My Mom's Azalea

Yesterday, I returned from spending a wonderful four-day visit with my daughter at the University of Miami.  It was a blessing for both of us.  After months away from home with no physical contact between us, she needed her mom.  And I needed to be needed.  We did a lot of nothing special except spending time together, which is really the most special thing of all, and the visit filled us both up and helped get her ready for the final push to the end of this spring semester, the final one of her first year away.

It brought me back a long way, to the spring of my sophomore year, my first at Cornell University, where I landed as a transfer student in the middle of a long, cold, snowy winter … the very first I was to spend on my own away from home.  Ithaca was always beautiful, but it could be brutal, and the thaw came late that year.  Back on Long Island, the gardens were in bloom, especially the one in the front of my house that my mom had planned and planted herself with a beautiful assortment of evergreens and dwarf shrubs.

Perhaps the most striking plant in the garden was a tremendous lilac azalea, its large soft purple flowers opening like trumpets to announce the annual changing of the seasonal guard from winter to spring.

That spring, a Polaroid of the azalea came enclosed in a letter to me at school (which knowing my mother, almost surely contained an original poem, as well).  It soothed my soul in the same way I hope my visit touched Jordan’s … it was a needed glimpse of home toward the end of a long journey.  The regal plant reminded me of where my own roots were, in that garden back home on Long Island.

Many years later, the bush got so large it needed thinning.  Mom dug up a part and asked if I’d like to add it to my own home garden.  Yes, I would.  And I did.  I will always remember the happiness and comfort it brought me seeing that plant, even in a photograph, and I would love to have it grace my own landscape.

I transplanted it two summers ago, just about six months before my mother passed away.  It’s taken firm root here now, growing, blossoming and linking me even more firmly to my past through its presence.

Which made it all the more fitting that it is what greeted me when I pulled into my driveway after returning from my visit with Jordan … my own Azalea x ‘Robles’ 'Autumn Lilac'.  In glorious bloom.  The plant and its beauty live on, continuing to tie our family together and link one generation to the next.

Roots.  They’re extraordinary things.

Kitty Love

One reason I probably love Emmy so much is because when she curls up on my chest and nuzzles into my neck, I am reminded of when my children were babies and did the same.

And they are so not babies anymore.

Free Donuts, No Matter How You Spell Them

As I start writing, there are twenty-one minutes left to this Friday, June 6, otherwise known as National Donut Day. Or, if you prefer, National DOUGHNUT Day.

Apparently, according to Wikipedia, National Doughnut Day started seventy years ago, in 1938, as a fund raiser for the Chicago Salvation Army. Their goal was to help the needy during the Great Depression, and to honor the Salvation Army "Lassies" of World War I, who served doughnuts to soldiers on the front lines.

Today, it is seemingly commemorated by the distribution of free donuts (my preferred spelling), as I learned from an invitation email from the Krispy Kreme Corporation, which invited me in for my celebratory sample today.

Excellent!

Except for one small problem: due to a long run of financial mismanagement, SEC inquiries, and overexpansion, every single franchise or company owned store in proximity to my home closed up shop almost as quickly as they opened. And they opened here about as quickly as a beautiful glazed donut turns golden brown when it hits hot oil.

Now, let me say that I am not particularly a sweets girl. Really. If you told me I could never have dessert again, I'd be pretty much okay with that. Especially cookies, cakes, and yes, even donuts.

But there was something about those Original Glazed when they came HOT off the line. Oh. My. Goodness.

And here, Krispy Kreme was harkening back to the good old days of the red HOT NOW light, and practically BEGGING me to come in and get one for free. Who could resist?

So...I figured I'd find out where to get one.

No luck trying to use the zip code search on the website. Nothing came up.

No luck clicking on the colored states on the map. Nothing came up.

Finally, I had to resort to opening the PDF that lists all the stores by state, only to find that our nearest store is in the Amtrak Rotunda at Two Penn Plaza. Or, according to Google maps, 36.5 miles or about 50 minutes (but possibly up to an hour and a half in traffic!) from here. Then, there'd be the exorbitant parking fee, of course. Or the cost of a round trip train ticket. Not quite the best exchange for a free donut.

Even a fresh, hot, Krispy Kreme Original Glazed.

After that, we'd need to go all the way to Cheektowaga to grab one of those yummy babies right off the conveyor belt. Heck, at that point, it would probably be quicker to fly down to Florida, which seems to still have a fair representation of stores. But again, it kinda puts the whole "free donut" thing into perspective, doesn't it?! So, I let National Donut Day pass without a gustatory nod, and settled, instead, to commemorate it here.

It's a little sad.

And I'll bet the donuts at the Madison Bank Branch that replaced our Krispy Kreme aren't nearly as good.

Weighty Matters

You can add scales to the list of things I'm not very partial to. Bathroom ones, I mean, not the fish kind, although I guess they don't thrill me either -- especially when they wind up in my food. (Didja catch that episode of Top Chef where Ming Tsai wound up with a mouthful? Yuck!)

Anyway, for years, my "Ultimate Scale" by Tanita (nothing like a little humility for a simple, utilitarian household object, is there?) and I have more or less peacefully coexisted, in spite of the fact that I was more often than not on the receiving end of some less-than-complimentary communication.

We visited almost daily, and developed somewhat of a love-hate relationship. What can I tell you? It was complicated.

It became apparent over time that I had invested far more than it had, but still, I persisted, trying to court it and do everything I could to win it over. Well, almost. The fiber in the seeds on an everything bagel must mitigate the carb count somehow, I figured.

Gradually, it started to fail me. The buttons became a bit balky, preventing me from reminding it that I am a 5'1" tall woman, so it could accurately inform me of my body fat content (which, as a 5'1" tall woman would be higher than pretty much any other combination I could punch in). After a time, I had to get by without knowing how much of my too many pounds were comprised of too much fat, and settle on the one, raw, unadulterated number that simply signified my weight.

And then yesterday, I couldn't even get that much out of it. I pushed the little toe-kick and prepared my silent supplications. I waited for the display to zero out.

I waited some more.

Finally, after the 888 look like it was in no mood to go anywhere, I tried pushing the buttons on top.

"Error"

Hah! My weight is now officially an error message.

"Error"

How rude!

As if the relationship between us hasn't been rocky enough, now this.

Of course, there is some deeper meaning to be found here, but for now, I will have to move on and get a new scale. My weight will still be more of an error than anything else, but at least I'll know just how wrong it is...

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

While I do admit a certain fondness for raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and -- most definitely -- for brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are not necessarily among my favorite things.

I expect, however, that over time, you will learn what they are, as I continue to find out, myself. For now, I know I love a good bacon cheeseburger. That first cup of coffee in the morning (and sometimes, the fifth, come afternoon) can really make me smile. Lilac bushes, good books, great conversation and blazing fireplaces make me very happy. And I think a splash of vanilla vodka or smooth, dark Jamaican rum makes just about anything that much better.

Yup, these are already among my most favorite things.

Some things, not so much. And I suspect we will discuss those, as well. For what good is a blog without a rant every now and again?

But not now.

Now, a thing about which I have discovered I have very mixed feelings: the SAT exam. Or, rather, my son Justin's SAT scores.

He did well, mind you. Very well, as a matter of fact. And that's certainly a good thing. I am proud of him. I am happy for him. And I am relieved to have cleared yet another hurdle on the loooong road to college.

But I hated having so much invested in the numbers. I hated the wait until we could log on this morning to find out Justin's scores. And I hate the inevitable comparisons a system like this engenders. What does it say about us that so much of our uniquely talented, multi-faceted, distinctly individual kids is often just reduced to numbers that will dictate a great deal about their futures?

Hmmm...it's beginning to look as if naive idealism could be counted as among my favorite things.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, indeed.