That smile on my face hides the grimace in my gut as I prepared for my first sailplane ride. Launch took place from the New Castle International Gliderport in New Castle, Virginia, home of the Blue Ridge Soaring Society (BRSS), our host for this adventure. Cecil McBride, the scribe of my husband’s motorcycle group, organized rides for members who wanted to sail the friendly skies in lieu of two wheels on asphalt.
White knuckled flyer that I am in a plane that has an engine, why would I choose to soar in an aircraft without an engine? Well, my thoughts at the time were that we couldn’t really lose power and plummet from 30,000 feet to a certain death. After all, the tow plane would take us high enough (but not too high) to catch an updraft, or if I want to sound really knowledgable, a thermal. My thoughts were should any emergency arise, we would just glide to earth. No fuel means no fire, just in case of an emergency landing
Oh woman of little learning! (Remember a little learning is a dangerous thing.) Guess what? Sailplanes can fall from the sky, do go fast, and one can die in a glider. Not likely, but possible. So glad I had not consulted Google before sailing away.
My biggest concern after the pilot’s orientation about our flight, was that somehow, I would not disconnect us correctly from the tow plane.(My only job.) Such a silly worry, but my overactive imagination conjured up within seconds all sorts of weird occurrences–we wouldn’t disconnect somehow causing both us and the tow plane to go down or we would follow behind the tow plane and not experience this adventure and be the laughing stock of the BRSS and the motorcycle group. All my fault.
Ok, none of that happened or probably could not have happened. I never asked. Once we safely disconnected from the tow plane, caught an updraft, and began to soar, so did my heart. Even though the day was not sunny so another worry, where were our thermals, the silence filled my ears–just the whish, whish, of the air around us, beneath us, over us, calmed me down, and I took in every second, every frame of the scenes running under us.
When I was much, much younger, I dreamed that I could fly. I felt myself bobbing in the air, floating on updrafts as I flew over hills and into valleys. Was this my dream come true? Perhaps, but that freedom of being buoyed only by the air, I have not felt since that cloudy, October day in 2015.
I sailed out of my comfort zone because I like challenges, because I do not want to dissolve away into old age, with only my walker to support me, because my anxiety prompts me to try those adventures that make me anxious. I’ve lived a good life but I want more until the day I decide that my life is complete. Not there yet.
I found your wallet today, the one you were always misplacing whether you were at home on Brentwood Drive, Milan, or at Morning Pointe, your last residence, there in Chattanooga with my sister Valerie not too far away. Guess I’d misplaced it this time, forgetting that I had tucked it away in my L.L. Bean Boat Bag, the repository of all my treasured “Must Keeps.”
Holding your wallet feels like holding your hands, wrinkled and worn but amazingly soft and tender, despite the decades of hard work. Those hands skillfully filed saws for our livelihood, built beautiful cherry wood tables for our delight, sewed sequins on Val’s majorette uniforms, pushed lawn mowers, pushed us high in our swings, pushed us off on our first bike rides, pushed us off into the arms of our husbands-to-be, pulled us close when we needed a h
“Hold our hands, Daddy.” That’s what we whispered two years ago as you lay in your hospice bed. Hold on tight! But you couldn’t. Your fingers, interlaced with ours, slowly loosened their grip. Your fingernails scraped across the crisp white sheets before you jerked your hands high into the air, seemingly surprised that it was time to go.
But I found you again. Your driver’s license photo looked up at me from your brown trifold. Tucked inside were six $1.00 bills, ready for you to spend on strawberry pie and coffee at Perkins. For an instant, you were with me. The touch of the wallet quickened my soul with your essence, making my heart smile.
You knew I was sad, didn’t you Daddy? Once again your hands were there to comfort me and pull me close when I needed love.
You’ve tried to hide it. I know it! I’ve seen you hanging around the center table, eyeing the treasure, trying to determine how you can discreetly swipe the left-behinds without looking like you’ve hailed from the backwoods with no manners whatsoever. You have the tools you need, plastic fork and paper plate. But can you pull it off, nonchalantly taking what no one else wanted or the server was too lazy to scoop up? The last guest has been served, but will that server never turn away so you can strike swiftly and discreetly?
You’ve tried to hide it. I know it! Your mind is in overdrive, desperately trying to figure out how you can politely ask for the pièce de rèsistance–a corner, what every ILA member covets. But wait, the guest in front of you has been prattling on about how delicious it all looks, her head turning ever so slightly toward that left corner lavished on two sides with a luscious blanket of creamy addiction. The other guests have been submissive, just taking what was doled out to them. But this character in front of you might not settle for the middle.
But of course, she does not settle and asks for the corner! What now? Do you go for one of the other two existing corners? Do you outright ask for it or do you point with your whole hand, not a finger (that would be way too impolite)? I’d suggest an ever so casual wave to the corner that has your name and no-one else’s on it! Two can play at this game!
And of course, you’d love to ask if the server could lift just one of the adornments, so carefully piped onto the surface, but that just might be too much, too devastating to the whole decor that has been so thoughtfully designed yet eventually will be decimated. Oh, well, the corner is enough, for now, but should the adornment survive…
You’ve tried to hide it. I know it! It sits in front of you at the round tables so exquisitely decorated for the celebration. Temptation beckons you. I’ve seen you looking at the guests beside you, across from you, even at other tables. Do they look like folks who will understand if you indulge in your craving? Might they be willing to help you out? Can you negotiate a deal with complete strangers that will satisy all parties? A strategic swap would work well–your cake for their icing. Diplomatic skills must be called into action.
Oh, Icing Lovers Anonymous (ILA) I share your pain. I know how you feel. I too have hung around the table with the cake that proudly boasts “Happy Retirement —— Or Happy Birthday—–Congratulations Mr. and Mrs.—-.“ I have coveted the remainder icing that languishes on the edge of the cardboard with errant cake crumbs contaminating the abandoned border of buttercream, just asking to be devoured. Why toss such a scrumptious delicacy into the oversized black garbage bag that always seems to loom not too far away from the reception table?
Yes, I am Phyllis Grace, and I am an Icing Lover addict, adorer, craver.
How many of you have secretly opened a can of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting and eaten every ounce of it, even using your finger to extract every last bit? How many of you bake a cake just so you can make icing and then lick the bowl? You vow that you must clean up around the edges of the cake plate, just as they do on Cake Boss or Cake Wars to be sure the edges are devoid of icing and sparkling clean. This tried and true technique yields you at least one more tablespoon of that German chocolate icing or Seven Minute frosting.
Whether it is a wedding cake, birthday cake, cupcake, or frosted Krispy Kreme doughnut, a napkin must always be close at hand so you can discreetly dab at the corners of your mouth, obliterating any sign of your obsession.
But beware, if you indulge in blue or black icing, you cannot open your mouth until at least three hours later and three gallons of punch have washed away the traces of the indelible frosting. Trust me, I know this!
It’s a curse, this addiction to confection, one I can finally discuss. At one point in my life, it filled an empty place in my soul. Crisco and confectioner’s sugar assuaged black hole moments of loneliness and depression. Nothing like a sugar high (supposedly) to get you through a weekend of fighting and hateful accusations or holidays when everyone has coupled up for excursions to the beach or mountains, leaving you home alone. That’s when you sit on the screened-in porch with a loving cat and a bowl of butter cream frosting. You stare into the green of trees and embrace a sliver of piercing sunlight as a symbol of hope.
And hope comes because you decide you deserve it. That black hole of depression has now been filled with self-confidence, a healthy love, true friends, and now and then just one sinful, rewarding, mouthful of luscious, creamy, wickedly delicious sucrose and shortening.
No more need for me to make my own icing. I can now wait until a birthday, retirement, wedding, or special night out to indulge in my secret passion. If given the choice of Bread Pudding or Peanut Butter Chocolate Cake with dark chocolate frosting, I choose cake. If given the option of Pecan Pie a la mode or Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Icing, I choose cake. Well, ok, I actually choose the icing.
And so it goes, the need to feed on icing remains but does not overwhelm. Now and then I enjoy the sugar commingled with the Crisco that invades my taste buds with opulent pleasure. I savor every morsel, every molecule of the concoction before it slowly, luxuriously dissolves, leaving a trail of delight and satisfaction along its path.
Oh, yeah, I still hang out at the cake table, angling for a frosting heavy corner, a huge, yellow royal icing rose, or exceptionally large green leaf—not made of fondant. I do exert some discretion. However, it is no longer a need but a want. I am satisfied, sated, confident. I am an Icing Lover Admirer now, no longer anonymous and proud of it!
It wouldn’t necessarily be a road trip although Route 66 would be my choice if I had to travel by car. But my preference would be to take a water road trip–America’s Great Loop Cruise through the waterways of eastern United States and some areas of Canada.
I’d begin in Chicago, go south along the Mississippi, then cut to the Tennessee River in my home state, then on to the Tennesse-Tombigbee Waterway to the Gulf. The Atlantic Coast would be my next adventure, traveling on the Intracostal, ducking into different ports along the way, enjoying life at the marinas where everyone is welcome. Not sure if my memory is exactly correct, but I seem to remember that two of Morgan Freeman’s greatest pleasures were working crossword puzzles and being docked at a marina. I would concur wholeheartedly.
Next stops would be New York, the Hudson, the Erie Canal. On westward to Canadian waters and to the Great Lakes and back to Chicago.
Why? Why not? Life from a boat looks so different than life from a car.
March 2020–Long lines at food pantries; thousands of people out of work and worried they cannot feed their families.
March 2020–At home in Columbia, Missouri, Anne Deaton saw these lines, worried about the food insecure, and how she could help. Not content to just worry but, as always, ready to act, Anne got busy. She contacted fellow Columbians Nina Mukerjee Furstenau, Cathy Salter, and Robin Labrunerie, all culinary talents, writers and all founding members of The Common Ingredient (TCI). Barbara Schlemeier and Linda Cupp joined in along with Holly Enowski, their webmaster, and a website was born: thecommoningredient.com.
And not just any website. A website where people who could no longer share meals with family and friends could find recipes for future meals once the pandemic abated as well as act on their concern for those hard hit by COVID-19. Through the website these food warriors raised awareness about food insecurity, especially during COVID-19, and provided a way for people, like me, to donate to organizations serving those who need food.
“Yes, this was a very small action step that we could do from our home (and have fun doing so),” explained Anne, “as none of us felt, at our ages, that we could go volunteer at the food pantry or other food distribution sites when COVID began.”
Anne Deaton, founding member of TCI. Photo Credit: The Common Ingredient 2021 summer newsletter
It was also a way for those of us stuck at home to enjoy this virtual cookbook where the common ingredient is love–love for food, for family, for those who need our help.
What a resource these women have prepared for their online visitors–recipes, comfort food stories, tips and tricks (which I need), recipe submissions (yes, submit your favorite recipe and grow their collection), and a donation link to organizations serving the food insecure in Northeast Missouri. Future plans include ways to grow the site to include other states and organizations.
January 2022–Yes, these talented, energetic, caring women inspired me and continue to inspire. They could have just donated to Feeding America or similar organizations and said “Enough. I did my part.” But they didn’t. They continue to expand their efforts and declare to the world that they will help overcome food insecurity. I will join them. Will you?
Breathe! Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Remember you are enough. Comparison with others can be a good check in but not a way to live your life.
I’ve always felt that I have been living my life backwards. Having married and had a child as a teenager, I jumped into adulthood without the experiences that most teenagers had.
As a 52 year old divorcee, I plunged back into life determined to revisit those teenage years but with some adult wisdom. So I attended rock concerts (had only been to one as a 17 year old), dated multiple types of men, took vacations I wanted to take, lived alone (most of the time), drank when I wanted to, explored depression and resurrection, tried to be fully present and aware of those I loved. Sometimes regression can be a good way to learn.
The question now is: “Will I keep regressing as I age?” Am I doomed to the infancy that dementia and old age might offer? The seven stages of man haunt me. So what advice should my 16 year old self give to my 71 year old self?
Lost in thought, acting as though my SUV is autonomous, I ease out of the driveway, triple checking that the garage door is down. My grocery list pops into my head like the Heads Up display in the windshield. Are all the ingredients for the Chili-Mac Cheeseburger recipe on it? Do I have coupons for the V-8 juice, digital or paper? Are my K-roger cloth bags next to me on the front seat? I always forget them, but if I do, I know that Micah’s backpack can use the plastic ones. Can’t have them wrapped around dolphins’ necks. Stop that. Be mindful. Pay attention, I admonish myself.
Passing Glade Road Growing on my right and Heritage Road Park on my left, I’m careful not to go over 29. With a speed limit of 25, Blacksburg Police vigilantly patrol Glade to keep travelers on this country road safe from speed demons. I must be mindful, forget the grocery list, focus on the speedometer, look back into the rear view mirror to be sure no one is behind me, cursing me, silently or not, for observing the speed limit.
The leafless trees lined along either side of Glade have assumed their winter postures–naked, gnarled, dull sculptures against the only blue sky to grace our corner of the world in days. Gusts of Arctic air that seem to like southwest Virginia better than the North Pole, remind me that Blacksburg can transform into Bleaksburg violently and without warning.
Winding my way along, besieged on every side by lifeless, dreary hues, except for the sky that I do not trust, I suddenly see a flash of red. Just a brief glimpse, a glint, a minuscule tidbit of color winks at me.
And there, as I come out of another curve into a straight-away—-an altar to Valentines’ Day appears. A red, tinsel wreath shaped into the outline of a heart hangs on a wooden plank nailed to an evergreen tree, a white arrow shot through its empty center.
A white wrought iron table stands against the plank. Covered in a pink table cloth bordered in red -lettered XOXOXs, the table hosts a red vase with artificial red roses. All it needs now are two lovers, albeit dressed for Antartica, seated at the table, ready for. . . .who knows??
Many thanks to my Glade Road neighbour for the biggest Valentine’s Day card I’ve ever seen. You’ve reminded me that just around any corner life can ambush you with unabashed glee and fill your heart with smiles.