Neebish Island 6: Baking Pumpkin Cookies with Mom

When I open the back screen door, I notice the three swathes of duck tape that keep the mosquitos out of Grandma’s house.  I think those were adhered on that same screen in 1884 when Grandma Lovejoy’s uncles, Abby and Herman Shram, first bought this place.

I find my mom in an apron making pumpkin cookies, a quintuple batch.  She wants to send a few over to the boys next store to thank them for taking Santi, Kelly, and I for a boat ride (and to insure they keep chopping wood, changing lights, and helping with the flag pole).

I pose for a few pictures with the batter and learn in the process that the way to scoop the cookie dough onto the sheet pan is to use two spoons—one to scoop the batter and the other to scrape the spoon—that way they all come out the same size and cook evenly.

I talk mom into taking a break and we take our places, each in an orange rocker with our Behling toes elevated on the orange matching footstools.  I am buzzing from the second cup of Folger’s coffee I just made, Mom is buzzing from her non-stop IV drip of Mountain Dew and Vernors.  She takes 18 pills with her soft drinks.

“I quit my anti-depressants after 17 years and Dr. Harding has me taking homeopathics.”

Taking a sip of my caffeinated java, I am almost hyper and respond enthusiastically, “I am so happy for you, can I take a picture of your pill box?  How do you feel?  And why does the kitchen buzzer go off every ten minutes?”

“I have to take a different pill ten minutes before I eat and ten minutes after I take a drink.  I don’t want to forget.  I feel the same as I felt before.”

“Have I told you about my orphanage project?  I started volunteering at a private orphanage in Colombia.  I would happily take three or five or nine kids home if I could, but foreigners aren’t aloud to adopt and so I am just hoping that one falls out of the sky into my lap.”

“You know Grandma Lovejoy’s brother, who was really her cousin Alt, was adopted.”

I quickly grab the Post Its to work on my family tree.  Isn’t there a soft ware or an app for this I wonder.  Oh wait, there is no wifi here, but still, even a family tree Mad Lib would be better than me trying to figure out how many generations it has been since Charlie Stalker adopted Alt.  The bigger question is why do Grandma’s great grand kids, ie me and Kari and Alt’s great grand kids, who have a beautiful cabin across the river not have canoe races across the channel or play hearts at night.  In fact, why don’t we even know each other’s name.  I reach for another post it to ask Grandma when she wakes up.

“So, mom” I say, changing the subject quickly thanx to the Folgers.  “I have a ten point plan for my Sabbatical.  1.  Be present to Santi when he crawls, walks, talks, and potty train him asap.  2.  Have another baby.  3.  Free thousands of babies from Colombia’s welfare system.  4. Write a memoir.  5. Grow the Ashram 6. Start a consulting business. 7.  Lose 20 pounds and earn $200,000 a year 8. Rest, hike, nap, go to the spa 9. Take a salsa and Spanish class each week and 10.  Remove barriers to love. (Maybe I should add Fashion to number seven, which is basically fitness, finances and fashion maintenance).

“When will you know what country you are going to next?” she asks leaning her arms on the rocker’s scratched wooden arm.

“December fifth.  It will likely be Haiti, which means I won’t impregnate myself until March 2014.”

“Haiti is a hell hole.  Don’t go there.  There are too many diseases, voodoo, witchcraft, AIDS galore.”

I grab yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and write quote that down word for word.

Grandma spends 15 minutes listening to Rush Limbaugh on her radio appropriately bashing Weiner for sending lewd texts before she walks in with her cane and sits in the matron rocking chair.  It has a darker wood, a built in footstool and a matching orange floral print.

“When are you going to potty train that boy?”  She asks pointing at Santi and unaware that she asked me the same question six minutes ago.  “My mother used to wash every diaper, even the wet ones, by hand the second she discovered it was wet.  I just can’t believe that people wait until their kids are two or three to potty train them.  These new diapers are awful.  The Indians used to fill the bottom of their papus with leaves and branches and just let them go in there until they too got the new diapers and now, if you go into some parts of Canada the trees are full of plastic diapers that the Indians just threw away.”

I decide this is as good a time as any to reinitiate Elimination Communication which I can finally call infant potty training and get Santi out of diapers by one, like Kelly’s son.  I grab a cooking pot from a hook on the wall and agree with grandma to start now.

“You are right Grandma.  It is a shame.  I will potty train Santi here at Neebish, just like your mother potty trained Brent.  I remember Brent sitting on a potty right here in front of the TV 35 years ago.” I hope to distract her as I take Santi’s diaper off and hold him over the silver cooking pot.

My mom worries that Santi will poop on the floor and pulls out a sheet to put underneath the pot. 

“Amy and Kelly, please keep the print side up.  Every time you use this, fold the print side in so that the unprinted side is what gets dirty and the clean side stays clean.” 

I translate into Spanish for Kelly and Grandma chimes in with another story she repeats every hour or so.

“Your aunt Linda took FOUR years of Spanish in college and she can’t remember a word.  If you don’t use it you lose it.” She adds holding up four fingers to emphasize the years that Linda studied.

I have checked this fact with Aunt Linda and it isn’t true but I don’t counter her, each time she repeats her self I pretend it is the first time she has said this, because she believes it is.

I turn to my mom and grandma and ask them if they can think of 50 words in Spanish between the two of them.  Grandma starts, “I can count to ten.  Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, nueve.”  She stops before saying “Dies.”  “I took a few classes in high school.”

I translate for Kelly explaining that 70 years ago my grandma studied a little Spanish. My mom joins the game, “Agua, Amigo, Rio Grande, Muchachos.”

“How do you know all that Spanish?” Grandma asks dumbfounded.  “Where is my Spanish English dictionary, I used to have one.  I had another book you should read, a classic called Nutrition and the Physical Degeneration by Westin Price copyright 1934.  It was put together by two dentists who traveled the world taking pictures of the native’s teeth while asking them about their diets. They found that the second you stop eating what grows locally you age 50 years. Where is that book?”

My mom continues, quite impressively while I count each word and encourage her to get to 50, “Nino, nina, ninos, ninas, escuela, biblia, adios, hola.”

“What is this infection that I have?  What is it called?  Why don’t we know anything about it?” Grandma gasps.  I get up and check the World Book Encyclopedia, first I grab the letter D to see if I can figure out what year disposable diapers entered the market and how much damage they have done to the environment.  (Note to self: I really should use cloth diapers even when we are traveling.)

Next, I grab the C volume to see if it describes “Clostridium difficle Infection.”  My mom interrupts.  You don’t need to check the dictionary we have a whole paper on it laying on her dresser.  I walk in her room, reluctant to touch anything and glance at the paper:

“Clostridium difficles is an important hospital acquired pathogen, because it is recognized as a major cause of diarrhea in hospital patients.  This infection is associated with antibiotic use and environmental contamination: it affects mainly the elderly,” states the first paragraph of a three page document.  I decide not to pick it up and head back to the front room.

“Grandma what word would you use to describe each of your five kids?”

“Well, I always wanted six. I wanted a big family.  My sister and I were seven and a half years apart,” she starts. Leaning in she hollers in that cross word puzzle voice, “I felt like an only child.  The gap was too big.”

“What word would you use to describe my mom?”

“Your mom?  You don’t know her like I do.  Your mom is….Industrious.”

“Gary?”

“Outgoing.”

“Linda?”

“When Linda was little she would walk up to strangers and say "I is Linda."”

“What adjective would you use?”

“Oh I don’t know?”

Bonnie?

My mother and grandma say in unison, “Smart.”

Danny?

“Danny hasn’t had a bit of sugar, not one bite since his asma got so bad he had to be on a respirator.  Danny doesn’t eat any sugar.  He is coming tomorrow to visit us.  They are all good at math.”

(I haven’t seen my 57-year-old uncle Danny in ten or maybe 20 years.  This will probably be the only time I see him outside of Grandma’s funeral in my life.

I turn to my mom, “What word would you use to describe Grandma?”

Getting up from her rocker to scoop more pumpkin batter on to the cookie sheets Mom says, “I don’t like games like this. I have work to do.”

“I was too easy going,” grandma continues, “I let them get away with everything.  My mistake was letting a roaming husband roam.  But look where I am now, where did that get me, they are all dead now and I am alive.”  She explains still angry about when Grandpa Ben left her and didn’t help support her as she raised five kids on her World Book commissions. 

I opt to look at old family photos with Grandma and let the game go.  What word would I use for each of my siblings?  Brent—Daredevil.  Kari, loving.  Amy, intense.  Julie, fun.

I ask my mom.  For Brent she says, “Careful.” For Julie, She chooses “Whimsical.”  Kari, “Practical.”  For me, “Unique.”

I pull my rocker over to grandma and lay the album on her lap.  My mind immediately turns to the three boxes of photos, cards, and ticket stubs I just threw out.  I feel a pin prick in my heart and regret it.  My grandma has two photo albums at Neebish.  One is of postcards sent and received in the early 1900s and the other of family black and white photos.

We stop on a black and white picture of Doris, when she was three-years-old (1929), with Maggie Lovejoy standing in front of their first Ford.  “What year did cars become main stream?” I ask her.

“Henry” Ford invented them in 1900.”

“I get up and walk back to the World Books.  Should I use C for car or A for Automobile?” I ask Grandma

When I open the back screen door, I notice the three swathes of duck tape that keep the mosquitos out of Grandma’s house.  I think those were adhered on that same screen in 1884 when Grandma Lovejoy’s uncles, Abby and Herman Shram, first bought this place.

I find my mom in an apron making pumpkin cookies, a quintuple batch.  She wants to send a few over to the boys next store to thank them for taking Santi, Kelly, and I for a boat ride (and to insure they keep chopping wood, changing lights, and helping with the flag pole).

I pose for a few pictures with the batter and learn in the process that the way to scoop the cookie dough onto the sheet pan is to use two spoons—one to scoop the batter and the other to scrape the spoon—that way they all come out the same size and cook evenly.

I talk mom into taking a break and we take our places, each in an orange rocker with our Behling toes elevated on the orange matching footstools.  I am buzzing from the second cup of Folger’s coffee I just made, Mom is buzzing from her non-stop IV drip of Mountain Dew and Vernors.  She takes 18 pills with her soft drinks.

“I quit my anti-depressants after 17 years and Dr. Harding has me taking homeopathics.”

Taking a sip of my caffeinated java, I am almost hyper and respond enthusiastically, “I am so happy for you, can I take a picture of your pill box?  How do you feel?  And why does the kitchen buzzer go off every ten minutes?”

“I have to take a different pill ten minutes before I eat and ten minutes after I take a drink.  I don’t want to forget.  I feel the same as I felt before.”

“Have I told you about my orphanage project?  I started volunteering at a private orphanage in Colombia.  I would happily take three or five or nine, but foreigners aren’t aloud to adopt and so I am just hoping that one falls out of the sky into my lap.”

“You know Grandma Lovejoy’s brother, who was really her cousin Alt, was adopted.”

I quickly grab the Post Its to work on my family tree.  Isn’t there a soft ware or an app for this, I wonder.  Oh wait, there is no wifi here, but still, even a family tree Mad Lib would be better than me trying to figure out how many generations it has been since Charlie Stalker adopted Alt.  The bigger question is why do Grandma’s great grand kids, ie me and Kari and Alt’s great grand kids, who have a beautiful cabin across the river not have canoe races across the channel or play hearts at night.  In fact, why don’t we even know each other’s name.  I reach for another post it to ask Grandma when she wakes up.

“So, mom” I say, changing the subject quickly thanx to the Folgers.  “I have a ten point plan for my Sabbatical.  1.  Be present to Santi when he crawls, walks, talks, and potty train him asap.  2.  Have another baby.  3.  Free thousands of babies from Colombia’s welfare system.  4. Write a memoir.  5. Grow the Ashram 6. Start a consulting business. 7.  Lose 20 pounds and earn $200,000 8. Rest, hike, nap, go to the spa 9. Take a salsa and Spanish class each week and 10.  Remove barriers to love. (Maybe I should add Fashion to number seven, which is basically fitness, finances and fashion maintenance).

“When will you know what country you are going to next?” she asks leaning her arms on the rocker’s scratched wooden arm.

“December fifth.  It will likely be Haiti, which means I won’t impregnate myself until March 2014.”

“Haiti is a hell hole.  Don’t go there.  There are too many diseases, voodoo, witchcraft, AIDS galore.”

I grab yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and write that down word for word.

Grandma spends 15 minutes listening to Rush on her radio appropriately bashing Weiner for sending lewd texts before she walks in with her cane and sits in the matron rocking chair.  It has a darker wood, a built in footstool and a matching orange floral print.

“When are you going to potty train that boy?”  She asks pointing at Santi and unaware that she asked me the same question six minutes ago.  “My mother used to wash every diaper, even the wet ones, by hand the second she discovered it was wet.  I just can’t believe that people wait until their kids are two or three to potty train them.  These new diapers are awful.  The Indians used to fill the bottom of their papus with leaves and branches and just let them go in there until they too got the new diapers and now, if you go into some parts of Canada the trees are full of plastic diapers that the Indians just threw away.”

I decide this is as good a time as any to reinitiate Elimination Communication which I can finally call infant potty training and get Santi out of diapers by one, like Kelly’s son.  I grab a cooking pot from a hook on the wall and agree with grandma to start now.

“You are right Grandma.  It is a shame.  I will potty train Santi here at Neebish, just like your mother potty trained Brent.  I remember Brent sitting on a potty right here in front of the TV 35 years ago.” I hope to distract her as I take Santi’s diaper off and hold him over the silver cooking pot.

My mom worries that Santi will poop on the floor and pulls out a sheet to put underneath the pot. 

“Amy and Kelly, please keep the print side up.  Every time you use this, fold the print side in so that the unprinted side is what gets dirty and the clean side stays clean.” 

I translate for Kelly and grandma chimes in with another story she repeats every hour or so.

“Your aunt Linda took FOUR years of Spanish in college and she can’t remember a word.  If you don’t use it you lose it.” She adds holding up four fingers to emphasize the years that Linda studied.

I have checked this fact with Aunt Linda and it isn’t true but I don’t counter her, each time she repeats her self I pretend it is the first time she has said this, because she believes it is.

I turn to my mom and grandma and ask them if they can think of 50 words in Spanish between the two of them.  Grandma starts, “I can count to ten.  Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, nueve.”  She stops before saying “Dies.”  “I took a few classes in high school.”

I translate for Kelly explaining that 70 years ago my grandma studied a little Spanish. My mom joins the game, “Agua, Amigo, Rio Grande, Muchachos.”

“How do you know all that Spanish?” Grandma asks dumbfounded.  “Where is my Spanish English dictionary, I used to have one.  I had another book you should read, a classic called Nutrition and the Physical Degeneration by Westin Price copyright 1934.  It was put together by two dentists who traveled the world taking pictures of the native’s teeth while asking them about their diets. They found that the second you stop eating what grows locally you age 50 years. Where is that book?”

My mom continues, quite impressively while I count each word and encourage her to get to 50, “Nino, nina, ninos, ninas, escuela, biblia, adios, hola.”

“What is this infection that I have?  What is it called?  Why don’t we know anything about it?” Grandma gasps.  I get up and check the World Book Encyclopedia, first I grab the letter D to see if I can figure out what year disposable diapers entered the market and how much damage they have done to the environment.  (Note to self: I really should get Kelly back on cloth diapers even when we are traveling.  Am I a pushover?)

Next, I grab the C volume to see if it describes “Clostridium difficle Infection.”  My mom interrupts.  You don’t need to check the dictionary we have a whole paper on it laying on her dresser.  I walk in her room, reluctant to touch anything and glance at the paper:

“Clostridium difficles is an important hospital acquired pathogen, because it is recognized as a major cause of diarrhea in hospital patients.  This infection is associated with antibiotic use and environmental contamination: it affects mainly the elderly,” states the first paragraph of a three page document.  I decide not to pick it up and head back to the front room.

“Grandma what word would you use to describe each of your five kids?”

“Well, I always wanted six. I wanted a big family.  My sister and I were seven and a half years apart,” she starts. Leaning in she hollers in that cross word puzzle voice, “I felt like an only child.  The gap was too big.”

“What word would you use to describe my mom?”

“Your mom?  You don’t know her like I do.  Your mom is….Industrious.”

“Gary?”

“Outgoing.”

“Linda?”

“When Linda was little she would walk up to strangers and say I is Linda.”

“What adjective would you use?”

“Oh I don’t know?”

Bonnie?

My mother and grandma say in unison, “Smart.”

Danny?

“Danny hasn’t had a bit of sugar, not one bite since his asma got so bad he had to be on a respirator.  Danny doesn’t eat any sugar.  He is coming tomorrow to visit us.  They are all good at math.”

(I haven’t seen my 57 year-old uncle Danny in ten or maybe 20 years.  This will probably be the only time I see him outside of Grandma’s funeral in my life.

I turn to my mom, “What word would you use to describe Grandma?”

Getting up from her rocker to scoop more pumpkin batter on to the cookie sheets Mom says, “I don’t like games like this. I have work to do.”

“I was too easy going,” grandma continues, “I let them get away with everything.  My mistake was letting a roaming husband roam.  But look where I am now, where did that get me, they are all dead now and I am alive.”  She explains still angry about when Grandpa Ben left her and didn’t help support her as she raised five kids on her World Book commissions. 

I opt to look at old family photos with Grandma and let the game go.  What word would I use for each of my siblings?  Brent—Daredevil.  Kari, loving.  Amy, intense.  Julie, fun.

I ask my mom.  For Brent she says, “Careful.” For Julie, She chooses “Whimsical.”  Kari, “Practical.”  For me, “Unique.”

I pull my rocker over to grandma and lay the album on her lap.  My mind immediately turns to the three boxes of photos, cards, and ticket stubs I just threw out.  I feel a pin prick in my heart and regret it.  My grandma has two photo albums at Neebish.  One is of postcards and the other of family black and white photos.

We stop on a black and white picture of Doris, when she was three (1929), with Maggie Lovejoy standing in front of their first Ford.  “What year did cars become main stream?” I ask her.

“Henry” Ford invented them in 1900.”

“I get up and walk back to the World Books.  Should I use C for car or A for Automobile?” I ask grandma

“A for Automobile.” She directs.  Walking to the Encyclopedia I notice a hummingbird at the feeder.