Saving Second Base, The McVicar Legacy

I was a freshman in college when they finally let me play on a regular basis. Oh, they had let me fill in every once in a while so I had learned how to play poker their way. Looking back on it now, I can't blame my aunts for their reluctance to give me a permanent chair at the table. After all, they played poker every Friday night to escape the realities of home life and I was still classified as a child.

In 1962 they watched their mother die of breast cancer. My mom and her sisters grew up under some tough circumstances in post depression Detroit. Scottish & Irish, they don't let people in easily. But if you get in, you won't find a more loyal bunch. Just don't expect hugs, kisses or any other kind of mush.

The 1980's turned out to be a lousy decade for our family, breast cancer wise. In between weddings, graduations and lots of babies produced by me and my numerous cousins we had an abundance of sickness and death. It seems that the women in our family have the tendency to die fairly young and often from cancer.

Now, aside from being non demonstrative, they were also great avoiders. The were private and modest. As close as they all were to each other, there were many subjects that were off limits for discussion. And absolutely no pushing allowed. In our family, they didn't sit down and press, "tell me what's bothering you" and unsolicited advice was never offered.

They hung out, they helped each other, spent time just being there or maybe playing cards until the wee hours of the morning where conversation flowed naturally. Each of them gave up the secrets according to her own time.Sometimes, they just knew, without a word being spoken. Problems were dealt with pragmatically or sometimes just denied and buried in a code of silence.

Unfortunately, health issues often fell into the denied/code of silence category. So none of my mom's sisters were truly surprised when my Aunt Marg announced she wasn't well and went into my Aunt Shirley's spare bedroom to lay down. A room from which she never voluntarily emerged until a short time later when they took her to the hospital to die.

Of a long ignored, undiagnosed case of breast cancer. Margaret Davis was one tough bird who cussed like a sailor and drove like a demon. She raised 5 boys in a very dubious neighborhood near Tiger stadium in Detroit. She made an unfortunate choice of a husband, who turned out to be an abusive drunk.

It's rumored that one night my Uncle Rayburn made the mistake of hitting and kicking my very pregnant Aunt Marg in front of my mother, her younger sister. The details of what happened are sketchy, but one minute he was pounding the kitchen table with his hand and the next minute he was screaming as he realized my mother had shoved a hunting knife through his hand, pinning him to the table.

Outraged, he continued to threaten them until my Aunt Marg rallied and smacked him in the head with a cast iron skillet. It's that loyalty thing, come home to roost, protecting their own whenever it was possible. Our only silver lining was that son of bitch husband of hers died years before her so we got to enjoy the pleasure of her company for many years sans bad husband drama.

Three babies later, April of 1986 came and it was my turn to have my heart ripped out and my life changed forever. She wasn't just my mother, she was my best friend, my confidant, my number 1. She was totally devoted to me and the 3 grand babies I had provided her with.

I knew something was seriously wrong when she didn't show up at a family wedding where her precious granddaughter was the flower girl. My mother turned 56 on June 23, 1986 and  died June 26, 1986 from an untreated case of breast cancer.

I thought I would never survive it. The funny thing is when you have kids, you just cannot indulge yourself in grief. Life moves on and so do we. It has been 24 years without my mom. 24 years of joy and pain without the most important person with whom I'd like to share them.

She did not have that much of an interest in food, but she and my aunts all loved their sweets. The infamous card parties featured tea (my aunts favorite beverage) and dessert. One of the few recipes passed down which I really use is the butter cream frosting that was known in our circle as Sanders Butter Cream frosting, rumored to be a top secret recipe of the famous Detroit candy company.

My mother was not much of a cook, but I am and I have used this frosting faithfully for decades and it never disappoints me. (I should say rarely, once I made it in an un-airconditioned, hot humid cottage and it wasn't right).

SANDER'S BUTTERCREAM ICING

1 Egg white

1 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup shortening

1 stick of butter

1/2 cup scalded milk

1/4 teaspoon vanilla

*Scald 1/2 cup of whole milk * Beat 1 egg white until stiff, then mix in the sugar* Place the shortening & butter on top of the beaten egg white mixture* Pour the scalded milk over these ingredients

** Pay attention now* When mixture is completely cooled off, use the mixer and beat on high* It will look like an awful soupy mess at first but have faith and in about 3 minutes it will turn into a light, creamy, fluffy butter cream.

Sander's butter cream frosting

I'd like to include pictures of my mom and her sisters, but the McVicar girls avoided the camera at all costs. I'd also like this to be the end of this story, but it isn't because it's only part of my legacy of breast cancer. Soon after my mother's death, one of our poker playing gang, Mrs.Baker also succumbed to her long battle with breast cancer.

A few years later, my infamous Aunt Pat lost her battle to ovarian/colon cancer. My Aunt Shirley died of non cancer related heart problems. A gaping whole was torn into our family as these were the ladies that were the absolute glue that held us all together.

A whole new century began and yet breast cancer is not done with us. It was Christmas 2005 when I got a call, my cousin Linda was taken to the hospital and died a short time later from untreated breast cancer. In April 2009 my audacious cousin Denise (Linda's sister) passed away after a 12 year battle with Lymphoma. During one of her numerous hospital stays she joked, "Well, at least it's not breast cancer".

I have about 13 female cousins from my generation left. And we have daughters, many daughters and some have grand daughters.

So this is an issue of great importance to the lot of us that are left and those yet to come.

Aunt Hazel & me, Candler, NC 2007

My precious Aunt Hazel (my uncle's wife, not related to my mother) lost her long battle to breast cancer in November 2008. She was a very fine southern cook with an enthusiastic willingness to pass on some of her Beaverdamn Gap cooking secrets to her favorite Yankee niece. It is only by her hand that I ever learned how to make biscuits without measuring.

Aunt Hazel's banana pudding

One of my most recent posts included a recipe and pictoral instruction for my Aunt Hazel's banana pudding.

Bon Appetit & Mind Your Boobs

.

Where's My Yard Bitch?

Some people have garden gnomes or crafty painted wooden yard signs, I care for none of that. But I am sorely missing my yard bitch.

An actual yard bitch

Our yard has just not looked the same since my son moved away to pursue his career ambitions in the Windy City. My friends used to ask me why I wasn’t bothered when he moved home after college. Are you kidding me? The Prince among 5 sisters, he went to work, did his own laundry, cleans up his kitchen mess, likes to cook and when it came to the cars or yard, would do my bidding.

I have bore 6 children. As in any group dynamic, some are workers and some are not. Growing up with a husband who traveled extensively I was reliant on my minions to pitch in, a lot. Witty language and code words just tend to make the mundane more interesting, don’t you think?

Now when I delegate jobs I refer to them as my .......... bitch. Fill in the blank. If they are on kitchen duty they are the kitchen bitch, when on laundry duty they are the laundry bitch for the day.

On a recent trip to Chicago my sister in law was sitting in the passenger seat. I announced that she would have to act as my toll bitch. At first she looked startled but after a minute started laughing and agreed to be in charge of having money for the tolls ready so we could sail through. If you don’t have an E-Z Pass it’s complicated to have the correct change for tolls ready, willing and able.

When I’m road tripping  the last thing I want to be is delayed at the toll booths because I’m for sure on a competitive arrival schedule. It’s difficult to do without the assistance of a toll bitch. I know this for a fact because my dear sister in law was too hung over and too out of it on the way home to attend to her duties.

Once we arrived for our girls weekend in Chicago I sought out my luggage bitch and my wine bitch. You see there’s no end to this game.

Back to the situation at hand and that is my yard full of leaves and wilted hostas. I’ve been nagging Raymondo for a couple weeks to attend to the situation. I don’t call him my yard bitch because he wouldn’t like that. He thinks it’s crass and doesn’t share my sense of humor. I actually enjoy raking leaves but my allergies have been so crazy this fall that I have avoided getting out there among all the angry spores.

I was inspired today though. I completed my work out with Fit TV,  Gilad’s Body Sculpting that included a concentration of weight lifting targeting the chest and shoulders today. It was sunny out and the yard was getting on my nerves so I got out there raking, carrying debris to the woods, yanking out dead vines.

After showering I headed to Starbucks to reward myself with a latte and some twittering before proceeding down to the imaging center for my annual mammogram. I have lost my grandmother, mother, 2 aunts and a cousin to breast cancer so I always dread the anxiety cloud that hangs over me in this regard. I get a mammogram done every year or so at the same facility so they can easily compare each years films for any suspicious changes.

The technician introduced me to their new mammogram machine. She told me they call it Diva because it’s cutting edge technology but very temperamental.  I’m calling it Clampy. Like a vice clamp. Somebody call the Pentagon, they can do away with water boarding as an enhanced interrogation technique. Just put the terror suspects body part into Clampy and depress the pedal that applies the pressure...they’ll cry for their mama in no time at all. Problem solved. Why didn’t they put me in charge of this in the first place?

I'm a Sexy Bitch

Between Gilad, the yard work and Clampy there is not one centimeter of my torso that is not sore tonight. Me and my best friend Motrin got into a hot bubble bath but my nipples feel like I’ve breast fed triplets today. That is weird in itself since they have pretty much been numb for the past 12 years and they have some how sprung back to life.

Looking out the window, I couldn’t help noticing it looks like there’s a swirling dervish of yard waste forming into a funnel cloud since the wind picked up. All the big piles of leaves I left for my husband to haul into the woods have been reduced by half and it’s not because he did any yard work today while I was being tortured.

My son called on his way home from work. He tends to call when he’s bored looking for me to entertain him. As he shared about his day I abruptly cut him off with the question, where is my yard bitch? The Yard Bitch then assured me he and his sisters would be home for Thanksgiving and promised to attend to the leaves if they were still bothering me.

In honor of Michigan hunting season

Yes, please go