I’m officially old.  I mean, I’ve reached an age that many people probably consider old (and did a few years ago). But mentally, I have realized that I am “old.”  Why, you ask?  It’s not because of stiff joints, creaking knees, general grumpiness, or being overtaken by naps if I sit more than 15 minutes.  I made this realization just recently because I am now at an age when casual conversation does not mean I want advice.  In fact, offering me advice when I have not asked for any will result in my general grumpiness becoming quite targeted.

               I’ve become aware of late how many people want to tell me things about my life.  Suggestions they feel, apparently, that I desperately need to improve my lot and am too dim-witted to figure out on my own.  These are not major things, but advice on aspects of my life that frankly, I am totally capable of figuring out by myself. 

               For example, I recently made an off-hand remark to a friend that I was going to a wedding next year and was going to be shopping for some new winter shoes that were comfortable.  Now, shoe-shopping is something that I’ve honed to a fine art in my many decades.  First of all (and most importantly), I know what I like.  Secondly, I enjoy both arthritis and gout in my feet, so I’m pretty particular in what shoes I will pick. And finally, I also have plantar fasciitis, so any heel must be, basically, flat.

               My casual remark generated a litany of advice from my friend, including something called peep-toe boots and shoes that I “must buy.” She even offered to come with me to help find these horrible-sounding things.  Since I hadn’t asked for advice, I’m not sure why she felt compelled to act as though I was an alien from another galaxy who had never purchased shoes in my life.  But she did.

               It doesn’t stop there.  We recently purchased a new antique for our dining room.  It’s a corner cabinet and given my love for antiques, I was confident that I knew exactly where to put it and what I wanted to display in it.  Another friend, seeing the cabinet, felt compelled to offer several suggestions on these matters, including “you must leave the top doors open.” Must I? 

               My husband mentioned to friends the other night that he has sinus issues on one side.  (Note:  he’s had them for years and knows exactly what to do about them).  This simple comment yielded a host of advice about which medications he “should” be taking and what tea to drink.  (He’s a coffee-drinker).

               He wasn’t asking for a medical consult, just making conversation, but got the lecture anyway.  The same pal told me I should be taking my GERD medication every day.  I replied that I take the two-week course once every three months and my reflux stays under control.  The response to that was to tell me that “taking it every day won’t hurt you and will keep it at bay.” It is at bay, I don’t want to take medication I don’t need, and I didn’t ask for advice.

               Maybe because I don’t give advice, unless it’s requested, this is starting to annoy.  But mostly, I think, I’m just officially old.  And cranky.

               And I don’t want any advice about it.

               Today my sweet husband informed me that lately he didn’t think we were on the “same page,” communication-wise.  What?  Not on the same page?  I have no idea what he’s talking about!

               Well, okay, I have a smidgeon of an idea what he means.  Just a glimmer, really. 

               It all started last week over breakfast.  We typically play along with a TV game show called “25 words or less” during breakfast.  We mute the sound and give each other clues as we play – trying to beat the contestants.

               Typically, we are really good at this game.  After all, 40 years of shared experiences gives us a lot of history from which to draw clues.  But last week, I struggled.  My struggles had nothing to do with our shared experiences, it had to do with my word choices, and my guesses, both of which were poor.

               For example, I was trying to get him to say the word “hem.”  My clue was “heighten your pants.” I realize that “heighten” is not, perhaps, as descriptive or accurate as “shorten.” But I didn’t, in the heat of game play, come up with the correct word.  So, he never did guess it correctly.  I think he had pictured a man hiking his pants up to his armpits and didn’t know the word for that.  (Neither do I, but it’s almost always funny.)

               Later, he was giving me clues and said “blank and blood.” Clearly, this is an oft-used expression and the correct word is “flesh.” I didn’t find that word in my head.  I said, “sweat,” “tears,” “platelets,”  “vampires,” and a few other words.  Even when he added “body tissue” as a hint, I was empty.

               Then (this is all the same game, so yeah, not on the same page at all), I had to get him to say the word “swipe.” So I said “Tinder! Blank right.” Which might have been an awesome clue for anyone who uses Tindr, or has heard of Tindr, or who watches Lifetime romance movies.  None of these things are pertinent to my husband.  He didn’t get it.

               So, okay, maybe this past week, our shared history and many experiences weren’t helpful in the word game, but to say we’re not on the same page seemed a bit extreme to me. Until the dog food incident.

               You see, our beloved dog is getting picky in his old age.  The vet recommended a special food, which we bought (after taking out a small loan) and he hated.  I thought maybe he was tired of chewing up the dry food mix that he’s eaten well for 12 years, so I started buying pouches of soft food.  He liked that okay, for a while, but wasn’t eating well.  So, we bought a bag of his old food, figuring maybe he liked that best.

               The back-up bag of his normal food was in the garage.  Also in the garage were two boxes of the pouch food.  In the mudroom closet, next to where we feed our pooch sits an open box of pouches and a bag with the half-used vet-recommended food.

               Typically, my husband feeds the dog.  This morning, I fed him and without thinking, I scooped out a cup of the vet-recommended stuff.  The dog ate it, and I noticed the bag getting low.

               So on the way to the car, I mentioned that the dog food was low.  As we walked into the garage, my husband said, “No, we have extra boxes right there.” He pointed (I assume) towards the two boxes of pouches.  I thought he was pointing to the big bag and I said “I thought he wasn’t eating that.”

               Afterward followed a dialogue reminiscent of Abbott and Costello about which food the dog was actually eating now.  I was confused because he ate the vet food today, but apparently hasn’t been.  I also didn’t know the name brand of the pouches, which turns out to be the same name brand as the old dry food.  So we went back and forth arguing about this dog food for about five minutes and finally gave it up.

               So, he’s right.  Sometimes we’re not on the same page.  But it’s really the dog’s fault.

Thanksgiving is always a special time in our house. Whether we have a table set for 25, or it’s just the two of us, we spend a wonderful day appreciating all the blessings that we have.  Family, friends, pets, food, shelter, and abounding nature. 

               Some Thanksgivings have given us special memories.  There was the year my roaster pan finally quit working.  Interestingly, the red light indicating it was “on” did not stop working, but the pan didn’t heat up.  With the giblets simmering softly on the stove, there was an aroma of turkey in the air, albeit a rather faint one.  We readied all the other dishes to eat at 4 p.m.

Everything was either in pots and pans or in the oven and the table was set.  Matt prepared the carving set and pulled off the roaster pan lid.  We stared in horror at the completely uncooked, raw turkey. The butter hadn’t even melted!

Quickly, we put all the food away and placed the turkey in the oven.  The assembled loved ones got out the Uno deck and we enjoyed more time together, laughing, playing and munching on olives and pickles. Three and a half hours later, we prepared our Thanksgiving feast again – and this time, the bird was cooked!

Last year, our son and his family had Covid.  Matt and I ate the traditional dinner alone, then prepared several trays to deliver to porches.  Our son said he actually could taste the cranberry and the gravy, but that was about it.  Fortunately, they all recovered from Covid and that was plenty for which we were grateful.

This year, there were five adults and a toddler at our table.  I managed to forget to buy onions, so my traditional stuffing had chopped up radishes instead.  No one seemed to notice, but then gravy hides a multitude of sins.  My husband makes a mean pumpkin pie and he was assigned that duty this year.

Not only did I forget onions, but I forgot evaporated milk.  This is a pretty important ingredient for the pie, so I made a “quick” trip to the grocery on Wednesday night.  It was a nightmare.  Who (besides me?) waits until the night before to shop for Thanksgiving?  Apparently, several hundred people.

So I fought the crowds and found that the shelves on which evaporated milk were housed were all completely empty.  I scoured everywhere and finally looked up substitutes on my phone.  Purchasing the half-and-half recommended, I made it to a check-out counter and returned home – again forgetting to buy any onions.

The pie turned out pretty well, though it was not quite the same as usual.  In fact, everyone raved about everything and had seconds and even thirds. 

Because really, it’s not about the food.  It’s about the people we love and getting to spend time with them.  We played with the baby, watched a few Andy Griffith’s on TV, and laughed and talked all day.  After everyone went home, we took the dog for a walk and then watched a funny movie. It was a great day.

Truly, we are blessed. (But I’ll never forget onions again!)

February 5, 2014.

               It was cold that winter.  The night before February 5^th, we got a huge snowfall.

               Our dog, Forest, was a little crazed the night of February 4^th.  He went outside, as usual, and began sniffing and barking at our garbage cans out by the garage.  We didn’t think much of it, and probably got a little tiny bit annoyed that he didn’t come right away (I mean, he was an obedience school graduate!), but he finally came into the house.

               It snowed some more, and the temperatures dipped very low.  It was February in Ohio.  Cold, snowy, and nasty out.

               The next morning, our large pup went outside as usual and once his business was done, he again began worrying at the garbage cans.  Matt and I put on coats and boots and trudged out to the garage.  Matt pulled aside one of our large trash cans and we both looked down, expecting to see a raccoon or some other critter underneath.

               It was a critter, alright.  It was a tiny, shivering, nearly frozen ball of gray furry kitten.  We were shocked for a moment or two, and then scooped her up and took her inside.

               Once there, we realized she was badly frostbitten.  All four paws were frozen, her ears had no hair on the outside, her left eye was ulcerated, and she was coughing and sneezing. She weighed about three pounds. We warmed her up with an old beach towel and drove her to our vet to have her put to sleep. 

               The doctor looked her over and agreed she was in bad shape.  She loaded her up with antibiotic and sent her home with us.  I think all four of us (Matt, the vet, me, and the poor little cat) expected her to die that night.

               But she didn’t.  She lived in the barn with our horse where we made her a warm nest.  The two of them became fast friends.  Every day when we went up to clean the barn and feed the horse, the cat was there, sitting on the stall with her large pal.           

               She not only didn’t die, she rallied.  She gained weight and began to climb the ladder in and out of the barn window. 

               We named her Effie, the “F” being short for “Frostbite.” Effie was soon all over our place – climbing trees and ladders, following us into the woods for walks, and kissing our dog hello every morning.  We swore she thought she was a dog, sometimes, but then it was Forest who had saved her life.

               Her eye never healed, and she bore the frostbite scars on every paw pad.  Her nose and sinuses were never quite right, but Effie never complained.  She eventually became a house cat, and would find every warm place to sleep – even in the summer.  Over registers, next to the furnace, or in a patch of sunlight. She, understandably, always wanted to be warm.

               No matter where she was in the house, two things could always summon her.  If I sat down to play the piano, she would come into the living room, jump up on the bench, and stay with me – purring – while I hammered out any number of tunes.  Weeknights, when the Jeopardy! music came on the television, she would emerge from wherever she had been to sit on my lap and purr while we played along. 

               Nothing made her happier than a warm blanket or bed, especially if her humans were in it with her.  She needed warmth so much that she’d even sit on the edge of the hot tub when we were in it – letting her tail dip into the hot water.

               This week, Effie’s damaged body finally gave out.  I wish I knew what sad excuse for a person tossed her out on our property that frigid February night.  Sometimes I think I’d do something mean if I knew.  But then again, as Matt is quick to tell me, I’d first thank them for giving me a wonderful friend, who stayed with us for almost eight years, and loved my awful piano playing.    

               R.I.P, Effie Marie. We love you.

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