Rodeo, Memories, and a Lesson in Aging

Tonight is rodeo night at 6^th grade Cotillion, and Jacob and his friends dressed appropriately. I don’t know why Jacob doesn’t have a hat, but praise the Lord his new boots arrived just in time this afternoon.

Jacob’s actually gotten himself in a spot of trouble, but I’ve promised not to blog about it. Still it got me thinking about childhood and discipline, and maybe because it’s rodeo time, I thought about me and horses. Growing up on Chicago’s South Side, the only horse I saw regularly was an old one that, when I was very young, pulled a milk wagon down the alley behind our house. I have a vague memory of a man and a horse who looked much alike—old and grey, but the man was very pleasant and cheerful as he left glass bottles of milk in the icebox (literally) on our back porch.

Someone, maybe even me, decided it would be good if I took horseback riding lessons. I was maybe about twelve. We rode English style around an arena in a barn, horses nose to tail they were so crowded. I did all right at it, until some transgression made my mother decree that I would miss two or three of my lessons. I truly don’t remember what I did, but it must have been awful because such severe punishment was not like my mom. When I finally went back to the stables, I was terrified of the horses, and to this day I am uncomfortable around them.

The memory makes me think how important it is to be judicious and loving in disciplining children. They are frail young minds, easily damaged, and I am convinced discipline must come with lots of love and an understanding of why it is being meted out, how it can be avoided another time. I read the stories about the California couple and their thirteen abused children with horror. Today I read they used food to control those starving children. How can anyone be so cruel?

I had an unpleasant lesson in aging today, one I think I’ve had before and apparently refuse to learn. Lovely lunch with Jordan, the woman from the bank who has helped me so much with financing the cottage and such, and a mutual friend. We met at Pappadeaux, early to avoid the rodeo crowd. At first, I could hear the entire conversation, but as the restaurant grew more crowded, I was barely able to follow the thread. Jordan and I split the wonderful Greek salad for one, and I ordered fried oysters, since I can’t eat shrimp. I mentioned the shrimp allergy to the waiter, and oh my, were they on top of it. He asked if he had to redo the accompaniments platter for the salad, since one lonely shrimp was touching the tomatoes. I told him to give the shrimp to Jordan and it would be fine. Then a manager type came to make sure I understand oysters were fried in the same grease as shrimp, and I thanked him but assured him it would be okay. It’s an ingestion allergy, not contact.

But the fried oysters did me in. I felt dull and loggy and just unwell all afternoon, even with a nice nap. Tonight I can’t bear the thought of food, even that leftover spaghetti in the fridge. I had a single small piece of cinnamon toast for dinner. Once again, I’m swearing off heavy fried foods. When will I ever learn?

Happy weekend, everyone.