I just spent roughly ten minutes trying to get the last less-than-a-teaspoon of yellow mustard out of a plastic squeeze bottle so it didn’t go to waste. My mother would be so proud.
When I was growing up, Mom used to drizzle water into the all-but empty ketchup bottle and shake it so every bit of ketchup she had purchased got used. That was ok if she was using it to make a meatloaf topping, but was less than optimum when we had to use it on a hamburger (sandwich, she used to call it – it was never just a hamburger, always a hamburger sandwich, but I digress.) I swore when I grew up and had ketchup of my own that I would never make my children eat runny red stuff on a hamburger (sandwich.) In my defense, I never made any life-long promises regarding yellow condiments, but that’s probably because mustard and I didn’t become friends until after I’d left home.
Still, there I was inverting, shaking, and pulse-squeezing to get every last bit out of the bottle. I tried to find utensils slender enough to stick in the too-small bottle top to get the rest out of the bottom. A knife didn’t work, nor did an ice tea spoon, but I finally found something long and narrow enough to help out. I stopped short of cutting the bottle in half and using a rubber spatula to scrape out the last of it, which I’ve been known to do with my favorite lotion, but this was a squeeze bottle I had been coaxing along for weeks. I knew there was only “this much” left, so it wasn’t worth finding my shears and mutilating the bottle. Nevertheless, there I was digging as deeply as I could into a yellow plastic container, thinking about my mother.
I know she would be proud of me for more than just this mustard-saving event. I’ve thought often that she would approve of how well my sister, Kendy (Kendra to the rest of the world), and I have carried on as widows after losing the people who steadied us the most. Without knowing it, Mom set a good example of how to move forward after the death of a spouse. I remember her vow that she would not stop cooking when she only had herself to feed after Dad died. She promised she would make “at least one good meal a day,” and she never closed herself off or shut herself in, as it would be easy to do after suffering a devastating loss. Mom spent her time-after-Dad playing Bridge, taking doll-making classes, and enjoying life.
Her daughters have followed her lead. My globe-trotting sister has continued to pursue her passion for travel. She has also taught herself to sketch and paint, using an obvious talent I never knew she had. Her work is beautiful, and she attracts people who want to look over her shoulder as she sketches and paints views at home and abroad. And I now call myself a writer; and I laugh and love almost as easily as I did when John was alive.
Reinventing ourselves in retirement as painting/writing widows was not something we anticipated. Who knows – it may have happened no matter what the circumstances. But, for me, imagining who I can be next has been a key factor in moving forward with joy and excitement. Life is precious, and sweet, and wonderful – and I strive to make the most of it. Mom did it so well, and I use her and Kendy as examples. I’m learning from the best.
However. This digging-condiments-out-of-a-bottle thing that I feel compelled to do – Mom would be proud, but I’m not completely convinced it’s the best use of my time.