Bill and I have been given a wonderful Christmas present of sorts.

When Bill had his semiannual checkup at his neurologist’s office for his Parkinson’s, they added a new medication to his repertoire. They said this particular medication should significantly help his symptoms, something his other meds didn’t seem particularly good at doing. He began taking the medication, very low dose at first and working up to what is his full dose for now (it can and likely will be changed later).

Parkinson’s can have many symptoms. Someone with Parkinson’s can have any or all, no rhyme or reason. For Bill, his primary symptoms have always been slowness and loss of fine motor skills. He has others, but those are the two that are most evident and troublesome. There isn’t a thing he can’t do by himself, but lots of things take much longer – buttoning his shirts, buckling his seatbelt, cutting food, and so forth. Sometimes he has me help, but often he does it himself. He never complains. Not one single time.

I have been noticing his symptoms decreasing over the past weeks, but I’m not sure it has been as apparent to him. But at dinner the other night, he was eating chicken parmigiana with a side of spaghetti. All of the sudden, Bill says to me, “Kris, look at my spaghetti.” He was entirely able to eat spaghetti by rolling it on his fork, just as he used to eat it. He had the biggest grin on his face.

I tend to look at the negative side of things. When it comes to Bill’s PD, I often focus on myself and how his disease has impacted me. But suddenly it became clear just how tired he must get of always being slow and having to struggle with tasks. His smile opened my eyes to how much joy he must feel to be able to do simple things again.

This medication is tricky. While miraculous, as time goes on, it could take a higher and higher dose to work effectively. But this is where I have to nip my reflex to concentrate on what-ifs and just be ever-so-jubilant at the what-ares! Up to this point, his progression has been slow. He hasn’t had any of the potential side effects of any of his medications. There is every reason to hope that this medication will work for a very long time. And he is still on a really low dose, we have room to grow. God is good.

I have one funny grandkid story, as I often do. And, as usual, it involves Mylee.

I took Kaiya and Mylee to Lollypop Park yesterday afternoon, after a meal at McDonald’s. Lollypop Park is an indoor amusement park designed for little kids. They have a little ferris wheel, spinning teacups, swings that go around in a circle, a carousel, a train, and a little roller coaster. On the way there, I explained to the girls that Nana would NOT be accompanying them on the teacups this time as they made me really dizzy and sick the last time.

When we got there, they both immediately ran to the teacups and climbed into one. I watched them spin and spin and took a couple of photos. I was deleting some of the more blurry photos (they are in motion, after all) when they got off. I saw that Mylee was covered in vomit, but with a grin on her face. Yes, friends, she had tossed her cookies (well really, her McDonald’s cheeseburger) on the teacup. I washed her off in the bathroom the best I could, and she was raring to go. No more teacups, I instructed firmly.

This photo must have been taken immediately before Project Throw up. The look on her face tells it all.

Little girlfriend did not smell like a rose the rest of the afternoon.

Have a great weekend!

Since Bill’s divorce a million years ago, he “got the kids” Christmas Eve. So for years, we drove up to Empire, Colorado – about an hour drive from here – to celebrate Christmas with a fine meal at The Peck House. Eventually, as the kids began having serious relationships and eventually marriages, our numbers outgrew what they could accommodate.

I spent the next few years finding different places where we would dine. Finally, as grandkids came along, we began simply having Christmas Eve dinner and gift opening at our house. I always knew that the day would come when the kids would be unable to join us on Christmas Eve. They might go elsewhere for the holiday. They might want to begin their unique traditions in their own home. Last year was the first year that everyone wasn’t with us on Christmas Eve. I was a bit sad, but I also understood. And it wasn’t like we didn’t see them. We had dinner with one son and his family on December 23, and that worked out just fine.

This year another son and his family will be in Mexico for the holidays. We had dinner at their house last night, and we kicked Christmas off good and right.

I don’t go overboard for Christmas. Our families are blessed with so much, and if there are 20 more toys from Nana and Papa, Mom and Dad’s head might explode. So I have a tradition of each child getting a Christmas ornament, a pair of new pajamas, and two things picked out especially for them. Still, when you multiply that times four kids, we walked into their house last night with what appeared to be an unbelievable number of gifts. The kids nearly jumped out of their skin in anticipation of opening them. They were required to wait until after dinner.

Remember that feeling of joy and excitement when you look at unopened gifts? That package could be anything. I always loved the surprise, so I rarely picked up a present to shake it and study it and try and figure out what it was. Three of the four grandkids last night were more like me, but Alastair (who has a disciplined engineering type of brain anyway), studied each of his presents, gave them a shake, and proceeded to tell me what each present was. He was, of course, correct. To be fair to me, however, two of the gifts are always the same (ornament and pjs), and it’s hard to disguise the contents of a box of Legos when you give it a shake.

Once dinner was finished, gift-opening began. It was a calm operation, choreographed by first-borned Addie. “Oldest to youngest,” proclaimed Addie, to youngest Maggie’s dismay. “Last year we did youngest to oldest,” she added. I’m certain she’s right. She isn’t likely to forget things such as that.

There was noise and proclamations of joy and tossing of wrapping paper as the kids opened their gifts. Each one stopped only to put on their new pajamas, which, I’m happy to say, all fit perfectly. Delightful Dagny proclaimed hers to be the “most comfortable pajamas I’ve ever had.”

The remainder of the night was spent getting started on building the White House out of Legos and making bracelets out of little rubber loops, using the Rainbow Loom. Addie took all of the things out of her old and broken backpack that she’s had since Kindergarten and put them in her new LL Bean backpack. Maggie played with her doll until bedtime.

I kissed them all as they went up to bed, and did the same to Dave and Jll as we left for home, knowing we wouldn’t see them for a long time. I was pretty good until we got into the car, and then I blubbered all the way home. “You can come back here anytime,” Bill kept saying.

And as I said yesterday, thank goodness for modern technology, because there is also Facetime and email.

I have one quick story about something that happened yesterday and gave me pause for thought.

I stopped at a very nice restaurant near our house to buy my very last Christmas gift – a gift card. The bartender who took care of my business was very nice, but our interaction was fairly quick. Later, after I was home a bit, I received a telephone call from my credit card company telling me that they had received a call from Rob at an unnamed restaurant, who was calling to report that he had my credit card, and could they contact me and let me know. Sure enough, Rob was the nice young bartender who had helped me with my purchase.

Here’s the thing. I frequently purchase gift cards from restaurants, and when I do, I always struggle with the blank line for the tip. I’m a generous tipper when it comes to restaurant servers because I have worked in the restaurant business and many of my children, nieces and nephews have served or do serve food for a living. But when it comes to leaving a tip for something like a gift card purchase, I am never sure what to do. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. But yesterday the bartender seemed nice enough, and it is close enough to Christmas that I thought, what the heck. I added a generous tip and thought nothing more about it.

When I picked up my card from Rob-the-Bartender, I thanked him heartily for going over and above what he needed to do to get my card back to me. After all, he could have just given it to the manager to hold until such time as I realized my card was missing. He accepted my thanks graciously, and added, “You were nice enough to tip me when most people don’t, so I thought I could be helpful back to you.”

What goes around, comes around.

Since I started this blog in August, I keep referring to the fact that I’m almost 60. Well, I can no longer say that. Today, I AM 60.

Not really sure how I feel about it. Well, come to think about it, I am sure. I’m not crazy about it. I know, I know, it’s better than the alternative. Still, 60 truly is what I considered to be elderly as a child and a young adult. And the fact that my mother died at age 69 doesn’t help matters.

Growing old is funny business. I certainly have more aches and pains, but aside from that, I feel the same as I did when I was 30. Or 10, for that matter. Unless I look in the mirror of course. But growing old is so gradual that you hardly feel it happening. That’s good I guess.

I remember my landmark birthdays. When I turned 20, I was in college at the University of Nebraska, and my mom and dad, who by that time had moved to Leadville, Colorado, had a big birthday cake delivered to the sorority house where I lived so that the whole group could celebrate my birthday. Fun.

I spent my 30th birthday in bed with strep throat. I was sick as a dog. I was also in the throes of my divorce, so it definitely wasn’t the best time of my life. I had a difficult time turning 30, and I’m sure that’s why. I felt as though I was a failure.

Turning 40, however, was a piece of cake. I was happily remarried and my career was in full swing. I was just about to earn my master’s degree. We had recently moved into a pretty house. All was good.

Bill and I spent Thanksgiving in London the year I turned 50. On the way home, there was a man sitting in the seat in front of me on the plane who had a terrible cold. He spent the entire flight hacking and sniffing. I managed to catch that cold. It’s the worst cold I have ever had to this day. It was in my head and my chest, and I even managed to get pink eye. The cold went on for weeks. But the thing is, I had made plans for a gigantic birthday celebration .My sister flew in from Washington, DC, and my brother drove in from Arizona. My sibs even ordered a turducken for the occasion! (A chicken stuffed into a duck which is stuffed into a turkey.) Unfortunately, it was a party I barely remember. Here is a photo we took on that day 10 years ago:

My pink eyes were barely open!

So here I am, age 60, and very content with my life. My family is having some sort of celebration in my honor. The details are at this point a secret, though the grandkids know and it is all they can do to keep from telling me. The other night when I tucked 5-year-old Maggie into bed, she said, “Your birthday is coming and I know something I can’t tell you.” She giggled and snuggled her face deep into the pillow in an effort to keep the words from coming out. So I will be surprised. And what’s more, my sister who now lives in Arizona instead of D.C. flew in yesterday for the celebration. What joy.

I just have to remember that birthdays are just another day and 60 is just another age. I have a wonderful life and I am mostly healthy so I am grateful for all 60 years.

I’m rather tired of whining about the cold weather (though it is only -6 as I write this post this morning). But it’s cold lots of places and I’m thankful to have a nice, warm house in which to stay out of the cold.

But the cold really has prohibited me from doing a lot of things outside. The roads are still pretty icy because they thaw somewhat during the day and then refreeze at night. And in the time it takes to drive from Point A to Point B, the car never warms up (unless Point B is Albuquerque!).

One would think that I would spend this time indoors baking Christmas cookies or at least cleaning my house. But alas, what I’m really doing is watching Christmas movies, crocheting, and answering the doorbell as all of my gifts that I ordered Cyber Monday are beginning to arrive. Yesterday, I had three deliveries. One of the nice things about being almost 60 is that by now I have forgotten what I ordered so it’s fun to open the packages and try to remember for whom I bought the ballerina doll.

Yesterday I watched the live version of The Sound of Music, which was on television the other night. I had set it up to record, knowing that my nights get away from me. It didn’t really matter because in Colorado, the program wasn’t live at all, but a recording of a live show. I hadn’t read about anybody falling down or forgetting their words, so I went into it with a positive attitude.

I wasn’t disappointed, but I must say, though Carrie Underwood has a marvelous singing voice, her acting leaves a lot to be desired. And it really isn’t fair to compare her to Julie Andrews, whose voice is as clear and lovely as a Christmas bell, and who knows how to sing and act at the same time. Still, I LOVE The Sound of Music. I think it has the most beautiful music of any musical ever written. And I absolutely cannot listen to “Edelweiss” without crying because it’s the song I have always sang to my grandchildren to get them to relax and fall asleep.

As I watched, I looked up Maria Von Trapp on Wikipedia only to learn that she didn’t really love Georg at the beginning, but grew to love him over many years. Not nearly as romantic, so I don’t blame Rogers and Hammerstein for changing that up!

The fact that Bill sang along with every number didn’t help my enjoyment. He was undoubtedly recalling our European adventure a number of years ago when we took the Sound of Music tour in Salzburg and they encouraged singing along. I could have lived without his participation yesterday.

All in all, I think it was wonderful that NBC gave this a try, and I enjoyed the production a great deal. I haven’t heard how the critics received it, but apparently it was well-watched.

Much like Seinfeld, this was a blog about nothing. Enjoy your weekend and stay warm if it’s cold outside where you live.

Up until about the time I got married, I spent most Thanksgiving Days at Mom and Dad’s house. In or around 1992, when I got my “instant, just add love” big family, and, more importantly, a house with two ovens and a sizable dining room, we began spending Thanksgivings here.

My sister who lives in Fort Collins (about an hour north of here) and her family would generally come to celebrate with us. My other sister and my brother both lived far away. For a couple of years my mom and dad would join us. With Mom’s help, we could put out a pretty good feast. But after she died in 1995, I recall my sister and me sort of standing in the kitchen looking at each other like the oft-mentioned deer in the headlights, saying, “Holy cow, what do we do now?”

We muddled through the first couple of holidays, and then it became easier. And it also began growing. Kids started bringing friends to the table. Family members from afar would join us. At the same time, Jen and I were getting in the swing of things and handling it all quite well. We put a pretty good meal on the table and everyone enjoyed the holiday festivities.

There have been some memorable Thanksgiving dinners at my house. Somewhere around 1999, for the first (but not only) time, my entire family was present at my table. That meant siblings and nieces and nephews from as far away as Arizona and Northern Virginia, with a few friends thrown in, as well as the usual suspects. I don’t recall the exact number, but it was at least 30. I said earlier that I had a sizeable dining room, but seeings as my name isn’t Mrs. Astor, my dining room isn’t that sizeable. And my table only stretches to fit 12, and that’s only if we are really good friends.

We borrowed banquet tables from the company where I worked, as well as 20 or so folding chairs. We moved furniture out of the living room and set up the tables in that room, in a U shape. We managed to all fit around the table, with my dad at the center of the bottom of the U. He led us in grace, and as I looked around at my amazing family, I really felt gratitude to God. Since then, we have had several large gatherings, and have always found room at the table for everyone. The year before my father died, much of my family from Virginia and Arizona were able to celebrate with us. I recall that year we had a very light snowfall the day before Thanksgiving, and the Arizona gang couldn’t have been happier. That was the year, perhaps, that my now-10-year-old granddaughter asked to lead us in grace, and she stood on her chair so as to make sure we could all see her!

But inevitably, the torch is passed. Last year Thanksgiving moved from our house to a son’s house. It’s not something I think you plan, but at some point it just feels right to let the kids take over. We don’t desert them; everyone brings our fair share of offerings. This year our Vermont family is joining us, and so the gathering will be near 25 people or so, nearly half who are kids. There will be room for everyone at their table as well.

I am thankful for so many things for I have been truly blessed over the years. But this time of year I am most thankful for my family – our four children, their spouses, and all nine of our grandchildren.

And, I learned recently that in May, we will be blessed with our 10th grandchild! Now that’s something special for which to be thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Today is Veterans’ Day, and, as always, it makes me think about my dad – that would be Musician 3rd Class Reinhart Gloor, serial number 317-11-31, United States Navy.

I always thought it was funny that my dad, having lived nearly his entire life in land-locked Nebraska (he was born in South Dakota but only lived there for a short time) chose to enlist in the Navy. Apparently he chose the Navy because they offered him the best opportunity to be a musician. He tried out for the Naval Music School and was accepted in the Music Corps. Instead of carrying a gun, my dad carried a saxophone and a clarinet.

You see, though a baker by trade, my dad loved music. It always seemed entirely appropriate to me that my dad spent his military years entertaining troops during World War II. He was stationed on the island of Trinidad.

I wish I had talked more with my dad about his years in the Navy. He had, to my knowledge, never been out of the country. Heck, I would guess he had never been out of Nebraska. Here he was, an inexperienced boy of only 18 or so, sent to basic training in Chicago and music school in Washington, D.C., then on to Trinidad. No friends with him, his mom and dad and sisters far away with no internet or even much in the way of telephones I would assume. He probably was nervous and excited.

He was one of many young boys and girls who were experiencing the same mixed feelings of excitement and fear, loneliness and suffocation from being around other people all of the time. Those soldiers, sailors, airmen/women and Marines needed the comfort of music.

A number of years ago, my husband and I were able to visit the Normandy area of France. We walked on Omaha Beach. I don’t think anything I’ve ever seen has had such a profound impact on me as seeing that enormous section of beach, onto which those men – boys, really – involved in the D-Day invasion had to disembark from their ship and run like hell. Brave, brave men.

And that’s just one example. There are thousands and thousands of stories of young people who have fought in places so, so far from home to keep America safe and free. They have truly sacrificed, and continue to sacrifice, so much for us so that we can bring up our families as we see fit and worship as we please.

My husband also served, in the United States Army during the Vietnam War. Thankfully for him (and for me), he never had to serve in Vietnam. I’m proud of him and his service to all of us. (I don’t have a picture of him in his uniform or I would post it!) In fact, I’m pretty sure all of us know a vet, perhaps more than one. Today is a good day to tell him or her thanks for their service and for helping keep us safe and free.

Happy Veterans’ Day!

Halloween’s over and we have spent a day either nibbling at the leftover candy or sneakily taking pieces out of our kids’ or grandkids’ stashes. (By the way, they notice; they’ve counted.)

I loved Halloween as a kid, but have never really been excited about dressing up as an adult. I think I did it once. I was invited to a Halloween party – costumes mandatory. So I borrowed nursing scrubs from a friend, put a stethoscope around my neck and called it a costume. However, though I can be cranky about some things (remember my all-things-pumpkin post), dressing up in Halloween costumes isn’t something about which I’ll pick a battle. I’m in favor of having fun.

My grandchildren looked forward to Halloween for weeks. One of my 5-year-old granddaughters asked me to count the days for her every time she saw me. What could be more fun for a kid than to dress up as a favorite character and get candy that your parents actually let you eat?

We were big on trick-or-treating as children. In the Midwest, you could almost count on it being cold and probably snowy. Our parents bought our costume which, in those days consisted of a plastic, frightening-looking mask (even if you were Snow White it was frightening) that you couldn’t see out of and a suit made of a highly flammable slippery material brightly colored with a lead-based dye. But you really never got to show off your costume because you had to cover it with a heavy winter coat. By the end of the evening, we had to toss away the costume because it had frayed to nothingness, which is why any of us ever lived past childhood. Nowadays parents seem to be a bit more creative about their kids’ costumes. Just more stress in the life of a busy parent.

And we had a route we followed every year. Up one side of our street all the way to school, and then back down. When we were a bit older, we ventured into the “rich area” on which our neighborhood bordered because you would anticipate better candy (which never really held true, but you might get a peek into their house). There was one house we all visited in which an elderly woman lived alone. Every year, she gave out gourds which she had grown in her garden. Gourds. A totally useless produce item. Inedible. Not particularly pretty unless you have an arrangement of five or six alongside a haystack. But every year we would trick-or-treat at her house. Go figure.

I didn’t go out with the grandkids this year as they trick-or-treated. Instead, I stayed at their house and handed out the candy to the kids that came to their door. It was a nice night, and it was fun to see the variety of costumes. In a true confessions moment, I have to admit that I also ate almost all of the Twizzlers that were in the basket. No one’s the wiser.

My grandkids all had really cute costumes. I must admit I’m partial to the pirate and his parrot/brother.

After some time in the mid-20s or so, birthdays start becoming less and less fun. And when you’re eligible for the senior’s menu, that becomes even truer.

Nevertheless, Bill had a joyous birthday celebration today as he turned 71. Two of our grandkids spent the night last night. And let’s face it, there is nothing like little ones when they wake up in the morning. They are so sweet and tousled and warm and want nothing more than to give you hugs. All they ask in return is to be allowed to sit in front of the television and watch cartoons while eating a piece of cinnamon toast.

As a surprise, I invited our son and daughter-in-law to bring their four children (joining the two who slept over) to a birthday breakfast. They brought Duffy rolls (the most delicious cinnamon roll EVER), and I made scrambled eggs with bacon and fried potatoes.

As a side note, our 8-year-old grandson ate 15 pieces of bacon and seven Duffy rolls. I expect next time I see him, he will have outgrown all of his pants due to the growth spurt he is obviously experiencing.

We even got a visit from our grandsons and their moms in Vermont via Facetime on the Ipad. It’s the next best thing to being there in person. I love Steve Jobs.

Happy birthday to my husband, who has blessed my life, and continues to do so.

I mentioned in yesterday’s post that Bill and I have made the road trip between Denver and Mesa, AZ, many, many times. We have it down to a science. We stay at the same hotel. We eat at the same restaurants. We get gas at the same gas stations. If we were in the age of the Jetsons, we could program in our destination and take a nap. Our hover car would do the rest. Alas, the Jetsons prophecy has not come to pass and we still need to steer the car. I’m a little bitter about that.

There are things to see along the way, but one must get off the beaten path to do so. As with interstate highways throughout the country, the scenery isn’t the best. To see pretty or interesting things, one must take an exit and hit a two-lane highway. We always mean to, but we never do.

This trip, I was determined that we would get off the interstate and see a few sights. Petrified Forest National Park is in northern Arizona. The Battlefield of Glorieta Pass (a little-known Civil War battle site) is in northern New Mexico. Let’s see one or both, I said to my husband and he agreed.

Alas, the government shutdown, which heretofore has not impacted me a whit, hit me smack in the middle of my face. Not only were both of those sites closed, but rest stops along the way were closed as well. And when you’re almost 60, well…..

We used to have to stop the car every couple of hours or so to get gas. A year-and-a-half ago, we bought a new car that gets terrific gas mileage, so we can make each leg of our trip without having to stop for gas. That increases the importance of rest stops. Our car can make it 460 miles without having to stop, but our bladders cannot. And let me just tell you that along I-25 in New Mexico, you don’t have a lot of options besides rest areas. If you miss Santa Fe, you are going to have to wait until Las Vegas, NM, or get off and drive three or four miles to a nearby town. With iffy bathrooms.

Shortly outside of Santa Fe heading north, I knew a bathroom stop was going to be a necessity very soon. We drove for a bit, and it became obvious that the rest stops were closed and Las Vegas was still 70 miles away. We got off at the exit for Pecos National Historical Park, which is the same exit as that of Glorieta Pass Battlefield. However, both conference centers were closed, and the nearest gas station was in the village of Pecos, NM, a three-mile drive. Which we made. At a pretty fast clip.

I won’t go into a great deal about the status of the restroom in the gas station except to say there are some restrooms where it seems more sanitary to forego washing your hands. What I will go into some detail about, however, is just how much we enjoyed the scenery we saw during our little detour, particularly post-bathroom visit. The fall colors are starting to become apparent, and in a semi-deserty area like that part of New Mexico, the colors of the sagebrush and the bushes are simply stunning.

Later on in the day, again in need of a bathroom break, we stopped in the little town of Cimarron, NM, at a gas station right off the road. Remarkably, the station had an awesome display of antique cars and a nice little gift shop with old-fashioned toys such as Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy, and a plethora of Betty Boop paraphernalia.

Had the rest stops been opened, we would have missed all of these things. So I guess I’m grateful in a funky way for the ineptitude of our government officials. Now that I’m settled back in Denver, they can get off their butts and fix things.

One more thing. As we were eating breakfast at our hotel in Albuquerque, I glanced up at the television which was playing the Today Show. It notified me that yesterday was National Grouch Day. I was so relieved that I had a day in my honor that I immediately pointed it out to Bill. His response: “And no one even sent me a f*****g card.”

No recipe today. I’m too tired to cook.