fatigue

Out of Retirement

Though I retired from my nursing career several years ago, a few days ago I was involuntarily called out of retirement.  Hubby is suffering from back pain.  We are rotating out heating pads, cushions, medications, and positioning in an effort to get him comfortable.  So far, we haven’t found the magic combination. He is improving and looks forward to the benefit of physical therapy.  I do believe hospital nursing was easier.  There was support staff, change of shift, and a paycheck to look forward to.

The food doodling has been a huge deal. He alternates between sitting in his recliner and a wooden rocker. I bring his food on a tray. I definitely don’t want him trying to pick his way around Croc.

I can’t guess how many steps I’ve made between his chair and the kitchen. I did myself a solid favor today, can’t imagine why it took me so long to get my thoughts together. I put all the snacks in the house in this box. It rests serenely on his right side. On the left is a trash can. He tore into a package of taffy. I thought I detected a lifting of his spirits. After he opened the trail mix, it was definite. I suspect he’ll recover.

Bud’s get well gift and my salvation

The poor dogs are having a hard time.  Hubby is far superior when it comes to walking.  I cut them short.  Also, he gives them a cookie after every walk.  I am far stingier, limiting them to a couple a day, landing  me on their dirt list.  From earlier in post You can surmise Bud believes snacks. Our little guy is a champion lap sitter, alternating between the two of us every time he thinks of it.  Bud is not comfortable enough to hold him a lot now, so Izzy had to poop on the bathroom rug in protest. Had to be deliberate, since he doesn’t have accidents, just occasional “on purposes” to make his point.

Laundry in 1950s Part 3

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Ironing in the 1950s was a huge chore.  As soon as breakfast was over, and the kitchen tidied, out came the ironing board.  A stack of wire hangers hung on the doorframe, waiting to be pressed into service.  Mother pulled a few pieces of balled up clothing from the pillowcase in the freezer.  Her coke bottle sprinkler was at hand just in case a piece had dried out too much.  It could be re sprinkled and balled up to go back in the freezer till it was just right.

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Mother always attacked Daddy’s clothes first since that was the biggest and most demanding job.  With a freshly cleaned iron, she went for the white shirts Daddy wore for casual and dress.  They had to be spotless, crisp, and perfect.  The iron temperature had to be high to do the job, but a bit of hesitation left a dreaded scorch mark.  A time or two, Mother hung a shirt in his closet with a little scorch she hoped he wouldn’t notice, and he’d throw a fit, wad it up, and throw it down.  “I can’t wear a mess like this!”  I don’t know why she never killed him.  His khaki pants had to have perfect creases.  She starched them and put them on pants stretchers to ensure proper creases  They dried hard and could stand alone when she took them off the line.  His blue work shirts were hard work, but not so challenging as the pants and white shirts.  His five pair of pants and five to seven shirts must be been an exhausting challenge.  He would sometimes wear his pants twice without laundering, so he did help a little with the laundry. His handkerchiefs made quick work.

The dresses and school clothes came next.  I can assure you, after Mother took the time to iron all those frilly little home-made dresses, we changed as soon as we came in from school, so we could wear them at least twice.  She had to rub the underarm seams to soften them up.  Otherwise, they’d scratch at our tender flesh.    The skirts were so stiff, they belled out even without a petticoat.  My brother’s pants and shirts were less challenging, which was fortunate, since he normally got the knees of his pants so dirty, he could only wear them one day.  Naturally, last of all, she ironed her cotton housedresses, since she was a lady of leisure and didn’t have to “work.”

Before she had five children, I remember sheets and pillow cases coming at the end of the list.  Over the years, she got lazy and those fell by the wayside.  Little girls were taught to iron hankies and pillowcases first.  Ironing was “women’s work” not just something a boy needed to know.  How fortunate for them!

Usually by the end of ironing day.  Mother had thirty-five to forty crisp pieces hanging on the threshold of the doorway, seasoning and waiting for the closet.  Every week, she counted those pieces without fail, proudly cataloging her work.  I thank God, we don’t have to do that now!