Easter Clothes

With Easter approaching I have memories of white patent purses and shoes, frilly dresses, and Easter baskets. Mother always made certain we had new clothes to wear to Mass on Easter Sunday. My sister and I got pretty dresses, white gloves, lacey anklet socks, and white straw hats held securely to our heads by an elastic string under our chin. My brothers got slacks, crisp white shirts and clip-on bow ties. Daddy usually wore his best suit, but with freshly polished shoes and a new tie, not a clip on – one he tied in a most complicated fashion. Mother looked more beautiful on Easter Sunday than any other day of the year, wearing a slim dress, a glamorous hat, and high heels which made her thin legs look like a movie star’s.

I followed the family tradition of outfitting everyone in new clothes for Easter. My daughters usually had matching sister-dresses and the requisite white patent leather shoes and purses, plus a straw hat. Gloves were passé. My grandmother explained to me why we went through this ritual every year. During Lent we strive to better ourselves and on Easter Sunday we “put on the new man.” We dress in our new finery to show the new and better person we have become.

I no longer follow many of the Church traditions, but Lent and Easter customs seem to be deeply ingrained. This Easter I’ll celebrate the rebirth of myself and of the world and reminisce about little girls in new dresses.

Four More Days of Lent

Four more days! Four more days and I will reach my goal of blogging every day during Lent! It has been difficult. Usually I write a blog when the spirit moves me or when I get a particularly good idea (or when my writing group makes me feel like a slacker for not submitting any work), but during this Lenten challenge I have blogged even when I didn’t feel like it, even when I had nothing to blog about (like tonight).

What have I learned or gained from this exercise? Well, according to my Aunt Mary, our family’s expert on all things holy, one is supposed to finish Lent realizing that they can continue to do, or not do, what ever it was they said they would do, or not do, even after Easter Sunday. This theory totally blows all of the past Lenten seasons when I gave up drinking only to consume massive amounts of alcohol at Easter lunch. I never knew I was supposed to realize I could live without red wine forever, or sweets – really? Does anyone really think I will never eat chocolate again?

But the discipline I have gained by forcing myself to write my blog everyday has been good. I do hope I can continue to write daily even after Lent. But just hoping for something vs. feeling like I have a religious reason to prove something are two different things. I still have the rest of the week to finish this challenge – say a prayer for me and hide the chocolate bunnies and malt-ball eggs come Easter morning.

My Friend, Roy

We buried Farmer Roy today. He was laid to rest in his denim bibbed overalls and a sweatshirt proclaiming he was a member of the GRUB Team. The silk lining of his coffin was embroidered with a John Deere green tractor – a fitting emblem for a man who loved plowing fields and growing things.

We buried Farmer Roy today. The church was full of family and friends and a diverse group of teenagers he had taken the time to know and love and influence. There were tears of sorrow at our loss, mixed with tears of joy because Roy did not suffer a long and debilitating illness.

We buried Farmer Roy today. The minister knew all the right things to say because he knew Roy. A loving and inspiring tribute to a man who did so much for others and asked very little in return. We should all be so lucky when it comes our time to be eulogized.

We buried Farmer Roy today. At the graveside a military contingent played taps and presented the folded flag and thanked the family for Roy’s service to our country. His first tour of duty was followed by three more in Viet Nam. He was highly decorated. He was a good soldier and a good man.

We buried Farmer Roy today.

Sunday Night Rant

Really, is it almost Monday – again? I’ve had just about enough of this! Why do the weekends fly by so quickly? And why do I spend the precious time grocery shopping, cleaning house, running errands, and doing laundry?

Because there is no other time!

Step Up

What a day I have had. How do you tell teenagers that the man they have worked with and loved for years has passed away? Some of the teens I work with had already heard the news, others found out this morning when we met for our Saturday workday at the farm. Instead of pretending we could go on as usual, we spent the morning talking about our Farmer Roy. It was amazing to hear the kids (I call them kids, even though they are young adults) talk about their relationships with Roy. Several mentioned that he had been a father/grandfather figure to them. We laughed and we cried as we remembered how Roy has touched each of our lives. How fortunate we all are to have known such a kind and caring man.

The Executive Director of my non-profit organization joined us this morning. What a kind thing for him to do. He knew it would be a difficult morning and his presence was appreciated by us all. He reminded us that Roy’s kind acts had left a ripple effect and it was up to all of us to continue his work. I know we are up to the challenge.

Roy had a vision for the youth project, a vision that was contagious if he ever spoke to you about it, a vision I hope to carry out with the help of the young adults in the program. As Roy would say, “Step up.” So, the kids and I will step up and fulfill his dream. We are up to the task.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Since 1953 the heart of our home has been my grandmother’s house. Every family gathering I can recall has taken place at her ranch style home. Tonight one of my cousins wanted some time alone with my grandmother, so the rest of us were displaced – temporarily. It is interesting to see the how we found our niche even when we couldn’t congregate at my grandmother’s house – we all ended up at my aunt’s home, just a few blocks away.

Home is where the heart is – all of our hearts – three generations of hearts congregated at my aunt’s house to share our love and concern for my grandmother. It doesn’t matter where we are, it doesn’t matter that we are not in the house my grandparents built and where they raised their 10 children – all that matters is the love that is gathered.

So, we were a few blocks away, we still acknowledged the love we have for our matriarch and acknowledged the love we have for our family. Our hearts were there – home is truly where the heart is. Tomorrow we will move the “heart” of our family back to my grandmother’s house, but just for tonight the heart of our family moved a few blocks to the east and gathered at Aunt Gail’s dining room table.

Thanks Gailee for hosting your family. It really doesn’t matter where we are – as long as we are together.

Loss

If you are very, very lucky once in a while someone great enters your life. That was my luck when I met Roy Riddle in the late 1990s when I discovered a community garden in my neighborhood and was bitten by the idea to garden. I had no gardening knowledge, so I turned to a class called “Gardening in West Texas,” taught by a former Army pilot known as Farmer Roy. Roy taught me the basics of gardening and even offered me some additional land to try out my new skills. I had a bumper crop in my community garden and learned to grow broccoli and onions on a small plot at the South Plains Food Bank Farm. A love affair was begun – a love of growing my own vegetables and a love for the wise old gentleman known by all as Farmer Roy.

Fate, or luck, or karma soon intervened and shortly after my novice gardening experience I was offered a job at the food bank, a job which soon turned into the best job I could ever imagine. Before long I was overseeing and administrating the efforts of Farmer Roy and others on the food bank’s 5-acre farm and the 2,500 tree apple orchard and in the youth project called GRUB. I loved my new job, but I was in over my head. Farmer Roy came to the rescue. He taught me what I needed to know in order to do my new job. He didn’t want to sit behind my desk, but he was glad to show me the ropes and led me to a point where I could make it through my work week without a nervous breakdown. He was my mentor, he was my rock, and he was my confidant.

Now he is gone. On Monday we will bury Farmer Roy. Ironically Wednesday was to have been his last day of work. Roy was retiring. Roy was hanging up his shovel. I could never really picture him in a retirement role; maybe he couldn’t see it either. Today I had to call Roy’s friends to tell them the news, one friend remarked that perhaps God needed a good farmer in heaven – he sure got one in Farmer Roy.

Rest in peace, Roy – you will be missed.

Big D

Driving six hours to attend a work conference is tiring. Sitting for two days listening to speakers is exhausting. Shopping with the women I work with is exhilarating. Dallas 3/23/10.

Thoughts on Health

I’ve been thinking about how our society deals with illness a lot lately. Maybe it is because of the National Health Care Bill or maybe it is because I have a dear, dear, friend with a terminal illness, or maybe it is because my grandmother is 103 years old and we, her family, are trying to keep her safe, comfortable, and well taken care of in her own home for as long as possible.

My friend, Roy, was scheduled to retire at the end of the month. He hired his replacement and was eagerly looking forward to the transition and training process. Two weeks before he was to pass the baton he began sleeping all of the time. Four days after his trainee arrived Roy was diagnosed with the worst possible brain cancer, underwent surgery, has been non-responsive since, and will enter Hospice Care this week. Through it all he has had a cadre of his sisters and nieces at his I.C.U. bedside tenderly caring for him. There are nurses, and doctors, and aides, but his family has been by his side through this unexpected and devastating illness. They have taken time off from their jobs and/or flown in from around the country to be with Roy. One niece, when thinking of long-term care, commented, “We are all just working people, I don’t know how we will continue to do this.” But so far they are managing. How they will manage the gazillion dollar hospital bill is yet to be seen.

My grandmother is in good health, she is just old and tired. At 103 her mind is sound, but her body is weak. Every step she takes behind her wheeled walker is an effort and a risk of a possible fall. I found her, uninjured, on her bedroom floor the last time she fell and it broke my heart to think she had been lying there waiting on my rescue. She has one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” buttons around her neck, but was so shaken she forgot to summon help. Now the family is wondering how to increase her level of home care. An assisted living facility, or in my grandmother’s vernacular, an old folk’s home, is not an option for us at this point. My grandmother has been quite opinionated and vocal about her feelings toward nursing homes for over half a century. Moving her from the home she has lived in for also a half a century would certainly kill her.

Like Roy’s family, we are just working people and/or are spread out all over the country. One of my aunts is already a nearly full time caregiver with my uncle and me serving as backup after our full time jobs. Hiring a stranger to stay with grandmother is an expensive and unpleasant option. Once again, it will be the family stepping up and stepping in to offer the care and love my grandmother needs at the end of her years. I don’t know how we will do it – but, like Roy’s family, we will find a way. My grandmother is fond of saying, “It’s a good thing I had ten children, now it is payback time.”

How do those without family make it through an illness or through old age? I’ve seen first hand the devastation of a prolonged hospital stay, first with my mother’s long bout with lung cancer and more recently when I had pancreatitis and gall bladder surgery. A patient needs an advocate, someone to make sure they get the right medications, a bath, and decent, compassionate care. Without family by one’s side it is next to impossible to traverse our health care system alone.

I’ve not mentioned the expense of health care or the expense and necessity of health insurance. These are issues currently dividing our country. I have good health insurance coverage, paid for by my employer; the rest of my family is not so fortunate – the rest of America is not so fortunate. How we treat our infirm and our elderly is an indicator of how we rate as a society – Roy’s family gets good marks, my family gets good marks. I am afraid for those without family, friends, or the financial resources to look after them in their time of sickness. Thank you President Obama for looking out for those without access to adequate health care – it is the right thing to do, for everyone, especially us working folks.

Conference Time

I am leaving for my work trip to Dallas today – and I really don’t feel like going! I have too much work to do here. A dear, dear friend is still in I.C.U. and now my grandmother appears to be ailing. I hate leaving with so much uncertainty.

The work will still need to get done – five days worth of work will somehow be compressed into two. To top it off, the conference I am attending will generate additional work. I will return to the office with great ideas, but not with the staff or funds to implement the great ideas.

The upside of this is I will be accompanied by co-workers, board members and volunteers from my organization, all of whom are passionately committed to the mission of our nonprofit work. I hope to return home energized and inspired – I’ll have to be to get all of my work done this week!

I will trust in a Higher Power to watch over my loved ones in my absence.

Home Movies

We have a large collection of VHS home movie tapes from the eighties shot with a video camera approximately the size of a professional news crews’ equipment. The tapes have been in a box in the garage for years until this past Saturday night when my husband brought them in for the family to watch.

We only made it through two of the tapes, one of a vacation to the Grand Canyon and another of a trip to the coast with my parents and siblings. I discovered I filmed more scenery than people, hours and hours of scenery. I wish I knew then what I know now – I don’t care about the majestic vistas of the Grand Canyon or the crashing ocean surf, I want to see people. Upon watching the videos I yelled at myself, the camera operator, to turn the lens toward my daughters. I wanted to see more of them at the places where we stopped en route to Arizona. I want more film footage of them at Flintstone World and at the cliff dwellings in Walnut Canyon. Apparently I thought I was filming a documentary on Fred, Wilma, Betty and Barney in their prehistoric cartoon world.

As much as I missed seeing more of the children on the video, I wonder what I really missed at the time. While I was behind the camera filming the scenery what were they doing that I didn’t get to enjoy? All I have are fleeting shots of Daughter #2 running through each scene (she never stopped running on that entire 1000 mile trip) and Daughter #1, an almost teenager, asking me to hold her purse while she chased after her little sister. The on-screen time my children got is disproportionate to the time I spent filming the “stuff” – the stuff that won’t make the final edit.

I plan to edit the videos and transfer the final cut to DVDs (or whatever format is in vogue when I finally finish this Herculean task). I am looking forward to watching each tape and judiciously axing all of the superfluous footage of mountains and canyons and oceans while keeping the precious shots of my daughters and my other family members.

Watching the beach trip video my daughters were rapt, looking for a shot of their beloved MaMa, who died almost twenty years ago. The few clips of her are treasures. Why, oh why, did I not film her more?

The moral of this story – take lots of photos/videos of people, not stuff.

Namaste

Today I did my civic duty. Today I served as a delegate to the Democratic County Convention. I begrudgingly gave my Saturday to join like-minded locals as representatives in the bigger political picture. I really didn’t want to go. I really (despite what all of my friends think) don’t want to get involved in the political scene. I find it difficult to fight off all of the disparaging comments I get just being my apolitical self. If I should choose to become politically active, God only knows what kind of harassment I would be subject to.

At the convention I saw so many of my dear, dear friends. Friends whom I should have known were Democrats, but because I don’t normally pigeon-hole my friends, I wasn’t sure what their political leanings were. A defining moment of the afternoon was when I saw a former neighbor and we began a long overdue visit.

“I hear you are teaching yoga,” I said.

“Yes, I feel that it has an overarching message,” she said. “I took my son with me to drop off the recycling and I said to him – this is what it is all about. Everyone doing what is important for everyone else in the world.”

I loved how my friend tried to explain to her son what IT IS ALL ABOUT. It is all about DOING WHAT IS RIGHT FOR EVERYONE. I had a great experience today while doing my civic duty. I am proud to be a free-thinking (and thinking) member of the United States of America. I am proud to be a consciousness member of the Democratic Party of Texas. In spite of being a minority in State and National politics – I shall proudly hold my head high and continue to do my civic duty for the country I was born into and am trying to be a part of.

Perhaps we should all take a lesson from my yoga-instructor friend – let’s do what is right for not only ourselves, but for the rest of the world.

Namaste.

My Little Girl

“All good things must come to an end.” I hate that adage. I wonder who made that one up. Probably an old party-pooper! Today is the last day of Daughter #1’s visit. Very early tomorrow morning we put her on an airplane back to the BIG CITY, back to the life she has there. I am sad she is leaving, I will miss her very much, but I am happy for her and proud of the woman she has become.

I hope she enjoyed herself this week. I recall from my own experience as a twenty-something, how difficult it was to return to my parents’ home as an adult when they still saw me as their “little girl.” I like to think I learned from that experience and didn’t repeat it with my own “little girl,” but I see now what a difficult task it is to realize your children are grown up and independent.

I have one last day to enjoy my daughter’s visit. Tomorrow I will accept the fact that she is a grown-up woman. Just for today she is still my little girl.

My Name is Mud

As of yesterday afternoon I have enacted a new policy at the non-profit agency where I am employed – the Executive Director and I are no longer allowed to travel together without a driver/navigator or a damn good Global Positioning System. He and I have the reputation of being the two in the office with absolutely no sense of direction or “homing skills.” The first time we attended a national conference in Washington, D.C. we flew into Baltimore and took the train to D.C. – not a brilliant plan! That was almost ten years ago and I still have nightmares of roaming the city hauling a week’s worth of luggage. Since that first auspicious trip there have been others. We got lost in Boston on a walking tour of community gardens, and in Dallas looking for a restaurant. We’ve even lost our way in hotel corridors searching for conference rooms.

I was forced to implement the new work travel policy yesterday after a series of unfortunate events involving a drive to a small town approximately fifty miles from our office. We were scheduled to pick up a used vehicle, which had been donated to my program, at a ranch in the middle of nowhere. My boss had detailed written directions so I felt comfortable traveling with him. I only made one disparaging remark about our inaptitude as we left the building. Had our excursion been part of a novel, my comment, “Dear God, I can’t believe anyone is letting us leave together,” would have been called foreshadowing.

All went well until we reached the small town which was to be one of our landmarks. The town was so small we weren’t exactly sure if we had driven through it or if we had just passed a cluster of homes on the side of the road. The next instruction was to look for a utility substation, turn right, and drive three miles until the road came to a dead-end. When we saw a smattering of what appeared to be electrical equipment we turned onto a dirt road. Due to rare precipitation received in our normally drought inflicted area, the dirt road was now a mud road. Thinking we could traverse the slippery street and reach our destination (after all, why would anyone direct us down this road if it were impassable?) we continued on in the compact car.

I must give my boss credit – he skillfully maneuvered approximately two miles of slime before landing us in a ditch. Under the watchful big brown eyes of a herd of cattle, we buried the car up to the axle in mud while trying to free it by spinning the tires alternating between drive and reverse. Not a good plan. After contemplating lassoing a cow to pull us out, we had no choice but to call our eighty-something year old benefactor to report our predicament. We gave him our location and awaited our rescue. We waited, and waited, and waited. Another cell phone call verified my worst fear – not only were we axle deep in a muddy ditch with curious cows surrounding us, we were lost as well. We had not driven through the small town, we had not found the utility substation, and we were certainly on the wrong road.

To make this extremely long and mud-splattered story a tad bit shorter I will not give the dirty details of being pulled out of the mud, not once, but a total of four times, before we made it off of that road. It took two four-wheel drive pickup trucks, a John Deere tractor, and several lengths of heavy chain to get us back onto a paved road. We followed the octogenarian driver of one of the pickups to his ranch with mud flinging in our wake the entire twenty miles. (Read: we were twenty miles off course!). We picked up the donated vehicle and made our way back to town, careful to stay on paved roads.

I found a bit of irony in driving back a ¾-ton four-wheel drive Suburban that would have come in handy on our earlier adventure.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my wedding anniversary. I have been married for thirty-one years. How things have changed and how things have stayed the same in thirty-one years. When I think back to the twenty-two year old I was on my wedding day, my first thought is how did anyone let such a child get married. In our wedding photos my husband and I look like we are about twelve years old and playing dress up. Fortunately, we knew what we were doing, we knew we were in love and were committed to each other for the long haul.

Most people looking back on a thirty-plus year marriage might recall the bumps in the road, but our road has been pretty smooth. To what do I attribute this good fortune? Are we just lucky? I doubt luck has much to do with it. We took our wedding vows seriously on this day thirty-one years ago. Till death do us part, for rich or poor, in good times and in bad, sickness and health, and take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. We meant it all then and we mean it all now – that is our secret.

Sure, I want to smother him with my pillow when his snoring wakes me at 4:00 a.m. and I’m sure my housekeeping (or lack of) makes him want to strangle me, but we are both disciplined enough to not follow through with our homicidal thoughts. I know the good will continue to trump the bad. I know it now and I knew it thirty-one years ago. I was certainly wise for a girl of twenty-two.

Pray for Rain

I like to think there are people a lot smarter than I running things. Apparently this is not the case at our lake community. We purchased our cabin there when the lake was at a historic low level, not really concerned about the recreational aspect of the water level – we were there to get away – not ski! But now, several years later, I would like to be able to get a boat in the water to fish or at least putter around the lake.

The “powers-that-be” consist of the Water District Manager and the Board of Directors. The manager is paid an outrageous salary and is given the use of a house, a dock and a vehicle (all of this I’ve been told through the gossip grapevine at the Marina Restaurant, so it must be true!). Like I said, I like to think the people in charge are smarter than I, especially when they are paid more than I.

The problems I can see at our lake are numerous. The most obvious is the lack of water. I realize the solution to this is more complicated than turning on the garden hose to fill the lake like I used to do with my children’s plastic swimming pool. Things I’ve heard (again, the Marina gossip-grapevine) are:
1. Ranchers on adjacent properties have dammed streams and creeks which have traditionally flowed to the lake.
2. There is a huge problem with salt cedar trees and other water sucking vegetation.
3. Oil companies are using/buying water to flush wells.
4. The natural water run-off into the lake is blocked by overgrowth of vegetation.
Add to these issues drought and/or near drought conditions for the past few years and the bazillion gallons of water pumped to the surrounding communities every day, and there is a real problem – one which desperately needs to be fixed.

The course of action our water district manager proposes is – Pray for Rain. That is his plan for managing the water resources he was hired to oversee. I believe in the power of prayer as much as the next person – maybe even more, as I saw first hand the results when Daughter #2 was brought back from the brink of death at age three, but I still took her to the doctor. I took her to someone a lot smarter than I when she became ill. I still prayed like a mad woman, but I combined my praying with medical expertise.

If the good folks at my lake community are satisfied with the water district manager’s approach to fixing the problems at the lake, then I’d like to apply for the job. I feel I am at least equally qualified in the prayer department. I can pray for rain with the best of them.

Clean Food

I wonder about all of the crap we put into our bodies. A very dear friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer last week and I can’t help but wonder if chemical warfare, first in Viet Nam and later in our food system, didn’t play a critical role in the formation of his disease. What are we doing to ourselves? Why are the foods which are most readily available chock-full of pesticides and God only knows what else?

I make a concerted effort to eat healthy and yet I know I am poisoning my body with every meal. The fruits and vegetables are only organic in the summer when I’ve grown them myself, the grains I consume are typically over-processed, and I don’t even want to think about where the beef, pork, and poultry I occasionally eat come from.

As of today I will make every effort to be aware of my food. I will examine each bite to ensure I am not feeding myself tainted food. I just hope I am not too late.

I Shot an Arrow into the Air...

There is only one sport I have even a passable skill in – archery. I figured this out as an adult, accompanying my daughters to Mother/Daughter camp when they were in the Girls Scouts. The camp experience on the whole was horrible, with the only bright spot being the discovery of archery. Who knew there was an outdoor sport that required no sweating?

I bring this up because we pulled out the archery equipment yesterday and shot arrows at a target we keep at the lake house. Several Christmases ago my family gave me a beautiful bow and a dozen arrows. The meadow between the back door of the cabin and the lake is the perfect place to set up the target and shoot, as long as a deer doesn’t wander by and provided we keep the dogs in the house.

Yesterday my daughters, my husband and I had a great time taking turns shooting at the target and enjoying a beautiful spring day. Then my husband, who is usually quite sane, acted upon an idea I knew had been forming all afternoon. My first clue was when he began reciting Longfellow:

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

After an afternoon of shooting, and perhaps one too many beers, he announced, “I’m going to shoot one more time, just to see how far it will go.” Before I could tell him what a stupid idea that was, I heard the ping of the bowstring and the arrow was off. How far did it go? We finally spied the feathers on the arrow, through binoculars, just before they sank in the middle of the lake.

There are a couple of morals to this story:
1. Poetry, beer, and archery don’t mix.
2. Just because you can shoot farther, doesn’t mean you can shoot better!

See accompanying photos for documentation of my skills, and not one arrow did I send into the lake.

Pizza Time

In the middle of the grocery store, on the condiment aisle – in front of the teriyaki sauce, my detailed shopping list was abandoned. The meals I had carefully planned for our family excursion to the lake were thrown over in favor of home-made pizza, which at the time seemed like an easier option. We opted to prepare two pizzas, but once we began selecting ingredients we decided three would be needed. After an hour at the supermarket, my husband, my two grown daughters, my two dogs, and I finally made it to the lake. We unloaded the cars (we came in two vehicles because the dogs don’t like to share the back seat – or the girls don’t like being covered in dog hair, take your pick), opened a bottle of wine and fortified ourselves with cheese and crackers after our long (one hour) drive. When we finally set to work on our pizzas this is what we created:

Pizza #1: tomato sauce, caramelized onions, spinach, red bell pepper, ricotta cheese, mushrooms, garlic, fresh tomato, and mozzarella cheese.

Pizza #2: pesto, artichoke hearts, green olives, black olives, green onion, jalapeno peppers, garlic, and feta cheese.

Pizza #3: refried black beans, chipotle salsa, green chili, jalapeno peppers, green onion, black olives, and four cheese Mexican blend. This pizza was served with avocado and sour cream.

By the time dinner was served we each tried a small slice, wrapped up the leftovers and went to bed. Sometimes it is good to abandon your plans and be spontaneous – I won’t have to cook the rest of the weekend!

The Supermarket

Who knew that one of life’s simple pleasures could be going to your hometown grocery store? What seems to be drudgery for me is an outing Daughter #1 is looking forward to on her visit from the BIG CITY. In her eyes it will be an event. The large supermarket will be a change from the small neighborhood markets where she typically shops for one meal at a time on her way back to her apartment.

As she has shown me the sites of the BIG CITY when I visit her, I plan to entertain her with our grocery shopping outing. We can purchase coffee from the barista at the front of the store to sip as we stroll through the well-stocked aisles. She will marvel at the abundance and variety while trying to figure out how much regional food (Tex-Mex) she can smuggle back in her suitcase.

While the cashier scans our purchases we will tally the points we’ve earned in a game we invented years ago on one of her trips home; it is called the “Supermarket Game.” You get a point for every familiar face you see. It is a game only fun to play in the town where you grew up.

When we exit the store with too many bags of groceries my daughter will be amazed that the store still employees “carry-out-boys/girls,” who will constantly chat us up on the way to the car. “How’s your day?” or “Are you enjoying the weather?” Pulling out of the parking lot I’ll see a smile spread across my daughter’s face.

“That was fun,” she’ll say.

“Who knew,” I’ll reply.

Homecoming Food

Daughter #1 is coming home for a visit tomorrow. In keeping with family tradition this means I must prepare her favorite foods. My mother began this food ritual when I went home on college weekends or holidays. At that time my favorite comfort food was my mother’s macaroni salad. It wasn’t the mayonnaise-laden gunk you see at salad bars, but a fresh vegetable and pasta concoction that only my mother could make, and make it she did – using the largest container we owned, which was the Tupperware “ham keeper.” When I arrived home I knew there was a vat of macaroni salad taking up an entire shelf of the second refrigerator in the garage. That harvest gold refrigerator was also sure to be housing Dr. Pepper, and my mother’s Revere Ware Dutch oven full of chili con queso dip. Knowing she had gone to the trouble of preparing my favorite foods made me feel special, spoiled, and loved.

When my daughters came home for college weekends the tradition continued. Daughter #1’s coming-home meal is tortilla soup and Daughter #2’s is potato soup. They each knew they were guaranteed their favorite meal upon arrival.

I must get out my soup pot (my Revere Ware Dutch oven) and start cooking. In addition to the tortilla soup I suddenly have a yen for macaroni salad.

Iron Chef?

Wednesday night is family dinner night – we call it Wednesday Winers. We mostly drink wine, but to maintain a level of respectability we eat dinner also, taking turns preparing the meal (or taking turns ordering take-out). Tonight is my turn to cook. Boy is my family in for a real treat. (You may read that last sentence with heavy sarcasm if you wish.)

I may have mentioned in past blogs that my day job includes, among other things, overseeing an urban farm. One of the perks of the job is I get to sample the veggies. Yesterday’s harvest included mixed salad greens, spinach, broccoli, turnips, turnip greens and kohlrabi. At eight o’clock last night my kitchen (having just been thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of Daughter #1’s arrival from the BIG CITY) was turned into a one-woman version of television’s Iron Chef. Without benefit of recipes or a trip to the grocery store for special ingredients I undertook the challenge of preparing Wednesday night’s meal for my family. This is what I created:

A beautiful salad of mixed greens – since this mix contains about 742 varieties of lettuces and greens I won’t add anything to it except a vinaigrette dressing when served. The fresh spinach I added to a whole wheat pasta, mushroom and pesto dish. I will cheat and add some freshly grated Parmesan cheese I know is in my grandmother’s refrigerator (or icebox as she still calls it). I’ll steam the broccoli and top with a lemon-garlic-butter before we sit down to eat.

Now for the Bobby Flay Throwdown challenge: what to do with the turnips, greens and kohlrabi? I chopped the turnip greens and sautéed them in olive oil with garlic. What began as a bowl of greens roughly the size of a washing machine cooked down to about two cups. This is what is referred to in the south as “a mess of greens.” Digging through my pantry in search of ingredients I found a box of quinoa, a wonderfully versatile grain, which I cooked and mixed with the greens. I diced the turnips, boiled them until tender with chopped onion and topped the greens with the cooked turnips. After reheating this evening I will add toasted almond slivers to the dish.

Last, but by no means least, the kohlrabi. By the time I got to this vegetable (and after a couple of glasses of wine) it looked like little green aliens had invaded my kitchen. I think kohlrabi was the inspiration for the design of the 1950s Sputnik. Having never cooked or eaten kohlrabi I was stumped. Taking a cue from the turnips I employed the same cooking process. I sautéed the leaves and diced and boiled the bulb – then I threw it all in the food processor and made a kohlrabi puree. I’m not exactly sure how to serve this bright green paste – as a dip, a spread, or just a blob of a side dish? I’m on my way to being crowned the culinary winner of this vegetable challenge – because after a few glasses of wine, no one really cares what we eat!

Dear 3:00 a.m.

Dear 3:00 a.m.,

I am going to be firm this time – you must leave me alone. I do not want to see you anymore! I know you are stalking me and if you don’t stop I will be forced to call the police to get a restraining order. I mean it – go away!

I know we had a relationship in the past. In my teens and early twenties I saw you on a regular basis, but that was before I discovered sleep. I’m with sleep now and I don’t want you in my life anymore – why can’t you understand that? What we once had is over. You must let me go – we can’t build a relationship on late night parties, nightclubs and alcohol. You were only a phase – nothing serious.

Seeing you later, when the children were small meant nothing to me. I was only there for them not you. It wasn’t my idea that they pick you to share their feeding time. I swear I wasn’t trying to lead you on; it was merely a coincidence, nothing more. Don’t try to read anything into it. (And the times I met you when Daughter #2 was a teenager and out past her curfew was out of my control.)

I’m in a new relationship now, please respect that. I’m very happy with 6:00 a.m. Our relationship is based on openness and trust, not on sneaking around in the dark and regret. I’ve got a good thing going with 6:00 a.m. – don’t ruin it for me.

I hope I have made myself perfectly clear. I am banishing you from my life. Don’t come back – or so help me God, I’ll be forced to bring in the “enforcer.” I will bring in the Prescription Police, a.k.a. Ambien. So there!

Lost Weekend

I seem to have misplaced my weekend. I know it was here a minute ago, but I can’t find it. I would consider placing an ad in the Lost and Found column of the newspaper’s classified section, but I can’t remember what it looked like; I could offer no description. The little bugger is always running off just when I’m ready to enjoy it. What a tease the weekend is. I look forward to it with such anticipation and then it just disappears – poof -- gone. No goodbye or anything. If I wasn’t so used to the disappointment I might have my feelings hurt.

If you do find my lost weekend pay no attention to the slanderous remarks it is sure to make about me. Don’t believe a word if it tries to tell you I ignore it or treat it poorly. Just because I have to work on Saturday doesn’t mean I don’t want to enjoy my weekend. I am not intentionally snubbing it, and doing laundry, running errands, and cleaning house does not mean I prefer those tasks to my weekend. Geez, who knew the weekend was so sensitive?

If I promise to be more attentive next time do you suppose my weekend will return on Friday to give me another chance? If you should happen to see it, please tell it I’m sorry and I promise I won’t ignore it again. Thanks!

Dog Alarm

I may never again need the services of an alarm clock. I have two mostly Border Collies who learned quickly that the alarm rings at 5:45 and they pride themselves on beating the clock. Every morning, seconds before the alarm buzzes, I am awakened by a sharp bark from Chloe Belle, followed by the clinking sound of Dixie Girl’s tags. There is no snooze button on a dog so I have to get up (or if I’m lucky, my husband has to get up), let them outside for their “morning toilette,” and then feed them. They are rather demanding first thing in the morning, but at least they insure I will never oversleep.

You Can Come Home Again

Daughter # 1 is coming for a visit. She lives far, far away in the BIG CITY, and I have not seen her in almost a year (ten months). I am giddy with excitement and began the countdown to her arrival yesterday with, “one week from today…”

She will be returning home to find her childhood bedroom transformed into a guest room (see blog dated 8-4-09). I wonder how she will take it. All of her “stuff” – the knick-knacks, the 1990’s grunge band posters, her memories, the flotsam and jetsam of the first eighteen (or twenty-five) years of her life now packed away in boxes. Her floral bedspread and brightly painted room now replaced by sedate colors. Hopefully, she will take comfort in the familiarity of her books, shelves and shelves of books; her touchstone since an early age (see blog dated 8-5-09).

In spite of the physical changes the space has undergone, it is still her room, no matter that she is married and lives far, far away in the BIG CITY, this will always be her home. She may as well forget she is all grown up – we are her “Mommy and Daddy” forever and are looking forward to a week of spoiling her rotten.

“Six days from today…”

Will work for...

Daughter # 2 has a second interview for a job she really wants today. She has been job hunting for months and blames the economy for her lack of success. I am amazed that no one has snatched her up yet – she would be the most wonderful employee anyone could hope to have. I know several people who are having a tough time finding work right now, they are all more than qualified, and they all blame the economy.

Every job I have held, I have come by easily. I began my job history babysitting my younger siblings and all of the neighborhood kids. I was always in demand. On Friday and Saturday nights I had several job offers and I was booked for New Year’s Eve months in advance. I could be selective about my employers, only selecting those with the most docile children, the well stocked refrigerator and the best television and stereo system. I raked in the dough, beginning at fifty-cents an hour and eventually working my way up to a dollar.

The day I turned sixteen I applied for employment at the neighborhood drugstore where all of my friends worked. The owner, a man in his early thirties with a wife and two kids, hired all of the cute and popular high school girls. He hired more girls than he needed to help out in the small store and eventually went bankrupt, but I got the job and began earning minimum wage which was an astounding $1.60 an hour. I worked in the drug store through high school and during every vacation of my first two years of college. I learned a lot at that job; I learned I cannot drive a standard shift vehicle (after the transmission on the delivery van had to be replaced following my attempt at “delivery-girl”), I broke up with my boyfriend in the Hallmark Card aisle, I turned down a marriage proposal from a lonely pharmacist, and I realized I never wanted to stand behind a cash register ever again in my employment career. I still have nightmares featuring long lines of angry customers and a frozen cash register.

I finished college working as an early morning nanny for four children whose newly widowed mother had returned to college. I loved the children, but hated the hours. After college I moved on to a string of very interesting jobs before I landed my dream job of stay-at-home Mom, the most demanding, underpaid and underappreciated career path I could have chosen. When my children were in junior high and high school my current job came along quite by accident, when I wasn’t even looking for work.

The point of all of this is to say – I have never had difficulty finding employment. Thank God I’m not looking for a job today! It frightens me to see what is happening with friends and family looking for work. I have visions of the Joad family from Grapes of Wrath every time I hear a report of another qualified friend being fired, or laid off, or “let go.” My brother’s company is shutting down one week of each month to cut expenses. That translates to a twenty-five percent cut in pay for him – but, “at least he has a job.”

“At least he/she has a job,” is a phrase I have heard a lot this past year. It has come to mean – so what if he/she is overworked, underpaid, treated poorly, and has no health insurance – “at least he/she has a job.” Whoa – we live in post depression-era, prosperous America, don’t we? I really want to believe our economy is turning around. I really, really want to believe the recession won’t turn into a full-blown depression. I’ve got my fingers crossed for my daughter’s interview today. If she gets the job perhaps I can erase the vision of myself cast in the role of Ma Joad – that’s one job I don’t want to come by easily.

Tomatoes

I awoke this morning thinking about tomatoes. It is early March and I want a real tomato. I don’t want one of those tasteless anemic imitations they try to pass off as a tomato in the produce section of my grocery store. I want the real deal – a vine ripened, home grown tomato.

Sadly, it will be close to four months before I will have the pleasure of plucking tomatoes from my own garden. I will eat the first ripened beauty standing by the plant with the juice from the sun-warmed fruit dripping down my chin. It will be the best tasting tomato of the summer. This will mark the opening of an approximately three month-long fresh tomato season when my kitchen windowsill, countertop, and refrigerator will be boasting the red fruit. I’ll have tomatoes for breakfast, lunch, supper and snacks; broiled tomatoes on toast, tomatoes sliced on sandwiches and in salads, tomatoes and basil and zucchini and eggplant. I’ll dry tomatoes, can tomatoes and give tomatoes to my friends and neighbors. Just when I begin to think I never want to see another tomato for as long as I live, the season will end. One night I’ll hear the weatherman predict the first freeze and I’ll run outside in my nightgown to strip the vines of even the green tomatoes. For days, or weeks if I’m lucky, I will hoard the remaining tomatoes like a miser and I will savor each bite, and then – they will all be gone.

For now all I can do is thumb through seed catalogs and dream of that day in late June or early July when tomato season officially begins.

The Brain is a Terrible Thing to Clutter

Today is my 201st Cleaning House, a Memoir blog! What began as an attempt to purge my house of twenty-five years of collected “stuff” has turned into a platform for daily (or weekly, or monthly) mind dumps. Whatever is on my mind I’m free to throw out into cyberspace without the worry of Mrs. Wright, my fifth grade teacher, sending it back covered in red ink corrections. The blog entries are “off-the-cuff,” unedited, unrevised short essays (or rants) about my life, my family, my friends, and on rare occasions about cleaning my house.

I am a vain woman by nature, but not so egotistical as to think that anyone gives a damn about what I have to say. On occasion I may strike a chord (or a nerve) and on occasion I may make one of my aunts (usually Gail) cry when I write about my mother, but in general this blog is for me. It is my daily (or weekly, or monthly) therapy session. If I write it all down, get it all out, first thing in the morning, I free myself of so much mind clutter. It’s very similar to cleaning out the closets and drawers in my house – I get rid of the “stuff” taking up space, the “stuff” in the way, and make room for new “stuff” to be added later.

I have always heard that humans use only 10% of their brain, but I recently learned that is a misconception attributed to Albert Einstein. He was misquoted and it stuck. So in view of the new knowledge that we need all of the room in the brain we can get – it is important to keep it clean of all the unnecessary clutter – hence my blog, or my brain purge. It is important to me to have at least one area in my life that is neat and tidy and uncluttered and it sure isn’t my house. Let the blog roll on, this is post # 201 and counting.

Where's my Candidate?

Today is voting day – not the big November voting day, but the other voting day – the primary. I am sick to death of the campaign signs and posters littering the landscape, weary of finding the brochures taped to my front door, stuck beneath my windshield wipers or in my mailbox, and tired of screening my phone calls only to have an automated voice leave me a message on my answering machine begging me to vote for so-in-so.

The signage is an eyesore and a traffic hazard. Every street, commercial or residential, is lined with printed campaign promises, some of the signs as large as a compact car. Republicans and Democrats jockeying for the most prominent position on the roadway; the subtleties of their language breaking down. I fully expect to see, “Don’t vote for the other guy – he’s a bastard,” written in red, white and blue.

Then there are the brochures or pamphlets. They litter my lawn and invade my house via the U.S. Postal Service. The slick faces of politicians and their families beaming up at me between the gas bill and my Oprah Magazine; each piece of paper informing me of their strong character and moral values. As if anyone believes that crap anymore. Perhaps a more effective campaign slogan would read, “Vote for me and I promise to be discrete when I commit adultery with my nineteen year old intern.”

By far the most annoying of the barrage of politicking is the automated phone call. Even if I remember to check the caller I.D. a voice comes through on my machine. The good-old-boy voice telling me I want a conservative Republican (isn’t that a redundancy?) in Washington. How dare these politicians presume to tell me what I want? Shouldn’t they at least ask me first? The catch-words for this election are: “pro-everything” (life, family, church, public schools, home schools), “transparency” (if I hear that word once more I may stab my eardrums with an ice-pick), “positive change” (as opposed to negative change?), honesty (sure), integrity (okay), and my personal favorite, “common-sense-conservative Republican” (oh, dear God).

I especially enjoy the ads which list each and every contributor to a candidate’s campaign. Do they seriously think we real all 1,242 names and say to ourselves, “Oh, if Horace Peabody and Jackson Gulch gave him money then I must vote for him.” That’s called peer-pressure, you idiots. Remember telling your teenagers not to succumb to peer-pressure? And can someone please tell me what an “A” rating from the NRA means? Never mind, I really don’t want to know.

I have yet to see the candidate who speaks to me. I want a candidate who says, “I’ll try to be nice and do the right thing for all people, everywhere,” Even though there is no such person in the running I will go vote today, eager to get all this political hullabaloo and brouhaha behind me. Oh, wait – it continues until November, by which time I will be buried under an avalanche of slick brochures trying desperately to ignore phone calls from common-sense-conservative Republicans telling me what I want.

Monday

Today is going to be a horrible day. My work week is going to be so jam-packed-busy there is no way anyone human can possibly accomplish everything I must do. Today will determine the rest of the week and I dread it. The only way to deal with my day, my week, is to just do it. (Apologies to Nike for using their slogan.) The sooner I get to my week’s “to do” list, the better my chances of success, but this morning I just want to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. I’m exhausted from a night plagued by bad dreams.

The worst dream involved receiving a voice message from a friend telling me she would be late returning from a trip and would I please continue feeding her dogs for one more day. In my dream I was horrified because I hadn’t been feeding her dogs – had no idea I was responsible for taking care of her pets. I had no memory of being in charge of this chore. I couldn’t recall having been asked. I had no key to her house or an alarm code. How could I have forgotten something so important? How could I ever face my friend if I were responsible for the scene she was sure to discover when she arrived home?

Dreams are like that. The mind has the ability to grab one tiny thread of worry or doubt and then produce a feature length motion picture starring you and your worst fears. I left too much undone at the office last week and I am unprepared for my hectic week. Every time I almost thought about work this weekend I pushed the thought from my mind. “Fiddle-de-dee,” said the Scarlet O’Hara of my subconscious, “I will think about that tomorrow.” Now tomorrow is here, and as my dream reminded me, I’m scared to death I have forgotten, or will forget, to do something majorly important.

So there really is no other choice, covers back over the head is not an option. Carpe diem and all that jazz; I’m off to seize the day. No animals will die on my watch.