Can openers and corkscrews: adversaries

 

 

 

 

Can openers and corkscrews: adversaries

 

 

                Is it because I’m left-handed that these two machines/ implements/ kitchen aids never seem to work right?

                The electric can opener I inherited lies abandoned in an unused file cabinet on the back porch. The new one I bought, likewise. Sometimes they worked; most times, they didn’t. Could it have been the way I held my mouth, as the saying goes? Maddening!

                 I even bought a Pampered Chef can opener—one that, positioned a certain way that I can never remember, opens from the can instead from the lid. I’ve used it once.

                Right now on my countertop, several cans of soup-makings sit with a white-plastic-handled manual can opener on top. I’m hoping their proximity will provide good vibes when I ever get around to actually opening said veggies for said soup.

                Corkscrews are also adversaries. Each one I’ve had works, but holds the cork hostage inside the worm (?) no matter what I do. Short of cutting the cork out by sawing with a steak knife, I usually leave it until it’s needed again. Then, whomever is here gets to puzzle out the solution.

                I’ve begun buying tuna in sealed packages and canned fruit with plastic lids and spoons tucked neatly inside. They’re a breeze to open.

                It’s not my reflexes. I can catch a falling glass before it hits the floor. Or an aluminum pan of hot enchiladas that folds in my hand as I take it from the oven.

                It’s gotta be that I’m left-handed and these implements are made by right-handed men.

                Now and then—mostly all the time—the computer keeps me alert by moving the cursor while I’m typing, pulling up a pale screen of possibilities or skipping about on the page. Just now, the screen moved upward, my text out of sight. It’s a good thing I live alone. Otherwise, my housemates might get the idea that I’m yelling at them from another room. If computers had ears…… oh, dear.

              Another adversary is the neighborhood tom cat, unfixed, who’s found that I feed my cats outside. He lies in wait behind a shrub, on the far end of a bench, or on the rock step to the birdbath.

           The female—the only cat that’s not fixed, and who’s had (as of this very day) her third litter by that roaming roué,--comes to eat, and as soon as I disappear behind the door, he proceeds to nose her out of the dish.

Like some females of all species, she moves out of his way until he is sated. Unless I see him first and spray him with a mixture of vinegar and water.  It’s that, or go sit out near the steps with my bottle. Some days I win; some days he wins. Ambivalence, inconsistency—my strong suit as far as this goes.

Finally, Bermuda grass bedevils me by growing back into the space I removed it for expanding flower beds. “I was here first!” it seems to believe, so I find the hoe and show it who’s boss. For the moment.

Thank goodness, kudzu hasn’t gotten a foot-, uh, root-hold in my place. Bermuda, honeysuckle and privet are all I can handle.

 And that’s debatable.

              Is it because I’m left-handed that these two machines/ implements/ kitchen aids never seem to work right?

                The electric can opener I inherited lies abandoned in an unused file cabinet on the back porch. The new one I bought, likewise. Sometimes they worked; most times, they didn’t. Could it have been the way I held my mouth, as the saying goes? Maddening!

                 I even bought a Pampered Chef can opener—one that, positioned a certain way that I can never remember, opens from the can instead from the lid. I’ve used it once.

                Right now on my countertop, several cans of soup-makings sit with a white-plastic-handled manual can opener on top. I’m hoping their proximity will provide good vibes when I ever get around to actually opening said veggies for said soup.

                Corkscrews are also adversaries. Each one I’ve had works, but holds the cork hostage inside the worm (?) no matter what I do. Short of cutting the cork out by sawing with a steak knife, I usually leave it until it’s needed again. Then, whomever is here gets to puzzle out the solution.

                I’ve begun buying tuna in sealed packages and canned fruit with plastic lids and spoons tucked neatly inside. They’re a breeze to open.

                It’s not my reflexes. I can catch a falling glass before it hits the floor. Or an aluminum pan of hot enchiladas that folds in my hand as I take it from the oven.

                It’s gotta be that I’m left-handed and these implements are made by right-handed men.

                Now and then—mostly all the time—the computer keeps me alert by moving the cursor while I’m typing, pulling up a pale screen of possibilities or skipping about on the page. Just now, the screen moved upward, my text out of sight. It’s a good thing I live alone. Otherwise, my housemates might get the idea that I’m yelling at them from another room. If computers had ears…… oh, dear.

              Another adversary is the neighborhood tom cat, unfixed, who’s found that I feed my cats outside. He lies in wait behind a shrub, on the far end of a bench, or on the rock step to the birdbath.

           The female—the only cat that’s not fixed, and who’s had (as of this very day) her third litter by that roaming roué,--comes to eat, and as soon as I disappear behind the door, he proceeds to nose her out of the dish.

Like some females of all species, she moves out of his way until he is sated. Unless I see him first and spray him with a mixture of vinegar and water.  It’s that, or go sit out near the steps with my bottle. Some days I win; some days he wins. Ambivalence, inconsistency—my strong suit as far as this goes.

Finally, Bermuda grass bedevils me by growing back into the space I removed it for expanding flower beds. “I was here first!” it seems to believe, so I find the hoe and show it who’s boss. For the moment.

Thank goodness, kudzu hasn’t gotten a foot-, uh, root-hold in my place. Bermuda, honeysuckle and privet are all I can handle.

 And that’s debatable.

August, a laggard; September, a runner

 

 

                I thought surely when August finally was finished, I’d have time to work in the yard--digging privet, pulling honeysuckle, trimming shrubs, planting new mums—stuff like that. But it was too hot still, so I waited for the promised cooling.

                When the cool spell descended, I found myself tied to the writing desk and computer. First things first. An eye appointment and a morning spent with colleagues to judge our poetry branch contest entries kept me inside.

                The next week, waiting for folks to come over to gather pears for preserves, I did a smidgen of pruning. Enough to fill a wheelbarrow—Carolina moon-vine, saw briars, privet. Of course, my friends had to see the new floors. And we had to have a coffee klatch afterwards.

The next day it rained. Then I had a trip to Conway for the monthly writers’-group meeting.

                Back to the writing desk to compose another chapter for the Hot Springs novel group. And, of course, this weekly blog post.

                Confession time: On the first Sunday of September, I prepped for church where I’d directed/ played until retirement. Now, I was singing tenor in the choir. The director would be back after recuperating three weeks from surgery. The choir would sing, he’d said, a Communion anthem we already knew.

                But when I arrived in the choir room and opened a bulletin, I saw that he was singing a solo.  Turning on my heel, left. My sis followed me to the car with stuff she needed to return. I told her why I was leaving. “Tell anyone who asks, ‘She comes to sing the anthem.’”

                I want to know how many of you can--and will--set your alarm for six on Sunday morning? So you can get to church by 7:45 for hand-bell warm-up before playing in the service? We all do what we’ve committed ourselves to do, and that’s what happened this past Sunday at Bryant FUMC.

                At my advanced age and disposition, I don’t want to have to be at church at 8 a.m., which is why I dropped out of that church’s choir. Been there; done that; retired; don’t want to do it any longer, especially that early in the morning. Call me a wimp . . . if you dare.

                Finally, three hours before the deadline Monday morning, and by setting the alarm for 5:30, I finished another chapter of the sequel. It required lots of research, and was important in tying up one of the subplots.  I expected the writers to call it an information dump, but they did not, thank their sweet hearts.

                Oh, that same afternoon—Monday—I worked in the iris-yucca bed cleaning old foliage and pulling grass. I also manned the weed-eater until the two batteries gave out. So, I AM getting a little done toward keeping the bushes at bay.

The days are getting shorter, aren’t they? Oh, well, I guess so: it’s mid-September already. Wasn’t it still August just yesterday?

Keep your fingers out of the clippers

 See those clippers? Their cousins bite if you're not careful

 

                When you’re left-handed and you slice open the top part of your left-hand pointer finger. . . well, there are a few things it’s hard to do with it wrapped in a tissue that makes it twice its size. Like type. But it’s doable. Typing my password with one hand is possible if I watch the keyboard. Wiping my nose is a breeze. Working the crossword puzzle is impossible.

                This is not the first time I’ve gotten some part of my anatomy too close to the vine or privet or sassafras sapling I was cutting out of the yellowbell hedge.

For all its heavenly aroma, honey suckle is the devil to deter. It wraps itself around the host so tightly it’s hard to nudge the clippers between vine and host. But it’s hard to fathom how—while I’m holding the clippers in my left hand, how I can get a finger of that hand between the blades. But I did, and because I take a doctor-ordered baby aspirin daily, I bled like a stuck hog. I was never that close at hog-killing time, but it’s an expression I’ve heard since Hector was a pup.

I remember (back when Hector WAS a pup) my grandma Flossie severing the tip of one of her fingers while doing something at the well house. She—smart widow woman that she was—took the piece of flesh inside, dipped it in sugar, replaced it on the cut and probably wrapped a handkerchief around it. Then she walked up the lane to catch a ride to the doctor. Compared to that, my injury is nothing.

When he was five or so, my dad got too close to his dad’s table (planing?) saw while it was winding down and lost three fingers on his right hand. Granddad tossed the severed flesh away, even though Dr. Jones’ office was nearby. With time, scar tissue grew over the stubs – the size of my tissue-wrapped digit—but with his thumb and pinkie, he still was able to do his carpentering jobs as an adult. I presume the result of that accident is what kept him out of the war. Though he couldn’t be a soldier, he did help build Fort Leonard Wood.

Many’s the time I’ve jammed my hand holding a washcloth down into a glass or a fruit jar only to have said piece break. There are several scars on my dominant hand for proof.

One time while living in Arkadelphia, I cut a gash into my pinky, and white stuff oozed out. I took Billy (6 or 7) years old and we checked in at the emergency room. When the triage doctor saw it, he delivered the most withering look anyone had ever laid upon me—except Mama. We must have skedaddled because that’s all I remember about the event. The ooze was fat, I suppose. I should have known better and seen to it myself in the first place. Like Grandma Flossie did with her fingertip.

In the sequel to “A Journey of Choice,” one character falls into a puddle of glass and pretty well messes up the side of her face.

Warning: be careful when wielding clippers, saws, knives, and use a brush to wash jars and glasses. Our ten fingers are one of God’s greatest gifts to humankind.

.

A great Mother’s Day week

A younger Kid Billy, now 23

 

by Pat Laster

Early during Mother's Day week, Amazon sent word that Florida son Gordon had honored me with a gift card. That Friday, Hot Springs son Eric came over and --for his (requested) Mother's Day gift--worked in the north yard cutting down and apart the huge branch of the hackberry that had peeled off and lain in the yard for a couple of months. All the while--till about 1:30--I worked alongside him pulling branches to a new brush pile beside Couchwood Dr., clipping the ubiquitous privet, honeysuckle and sawbriars (with scratches on my left hand to prove it--I eschew gloves), then weed-eating around the area.

             E. took his chain saw later and cut (to the ground) the stand of privet, a wild cherry and hickory (alas) sapling that attached (in looks) to the giant tree. Wonder how long it's been since anyone attended to that mess. (My brother said later, "Probably 30 years.") I left the yellowbell and the spirea, of course. Still more privet among the yellowbell, but I'll take care of that myself--with such a good start as was made that day. I took pictures but it will take a while to get them online.

Billy came home overnight Friday to pick up his birth certificate. He's moving from the (expensive) on-campus-but-contracted-out apartments to an apartment out in town with a friend and the friend's girlfriend. At 23, he's old enough to decide--and the rent is only $260 a month.

He'll take summer classes again. Next fall will be the beginning of his 6th year. His trumpet advisor laughingly said at the last choral concert, "Yeah, we're gonna give Billy tenure."

I told someone I didn't care what he learned or didn't learn, I'm just proud of his musical training/experience. You wouldn't believe how still he can stand without moving anything but his mouth (and vocal apparatus) and one hand to turn pages and his eyes to move back and forth (without moving his head) to watch the director/music. So proud!

And if those weren’t blessings enough, former middle-school-choir student, former church-choir member and present friend, James, came by Friday night since his wife was at choir rehearsal. We caught up on Chamber Singers, River City Men’s Chorus, St. James UMC (where he now attends) and his family doings. He told of attending a “contemporary” funeral of a relative where the mood was celebratory in the most vibrant sense of the word. The only tears he noticed were from the deceased’s mother and one other relative. Guitars, drums, vocals, praise and worship—you name it, he said.

            Saturday night, daughter Annamarie took me to dinner at Casa Americana. Afterwards, we ate yogurt from a shop across the parking lot. Two journals and two cards added to the evening.  

Cards came from the other two children-grandchildren-in-laws.

Lucky, lucky me.