Life is an old family recipe

First of all, I wish I could say I invented the title of this column, but I did not.

I opened the cover of the August edition of “O, The Oprah Magazine” and there it was in an “IKEA” ad. Sometimes my themes cook up that way, like instant potatoes, they grow into something really good from nothing more than flakes.   

I’m at a bit of a standstill with my sailing adventures in that my rather antiquated six horsepower motor continues to gum up and give me angst. Nothing worse for a fresh new solo sailor (whose first real adventure was wrought with stormy memories) than to be threatened shortly thereafter and repeatedly with a coughing, sputtering two-stroke disaster.

Who knew one could have a touch of posttraumatic stress disorder after a rag doll affair in a sailboat. Yup uh huh.

So my motor is in the shop and sailing is sidelined until “Little Miss Evinrude” is running like a top.

No doubt I am trying to embrace my own preachings of patience—especially since I’ve waited months to sail and find myself stalled by simple mechanics.

Even so, I could use time at the dock to practice my bowlines. The “rabbit” and I are not seeing eye to eye at all.

I have failed to grasp and put into action the rote lesson, “You make a loop, the rabbit comes up through the hole, goes behind the tree and back down the hole,” more times in the last six weeks from fellow sailors trying to teach me how to tie the ultimate sailing knot, than I did in all the cumulative years of lessons learned raising three teenage girls and learning that I cannot  “nail ‘Jell-O’ to a tree.”

So I lean back into “Life is an old family recipe.”

What does that mean to you?

Perhaps it is simply that old family recipe of homemade bread, rhubarb jam, or a fruitcake recipe handed down by your grandmother and into your kitchen and out among your children.

Perhaps “Life is an old family recipe,” is reflected in your vegetable garden or in your hay field, because it’s the same way your father or your grandfather taught you.

Perhaps it is simply that you raised your children inside the same values you were taught from your parents. Perhaps it is that you raised your children outside of the values you were taught from your parents. Both are your recipe choices.

Perhaps it is the value you place on spiritual growth, a belief or understanding of a power greater than yourself--or a non-belief. Either way, it’s your life recipe, and your choice.

Perhaps “Life is an old family recipe,” is based on always being in control, or in letting go, being cherished or neglected, challenged or encouraged, smiled upon or always judged—and living it forward or passing it on—or not. Choices. 

“Life is an old family recipe.” 

And for what it’s worth, I think it’s worth some thought.

Time out for other stuff in life

Time out for other things in life

There’s a downside to throwing all of myself for months into a passionate hobby like sailing. Nothing else around here gets done.

The grass grew eight inches, dust settled in thick layers on windowsills and end tables and reminded me of what an abandoned house must look like.

The laundry was ignored until I ran out of underwear and was forced to dig out the dreaded “thong thing” I swore never to don again. Garbage day was missed so many times that I needed to buy bag tags—and used the whole package in one day.

What used to be the vegetable garden is now a weed patch overrun with thistles and crab grass. And oh, yes, let’s not forget about Mr. Squirrel, who during my sailboat frenzy found himself a mate and had a family of their own inside my sleeping bag in the garage.

The general lifelessness around here also signaled an infiltration of 32 geese that have been pooping themselves in just about every corner of my yard, including at my back door.

My daughters and grandchildren haven’t seen me in so long that they’ve started to rely on photographs to remind themselves of what I look like.

While my sailboat is a shiny new penny the other three quarters of my life has toppled into the red flag district of neglect.

Sometimes I feel like peanut butter melted to a thin paste in the hot summer sun and spreadable only in transparent layers. Spread thin—very, very thin.

It was my goal this past weekend to answer some of “today’s” questions such as, “Do I remember what a dust mop looks like?” “What is a vacuum cleaner?” and “When was the last time I took a stroll through the field?”

I was amazed to see during my field trip that the hay mixture out there is nearly waist high. How did that happen so fast and how did I miss it?

I also was reintroduced to wood ticks. A walk in the field made me fair game.

I didn’t find the tick on the inside arch of my foot until I was in the shower. I thought it was a piece of fuzz. When I tried to flick it off, the tick got stuck to my index finger causing me to freak out as I tried to boil it off with the shower head and down the drain, where I then imagined it clinging to the side of the pipe until the middle of the night, when it would crawl back up the drain hole and be waiting for me on the toilet seat in the morning.

It’s amazing how scared I get of something so small—right up there with thong underwear and yet am willing to strike out again alone in a sailboat after a rocky adventure in a storm.

Nonetheless, I am back up to speed around here. I managed to clean my bathroom, relocate the squirrel family, cut the grass, do laundry, dust, bake some muffins, and make plans to get reacquainted with my six little peppers.

And then I took my dad sailing and we had fun. I really can do it all.