Happy Breezy Tuesday, My Friend!
Ahhh, it’s breezy because I have the windows open in my house today. The. Windows. Open! Maybe not a big deal if you live elsewhere, but it’s a rare treat in South Florida. Thank You, God, for 75 degrees and low humidity!
I promised a funny story about my mom today. I’m ready to deliver.
My mom wasn’t the typical mom of her generation. She married at age 29, practically a spinster, in 1951. She had my sister and brother in quick succession and figured she was done bearing children. Until six years later, a surprise came along—me. She was older than my friends’ moms, and she was also a career gal. Of my close friends back then, my mom was the only one who worked outside the home. She was the secretary in the elementary school office. I emphasize the word “the” because it was a small school and thus a small office with one secretary—my mom. She ran that place, man.
At some point during her years at the school, another woman, I think it was the librarian, invited her to join her sewing club. It was called “The Sewing Basket,” and they would get together at someone’s home once a month in the evening and bring whatever sewing, knitting, or crocheting project they were working on. The hostess would provide dessert and coffee (decaf, of course) and the ladies would work on their projects and chat. I’ve heard these groups referred to as “Stitch and Bitch” groups.
My mom wasn’t an avid sewer, knitter, or crocheter in those days. Oh, she dabbled in the likes, but none were a big hobby to her. She did embroider, so she did have that to tote along to these meetings.
She never wanted to go to these meetings.
She wasn’t much for stitching, and she wasn’t much for bitching. When it was the day of “club,” as she called it (and she said it with a funny accent and a roll of the eyes), she’d still always go as she felt an obligation to her librarian friend.
At the beginning of each year, the group put all the ladies’ names in a hat, and they’d choose the name of their “Secret Pal” for the year. You’d get your Secret Pal a birthday card, a Christmas gift, little treats throughout the year, always delivered in a stealth manner to not give away the giver’s identity.
There was one rather elderly member of the group, one of the ladies’ mothers. I’m going to call her Alice. My mom always dreaded Secret Pal-picking day, fearing she would pull Alice’s name out of the hat. I think God must have been having a little fun every year because I can’t tell you how many times my mom got Alice as her Pal. Here was the problem with getting Alice’s name . . .
Alice had absolutely no filter and said whatever came to her mind.
“Now, what am I supposed to do with this?” “What in the world is this thing?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what in the Sam Hill do I do with this now?” (I hope you read those in an “old lady” voice.)
These are not exactly the responses one looks for when giving a gift. But that’s what Alice would say. Did she not realize the person who gave her that thing was sitting right there? Maybe when you’re 90something, you no longer care.
I remember when it was my mom’s turn to host, and she was in a tizzy about the appearance of our house and the adequacy of her dessert. I remember she made a dessert called “Poppyseed Torte,” and it was fabulous! My mom wasn’t a big cook or baker, but she nailed that poppyseed torte, baby! I begged her to make it time and time again for various occasions after that initial preparation. She never did. I think it was very fussy to make, and once was enough, thank you.
She always threatened to quit “club,” but year after year, she’d keep on going.
When I was in college and home for a weekend visit, I asked her about “club.” Guys, she quit! As the years went on and new ladies joined, the women got a little crazy about dessert and coffee. Some rebels started adding other foods as well. Until one fine evening, the hostess went so far as to set a three-course meal for the group with fancy linens and fine china! That was it. That was the thread that broke the camel’s hand-crocheted back. She was out.
Decades later, I was visiting my elderly mom at her apartment in a small apartment building full of older folks. She was a widow at this point but had a lovely little apartment to herself. During that visit, my mom said, “Oh, how nice! You’ll be here for my ladies’ group! It’s my turn to host!”
“Great!” I answered her, “What are you making?”
“What everyone makes,” she replied, “Pineapple Dessert.”
“Everyone makes? You mean you meet at each other’s apartments for dessert and coffee, and everyone serves the exact same dessert?”
“Yes,” was her matter-of-fact reply, looking at me like it wasn’t peculiar.
Now, to me, this just leaves the door wide open for comparisons about whose pineapple dessert was better than who else’s! I’m not sure why that wasn’t a thing, but somehow, the rule in this little circle was this: It’s pineapple dessert or nothin’! Don’t ask me why. I just kept my mouth shut and thawed out the Cool Whip.
What’s the moral of this long-winded, sugar-laden story? I have no earthly idea. Maybe it’s just to look around you and see what circles you are in. I find myself in several friend-laden, treasured circles of friends. I count each as one as a valuable gift from God. Some of my friends I don’t get to talk to as much anymore, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think of them often and smile over cherished memories. I am so very grateful for each one of the friends God has blessed me with. You are one of them!
I thank you for your friendship.
Now, how about some dessert?
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO
Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver, the other is gold.
A circle is round, it has no end.
That’s how long, I will be your friend.
A fire burns bright, it warms the heart.
We’ve been friends, from the very start.
You have one hand, I have the other.
Put them together, We have each other.
Author unknown