Jaki Jean on Drizzling Rain, Snowflakes & Promise

This afternoon, when I went outside to bring in the trash can, it was raining.  A drizzle,  the kind of rain that I love after so many years of living in a reclaimed swamp.  Where rain dominates.

Although I still remember & cherish the downpours in the desert that brought the seemingly barren landscape to life.

A drizzle is a rain for walking, if your shoes are not adorable canvas Bobs or Toms.  A rain for thinking.  A rain for dreaming & rejoicing.

And sometimes, over the years, in dreams & reality, a rain for finding a secluded spot, spreading out a quilt & making love.  A background for great sex.

A drizzle is the finest of rain.  It makes my hair curl & frizz & drops on my face like tiny promises. 

All those tiny drops of promise for sustenance, renewal & quenching an inexplicable thirst.

Years ago, I had an afternoon that came close to a drizzle rain.  I left my roommate to clean up the dishes from a Thanksgiving dinner we hosted to catch a plane to Connecticut, to spend the weekend with a man I lusted after for two years before he finally took me out to dinner & eventually to bed.

He left his job & life in the inner city of Houston to return to Connecticut because his knees sweat & he missed wearing sweaters & shorts.  And of course, there was nothing to keep him in Texas, although I desperately wanted to be that something.

During that extended weekend, we had dinner with his parents, took a trip into New York City, ate seafood on Long Island Sound & felt the first snow on the edge of the home of William F. Buckley, Jr.

An odd choice for this liberal Democrat, I know.  But I was quite enamored of William F. Buckley, Jr.’s voice & his command of the English language.

The first snowflakes fell gently, like the drizzling rain I love.  It was beautiful.  The snowflakes weren’t cold, just different than a drizzle.  Lovely, but different. 

I stood before Buckley’s home & let the snowflakes fall on my face & I knew.

The snowflakes offered no promises, but marked an ending. 

I would never return to that same place.

A drizzle of rain never marks an ending,  just a promise.

For thinking, dreaming & rejuvenation.  And sometimes, to quench an insatiable thirst.

Snowflakes are another story.

Jean, Jaki Jean & Memories

The play set abandoned by a love of soccer & lacrosse.  Photo stolen by permission.

This evening, I told my mother Jean a story, sharing with her something from my Facebook friends Andres & Amy.  About Andres chauffeuring their daughter Sophia to her first homecoming dance & about their son Cayo telling his parents that he no longer needed the play set in their back yard but more room for soccer & lacrosse.

Jean wanted to know how old my friends’ daughter was, how old was young man whom her parents think of as “Sophia’s friend who is a boy.”  The age of their son Cayo, who no longer needed a play set but more room to explore his passions.

And then we talked about the wooden fort & play set in Jack & Jean’s yard that was such a huge part of raising my sons Nick & Sam.  I told Jean that Andres & Amy were selling the set & another family would enjoy it.  We kept ours, I said, far too long. 

For the Ettinger related children who came after my two sons.

For Felicia Marie, Emily Kate, Johnny Alexander & Sara Jane.

Like my sons, the grandchildren of Jack & Jean grew up & I stopped using the swings to relax & think & remember.

Eventually, neglected & falling apart, the fort & swing set had to be dismantled.

Jean said:

You know, someone said we should not have got rid of it.  That there would always be another child.

I reminded her that the set was over 25 years old, that the company, who gave a lifetime guarantee, was out of business.  And then I realized, she is not remembering the fort & swing set I bought when Nicholas was two years old.  She is not remembering the swing set Sam climbed to the top & across when he was still a toddler.

So I ask her if she is remembering the swing set my father’s parents Papa John & Mother Helen bought when I was a little girl.  The one that traveled with us from College Station to Dallas to El Paso &  to Meadows Place, Texas.  Although the fabulous slide, taller than the top of the swing set, did not make it from El Paso to Meadows Place.

Jean grew quiet & I grew frustrated.  I look into her face & say: 

Please don’t start a story & not finish it.

I say it & I know that there will be more unfinished stories, remnants of stories, beginnings without endings & endings without beginnings.  Seemingly unconnected bits & pieces.   Because the memories & stories of Alzheimer’s & dementia are fractal, not linear.

For too many minutes, Jean is quiet.  She is thinking, giving herself time to form the words Parkinson’s has made difficult for her to express.  Then she says:

I don’t want to waste your time.

Because I don’t want to weep, I laugh & tell her that listening to her memories is never a waste of time.  Eventually she responds.

For a long time, there was just you.  I did not have Janet until after your father graduated from A&M.   But first, we went to Schenectady.  You told the neighbors I was a bad mother because I never kept Kool-Aid or suckers.  You used to play with a little boy named David.

Jean grew quiet for a long time & I said: That was a lot of remembering for one night. Perhaps it is time for us to go to bed.

As a writer who appreciates fractal thought & discourse, I want to hold onto every fragment, however disjointed, of my mother’s memories.  Because in those pieces, in those fragments, is her story.

Or someone’s story.

Jaki Jean, Jean & Another Challenge as a Caregiver

So, last week I contacted an agency, referred by my sister Janet’s friend Maria, to send out an eye doctor to check out Jean’s eyes.  Not only has it been too long, but one morning while repositioning Jean, I rolled her over on her glasses.  They are now held together by the same tape used with bandages.

All my life, Jean has loved to read.  As did my father Jack.  So glasses are essential to Jean’s day.  Reading is a pleasure that does require her to leave her bed.

I explained the situation to the agency & mentioned that Jean had not seen a doctor in several years, that her eye doctor retired & then we all got distracted by other issues.

So, this week, a doctor & nurse arrived.  As we walked back to Jean’s room, I started to explain that she has Parkinson’s & is hard of hearing.  He cut me off & said we would sit down & talk about it. 

I started to say Did no one share her case information with you?  I could not imagine what we needed to discuss in order to give Jean an eye exam.

But, trying to be a kinder & gentler Jaki Jean, I just lead the doctor & nurse to the room & then told Jean that the eye doctor was here.

The doctor announced:  I am not an eye doctor.

I asked him who he was & he said he was a family physician.  Stunned, I commented that Jean had no need of a family physician or a primary care doctor. 

The same doctor has been caring for my mother for almost two decades.  I asked for an eye doctor.

I escorted the doctor & nurse out of the house.  Their faces showed that each thought I was insane, I am sure I returned the same look.

When I called the Outreach Eye Clinic to ask why they sent a family physician instead of an eye doctor, I reached the same associate, Felicia (I remembered because my beloved eldest niece is named Felicia). 

Expressing my dismay & confusion, Felicia told me that she sent a primary physician because I told her Jean had not seen a doctor in several years.

Luckily, I took a deep breath & did not reply what I was screaming in my mind:  Seriously?  Context, woman, context.  An eye doctor.  Jean has not seen an eye doctor.  Her eye doctor retired.

Instead, again trying to be a kinder & gentler Jaki Jean, I replied:

I believe that I failed to communicate effectively.   When my I told you that my mother had not seen a doctor in several years, I failed to say an eye doctor.

Now,  make no mistake, I do not believe the failure to communicate was mine alone.  Communication is a two way street.  It is as important to listen effectively as it is to speak effectively. 

But I have learned a few things in six decades on this planet.  Sometimes, to get what you want or need, taking ownership of a misunderstanding that is not entirely your fault gets you the desired result.

An eye doctor will be here tomorrow.

On a brighter note, it is candy corn season !

On Recipes for an Edible Text

This morning, my Alpha Son Nick asked me if I would find a slow cooking recipe for rack of lamb, with a lot of garlic.  It needs a lot of garlic.

Although it should not surprise me that Nick cooks things like rack of lamb – he is his French father’s son – it does give me pause.

I have only cooked rack of lamb once – long before Nick was born – for another Frenchman.  From a Julia Child recipe.  I sent Nick three recipes, including Julia Child's.

When Nick & I lived in Washington, D.C., I would cook lamb chops in red wine with a side of rosemary potatoes.  My boss in D.C. loved to roast lamb, encrusted with herbs, on the grill. 

But I don’t think that is why Nick prepares lamb for his wife & for his friends.  I think it comes from his father Jacques, as did his affection for the caviar in a lobster & breakfasts of sausage & a baguette.  Or a baguette & cheese.  Or a baguette with anything.

In earlier decades, I would have been jealous of that influence.  I will not sugar coat or deny that.

But now, I remember all the meals I shared with Nick’s father.  The best country pate ever.  The best venison stew ever.  Lobster to die for, with homemade mayonnaise (although I always preferred melted butter).  And Jacques’ grandmother’s recipe for a fried egg with vinegar & herbs.

Nick’s father was probably the only man who could convince me to try wild boar or pheasant.  Although his introduction to tripe in Paris did not go well for Jaki Jean.

Although the desserts in Paris were sublime.  But Jaki Jean does not do tripe – not in Menudo, not even in Paris.  

For his rack of lamb, Nick has chosen a marinade of Dijon, red wine vinegar, olive oil, brown sugar, garlic & Italian herbs.  With side dishes of scalloped potatoes & asparagus.

I think about this – that both of my sons cook.  Although neither of them was  ever interested in spending time with me in the kitchen.  They were, however, appreciative of the results. 

And now each of them has found their own way to the kitchen & preparing food.

Perhaps I did something good.  I cannot take all the credit - Nick's father is an amazing cook.  My youngest learned all his culinary talents on his own.  

Because preparing food for people is a bit like writing.  It is offering sustenance, an opportunity for conversation & companionship.  And a way to share an edible text.  

I hope Nick & Sam continue to share that edible text.

Jaki Jean on My Life Had Stood a Loaded Gun, Emily Dickinson & Willie Nelson

When I gaze at this photo, taken in Cuernavaca< Mexico in 2011 by my friend & fellow writer, Cate Poe, I am reminded of an Emily Dickinson poem.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

In Corners - till a Day

The Owner passed - identified -

And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -

And now We hunt the Doe -

And every time I speak for Him

The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light

Opon the Valley glow -

It is as a Vesuvian face

Had let it’s pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -

I guard My Master’s Head -

’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s

Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -

None stir the second time -

On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -

Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live

He longer must - than I -

For I have but the power to kill,

Without - the power to die -

The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)
Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition ed by Ralph W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

Dickinson’s poem has stayed with me over the years, long after I left my role as an English major & women’s studies minor. 

I was introduced to the poem by Dr. Patricia Lee Yongue, who was my mentor at the University of Houston.  Amazing woman. 

One morning, as we were talking in her office, Dr. Yongue told me about an assignment she given her graduate seminar for their final:  write an essay about Emily Dickinson’s My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun with Willie Nelson’s rendition of Seven Spanish Angels.

I remember being incredibly jealous of the assignment.

Over the years, I have spent many moments, listening to the Willie & Ray Charles rendition of Seven Spanish Angels - my favorite version, staring at one of two copies of Emily Dickinson’s complete poems. 

(One copy I always kept on a bookshelf at whatever office I occupied.  Because a woman never knows when she might need a bit of poetry.  Or a feather boa. Always keep a boa & a book of poetry in your office.)

I am not sure I will ever progress beyond My life had stood - a Loaded Gun.

I always want to move beyond what passes across the lines between the opening & the last phrases:

For I have but the power to kill,

Without - the power to die -

One, just one gift among so many others, given to me by Dr. Yongue, was the power of Emily Dickinson.  I think that is why I turn to Dickinson when my heart & soul are weary & need to be revitalized.'

Which explains Dickinson’s presence in my offices.  The boa is another story.

As I gaze at this photo of a young woman dressed in jeans & pink tennis shoes, standing next to the statue of a powerful woman, forever captured with a loaded gun, Dickinson rings in my ears.

And do I smile, such cordial light.

And that female warrior smiles, the loaded gun, not hanging not on her side like a man, but over her vagina.  Open & defiant.

Like a loaded gun, this is me.  This is my power.  This is what you cannot take from me or replicate.  Threaten me, threaten those I love.  Aim at me & I will pull this gun & end the argument.

For I have but the power to kill,

Without - the power to die -

During these difficult times, when so many men and, unfortunately, women, want to restrict & strip women of their power, their right to choose, their right to stand firm, their right to excel,  perhaps it is a time to revisit Dickinson. 

And one day, I will write that paper never assigned to me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8A9Y1Dq_cQ

Barbecued Chicken in the Crock Pot, Friendship & my Friend Muriel

My dear friend Muriel calls me on a regular basis to visit, to ask about my mother & ask about the state of my mind & my spirit.  If it is a holiday, she asks me what I am cooking.  Sometimes just on an ordinary day.  We exchange menus the same way we exchange stories of our days & the people involved in our lives.

Our friendship began with conversation – over lunch when we worked together. 

Since the death of her daughter Cheryl, Muriel has been raising her grandchildren Maddie & Jules.  She does something that never occurred to me when I was raising Nick & Sam.  On a regular basis, she asks them what they would like for dinner.  While I always asked Nick & Sam what they wanted for their birthday dinners, it never occurred to include them in the daily process.

I must confess I am a tyrant in the kitchen.  Not one member of my family will say otherwise. 

How I became a tyrant remains a mystery.  I learned to cook from women & men who invited me into their kitchens & included me in the process.  But that is another story.

The inclusion of her grandchildren in the choices that make up the daily process of family life is just one of the things I love about my friend Muriel.  Not only do the children participate in choosing the menu, Maddie & Jules compile the weekly grocery list for their grandmother & go shopping as a family.  

I am quite in awe of this team building for families. 

Although Maddie & Jules miss their mother every day, the family Muriel has made for them results in two happy, well-adjusted, loving children who are wise beyond their years.  Make no mistake,  Muriel is the parent in charge.  But she has created a team & the team thrives because they all feel empowered, they all have a voice.

A lesson for all of us.

For Labor Day, my menu was Jaki Jean’s Infamous Orgasmic Turkey Burgers, roasted corn on the cob & Blue Bell White Chocolate Almond ice cream with hot fudge for dessert.  The menu at Muriel’s house was barbecue chicken in a crock pot, pinto beans because Julian wanted them, & potato salad.

The idea of barbecue chicken in a crock pot hit me today when I returned from the store to discover that our AC was not functioning.  And because I no longer keep bottled barbecue sauce in my pantry since my friend Jayne Pride told me, “Barbecue sauce is not our friend.”  (Jayne is a grandmother, a healthy & fit beauty who looks as young as her daughter – so I always listen to her on these things).

So, for the first time in my six decades, I made barbecue sauce from scratch.  And I began to realize the truth of Jayne Pride’s words.  I used honey & maple syrup instead of molasses, but there was no leaving out the brown sugar.  Except for adding a chipotle pepper in adobe sauce crushed into a pulp with a mortar & pestle, I followed the recipe for the spices – cinnamon, cayenne pepper, paprika, ginger, salt, black pepper, red pepper flakes, mustard. 

All who know me understand that I like spicy.

 As I put the sauce together, loving the crushing of the chipotle pepper in the mortar & pestle, I think to myself:

Muriel gave you this moment, doing something you love, creating something to share.

Friends do that for you, give you a moment to create something to share, doing something you love. 

This evening, my menu is barbecued chicken in a crock pot, potato salad made with sweet rather than white potatoes & more Blue Bell White Chocolate Almond ice cream with hot fudge sauce.  

And smiling, I wonder what Maddie & Jules have planned for their menu tonight.

 Jules, Muriel & Maddie