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100% Cotton Mouth

7 Nov

About four years ago, my mom decided to move my great aunt Hilda from her apartment to my mom’s home.  At the time my Aunt Hilda was 100 years old.  Her health was in bad shape and it seemed she would require additional care which my mother could better provide by having her live in the same house.  So my sister and mom (as well as cousins, aunts, uncles, and maybe my brothers), took on the task of packing up the apartment which had been home to many, many years of saving.  Saving stationary; saving pads of paper, books, pens, pencils, purses, clothes, magazines, linens…the list goes on and on; and it wasn’t even that big of an apartment!  But Aunt Hilda managed to save many of her treasures which also serve as (mint condition), historical markers.  One such marker I was fortunate to receive.  It is a small tin, coral colored, filled with cotton.  It is called the, “Cotton Picker Cotton”, a Curity product.  It was sealed and ready to be used.  If you have been to my house, you know that one of our two bathroom’s is decorated with the colors salmon, pink, and orange.  Since we live in a house built in the year 1956 and since the sink console is original to our home, the Cotton Picker fits very well with my motif!

However, unlike my Aunt, I prefer to utilize the things that I have instead of save them .  For example, if I have a hand towel hanging near a sink, you can be assured it is ready and awaiting the task of soaking up water from your skin after you have finished your cleansing routine.  And because Brian is my husband, this means I do NOT have nice hand towels…I have stained and very used hand towels, and when he is working on a car or art project, sometimes those hand towels “disappear” altogether!  Anyway, because of my ‘use it’ mentality (though sometimes this  does backfire and I find myself wishing I had held onto something instead of use it up), I decided to open my new cotton filled gadget and put it to work.  So for the last few years I have been pulling cotton from my “cottin’ pickin’, “Cotton Picker.”  I periodically pull out and cut a piece of 1950’s era cotton from my vintage tin and save myself a trek across the hall to the other bathroom (a 10 second walk east) where the more modern cotton balls can be found.  Well last night I pulled from my retro well only to find a sticker adhered to the 100% fluff which read, “Buy Another Cotton Picker Today!”

Now mind you, I am currently wandering around, on this planet, in (pretty much) a constant state of exhaustion.  You must also know that with exhaustion comes delirium.  And for me, delirium manifests in form of crass dialogue with myself.  So after I read the words, “Buy Another Cotton Picker Today!”, I said the following out loud:

“NOW HOW IN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT?!?  I MEAN REALLY, WHERE THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET ANOTHER COTTN’ PICKN’, COTTON PICKER?!?”  And then I laughed at myself, and my own absurdity (I think I even gave a shout out cursing toward my sister, Leah, for salvaging the darned thing for me in the first place…yeah I’m pretty sure I did!).

Well aunt Hilda will be 104 years old in February, her health goes from bad to amazingly well on a rotating schedule of every other day; and I know that if she still lived in her little apartment I would have a trusted source to go to for my cotton replacement.  For your enjoyment (and mine), I share the following photo…

Thanks Aunt Hilda!

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Saying Goodbye

20 Sep

I have decided (well if I’m honest I’ve known for quite a while) that I do not like saying “Goodbye” to people I love.  In fact you will find that I maintain relationships with people, if I can, for a lifetime.  By relationship I mean, heart ties.  For example, Candy Edman is a subscriber to this post.  I haven’t seen Candy for several years, but her family and ours have remained tied to each other by way of love, prayer, and interest (and maybe a broken toilet or two–haha, inside joke).  I have family, direct bloodlines, that are with me in this way as well.  We live on opposite ends of the coast, or in different countries, yet they are in my heart as if we lived closer.  Why bring this subject up?  I will tell you…

Last night I received a call that my mother had taken my sister, Leah, to the ER.  Leah was in excruciating abdominal pain which painkillers were unable to mask.  Now my rational mind would tell me the circumstance is related to a flare up of her Crohn’s disease.  However, rational wasn’t working its magic for me last night.  You see my father went into the hospital about 20 years ago in pain and with a distended abdomen.  He never came out.  He was riddled with cancer and had ignored the symptoms long enough that by the time conclusions were made from his in-patient testings, he had passed away.  So last night I kept hoping that it wasn’t cancer.  And while we (me on the phone and her in the hospital in northern California) anxiously awaited a cat scan and blood test results, my mind and heart were heavily facing the fear of saying goodbye.  Of course I measured the weight of those thoughts against faith and prayer, which does help keep one from putting the cart before the horse.  However, I was again faced with my disinterest in goodbyes.  And because of that, I hope you all outlive me!  You see I believe in Heaven and I know that is where I am going.  I have no fear of my own death, nor the death of most of those I love (as far as where they are going).  Oh but having to live with the void of someone so significant is abhorrible.  I know I can do it, I’ve done it many a times.  But I just don’t want to!  Now this is not a letter of suicide by any means-Please Don’t Be Alarmed!!!  This is merely an expression of my inner reality; if I didn’t have this blog I wouldn’t even write it down.

There are other forms of “goodbye” I find difficult to deal with, such as the major transitions of life.  My daughter, Esther, is fast approaching 16 years of age.  I am already witnessing the natural progression of her maturation and therefore disconnect from the mother-father-daughter tie.  She is so looking forward to having her driver’s license.  And her car sits in our driveway with its enticing call to a new freedom.  It’s natural, I know.  I went through it, and I have raised both of my children to think independently.  But I still don’t like it.  She is my baby, though she wore red lipstick to school today.  She is my muse, though she consults me less regarding style.  She is my companion, though her friends are fast replacing me.  She is mine, though she is not.

So you see, my sister can’t go into the hospital for pain without me carrying on internally over deeply felt emotions that I manage to sequester most of the time.  No, I contemplate those I love, like, and miss.  I want Heaven now, though I will wait my turn.  Leah is, as I type, undergoing gallbladder removal surgery.  It wasn’t Crohn’s afterall.  She will be fine, and I am grateful.  Now I have to figure out how to gracefully allow my daughter the freedom to grow…

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