WALKING IN THE SNOW (Part 2)

WALKING IN THE SNOW

(Part 2)

I could not wait to get to the card. It is not every day that I get handwritten cards. Only two friends send me one for my birthday, but there is only one person who would work long to make it perfect. 

My daughter. 

No technology, no ready-made words can be a substitute for something written just for you. It has been touched, kissed, decorated with love. It carries the words and the humor from the days she was a child. It is perfectly imperfect in the shapes and the almost straight lines, just the way our lives have been through all the ups and downs in USA. Only we can feel the importance of each word; each seemingly regular sentence. These are our short love letters.  

The cards do not come only on Valentine's day. If love is waiting to be shown on only one day of the year, do we live without love the rest of the time? Her cards are beautifully- written from the left corner to the very bottom. No one, but we two can decode them. 

This is what brings the joy - our own special lingo.

I am not so good at all of this. My handwriting is illegible. My hand is shaking. My art skills are limited. I go to Hallmark, sit on the floor after I have grabbed as many cards as possible without raising suspicion about my sanity. Then, I start reading and reading. The one I can work with always comes. I can scratch off words, add a made-up word, cut the corners with scissors, everything I need until it looks and sounds like me. 

We never know when the card will come. It never comes on time. But when it comes, it is a holiday for the soul. 

If a day comes I have to buy a card from a store without saying a thing, it will mark a sad day in my life. 

 

GRANDMA MARTA -- БАБА МАРТА

Picture by Toni Ti

 GRANDMA MARTA  (Баба Марта)

  

The history of Grandma Marta, or "Granny March" (in English), or Баба Марта (in Bulgarian) is a centuries-old one. In Bulgaria, there is a special holiday dedicated to her. The first of March is Grandma Marta's Day. However, since this is a purely Bulgarian holiday, I will kindly ask you to learn a few Bulgarian words. "Baba Marta." You pronounce "baba" the same way you pronounce "mama." Marta is Marta.

So, on Baba Marta's Day, Bulgarians celebrate the end of winter and the beginning of spring. They give each other martenitsi. This is a more difficult word to pronounce. I will not teach you this one. Although, I have to say, some Americans are really 'natural' as far as Slavic languages are concerned. 

The red and white figures, dolls, tassels, bracelets, interwoven threads represent some of the endless varieties of the folklore art of martenitsi one can find around this time in Bulgaria. The symbolism involved in them is health, happiness, protection from the evil spirits around. In a different story, the white is connected with snow, while red is the symbol of birth, new life. The winter ends, new life begins... 

The streets are flooded with vendors selling martenitsi these days; everyone covers as big of an area, as allowed by "the laws". You can wear them as bracelets, hang some on your car mirrors; decorate your house, place them and enjoy them anywhere you want. You can give some to friends, family, co-workers... No strings attached. "I am happy. Maybe, my little red and white token will make you happy, too! You do not need to remember to give me one next year!" The tradition is to attach them to your clothes, but no rules apply as far as martenitsi these days.

Picture by Toni Ti

I have not told your enough about this mystical Baba Marta. According to the legends, she was a grouchy, grumpy old woman, constantly bickering with her brothers. She changes her mood from one day to the next -- the same way the weather changes in the month of March. You never know what the weather will be tomorrow. You get up on the wrong side of the bed and next thing you know -- it is snowing outside. You put your winter jacket on, you look outside -- the sun is shining, you need to put a T-shirt on. She is portrayed as an old woman who gets angry easily. There are so many stories about her; she resembles characters in other European folklore, too. 

Through the years, I have not learned much about Baba Marta. I can't even make my own martenitsi. What I know with absolute certainty is that children love this holiday a lot. It is so much fun to welcome Baba Marta. 

You also have to remember, you wear your martenitsi until you are absolutely sure Spring is here -- the trees are blossoming, the global warming is no longer a threat for spring. 

My husband likes to joke that I can play the role of Baba Marta easily. I may be the real thing, only a younger one. True or not, he knows winter can come easily tonight. 

HAPPY BABA MARTA, FOLKS!!!

Picture by who else but Baba Marta!!!!!

WALKING IN THE SNOW

WALKING IN THE SNOW 

February 21, 2015

Picking up the mail on a record cold and windy Saturday, was not what drove me out of the house yesterday. Dressed with my 'Nanook' jacket and water-resistant new boots, I opened the garage door; looked at the falling snow; felt the wind and decided to walk to the mailbox. 

I made it to the street, moving one foot in front of the other. It appeared almost heroic to follow the footsteps I was the first one to make. No cars, no people, no dogs. Then, I stopped and looked around. Our little street was dressed in white. The snow was playing with my face and my shades. But the game was getting  very rough. 

I spent a few seconds debating the sanity of this trip. Nothing important comes in the mail on Saturday. Although I live with a serious medical condition, there was something about this 'white silence' I could not push aside. I couldn't get enough of it.

And the walk continued. 

Without lifting my head, I made five steps ahead. The boots were sliding. What may look like an innocent fall for a child, may trigger a huge disaster for my body. Finally, I looked up. I saw a little black dog with its owner - far in the distance. I was jealous of the owner, because the dog was slowly, but confidently, leading the way. He knew where the street curb was. At the same time, the dog gave me walking directions. He was a much more superior being than me.

All in all, the dog was my hero. I saw the mailbox. It was full of mail. I shoved it in my pockets in a rush.

The trip back was easier, I followed my winding footsteps. As I reached the garage, I had to pat myself on the back. Next, I saw my husband at the door. He sensed his wife was missing.

He went through the mail and picked a handwritten little envelope. 




to be continued....

LOUD TALKERS IN A RESTAURANT - a snapshot of the Millenials Joyeating

LOUD TALKERS IN A RESTAURANT - a snapshot of the Millenials "Joyeating"

Picture by Frank Bryan

I can feel how the Millenials are salivating already expecting a story about them and only them... I will attempt to do that. My story is based on the valid and reliable data gathered by being a good foodie myself (so is my husband), and our habit to eat out at places, where we meet plenty of guys from the group of the Millenials.

This generation's age varies in the literature, but for the most part includes the individuals born between the early 80s and ends with these born in the early 90s. We will all be in a restaurant. This is the place of action for everything I know about their "joyeating."  I will take credit for this word - joyeating. It best describes the environment they create when eating and drinking in a restaurant.

If you live in USA, you are already used to the idea that there are no intimate Friday dates at a restaurant. There are, but not of the kind the baby boomers know them. There are mostly groups eating and drinking at not too upscale restaurants, sports bars, ethnic places, offering a large variety of dishes. 

Friday evening is not a time to dine with a boyfriend in a quiet setting. The romantic dinners with soft jazz and holding hands are mostly in my dreams. Yes, I am an old fashioned baby boomer. It was not too many years ago, when my husband and I would stop by our favorite French restaurant to exhale from work. The piano would play; the nice wine would flow; the owner would be French - no need to imitate French accent; the food would be not what you can cook at home. Of course, we paid the price and tip for it. It was worth being more frugal the next week.

When you go to a fast food place, you expect fast food; when you go to IKEA's $.99 breakfast, you are prepared to see the long line of parents with kids and young guys carrying their hangover. You can see Millenials at these type of places for a quick breakfast. But I am trying to get to my Friday evening Millenials.

I love them to death -all of them - because most of them are genuine, what you see is what you get. They are everything the baby boomers are not and a lot more!! If you do not like something about them, do not tell any-body from the group. In one second every-body will know. It is what it is.... We may be their parents or grandparents, but they are not wasting time to show everyone who they are.

First important sign of the peeps: Millenials talk loud all the time. I, on the other hand, am a low talker. I can be loud, too - only when I am mad and someone really walks on my last nerve. This is not hard to accomplish. ... American loud is not like the Italian loud, it is not music to my ears. Ha,ha! Yes, they are bothering me in a restaurant, because I have to scream, in order to be heard by my husband. Dinner turns into a screaming match. Involuntary, I become part of their world. ...

Well, we better get used to it, the Millenials are not going to change for anyone.

When waiters see a group of Millenials, they know there is no big tip coming. There will be skating like a hockey player around the table to accommodate everybodies' wishes. And [boy] do they have any? They always need to have an item that is not exactly like the one on the menu; they will ask for combination of items on the menu; they will always have questions. The Millenials like it more spicy, not too spicy (whatever in there mind the standard is), substitute for this with a substitute for that. The waiters may start confusing themselves - totally losing their minds and knowledge of the menu and food preparation. There is no empathy for their job. If a Millennial spends 10 bucks, s/he expects his food wishes fulfilled exactly as requested. If they are not, the plates go back to the kitchen after being tasted, new ones have to come. This time, they better get it right, because there is no pay for the first one. 

They like food sharing. Everyone tastes everyone's food. This event turns into vultures fighting over limited number of pieces. You snooze, you lose. Food sharing is also the preferred option because all ethnic restaurants offer variety of breads, which come free. This way, they can skip expense for a main course. They love healthy food and not-so-healthy food. They like exotic and anything that "looks good" and "smells good". In some ways they are like sweet puppies or my buddy Tiger, The cat. 

What I really like about these peeps is that they barely have any secrets. It is  completely contrary to how the older generations live their lives. We always hide every tragedy in our lives, while bragging about jobs, houses, vacations - everything else. Our life is all roses... The Millenials 'presumably' talk about their jobs, but only to explain how busy it makes them and how tired they get; there is no time for what they really want to do - play. But, don't get me wrong, work is a way to pay the bills and afford the games they like to play. The Millenials don't like to be unemployed; they have student loans to pay, rent to pay, car loan to pay, all the technology gadgets cost money, too. What about the outdoor sports equipment? 

If you are a dumb boss of  a Millenial, she has told you already that she does most of the work in the office and brings most of the money, therefore she should get a raise. If she does not get one, even in this job market, she will be gone soon. If you are not that dumb of a boss, you have to give some yoga time or flex time, or doggy time, or something.... It is an investment, not an expense!!

Besides work and technology, texting during dinner, there is a lot of sex talk at the table. Since they delay marriage, they have free sex talk and everyone is comfortable with that. There is less "let me buy you a drink" - old-fashioned style hook ups, but karaoke is still in style. I have absolutely no problem with the sex talk. It just sounds like they need more sex education at school, or more talks with mom, or dad at an earlier time of their sexual development. Nonetheless, what is "joyeating" without sex talk?

Or, maybe, I don't know what I am talking 'bout. ...  Afterall, this is just a blog....

Image courtesy of imajerymajestic from FreeDigitalPhotos.com

IS IT ALL ABOUT A BIG CHRISTMAS TREE

IS IT ALL ABOUT A BIG CHRISTMAS TREE

A mediocre pic of a beautiful big tree

Initially, I started this post thinking about Christmas and the  Christmas tree. Then, my mind started wandering around the time I saw the first big Christmas tree in USA. It was many years ago, but my yearning for a big Christmas tree never dissipated. At first, I adored the real trees -- they were raised in farms to be sold for Christmas. They make kids and families happy; they keep the presents under their branches; they fill the rooms with the unique scent of tree freshness. Then, I discovered the faux ones in the stores and malls. The expensive ones were so well made, you cannot tell them from the real ones. You can touch them and still wonder...

There is something about big real trees which makes me feel awkward. It happens when time comes for their "garbage" collection. I never got to terms with the idea that a tree can be garbage. This may defy any logic, but the garbage collection of the trees does not suit me. Just like that -- they are used, and useless. Have to go....

This is how I ended up having a 10 feet faux tree. 

My husband and I were looking for a faux tree for quite some time. Finally, we found that big boy in a local plant nursery. He looked like Douglas fir. His price tag was at the level he totally deserved -- $500. We were not ready for such an investment. I still kept hoping, "there may be a sale soon." Isn't what all Americans hope for all the time. I am an American, too. I have to believe in the miracle of the price story. 

It paid off. Two days before Christmas, there was a sale. The price of the tree was down to $50. How did this tree ended up being 90% off? 

It was a steal!!! We bought it right away. I paid. It was all set and done. While my husband was trying to move the car outside, an old lady appeared with her husband. She said, "this tree is mine!" I responded, "the tree was sitting here with no sign that it has been sold to you." She solicited the help of the customer service guy. 

"Didn't I tell you to hold the tree for me?" 

The guy was cornered. Are you going to admit to one customer you did not do your job at a time when the other customer has already paid? How can you turn down an old lady? Besides, this was the only tree of that size. 

None of us, the women, were thinking of settling the case easily or negotiating a deal with customer service.

My husband was already back. He realized my gloves were off (in hockey lingo), I was getting ready to take off the helmet. The husband of the old lady knew his wife even better. She was not a quitter and she wanted her tree. 

It seemed to me that the two husbands had decided "to watch the game." All they needed was a couch and some beer. At the end of this nonsense, a manager was called. He was smarter. He gave me the tree, while the old lady ended up with a free tree, 8 foot tall.

I did not end up only with a tree. I ended up with a story about her, a feisty little lady, who stood up for her rights as a customer. 

For 10 years now, the big tree is on display in the house right   after Thanksgiving. It stays til the end of January. I decorate it beautifully; some decorations break, some are getting old. Just like in life....

I deeply regret what I did. All I had to do was to explain to her:

"I never had a big Christmas tree in my life." 

She would have understood.   

MY KITTY CAT BAXTERBOY

MY KITTY CAT BAXTERBOY

I was not planning to write about my cat, Baxterboy today. It just happened. I woke up in the middle of the night crying, calling Baxter's name... It took Gary some time to make me understand it was just a bad dream. "It is not just a bad dream," I persisted...

I lost Baxter 5 years ago. He was my faithful friend through all his 8 year long life. How many really faithful friends do I have left?

I met him in a shelter with 7 other identical kittens. I chose him, because he was not too playful and not too shy. In a way, he had accepted his life for "It is, what it is. Whether you like me or not, this is me!" 

When we took him to the vet, I gave him the name Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. The vet said, "It is a girl!" The next day, during the more "comprehensive" exam, the vet changed his mind. Hmm... Sofia became Baxter?! The gender really did not matter to me, Sofia Coleman, became Baxter Coleman. 

Baxter was named after the top guard of the University of Maryland basketball team. In 2002, the team won the NCAA championship. Loni Baxter played a vital role in the win.

Similarly, Baxter Coleman played a vital role in my life.

Baxter had a very happy life being a Coleman. He had good appetite, good hygiene habits, and interesting personality. He was a 'ladies' man'. Baxter liked all women coming to the house, but when a man tried to play with him, even with the intentions of petting and feeding him, he would growl and hiss. His feelings were out there; he was wearing them on his short legs. 

"I would very much appreciate it, if you leave me alone and mind your business. You may like me, but I have no intentions to reciprocate!" This message was delivered every time a man was trying to be friendly.

He loved his father, but even Gary was not safe. Baxter would throw temper tantrums. No educational methods worked. I tried.

I was very proud of his bilingual skills. He was capable to pick up Bulgarian words as if this was his native language. If people only knew what we were talking behind their backs...

Find me if you can...

Once, we needed to go on vacation. Baxter was boarded at the Vet Hospital. I was calling every day from Europe to see how he was doing. Every time, the office reassured me he was doing great. On our return, we went to pick him up as soon as the building opened.

Time came to learn the truth. Baxter was terrorizing all the dogs trying to "bark" as loud as them. In addition, he was making his body look as big as theirs. This was not very difficult to be done--Baxterboy was not a tiny boy; he was a little chubby... He made the staff anxious without attacking anyone. As a mother, I knew why he was doing all this "bullying." He was miserable and a little pissed off to be with everybody but his family.

When he heard my voice, he became as quiet as a mouse and gave me a big "meow" hug. We drove home. Everyone had his own way of feeling happy.

Baxter's life took a turn for the worse when I got sick. He was the cat who saw my seizures, right in front of his eyes; he saw ambulances; he was covered with blankets to prevent the EMTs from doing their work. There was noise, people running around the house, chaos.

I was told all of this later. I was unconscious, but a big, furry ball in the laundry room was listening and worrying if he would have his Mommy back. I am sure he was thinking how in the world he could love me, but be unable to help me...  

We all wonder about this when someone in the family gets sick...

When I came home from the numerous hospitals, I was half the person Baxterboy knew. 

Somehow, we recognized each other.

Sadly, Baxter was born with a congenital kidney disease. His kidneys were not fully functioning. It was his turn to go through treatments and mine--to worry and cry. He was quietly laying on my lap, barely moving his butt upstairs to sleep in my feet. He knew and I knew, we do not have much time left to be together.

Baxterboy loved flowers (like me and his Daddy.) The impatiens picture is taken in his favorite hanging out area. He stayed there for hours.

Peek - a -boo!

FRIENDSHIP and DISEASE --part 2

FRIENDSHIP and DISEASE -- part 2

Pic courtesy of Ralitza Tchiorniy

This blog post is about the friends I have and about those I have lost as a result of being sick.

One beautiful day in May, I got sick. This day turned into weeks, months, years. My denial of the disease turned slowly into acceptance and realization of the good and bad the disease brought to me. Instead of reading all my beautifully written papers from the past, I finally put an implant in my head with the sign: "This was the past! Enjoy it! The good thing is that there is now!"

Some people show interest in learning about diseases for the sake of getting information. Another group is more worried, "What if it happens to me tomorrow?" The happy-go-lucky ones are 110% sure, "It will never happen to me!"

One day in May, a viral brain infection hit me. It left scars behind, but it also left me to deal with them. From hiding, to openly talking about seizures, psychological side effects, communication, feelings.... And friends. This is the road of the survivor.

You can lose friends due to all kind of diseases. Sadly, you may not even know exactly what caused their death. There may be many people around you with seizures, too. They function perfectly well, they take, or do not need medications. But, there is a group of unlucky 1/3 of the people with seizure disorders, whose seizures cannot be managed. With time, the types, the treatment techniques and side effects change.

Ignorance always remains the most difficult to fight and cure.

My story is not unique. I am one of the one third. My writing is as good as it gets with the amount of  medications I have to take in order to live. Sometimes, I ask my daughter to edit. She edited my memoir "Seize the Seizures" a number of times. In my blog, I just do my best.

With social media, the number of friends skyrockets. I take being a friend to someone much more seriously. I pick them one by one. Forgiving those who hurt me because of my disease-related deficiencies is a must. They just do not know what in God's name they are doing.

In my life with the disease, I have observed several types of friends. The friends who depart gradually, tip-toeing away from me. I call them in my memoir the "fill-in-the-gap" friends. We spend some time together. I listen to their problems more than they listen to mine, give support, and joke. I never see their friends. At some point I realize, I have been taken for a ride, but not to Starbucks. I am simply "laid off" as a friend. "Just not a good fit." This is how a business will word it. "There has been restructuring in the Friends Department."

There is another group of "Miss you" friends. They do not come to see you, or go out with you." We should get together soon!" Sounds sweet, can bring even tears. But the distance between our houses is a couple of hours. Maybe, there was a tornado, thunderstorms I slept through, raging fires, The Chesapeake Bay Bridge collapsed. Yes, that is it. "Soon" was stopped because of these unpreventable, natural events.

There is also a group of "direct offenders." They will explain with disgust how most of the "disabled people" they know are mean and needy. One cannot understand them. My advice will be: google their disease. If he is constantly ending up in your house, help him find his way home. He is lost today, you may be lost tomorrow. No one can understand you better, than the one who has already been lost.

BUT, in this world of hours, there are REAL FRIENDS. You do not need them every day, they may be busy with work, kids, grandkids, parents. I do not need to discuss anything with them. THEY KNOW.

I am fortunate to have real friends. The High School ones are very precious to me. After being in a medically induced coma, I spent time figuring out what my life was and what it is now. In the coma, the brain shuts off everything horrific in order to heal itself. The brain is smart!!! How do you live without knowing who you were? I was hungry to learn all that my friends remember. They remembered too much: I was good at math and English; I was a nerd, but had my life on the side; I was writing good love letters; I was paying close attention to what teachers were wearing -- old-fashioned clothes or stylish ones. Another one said I was smiling a lot. Not very easy-going, one said. Snappy and feisty on occasion.

While writing my memoir, everyone I knew plus some new schoolmates I got in contact with later, were getting 40-50 e-mails with questions. They never said, "I told you already." With patience, they described the same stories over and over again. Why, what, who, when, where were flying back to them. Some answers were totally irrelevant to my condition, but they answered because I asked.

When you love someone, you have a difficulty having a meaningful conversation. You stare at each other with a locked mouth. At least, this is what I think.

I went on vacation to Bulgaria. I met my friends for minutes. My timing was not planned well. The minutes were filled with kisses, touching faces, crying. I swallowed these seconds, they are in my throat even now.

I have lived long enough in U.S.A. to develop many friendships. But there are two I cherish the most. It does not matter how I met them. The connection between us is like between Winnie the Pooh and Piglet.

"Piglet sidled up Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.

"Yes,Piglet?"

"Nothing,", said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

A.A.Milne

 

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