Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Going camping—or I apparently thought I was


This brightens our dull days for me


Colin had a minor surgical procedure today, one of those where they tell you to bring a licensed driver who will not leave the premises. So I was his designated driver—since I didn’t drive for two years and there was great family concern about my getting behind the wheel again, just the idea of me as a designated driver is enough to strike fear into some hearts in my family. But I was determined to meet the challenge—and to plan ahead.

Anticipating a long, boring morning in a sterile waiting room, I packed a bag. My purse wasn’t big enough, so I got one of those recyclable bags every other store gives you these days. Into it went a bottle of water (unnecessary—they had water available in the waiting area); a buttered biscuit and a half a bar of dark chocolate with peppermint (unnecessary because I wasn’t there long enough to get hungry though I was anticipating a pre-lunch famine); two pairs of glasses in their cases—sunglasses and readers (unnecessary because it wasn’t  sunny  and I never had time to read more than email and Facebook). By the time I got the bag loaded, it was so heavy I could hardly manage it with the walker. But I felt like I was going on a campout.

And all my preparations were unnecessary because everything went smoothly and quickly. We got to the one-day surgical center at eight-thirty and left at ten-forty-five. I was called back to see Colin twice—once before the procedure and once when he was in recovery. In between I visited with a woman who has three adopted children through the Edna Gladney international program. I saw her T-shirt with “Gladney” on it, and when she kindly asked if she could get me water, I mentioned the shirt and told her I am the proud mother of four Gladney babies, although they’ve long since grown past the baby stage. So then we had a wonderful talk about Gladney and adoption and big families and all that’s entailed. Time passed so quickly that I never even got to read the two books I had on my Kindle just in case.

And then we were off to Carshon’s. Colin does not consider a trip to Fort Worth complete unless he has a Rebecca sandwich at Carshon’s—hold the Russian dressing, please. We visited with staff who have helped us for years—after all, Colin’s beating eating there at least forty-five years.

Tonight we had Doris’ casserole for supper, at Colin’s request. I’ve told that story so many times I’m sure you all know it, but here goes. When my ex was a resident, we went to a small dinner party at another resident’s home. The wife, named Doris, served this casserole called American Beef Casserole that had won a Mrs. America cooking contest or something like that. We loved it, and the wives who were there have cooked it over the years. One calls it American lasagna, because it’s basically a meat and tomato sauce layer, a noodles and cream cheese/sour cream layer, and grated cheese. I’ve even had the catering department at TCU cook it for a luncheon. It’s ubiquitous and delicious-and I ate too much tonight. After residency, I never saw Doris much but once, when I did, I mentioned the casserole—and she didn’t even remember it!

At dinner, Colin, Christian and Jacob got to reminiscing about past family holidays and looking at videos—and I thought what wonderful memories my grandchildren will carry through life. Like the Thanksgiving they hunted for Big Foot on my brother’s ranch and actually found his foot prints (don’t ask!).

Nine-thirty, and my “big baby,” (nearly fifty), is asleep on the couch, and I’m ready to go to sleep. A long but happy day.

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