THE WHISTLE IS BACK

                                               WHISTLE, WHISTLE, WHISTLE!!!

Picture by Frank Bryan

First order of business -- my list of medical problems is long. So, instead of working on a standard "bucket list" [as everybody my age], I focus my attention on destroying the little things, the little pains in my head and my body. The big ones are bigger than me. I have to leave them alone. We will wrestle each other as it pleases them. I am not running away.

As a result of a medical procedure to save my life, I was left with a scar on my throat. There was a time when everyone who meets me will talk about the scar first. But, then I will start with the medical procedure leading to it. That would be the end of the conversation about the scar.  The talk will transition to the weather outside.

In addition to the scar on my throat, I feel my voice is different. No one else has confirmed this. Only I know how difficult it is to talk for a prolonged period of time.

It is not pleasant not to be able to sing either. I want to make it clear: I was never a singer, or aspired to be one. But not able to do karaoke while living in USA -- what a biiig loss!!!!!

What was very difficult to accept was the fact that I was not able to WHISTLE anymore. When you are in a wheelchair with unclear prognosis on your future brain recovery, the doctor has to be very strong to take such a question seriously. I wanted an answer, but somehow managed to distract myself and remain with no answer. The whistling landed on the back burner.

You may ask why whistling is so important when I have so many other "problems." I associated it with two major functions. First -- going to a soccer game with my Dad. Whistle is equal to Booo. Second -- during my teenager days, the whistle was used as a signal between you and your boyfriend. A couple has a special signal to connect them. It is like today's texting, only more romantic. Ha,ha! There is even a song about it.

All in all, losing my whistling skills was as tragic as everything else my disease brought onto me. Occasionally, I will try blowing the air out of my mouth with all the proper whistling techniques I have remembered. A month ago, out of the blue, my whistle came back. I was sooo happy. Please make a note: I am not referring to a simply whistle; it is rock songs, ballads, classical music whistle. It was a whole day of whistling.  Then, I lost it again.  Then, it came back again.

This time, I am not taking chances. I will use it sparingly -- only for the Bulgarian love song from the '70s, named "Our Signal." It is performed by the famous Bulgarian singer Emil Dimitrov. This is a beautiful, sad love song about a couple in love and "their signal." While the man was away, the girl fell in love with another man. When he came back to see her, he heard "their signal", only this time she was whistling to another man.

I whistle this song beautifully.

WHAT LANGUAGE WAS THIS?

WHAT LANGUAGE WAS THIS?

To live in an area between Annapolis and the Chesapeake Bay, while  the Capital of the United States, Washington, D.C. is at less than an hour driving distance, is not a bad living location. During the day, I often take a walk, not a power walk, an enjoyment walk. Occasionally, a little deer will jump on the road and stare at me. Then hide in the woods fully aware that if I fall, he will be responsible for any medical bills. I follow a trail, which I consider "mine." Plenty of fully equipped bike riders and joggers with gadgets from head to toe pass by me. I am trying to ignore them, but the loud "Coming to your left!" "Coming to your right!" always confuses me. With my disease, it takes time to figure out who and where is the voice coming from.

One day, as I was walking happily, I reached the crossroad, where I usually make a right turn. The path becomes very narrow with tree branches touching your head. As I was making the turn, I saw a man in his 20's running on "my path." The way my brain cells connected was: "He is supposed to move to the left and give me some extra space. Otherwise, we will bump into each other.  He chose not to give the lady (me) the right of way. It does not take long to make me angry. I can make even my medications angry. The second he passed by me, I said in Bulgarian a word, a bad, bad word. I have no clue how this word found its way into my mouth. Surely, it is not a word a lady will use under any circumstances. I must have said this word loud. The guy stopped and sat down in a strange position. He stayed like this for a few seconds, like trying to protect himself, then turned around and said: "You must be from Bulgaria?" I smiled. He smiled. I sat down. Then we both laughed, just like that, in the middle of the tiny path, ignoring all the "nice" American words coming in our direction. 

How can one expect to meet a Bulgarian boy on a tiny trail far from a big city? And how can a lady have such a potty mouth?

Picture by Frank Bryan

THE MOUSE

Picture Courtesy of US Department of Agriculture

 THE MOUSE

I am a foodie; I like to visit restaurants, where the food is exceptionally good -- the type I cannot make at home. I am comfortable in the huge, new restaurants, with the open kitchen area. But the tiny 50-year-old ones give me the creeps. I know the food is great, but I do not see the kitchen from my table. That is the problem...

                                                               
You know how the workplace in America is -- open office area, where people have breakfast, lunch, and dinner -- coffee, sandwiches, salads, Chinese, sushi, Korean, everything you can possibly eat as fast as you can, while working, texting, and talking to several bosses, co-bosses, co-workers, etc.

One day in the office, mice droppings were found. This  unequivocally suggested, "We have mice guests." Exterminators were called; sticky traps were placed...

On the next day, I could not wait to see how successful we were. On entering my office, I saw a mouse on the sticky. I had to share my discovery. I ran into the big office room, holding the trap with 2 fingers. "Look what I found, guys!" The reaction was more robust than I expected. One of the girls climbed on top of her desk; the others were screaming... I looked at the trap and realized that the mouse was making a final attempt to escape. The legs were moving slowly. This was the moment when I felt..."Oh, looks like I am freaking out, too!" Maintaining composure in extreme situations was not my forte.

I was told later I had found my empty sandwich bag and gently put the sticky trap with the mouse in there. Then I had sealed the bag.

I apologized to everyone for the commotion, but I could not get enough joy from"saving the office" from a little mouse. Did I really save the office, or I needed the mouse to save me?

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real situations, persons,living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious.

WITH THE HELP OF A PIGEON

 WITH THE HELP OF A PIGEON

It was a sad winter day.  Little things have the ability to make me worry, shake me up, and make me reminisce about events of significance in life. It was different before I got sick. Now, I measure every second of life like an Olympic game judge. The only difference is, I do not measure just the time, I measure the wisdom expected to come with it. At the end of this all, it may be too late. Life is competitive.

The big events are clear and easy for everyone to understand. If you lose a friend or a relative, you know how much time has been wasted instead of being together and laughing together, instead of picking on each other for the miniscule things in life, it could have been much easier to be nice and just be. Breath in, breath out... The fight can wait for the place where there is no clock. I don't know its name...

 I read recently somewhere that a mother was asked by her daughter what would be her legacy, how did she want to be remembered. Was that a tiny hint? It made me think about myself. My answer is very simple -- I want to be remembered as a mother, someone who has given her life and who will easily give her own life for her child's. 

What is more precious to give than LIFE? 

I had to see a pigeon, just a mother pigeon in the middle of the street today, standing on top of her dead baby to remind me of that. This is not the jungle. This is the middle of the street on a day before an ice storm coming. Cars were skillfully avoiding them.

We have heard and seen many stories of mother lions, dolphins, bears, dogs, any possible animal on earth ready to kill and die for her babies. I went by later [keeping a safe distance] to look at the street. It was empty. The mother must have managed to move her baby out of the way.

Somewhere, in the cold winter night, they are together.

So, what is my legacy? What should it be for the rest of my life? 

I am just a Mother, like every other Mother. God has decided that I am to be called a Mother and nurture my child, while being loved and nurtured as a Mother.

I am a mother

COME ON OVER, CHICKADEES!

COME ON OVER, CHICKADEES!

 I have a small bird feeder. I got it from a friend as a Christmas present. This was the first bird feeder I have ever received as a present. I couldn't wait for the right time to stuff   food in its holes and hang it up on the tree in my little backyard. The present came with a special box of Birdacious Bark Butter (www.jimsburdacious.com). It can't get more fancier and more nutritious than this. As the weather got colder, snow started falling, Tiger (my cat,) and I positioned ourselves close to the window. We were waiting for the chickadees to come to eat and sing. Tiger had his paws on the window seal; you can only see his head. I was holding on to him. If one was blinking, the other one was watching. 

This went on for almost a week. I was putting fresh food every day. The smell of the peanut butter penetrated the air. Still, there were no signs of any hungry birds around. 

As the temperature got below freezing point, I saw a whole flock of birds flying in direction towards our fence.  Soon I realized they came to eat from the huge beautiful bird feeder of our neighbors. I started developing theories why my food was not attractive. Well, it was not the standard bird food, it contained peanut butter, soy oil, calcium... Second, change in menu takes time. No need to panic. If one chickadee is smarter than the rest; "the word of peak" will spread.

My peanut bird feeder

The neighbors' big boy bird feeder

The waiting continued... The next day, something strange occurred. One bird landed on the fence and started singing. It was not a happy song; it was not a song about the gourmet food she has found.

The song was directed to me. The bird was telling me, "they are not ready for fancy food." "OK, I got it." I am still not losing hope. There has to be one, just one, who is not from Odenton; one, who is hungrier than the rest (may be from  Virginia, or Washington, D.C). 

Then, it will be my restaurant time!!!!!

A CUP OF WINE

A CUP OF WINE

I am born in Bulgaria. My husband (Gary) is American. After 13 years of marriage, we are now an American-Bulgarian or a Bulgarian-American family. We constantly joke about differences in holidays, traditions, culture, while honoring them and learning from each other. Sometimes, the jokes may escalate into innocent fights.

One day, I had cooked a nice dinner -- sauteed salmon with ginger glaze, brown rice, and steamed vegetables. Healthy and all organic. Since I am not too much into vegetables, I used a smaller size plate for my dinner. My husband immediately noticed this. He asked, "Why don't you use the same sized plate for you?" I answered, "Because in Bulgaria for smaller meals, we use smaller plates." He did not give up."As far as I see, you are not in Bulgaria, are you?" I did not give up either. I am not a quitter. I poured his favorite Chardonnay in a big (American) coffee cup. Then, I served dinner. 

Gary looked around and asked where the wine was. "Here it is." I answered, pointing at the coffee mug. "Why in the coffee mug?" "Because in Bulgaria you never pick a fight with your wife at dinner. You do it only if there is not enough rakia and wine. The size of the plates and the glasses do not matter!" This was my final answer.

We laughed and laughed. Gary is a professor at work and a good student at home. I learned to serve dinner in the proper dinner plates and wine glasses, too.Problem solved.

KITTY CATS

KITTY CATS

My love for animals must have started very early in my childhood. Kudos go to the Rooster. He started it all. But this story is not about the Rooster. It is about my piano teacher, Ms. B., her very beautiful, old piano and a big, loving cat. 

Ms. B. was playing the piano like a virtuoso. She never allowed Sebastian, her big ol’cat to sit on the piano. This was the most precious piece of “furniture” in her house. She did not want any scratches on it. Who can blame her?

I was 6 years old. To this day, I cannot explain to myself why I did not want to go to piano lessons. I love to go to piano concerts; I love classical music. I think I wanted badly to have a talent for it, which was not there. I was smart enough to realize that. I even explained this to my parents. They did not believe me. 

Parents believe their children can do everything. So, the piano lessons were a part of my childhood.

What made it tolerable was Sebastian. He would stay at the door and sit on my lap during the whole lesson. I think the teacher thought the two of us would bond. This would make it easy for me to learn. We bonded, but not for learning. We were looking at each other; I became his most comfortable bed. My legs were moving in a position to accommodate him, not what the exercises required.

My piano teacher must have liked me, or felt sorry for my parents. I loved the big ol’cat so much. He loved me, too. It was so obvious. His warm body made me endure 3 years of piano lessons. One day when I arrived, I saw his paw covered with bandages. He was hurt. Sebastian was getting old and clumsy. Still he followed our routine. When the lesson was over, I saw  a stain of blood on my dress.

During my next lesson, he was not around. Without Sebastian, I was totally helpless. My teacher had to explain my lack of progress to my parents. The piano lessons were over. 

Playing the piano was not in the cards for me. I do not blame myself for the failure. Why waste my lack of talent? On a different tangent, there are plenty of piano owners, who use the piano as a piece of furniture.

Playing the piano is not like riding a bike. Well, I still know how to play “The Donkey” -– the first and the last piano exercise I mastered.

Sebastian opened the door for a whole brood of his cat family. After him, I met Baxter. He is the one on the picture. Tiger is a current member of the family. He deserves a separate story.

THE ROOSTER

THE ROOSTER

It happened in my childhood. My family was living in a small town in Bulgaria. Everybody knows you there and you know everyone. My father was a doctor, while my mother was a nurse. They must have saved the life of at least one member of every family. I was the younger child in the house. There was a wedding coming up and I needed a beautiful dress. Since these are not the American traditions, it was more important at the time for a child to have a new dress/pants and the child will feel happy. I am 110% sure – if I was expected to wear the same dress as the girl walking to the left of me, or to the right, and perform one and the same “job function”, like carrying flowers, I would not have been very happy. Having “a job” at this age did not sound appealing.  

Don’t get me wrong, I am not against any traditions. I am against following them frigidly. But what did I know about that? I was just supposed to get a dress for attending a wedding. Let’s focus on that.

At the time, there were no stores with cute children’s clothes. Everything was custom made. My mother used one good seamstress with an established reputation for her unique designs. Mom already had the fabric – red velvet… I loved the color, the feel of it, and the smell of it. In my short life, I had never seen a red velvet dress. 

The seamstress told us to come back for a fitting in a few days. When we returned, I tried the dress on. Umm, definitely, absolutely, I did not like it. It was hard to explain in my language how bad the dress looked. It was so “not me.” As far as clothes go, I already knew who I was. 

I rushed out in the yard of the house half dressed with the pins on the unfinished dress – all livid. Mom and the seamstress ran after me horrified. I had a temper, they knew. They started chasing me and begging me to come back. Filled with rage, I did not notice there was a big rooster walking in the yard. He must have had a bad temper, too. I wish I knew that. He bit me on the face, very close to my left eye. You can see the scar [even today]. This made me run even faster. The houses were close to each other. When I got home, I saw some blood runing from my wound. By the time my Mom came home, the word had spread. Everyone in the town knew about THE ROOSTER and ME event. Seems like nothing else hit the news that day…

This was the rooster’s third strike. He had attacked other clients of the seamstress. He ended up into a deep pot the very next day. Red was his favorite color.  Red is the color of passion, they say… 

As for me, I grew up completely in love with roosters. Today, I have roosters from antique stores, galleries, roosters on kitchen napkins, tablecloths, many, many roosters. But, I still keep looking for my ROOSTER and I know he is looking for ME. 

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