Now some of my new readers will have a chance to get a glimpse into my strange interests.
Back in July of 03, I posted about being plagued by sitings of the numbers 11:11.
There are 91 comments on that post from people all over the place who keep seeing that number as well as other number series. That’s my most popular post, if you judge by the comments left.
Urm. Not a distinction I necessarily am delighted about, but there it is.
I’m thinking about it now because it’s happening again. I’m seeing 11:11s.
It is sooooo bizarre.
And if you think that’s bizarre, wait until I post about how I’m preparing to cleanse the “negative energies” in both the place to which I’m moving and my daughter’s house. Since my daughter and her family moved into their house less than a year ago, they have had such a stream of bad ju ju (property-wise and health-wise) that it does make one think that there’s something to the idea of a “jinxed” house. They did clean out the mold in the cellar and put in new replacement windows, as well as other obvious things one can do to make sure one’s home is not toxic. But somehow the bad vibes go on. (More on my plans for that another time.)
Meanwhile, just take a look at some of those (count ’em) 91 comments. If you’re still curious, check out my posts on seeing 11:11 here (18 comments on that one), and here (where there are two comments).
Count the comments. 91 plus 18 plus 2. 111. I didn’t know that until I was looking for the links to put in this post.
See??
Ah, shades of Granny Weatherwax.

Three pairs of shoes!!! That’s Old Hoss’ advice in his comment to the post below.
Why I have three pairs of sneakers alone, not including my radical pink ones. And every woman knows that you can’t have too many black shoes — flats, heels (various heights), sandals… And then there are boots, and you need at least two dress boots — black and tan — and then you need good snow boots (at least you do if you live in the Northeast)! And now it’s almost summer, so there are sandals to wear with skirts, sandals to wear with shorts, dress-up sandals, sandals you can wear on the beach — slides, straps, leather, rubber, denim, metallic, black (of course), beige, and, to be in style, orange.
Only men can live with three pairs of shoes!
I wonder if I could only take three pairs of shoes with me to wear for the rest of my life, which I would choose.

I’ve never been one to easily let go of things that are “mine” — except for money, that is. That seems to slip away amazingly easily.
Situations have to get very, very drastic before I let go, even of responsibility. When I run out of closet space, storage space, time, and hope, when it’s obvious that I have no choice, then I let go — of people, jobs, old t-shirts, books, shampoos for blonde hair. And shoes. Sometimes, shoes are the hardest.
As a single mom, I kept my house in the country until, all at once, the roof leaked, the septic field needed to re-done, and the deep ruts in the long, up-hill driveway were beating up my undercarriage.
I have this fantasy of living like (what I prefer to believe were) my gypsy ancestors — a colorful life with few important possessions, an aura of mystery, and all the time in the world to be magically creative.
But I’m not ready for that yet.
I’m still in the long-letting-go phase.
When there are more bad days than good days, when the elemental connection is broken, then I’ll be ready.
I’ve begun cleaning out the clutter of my everyday life, beginning with the shampoos. I’ve got a way to go before I move on to people. And shoes.
Meanwhile, in this time of riding caregiving’s emotional waves, I hold onto the lifelines I have — my daughter and her family, my friends, this space.

No, not mom — me. The great comments left here by some of my fellow bloggers are a good reminder to me to be sensitive about what I post here about others, including my mom. And they’ve given lots of good pointers that I can share with the kids — and teachers as well.
I’m thinking that I wish I had the wit to take the approach that Old Hoss does.
I’ve been know to be clever. I’ve also been know to laugh. I’m just out of practice.
Maybe to start with I’ll share my clever recipe for sour cabbage soup. My mom hankers for Polish food these days, so last week I improvised cabbage soup from what I had in the pantry.
1 package of bagged shredded cabbage for cole slaw
1 medium can of sauerkraut (rinse first if you don’t like it too sour)
1 can of diced tomatoes, including liquid
two peeled and diced potatoes
1 can of chicken broth
1 can of vegetable broth
if you have available – throw in a few country style pork ribs
add water as needed
Now, here’s what really makes it great:
chop and sautee three yellow onions until light golden brown and add to soup.
Serve hot with a dollop of sour cream.
It makes enough to freeze and have for several more meals.
And sauekraut is very healthy, you know. As is cabbage.
I share this recipe even knowing that I risk getting some gaseous comments. But this is about as clever as I can get today.
It actually was a better day than usual around here, all things considered.

….so thanks for the encouraging comments that blogfriends have left on other posts here.
I promised my dad, on his deathbed, that I would take care of my mom. I knew it would be hard, given who we both are — which is about as opposite as two people could be.
I think there’s much to be said for asserting one’s independence early in life, exploring one’s inner and outer worlds, taking risks and learning to make the best of the consequences. That’s how I’ve lived my life (which, I hope, has quite a few years left to it; although, I do wonder if there might be something hereditary that will show up in my brain).
My mom had a hard life. The oldest of three girls (she also had two older male siblings), she had to leave high school when she was sixteen and go to work in a carpet mill. Yup, think of the photos of sweatshops that you have seen — that’s what it was. She and her sisters also strung beads to earn more money for the family.
She’s the last one left of her family of origin.
I can tell from things she says now that her younger sisters did not have the expectations laid on them that she had. I don’t think she was mothered very well, although she does talk a lot about how helpful her mother was to friends, neighbors, and relatives — especially if they were new Polish immmigrants. I can’t help wonder how much her mother didn’t do for her because she was doing for others and expected my mother to do the same. Perhaps she spent much of her life running on empty.
After the first world war, my grandmother took her five kids to Poland because they were so poor. For eight years they lived and worked on the old family farm that had a house with a thatched roof.
That’s my mom in the midde soon after they returned to America. My grandfather had gotten a decent job in a sugar factory.

As I give up more and more of my current life to help make what’s left of hers easier for her, I’m trying to remember why I need to do that.
Because I promised my dad. Because she often was there to help me out when I needed help. Because I still can. Because it’s what we’ve always done in our family. Because I will regret it if I don’t. Because I would not want to die alone.
I’m runnin’ on empty today. So I blog. Talk on the phone to my daughter and my son and my grandson. They keep me going. For now, they keep me going. Even on empty.

bad day here. very very bad day.
she’s unconsolable. everything is slipping away.

Yesterday was a bad day, but now it’s Sunday morning and she’s got the Polka music program going on the radio. So, we do it. We polka. She leads. I take off my shoes so that I don’t step on her sore feet by accident. She’s a good leader. I’m a good follower. “Na lewo,” she says. “Na prawo.” (to the left, to the right) We never dance in a straight line. “Ah, an Oberek,” she says. So I stay for another one. She’s so frail under her loose blouse, the one that fit her fine last year. I manage not to step on her feet. She’s happy, dancing the polka. Me too. It’s like the old days, when we even had costumes. Below, us, sometime in the early 50s.

In between the cooking and the calming, the caring and the crabbing, I read. Women authors, mostly. Fiction almost entirely.
Right now, I’m reading Louise Erdrich‘s Four Souls. She writes with the cadence and imagery of her Native American people. I’ve read just about everything she’s written because she transports me into the hearts and minds of individuals who wind up inhabiting my thoughts long, long after I’ve closed the covers. She’s the widow of another Native American author, Michael Dorris, who committed suicide. I’ve not read any of his stuff.
Lately I’ve taken to browsing the “new fiction” section at my public library. The book I found there and read before Eldrich’s is The Problem with Murmur Lee by Connie Mae Fowler. I recommended it to a friend but she said that she just couldn’t get into it. Thought it was too fragmented. I, however, loved it — wonderfully quirky over-the edge characters and a equally quirky story line that kept me curious, even after I learned what Murmur Lee’s “problem” was.
But the best new book of all that I’ve read lately is Queen of Dreams by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. It’s a story about mother and daughter difficulties, about cultural identity, about the burdens of “gifts” others don’t understand, about healing family rifts. It’s a story that spirals up so that it ends where it begins except at another place. I will have to read more of this Indian writer.
In between the searching and swearing, the sighing and sleeping, I read. And read. And read.

These are the living ends of my lineage.
My mom had a great time visiting her one and only great grandchild. He’ll be three in July, and he just loves to talk and demonstrate all of his trucks. He also learned several words in Polish, which delights me mother to no end.
Spending four hours driving, the trip back home straight into the setting sun, pretty much wiped me out.
“Staroszcz nie radoszcz,” my grandmother used to say. My grandson can’t say that yet and has no need to. What he loves to say is “Na Zdrowie!” and clink glasses with you. He makes us laugh — the best therapy of all.