!

Pops at the Beach

Suzie. Either I caught the light just right or she was very holy today.

Lucy (my eyes were closed!)

Debbie, Suzie, and Jeri

Dear Lucy,

Had a great bon fire on the beach yesterday with Suzie, Dad, Debbie and her friend Jeri. Of course all the dogs were with us and the weather was great.

Suzie was introduced to Smores which she ate heartily. Dad got to get out of the apartment for awhile, Lucy met Jeri's dog and got to play with Debbie's dogs, and a good time was had by all.

--Kathy

I Loved New York!

Dear Lucy,

Getting on with my story of getting home, I had the option of going from Jacksonville Florida to DC or to New York city before heading to Chicago. Having done DC on the way to Jacksonville, I opted for NYC.

Unfortunately, because of the delay in Jacksonville, I had less time than expected in NYC. I ended up at Penn Station (most would figure Grand Central Station) in Manhattan. I only had a couple of hours lay-over and so I didn't even check my backpack in. I just wore it.

I have to say that I felt more comfortable walking around Manhattan than I did walking around Florida. I blended in (even with a backpack on my back) and everyone else was so busy they didn't even take a second look at me.

I walked to Times Square and looked at all the "pretty lights", tried not to just stare straight up at the tall buildings like some tourist out of hick-town, ate a hot dog from one of those sidewalk stands and walked back to the station. I had time then to sit on the steps of the post office across the street from the station and watch the people and listen to the taxis and the busses play duelling horns with each other.

I would love to go back and spend time there (though I am not big on "sight seeing") and just hang out and be a New Yorker for a while. Maybe some day.

Back on the train, we headed up the state and even through Utica New York, the birthplace of my first partner Cathy (who spells her name with a C but I still loved her!). The area was very beautiful, but what I could see of the town from the train looked very small and economically depressed. Lots of old brick buildings that looked like factories now unused.

After Utica, it was nearly dark and time to roll back up in my sleeping bag and get some shut-eye. Thank God this train was a bit warmer!

The picture is of me sitting on the steps of the post office. I call it, "Nose Hairs in New York". I think it has promise of becoming a Broadway play!

--Kathy

Back on the Wagon

Dear Lucy,

I haven't written lately and you can blame that on the weather. It is not often that we have sunny, hot weather before July 4th, and in fact, most July 4th's I have experienced here in Washington have been rainy.

But, today is cloudy again with a chance of rain for the next 4 days. Ah well.

Since coming home I have made the decision to get sober again. I "went out" 3 years ago after 15 years of sobriety.

It isn't so much that I am drinking too much. It is more that I am drinking for the wrong reasons and that I am afraid it is having an effect on my ability to get through all this grief.

So, I have been going to AA meetings again right now for the stability that they provide. It gives me a place to go every day if need be where being squirrely is the norm. Where being depressed, angry, unsettled, and just uncomfortable in my own skin is understood.

Taking this step brought with it many other steps. I am having to avoid those places and people who may trigger my drinking, and that is difficult to explain to friends. I am having to be really honest with my feelings and diligent to not just get on my usual track of stuffing my feelings, putting on a happy face and faking it just to make other people comfortable.

I am back to living, "One Day at a Time".



--Kathy

I Love my Sleeping Bag

Dear Lucy,
So I haven't started to tell of my trip home from Florida.
I had Donna drop me off early as I was concerned about getting my bicycle on the train. Good thing I did.
Of course, I had to take the pedals off and turn the handle bars perpendicular to the bike and put it in a bike box, blah, blah, blah. It was fine as checked luggage from Jacksonville to Seattle, but because I then had to take a bus from Seattle to Bellingham, and it didn't have checked luggage, everyone at the train station started getting nervous.
After many phone calls they got it all straightened out and the bike was fine and all was well with the world.
The train was an hour and a half late getting in to the station.
Taking the train, I knew I would have to deal with it being late alot and have taken it in stride so far. The thing that bummed me out this time though was that this meant that my 3 hour layover in NYC would be cut short and I wanted to have time to walk to Central Park and see the John Lennon memorial. It didn't happen, but then that's another story.
I got on the train and they had the air conditioning on full-blast and it was blowing right at me.
I felt like Nanook of the North freezing to death in my shorts. I made my complaint but was told that they would have to turn the AC down on the whole car and looking around at the other people, I decided that I wasn't going to risk their wrath.
So I get my jeans out and proceed to the bathroom to change into them. It was like trying to change clothes on a roller coaster. You just can't beat that for cheap entertainment and the opportunity to brush up on those rusty ballet moves!
In the end, I had to break out my sleeping bag and cover up in it up to my head.
My sleeping bag gets the MVP (that's Most Valuable Player for those of you who don't watch baseball) for the trip. It was the one item that I almost didn't bring, and yet used the most.

--Kathy

Gold Fever

The small family started out for California a year after Sarah’s father Jacob convinced his Uncle Vernon to lend him three thousand dollars. Uncle Vernon, a stodgy, life-long bachelor, had money stashed in his mattress, money he swore he would use come some rainy day. But Uncle Vernon didn’t like adventure as much as he liked his old stuffed chair and pipe tobacco, so he was willing to live his dream through Jacob, provided Jacob promised to write often and keep a journal.
So Jacob took that money and began purchasing supplies, while his wife Mary packed up what little they had left in the way of worldly goods after selling what they could and giving away what they couldn’t.
The one thing Mary couldn't give up was her Singer sewing machine. Mary loved to sew and had made all of Sarah’s dresses from the time she was a baby. She also mended the family clothes as well as taking in odd mending and even some tailoring jobs, mostly for Uncle Vernon who’s girth seemed always to be ahead of his clothing alterations.
Jacob scoured the town for buyers of his farming equipment, spending several months negotiating and trading for the supplies he would need for the journey. The tough part was knowing what supplies to get now and what to hold off on until they got their wagon in Independence.

Jacob hired three spaces on a ferry heading out of Jefferson City Missouri right on the Missouri River, landing in Independence two days later, and the start of Indian territory. That’s when Jared Bartlett took ill with cholera and died right there on the boat. The group stopped off for a quick burial, Jacob wrote a letter to Bartlett’s wife, and left it at the post in Independence.
Jacob planned to stay in Independence for three days while he gathered supplies, but God’s will kept him and his family for nigh on a week waiting for the rain to abate and the trail to dry. In the meantime, he bought supplies, and packed and repacked the wagon.
Jacob sold several horses at home and used the money to buy four head of ox as he figured it would be stronger on the trail and easier to feed. He also purchased a small but sturdy wagon they call a “Prairie Schooner”, from Jed the local craftsman who had originally made it for a man named Thomas and his trek out west. Thomas never even made the start of his trek. Died of cholera before he even hitched up a mule.
He also bought a pick ax, and a rifle, neither of which seemed of much use to us in our little town, but came in real handy out in the wilderness. Jacob practiced with the rifle for two days trying to shoot a bottle from twenty yards and fared horribly.
Beyond that he had to purchase a shovel, tent, two lanterns, pants for Jacob made of flannel and coats made of canvas and waterproofed with linseed oil. In Mary’s medicine bag she brought hot drops, peppermint sauces, blister plasters, sticking salve, laudanum, and tincture of bobelia.
Barrels of flour, sacks of sugar, cornmeal, salt and coffee also laden the little wagon that is nothing more than a bed, a box of some 9 or ten feet long and four feet wide, some running gear made of well seasoned hickory, and a canvas top. It had no brakes (or springs), and so the men tied chains around the rear wheels to lock them up when riding down a slope.
Two fights broke out in the week Jacob, Mary and Sarah were in Independence, one of which left an opening in Providence Company for there little wagon. Seems, one Samuel decided to usurp leadership of the company due to his time spent in the army some years back. Shots were fired sometime near midnight, and Samuel fled his wagon and as much provision as he could stuff into it. Oh, and with a bullet hole in his thigh. Some expected they would run into him somewhere on the trail. Since Jacob had the money to repurchase the lost supplies, his family became the logical choice for Samuel’s replacement.
The second fight broke out two days later among the men of Wild Badger Company, a company which disintegrated completely when William, the leader, was shot dead in his wagon, apparently the result of a bad gambling debt in town. Without William to lead the company, those left would not go, not trusting his myopic second man.
Providence Company finally set off on April 16 of 1850, a bright sunny morning after what locals swore was the last of the heavy rains. The morning started out cool and moist, but soon gave into the sun’s rays, the heat causing the tent canopy’s to sweat and steam. Sage brush covered the entire area for many hundreds of miles, its pungent pollens tickling Sarah’s nose and causing her eyes to water furiously.
She warmed up to the excitement of the trip from the time the family began, being always the one who saw the fights break out first hand, the one ever on the alert to spot a new kind of bird or animal, and the one always ready to lead the other children into adventures in the group.
“We weren’t getting into no trouble,” Sarah said to her mother as Mary dragged her by the ear to their wagon, “we were just playing cowboys and Indians.”
“That’s not the kind of game you should be playing out here where there are real Indians Sarah, besides, it isn’t lady-like to be playing with all those boys.”
“Who wants to be lady-like? Those silly old girls of Mr. Carter’s are just spoiled babies who want to play afternoon tea. It’s boring.”
“Boring it may be,” Mary chided Sarah as they sat down to make supper, “but it’s safe.”
“Are we ever going to see any real Indians Mother? With their faces all painted up, and riding bare-back on their ponies?”
“Child, what an imagination you have. Let’s hope we don’t meet any of those savages. God knows what they would do to us.”
“Mother, why don’t we eat the food that the other people are eating?”
“Because you have seen Tiny, the cook, he’s filthy. And always drunk. I dare say, I am surprised he hasn’t caught his cook wagon on fire. Nearly fell into the fire this Sarah looked up from her work just in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Carter with their daughter Honorea heading their way. “I’ll go into the wagon and get the flour,” Sarah spurted out as she ran for the wagon.
“Evening,” Mary said rather more sternly than she would have liked.
“Evening,” replied Mr. Carter. “We have come to invite your lovely daughter Sarah over to help us celebrate Honorea’s birthday.”
Honorea promptly spotted Sarah peeking out from the tent and stuck her tongue out at her. Sarah promptly replied in like kind.
“It isn’t going to be anything outlandish, just a slice of cake and some songs,” Samuel Carter went on, his wife nodding her head in approval, “it’s just that, there aren’t any other girls her age to celebrate with you know.”
“Oh I understand Mr. Carter,” Mary said, as she turned to walk toward the wagon and get Sarah.
“I don’t want to go over there,” Sarah hissed to her mother from behind the wagon tarp, “They’re so stuffy.”
“I know they are a bit uppity Sarah, but they are our traveling companions. I think you should go. She’d be delighted,” Mary said a little to cheerily. “I’ll send her over presently.”
Sarah let out a very audible groan.