Possibilities

I guess I should be writing about New Year’s resolutions this time of year. Lord knows, I have an abundance of things that need fixing. There are always plenty of standard resolutions to pick from such as losing ten pounds, eating right and exercising more. Yawn. Probably not going to happen and I am loathe to let the TV commercials sweet talk me into cans of SlimFast and discount gym memberships. One 8 oz. can of anything is not going to count as a meal in my book and the whole gym thing is going to involve stretchy clothes without spots on them. That being said, I did come up with a few resolution possibilities.

First, be more spontaneous. Instead of wearing my usual black pants every Monday morning (the ones with the questionable zipper), I could wear my gray pants. I’ll have to mark it on the calendar because I use the color of my pants to help me remember what day it is. I could also start in the potato chip aisle instead of the produce aisle when I go to the grocery story. Not real sure if I’d make it to the bananas after perusing the salt lick displays, but I’m pretty confident that Cheetohs are good for me, too. Or maybe I could take a ride on a motorcycle. (I threw that one in for you, sis. Not gonna happen.)

Secondly, eat more fiber. I don’t think this will be too difficult. I happen to like Bran flakes and what could be more fibrous than cereal enriched with intestinal stimulation? Makes me want to eat a handful right now. I’m going to pass on the flax seed, though. My last encounter with the little wonder cure-all did not end pleasantly. I’m always suspicious of any product that includes the warning to “start slowly.” Yucky alert. I’ll stick with adding a few raisins to my Bran flakes.

                                                                                                              

Finally, don’t sweat the small stuff. I adopt this resolution every year, but always get bogged down with the mental gymnastics of determining just what exactly qualifies as small stuff. Is my potholder starting on fire considered small? How about having my computer desktop folders disappear overnight and hearing the techie guy ask, “Did you back your stuff up?” And then there is my personal favorite of navigating streets encrusted with ice during an early morning work commute. Small stuff in comparison to a nuclear reactor malfunctioning, perhaps, but demanding my immediate attention, nonetheless.

The beauty of aging is that I will forget all my resolution possibilities by tomorrow. Each new day will present itself with a litany of blessings and demands. If I remember to add Bran flakes to my shopping list, I will have them for breakfast. If my black pants are clean, I will wear them first. And if my potholder starts on fire, I will whack at it with a towel and put out the flames. Best of all, I will relish the possibility of being in the moment and in God’s care.

Happy New Year to you!

The Prize

Each week, my husband and I share stories about our latest addle-brained behaviors. (Yes, we are desperate for entertainment at our house.) We have a little contest to see who does the dumbest thing so we can determine who wins the stupid trophy for the week. I’m not talking about misplacing a set of keys or forgetting where your car is parked. That kind of stuff is for lightweights. I’m talking about the kind of forgetfulness that gets you on waiting lists at assisted living facilities. We’ve already given our daughter a heads up so she knows what kind of accommodations we are looking for.

My husband won the prize this week. He came home from work and asked me to look down at his feet, not for bowing purposes, but to make an observation. After looking past the gunk on his work boots, I realized that he had on two different boots. To be fair to the man, a few years ago I wore two different shoes to work. Mind you, middle school students don’t notice if there is a test or an assignment due most days, but boy howdy, show up with a fashion faux pas and they wake up real fast. 

Last week we tied for the prize. I opened my silverware drawer and found a brick of cheese nestled among the knives. It would make sense to me if I found the cheese cutter in the fridge and could then blame it on a simple mix-up. Nope. Just plain dumb. My husband needed a new wallet so he drove across town to purchase one on sale. When he went to pay for it, he realized that he had left his old wallet at home. Needless to say, he is still using his tattered billfold until the planets align again.

Three weeks ago, I won the trophy. I was desperately searching for the remote control, digging through the couch cushions and checking under the easy chair. Just as I was about to give up and look for the power button on the TV, I realized I was holding the remote. I think this one even scared my husband.

Today, I’m pretty sure I might be in the running for the next honor. I went to the grocery store and came out with a bajillion bags of groceries. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that I forgot a few important items. So I bustled back into the store and picked up my straggling items. (I tried not to go through the same checker’s line...didn't work.) As I headed for the door, I heard the checker girl say, “Maam, you forgot your bag of groceries.” I thanked her and mumbled something about being very busy as I clutched my bag and hustled toward the exit. The whole truth is that I quit using the drive-up service many years ago due to my driving all the way home several times without picking up my groceries. Now, I’m going to have to tether myself to the shopping cart and hope for the best.

I wish these stories weren’t true, but the truth of the matter is that I have to face the truth of the matter, gray matter, that is. The brain is a complex and baffling organ. Despite the invention of post-it notes, pill organizers and remote control caddies, we all have moments that threaten our link to sanity. My suggestion is to adopt my grandmother’s attitude. Shortly after she started to lose some of her memory agility I asked her what she planted in her garden. She replied with a smile, “Oh, I don’t remember. We’ll just have to see what comes up.”

Grazing

‘Tis the time of year for all things gooey and chewy, munchy and crunchy. Parties, family gatherings and traditions make sure that no culinary stone is left unturned. I am a grazer by nature so there are no complaints coming from this chick. My hat is off to all the bakers who lovingly tend pots, pans and sheet trays full of holiday goodness.

Over the years, however, I find myself gravitating toward certain delectables and leaving others behind. I have no scientific reason for my preferences. I just know that my hand reflexively reaches out like a striking snake when certain yummies are near.

Here are a few treats that don’t stand a chance in my presence.

1) Fudge—sugar dressed up in cocoa finery. I make the non-technical version with the marshmallow crème, gobs of butter and a bag of chocolate chips. One batch is never enough.

2) Chex Mix—I could eat gallons of this crunchy medley. Despite the invention of the microwave, I still think the mix is best when baked in a slow oven for an hour with gentle stirrings every 15 minutes. Junkies can never spend enough time with their Chex.

3) Cheese Balls—I don’t need anything Martha Stewarty with goat cheese and scallions. Just give me an old-fashioned orb made of that processed cheese and pimentos in a jar. Add some cream cheese and a few drops of Worcestershire sauce. Good to go.

4) Crispix Mix—the sweet cousin of Chex mix. With its merging of cereal, pretzels and peanuts, I think it could be classified as healthy.  I’m pretty sure the half pound of butter and the brown sugar is offset by the fortified cereal and protein laden nuts.

5) Peanut butter Ritz cracker thingies—I don’t know their official name but they are made by assembling a peanut butter sandwich with a couple of Ritz crackers and then dipping the whole shebang into almond bark. Crunchy, creamy deliciousness.

6) Crackers, chips and pickles—It would probably be cheaper to just set out a salt lick for me, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

Now for a few goodies that are usually safe from my roving fingers.

1) Divinity—just looking at the cloyingly sweet little globs of sugar, corn syrup and egg whites gives me a sugar rush headache. Never mind the damage they wield on the enamel of my teeth.

2) Candy canes—I know it’s a little un-American to disparage the bicolor twist of mint, but I’m a purist and prefer my Altoids.

3)  Pecan Tassies—I have a love/hate relationship with the miniature pecan tartlets. Years of cookie fundraisers at my daughter’s school drove the craving right out of me. Thanks, sis-in-law, for giving up a day every Thanksgiving holiday to help me bake my fair share. We were a good baking team, but I’ve since retired my tassie gear.

4) Caramels—once a favorite of mine. The installation of permanent braces on the back of my teeth has closed the door on that old friend.

5)  Jello—I don’t see much of it on goodie trays but the stuff scares me any time of the year.

Hope your holiday dishes are filled with delightful delicacies. Happy grazing!

  

The Farm

Sometimes I think that the reason I am comfortable in a classroom is because it reminds me of my childhood on the farm. There was always a flurry of activity and the work was never done. Tending crops and raising livestock meant good days, bad days and never a dull moment. Plans could be made for the week but it was more likely that a litany of demands would squawk their way to the top of the to-do lists. Flexibility was a requirement, not an option. Life had a visceral edginess to it and it was not for the fainthearted.

The classroom cast of characters is also redolent of life on the homestead. The cocky rooster is always ready and willing to strut around, making his presence known. He demands a little reining in and a reminder of who is in charge of the operation. The cattle are fairly content to graze away on the food put before them. They need guidance toward the barn or the pasture and are usually willing to follow the herd. The pigs like to rout around and get their noses into whatever is or is not their business. They can be adventuresome, but not always in a good way. The chickens are cute when they are little, but take a turn for the worse as they age. They are messy and skittish. They prefer to work alone and need a great deal of structure to be productive. The farm cats have their feet in two worlds, the wild and the domestic. They know that there are perks to schmoozing with the folks in charge, but they are not afraid to take after a rat or two. The farm dogs are the go-to animals. Loyalty is their best asset and they are not afraid of pitching in and getting the job done. They will let out a bark or two when something is awry and are determined to protect their turf.

A thousand decisions need to be made at any given time in the classroom and on the farm. Variables are the pawns in the game. Make a move one way and be prepared for a quick counter move. The crop that had the greatest yield one year is not necessarily the crop that will do well the following year. Weeds are battled every step of the way. A good calving season does not guarantee a strong beef market. Diversification demands fearless optimism and a satchel full of strategies. Thinking on your feet is compulsory and keeps you fit for survival.

Time is a precious commodity for both occupations. There is never enough of it. When equipment fails, the clock continues to tick and the skies continue to darken. Haste is always pushing at sensibility. The needs of livestock and crops are immediate and precarious. Bells ring and cows bellow with insistent urgency. Our clients do not have waiting rooms.

Teachers and farmers can be called crazy. Despite hailstorms, drought, weeds and technological break-downs, we persevere. Crops are planted, baby chicks are ordered and equipment is purchased. Handbooks are read, statistics are analyzed and strategies are implemented.

Let it be said for both of us, spring is always filled with the hope of the fall harvest.

   

Questionnaire

I enjoy reading magazines, everything from Good Housekeeping to the Smithsonian. The articles are fairly short and can be easily read when I am in between books or too distracted to focus on a plot line. I like to peruse recipes, travel to far away places and imagine that I might someday really get organized.

One popular feature of many magazines is the questionnaire. After answering and scoring a few questions, you can discover your personality type, clothing style and whether or not you are a ventriloquist wanna-be. Sometimes I agree with the results, but most of the time I am like most entities and just manipulate the data to match what I think the results should be.

A questionnaire I have not seen is one determining your Christmas holiday style. Here is my version of what it might look like. Feel free to score yourself and discover whether you are a Santa, Elf or Scrooge.

1. Decorating Style

a. I start decorating for Christmas in July. I’m always on the lookout for new ornaments and holiday trappings. No corner shall be unadorned.

b. I start decorating around Thanksgiving time. I use what I have in my Christmas storage bins and I like to add a few new things from the after Christmas sales.

c. I have a Hy-Vee plastic sack with a few Christmas knick-knacks that I received as gifts. Easy to set up and quick to take down.

2. Christmas Tree

a. My trees have themes and are color coordinated. I like to have different sizes and styles scattered throughout the house. I love the fragrance of balsam and pine.

b. I have an artificial tree in one of my bins and a collection of ornaments and white lights. My tree stands in the corner of the main living space so we can all enjoy it during the holiday season.

c. I print out a picture of a Christmas tree and hang it on the wall. I update it each year.

3. Christmas Cards

a. I start taking photographs of my family in matching outfits and Mount Rushmore in the background as soon as possible. I include a newsletter with poetry, recipes and a special section featuring family awards and travels. All letters are in the mail by December 1.

b. I send a card and a brief family update to my closest friends and relatives. Sometimes I include a picture and I like to personally sign each card that goes out.

c. I update my Facebook profile.

4. Christmas Gifts

a. I personally match each gift with the wants and desires of the recipients. Everyone from my great aunt to the boy who packs my groceries receives a precious treasure.

b. I purchase gifts for family members. I am a big fan of exchanging names and setting a dollar limit on purchases.

c. I like to twirl the gift card carousel and one stop shop.

5. Gift wrapping

a. I have wrapping paper with different textures and themes. Ribbons and bows are carefully coordinated with the paper style and age of the recipient. My packages are works of art.

b. I use a combination of gift bags and wrapping paper. I like to have a few rolls of different paper for some wrapping variety and my bows usually come from an assortment package.

c. I use an envelope for the gift cards. I have one jumbo roll of discounted wrapping paper that I use every year if I have to wrap a gift. I slap on a bow if I can find one from last year that is not too squished.

Give yourself 3 points for every (a); 2 points for every (b); 1 point for every (c)

If you scored 12-15 points, you are a Santa. You own this holiday. Pour yourself another cup of coffee because you are going to need it.

If you scored 6-11 points, you are an Elf. You are willing to climb on board the sleigh of holiday happenings and ride with it. Pour yourself another glass of apple cider. The Vitamin C will help keep you healthy.

If you scored 0-5 points, you are a Scrooge. Pour yourself another glass of seltzer water and remember that this too shall pass.

I hope you enjoyed the questionnaire. You’ll have to excuse me now as I have a tree to put up.

Wishbook

My usual routine in the morning is to shower, make coffee and retrieve the paper from my front deck. Thanksgiving Day went as scheduled, except I had to put down my cup of coffee so that I had two hands available to pick up the stack of ads that greeted me in all their retail glory. The ads included Thanksgiving Day specials, Black Friday blowouts and Super Saturday savings. I lugged the pile of papers to my kitchen table and decided that I was going to need more than one cup of coffee to motivate me to page through the glossy enticements. Many cups of coffee and a day later, I finally scanned my way through the stack. Needless to say, I was past the moments of opportunity and would have to either buy at a higher price or live without. Not a tough choice in my world.

As a child, I remember another retail siren song that arrived each year in our mailbox. It was a bound catalog wrapped in nondescript brown paper. My sibs and I eagerly awaited its arrival about this time of year. I’m sure my very organized mother had some system for keeping us from pouncing on it like vultures on carrion. I only remember that we jockeyed around for our turn with the treasured tome and hoped we wouldn’t have to wait too long for some quality time with the catalog.

Our object of desire was the Christmas Wishbook. Sears and JCPenneys issued catalogs laden with everything from baby buggies to walkie-talkies. We didn’t have much for TV in those days so the Wishbook was our pipeline to the outside world. We lovingly leafed our way through pages of dolls and childhood delights. The go-to pages were dependent upon our age and gender.  We were farm children so the toy tractor section and the miniature kitchen sets saw a lot of action. Pages were dog-eared and often in danger of falling out of the book.

One might think that we used the Wishbook to make our own wish list. For the most part, that was not the case. We knew that our meager allowances would never come close to having the purchasing power needed for such lavish items. We also pretty much knew what our gifts would look like each year. We usually received one practical item like a new pair of mittens or a scarf, and we received one “for fun” item like a cherished book or small toy. (I’m sure my youngest sibs are feeling a bit guilty right now as they realize that they lived a more spoiled existence, but I’m not bitter, no sir-ee.)

I don’t remember exactly what I coveted each year. I think it was such things as little dish sets, toy typewriters, and Viewmasters with pictures from exotic locales. The Wishbook was our way of escaping for a few hours and dreaming of a candyland world where everything was fun and easy.

Fortunately, my parents were wiser than a catalog. They knew that is was best for us not to swim in the pool of excess. As much as they enjoyed watching us open little gifts, they loved sensibility even more. I can’t claim their depth of wisdom yet but I do know that the world of retail is still a mystery to me.

I must confess, though, that I am enjoying my lone Black Friday purchase. Believe it or not, there was one paper shredder left after the crowds had long gone and I felt safe enough to go out to my neighborhood drugstore.

Sometimes the late bird does get the worm and yes, I can now say my Christmas shopping is done.

Abundance

Many of my students live amidst chaotic and fragile circumstances. One student, in particular, comes to mind. She has been concerned about an impending eviction this past month. Each week, plans have changed as to what the future might hold for her family. As the daily countdown closed in, she was increasingly uncertain about the final outcome. Finally, she shared with me that it looked like her family would be split up for a time. She and her siblings would each go to live with different relatives and her parents would live in a car until other arrangements could be made. When I asked her how she felt about the situation, she replied, “Oh, it’s okay. I am now sleeping on a very small couch and our heat has been shut off. If I go live with my cousin, I will get a big couch to sleep on and it will be warm.”

I was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of obscene wealth. I had few words to give in reply.

Give thanks.

Security

As I fumbled my way toward the front door early one morning this week in a pre-coffee haze, I realized that the door was unlocked. I would like to tell you that this was a rare breach of security in our household. In reality, our safekeeping measures are lackadaisical at best. On another early morning this week, I discovered our garage door wide open, yawning away with a come-thither look to all who were passing by. An uneasiness always settles over me and I vow to do better next time. So far, any would be thieves have either not been in the neighborhood or have taken one look at our loot and decided it wasn’t worth the time. A part of me wouldn’t mind if someone snuck off with a chunk of our junk so we could save time disposing of it ourselves.

Here are a few things I’m pretty sure the thieves would choose to ignore.

1)     Furniture—I don’t think we own anything that was purchased within the last decade. Most of our furnishings are cast-offs from family, friends and acquaintances. Our kitchen table is approaching a 3-digit birthday and not in a treasured, antique sort of way. As long as I keep a Shopko, vinyl table cloth on the top of it, I’m pretty sure the table will last us until we check into the assisted living facility.

2)      Appliances—Our toaster is in pretty good shape, other than that, I don’t think our other appliances would be worth the gas it takes to back up a truck and haul them away. Our refrigerator gurgles and murmurs and dribbles a puddle of water every once in awhile. Our stove is sans a few knobs and occasionally sounds off with its timer for no reason other than to taunt the household inhabitants (sorry about that 3:00 a.m. event, sis).

3)     Electronics—The VCR needs a slap or two to get going and the DVD player refuses to play every third disc. Loads of entertainment fun with those two machines. My $9.99 Tracfone is reliable and sturdy but maybe not flashy enough for a techno-bandit.

4)     Cash—I guess there could be a few coins wedged into the couch cushions, other than that, it’s going to be a strike out at our house in the moolah department.

5)      Artwork—Funny.

Here are a few things I think would also be safe, but I would certainly miss if they were gone.

1)     Heating Pad—I’m quite attached to this little gray square of warmth. A hot cup of tea, a good book and my heating pad on a cold winter’s evening—bliss.

2)     Williams-Sonoma Reversible Meat Pounder—A decadent splurge for me with all its smoothly, polished silver goodness. I feel empowered with its heft as I whack away on a piece of resistant protein.

3)     Piano—I gave a lot piano lessons to not-so-Mozart-like children so I could purchase my treasured musical instrument. It does have monetary value, but I’m quite sure its size and tonnage will keep it from being hauled off too quickly. Just ask my husband who has had to move it to new abodes across the country. Each time he longs for a wife who plays the flute.

4)     Cookbooks—I have more of them than I care to count and I’m sure most of them could be replaced. However, the grease splotches, pages stuck together and tattered covers are like a GPS unit guiding me to the good recipes. I’m afraid I would lose my way in the midst of new cookbooks.

I have no solution for our security forgetfulness. I could leave myself a series of Post-It notes as a reminder each evening. I could double check my double checks.

Or, I could just put my Williams-Sonoma Reversible Meat Pounder by my bedside. Burglar, beware.

Skinny-jean-ified

Two of my 12-year-old students came skipping toward me this past week and proclaimed, “Look, Mrs. D., we’re skinny-jean-ified.” They stood arm in arm, beaming up at me with their brand new skinny jeans.  Their next statement exemplifies one of the reasons I teach middle school students. “Hey, Mrs. D., you should get yourself a pair of skinny jeans and get skinny-jean-ified.”  As I desperately slurped on my coffee after a very long week of parent teacher conferences and bus duty, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at their delightful meld of adolescent naivety and optimism. First of all, skinny and my name have never been used in the same sentence and secondly, the very thought that my wardrobe could be jettisoned into the 21^st century by a pair of jeans is implausible, at best. Despite the improbability of following up on their suggestion, I must say their sincere fashion advice gave me great delight throughout the day.

It also inspired me to think back on what was fashionable when I was their age. I was a product of the 60’s, pivotal times on many fronts. Hippies, Woodstock style concerts, and flower children were getting a lot of attention on the national scene. We were carrying out our own rendition of the fads and fashionable flavors in the Midwest as well. Here are a few of them.

1) Bell bottom jeans—never mind that one could easily hide a small whale in the bottom cuffs, we felt cool and that was all that mattered at the moment. I promised my husband that I wouldn’t mention his red striped, uber cool, corduroy pair of bell bottoms…oops, too late.

2) Mini-skirts—no surprise that this was a fad of pariah proportions in my conservative circles. Many of us discovered that a few rolls of our skirt waistbands quickly converted a modest skirt into something a bit more modern. School personnel saw to it that we didn’t get by with too many rolls. The thrill was in testing the limits.

3) Drive-In theaters—hot muggy evenings, cars stuffed with friends on bargain night, crackly sounding speakers, salty popcorn. It just didn’t get better than that.

4) Dippity-Do hair gel—I was obsessed with creating the perfect side curls out of my chopstick straight hair. Gooey globs of gel were applied before bed, secured by pink, crinkly tape, in hopes of morning glamour. What I achieved was a big comma shaped curl and a red mark on my cheek where the tape had been pulled off. A kink in the hair, yes. Glamour, not so much.

5) Granny dresses—the antithesis of the mini-skirt. Think Bohemian style with a very white Dutch girl trying to pull it off. Groovy.

6) Gum wrapper chains—intricately entwined, zig zags of gum wrappers created by those with crafting abilities. Needless to say, I never created a single one. Crafts make my hands cramp up.

7) Tanning creams—a very new invention and a great product if you didn't mind looking like a pumpkin in July.

8) Mood rings—baubles that were supposed to change color to match your moods. Probably not such a good idea for teenagers.

Suffice it to say, each generation enjoys a sense of camaraderie and adventure when a new invention or style arrives on the scene. After 50-plus years, I can safely say that it’s okay to hang on to a few relics of the past. You never know when they might be just what the vogue doctors are ordering.

25 Hours

For folks who have made the statement, “I wish I had an extra hour in my day,” this weekend is for you. It is time to turn back the clocks one hour and step out of the Daylight Savings time zone. It is also time for me to nurture two of my favorite dueling internal forces—guilt and rationalization.

I am the queen of guilt. I carry it around on my shoulder like an old friend. I feed it daily with copious amounts of “I-should-have-done-thats." I even have a name for my friend. I call it the Guilt Gibbon. He persistently whispers in my ear, demanding more attention than I should, perhaps, be giving him.

I also belong to the royal court of rationalizations. When the Gibbon is shrieking away about a shortcoming, my rationalization responder is busy generating a ready reply. Carrying these two buddies around isn’t always easy, but it is certainly entertaining, in a twisted sort of way.

Turn-back-the-clock-weekend is the perfect arena for a match between my two cronies. The Gibbon obsesses about the most productive and dynamic way to use the extra hour, while the Rationalizer squawks back with a seemingly reasonable counterpoint.

Here is a list of activities that the Guilt Gibbon would advise for the extra hour, followed by the Rationalizer’s response.

1)     You should organize your underwear drawer.

It’s good enough. You already have three piles: good elastic, some elastic, and only for desperate days elastic.

2)     You should wash your windows.

That’s going to take longer than an hour so you are going to lose hours in that equation.

3)     You should write thank-you notes to people you care about.

Stamps, cards, addresses, a pen that works….too many details.

4)     You should clean out your e-mail inbox.

What if you delete an important message? Best to just wait for a notification from your provider and deal with it then.

5)     Read a classic novel.

You already have 3 books that you haven’t finished and are due back to the library by next week. Best get cracking at those instead.

6)     You should start your holiday baking.

Storing all that stuff in the freezer too early is just asking for stale, baked goods come time for the holidays.

7)     You should take a brisk walk outdoors.

What about that rogue dog you saw in the neighborhood last week? You know you don’t do well with the canine species.

8)     You should figure out why your camera keeps flashing that weird icon.

Do you even know where the manual is? Besides, fuzzy out of focus pictures are sorta artsy.

9)     You should check some papers for school.

It’s the weekend, you silly goose.

10)  You should winterize your house.

You don’t even know what that means.

Well, folks, I hope you enjoyed the show. I will probably do what I always do when I am presented with an extra hour.  Pour myself another cup of coffee and be thankful.

  

Candy

‘Tis the season for candy. This week, little munchkins and gnomes will surge through neighborhoods like the radula of a snail, scraping away at bits and pieces of sweetness. Candy buckets will brim with everything chocolate and chewy. Parents will do their best to mete out the sugary loot and the children will tumble into bed with full bellies and visions of sugar babies dancing in their heads.

Walking down the candy aisles this week, I was struck by the abundance of choices. Of course, I was unable to find the kind of candy I needed for a school activity, but that just reminds me why I don’t buy lottery tickets. I also became a bit nostalgic as I gazed upon the sweet surplus.

Given that my candy intake as a kid was rather limited due to my family’s frugality and not being allowed to trick-or-treat (Happy Reformation Day to my sibs), there were times when a sweet treat found its way to my pocket. We had candy with names like Black Jack gum, Cloves gum, Bit-O-Honey and Necco wafers. We nibbled on semi-sweet candy necklaces and chewed on something called Wax Bottles with Fruit Juice (don’t know what was worse, chewing on the wax or the faux juice squirt inside.) We also had (if you are under 50, stop reading now) candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars. But I think my favorite of all was the Lifesaver.

My dad always had a roll of Lifesavers in his pocket for church. Usually it was Wint-O-Green flavor but occasionally it was the classic five flavors variety. As the package was passed along the row of children in the pew, each one of us hoped our favorite flavor would be the next candy in the package. We were not children of entitlement so we accepted our fate in the five flavors lotto. I always hoped for orange, but usually got green.

When I was first married a thousand years ago, I enjoyed reading a magazine feature called Lifesavours. It was a list of little moments of sweetness that just come our way. Here is a list of a few of my Lifesavours:

·       Butter

·       New box of crayons

·       Orange streaked prairie sunset

·       Pink streaked prairie sunrise

·       Hot cup of coffee with a Bible devotional

·       Cheese

·       The Lives of the Cowboys on the Prairie Home Companion Show

·       Delicious vocabulary

·       Badger Clark poems

·       Plaid

·       Crossword puzzle with a sharp pencil

·       Researching trips out of town

·       Bacon

·       Raincoat with a hood

·       Elastic

I hope you experience your favorite flavor Lifesavour this week.

Wearin' o' the Orange

There is much hoopla in my state this week. It is the time of year that rivals Christmas and the Super Bowl combined. Greeters are stationed at the airport handing out trinkets, coupons and other sundries for the myriad of guests streaming in from far and wide. Dogs are yapping and bursting with pent up energy. Plaid shirts and multi-pocketed vests are the stylin’ choices. Much revelry and the building of memories are anticipated with delight. And everywhere one looks, there are signs that say, “Welcome Hunters.” It is the beginning of pheasant hunting season.

Nowhere, however, is there more eagerness than in the small towns on the open prairie. Growing up in one of those towns, I know the sameness that can become a blur of daily living. When not one, not two, but hundreds of strangers descend upon your environs, there is bound to be excitement and a few stories to tell. Churches and civic organizations gear up with offers of food and fellowship during the opening weeks. Money from new pockets is always appreciated and conversations with people with accents are, well, priceless.

I don’t participate much in the goings on anymore, but I do have very fond memories of the big opening day. Our farmland had some great hunting opportunities and a crowd was sure to form an hour or so before the noon start time. It was mostly family and friends taking a day off from their usual commitments. The seasoned hunters were all too willing to show the young ones the ropes and the little ones who were too young to hunt circled around on the fringes, watching the show unfold, dreaming of the day they could join in the festivities.

My sisters and I were busy for a week, baking and preparing goodies for the big feed after the hunt. On the menu was an assortment of cookies, bars, sandwiches and, of course, hunter’s muffins. The muffin batter was easily stored in the refrigerator and made dozens of tasty, hearty treats, just what the doctor ordered for a crew of ravenous hunters.

When the hunting party returned, it was time to watch and listen. Birds were cleaned, wrapped and packaged for future meals. Kids gathered favorite feathers and marveled at their iridescent and tickling qualities. Hunters lingered over groaning tables of goodness. Stories flowed as easily as the coffee.

All too soon the sun would begin to dip on the horizon, reminding the crew that it was time to get back to chores and predictable routines. Guns and gear would be tucked away for another year. A feeling of beige would descend. But, for a few moments yet, the sky blazed brilliantly blue, the camaraderie warmed the moments and the color of orange was a sight to behold.

Green Ribbon

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have about as much athletic ability as a sloth (see earlier blog, Cravings). I’ve spent a lifetime trying to avoid the world of competition, especially when physical prowess is involved. I’ll admit that I’m still prideful of my mini- medal earned for being the fastest typist in small town, Midwestville, but other than that, no need to build a trophy case for me.

It will come as no surprise that I dreaded the annual Field Day held at my little grade school when I was growing up. After surviving the dreadful tryouts, it was evident that the only event I qualified for was sack race (read loser). And, you guessed it, I was pathetic at that as well.

I recall the excitement and anticipation of my peers and siblings as Field Day approached. Who wouldn’t look forward to a day off from school and a picnic lunch? Me, of course. In fact, I remember dreaming of ways to get out of the event. Sore leg. Stomach ache. Nausea. Leprosy. You name it. I thought of it. Unfortunately, my mom was on to me and pseudo-sickness was not an acceptable excuse. When the day arrived, despite my final pleas to God for rain, I crawled into the car and headed off to school for the big day.

Somehow I endured the hours outdoors, the inevitable sunburn, the humiliation of defeat and the long ride home, now truly sick with a headache and the need to just read a good book and make it all go away. While my siblings sparkled with stories about their great wins and near misses, I watched the scenery go by from the car window. Deep inside, I knew that this too would pass.

Just when I thought there was a limit to the shame of Field Day, it got worse one year. The teachers, with honorable intentions I’m sure, decided that they would make sure everyone got a ribbon. Blue ribbon for first place, red ribbon for second place, white ribbon for third place and…drum roll, please…green ribbon for participation. As we gathered for the end of the day ribbon ceremony, it was very clear to me that I would no longer be able to shrink into the shadows and wait for the festivities to abate. I would now be called forward to accept the green ribbon. Let’s just paint a bulls-eye on me and broadcast it far and near…I’m a loser. Again. Rest assured, the green ribbon never made it into my scrapbook.

Now, lest ye feel too sorry for me, let me explain that I am grateful for the lessons I learned from my green ribbon.

Lesson #1: It’s okay to lose. Especially as a kid. Life isn’t about being the best at everything and we don’t need a green ribbon to tell us we matter.

Lesson #2: Well-intentioned adults sometimes feel too sorry for kids. I wasn’t fooled into thinking the green ribbon would solve my problems. I knew that there was no future for me in sports. Best find that out earlier, rather than later.

Lesson #3: You need really good excuses to outsmart your mom. Just give it up and go to Field Day.





Real Housewives

Okay, I confess. My channel surfer has stopped on the Bravo channel a few times, giving me a glimpse into the lives of the real housewives of you-name-it. Like a train wreck, it is sometimes hard to look away. I’ve rationalized in my mind why this kind of so called entertainment is appealing, but I’ve got nothing. Suffice it to say, I’m ashamed of every minute wasted on watching women who do not even remotely represent who or what I know about my slice of the world.

I wonder what would happen if the reality TV folks came knocking on the doors of one of our Midwestern rural towns and asked to film the lives of real women and I do mean Real women. I’m going to paint a picture of what I think a show like this would look like. The show’s title is, Real Housewives of Bovee County, based on the name of a small burg near my birthplace that is no longer in existence.

Episode One: Introducing the Women of Bovee County.

Gladys is a sturdy woman who enjoys wearing seasonal sweatshirts. Every part of her body is real and she is proud to be able to put wholesome meals on the table while juggling the demands of a busy farm household. She volunteers at her local church and is the first one to bring a meal to a family in need. She does all of this without an assistant and a personal trainer.

Belva is young and sassy. She works two jobs. One is in town so she can help out with the bills on the farm and the other is on the home place doing whatever is needed. She can drive tractor with the best of them and doesn’t need a limousine driver to toodle her around. She doesn’t even need a GPS because everyone in these parts knows where everyone lives and why fiddle with a piece of unnecessary technology.

Nancy is sweet and newly married. She is committed to her husband and they work as a team on their ranch. They are up before the break of dawn and work until the sun sets and beyond. Their hard work demands a vegetarian free lifestyle. Real workers need real food.

Episode Two: No Place Like Home: In this episode we get a peek into the homes of our Bovee women.

Gladys lives in a two story, box shaped farmhouse. It could probably use a new coat of paint in the next couple of years, but the barn is on the list for this year. The interior of the house is modest and filled with an eclectic mix of old and new. Decorators are not needed for her home. She knows what works for her family and isn’t worried about what the magazine ads tell her she needs.

Belva has a contemporary style. Less clutter means less dusting. Her house represents efficiency and self reliance. Housekeepers need not apply.

Nancy is nesting into a big, old, rambling ranch home. It belonged to her husband’s parents and needs a little updating. The wedding gifts will have to do for now and hopefully it will be a good calving year so a new appliance or two can be purchased. She’s just happy for now to have a home they can call their own.

Episode Three: Drama, Bovee Style.

Gladys is faced with a tough decision this season. Her garden has been producing more than she can handle and she is wondering whether she should continue giving the surplus away or cut back on the size of her garden. Her giving spirit will most likely win out and the magnitude of her garden will be spared.

Belva has been asked to work more hours at her town job. This would certainly improve the cash flow for their household but reduce the amount of time she can spend with her family and the job she really loves. Belva will gather her family around and talk it through with them because that is what is important to her.

Nancy is pregnant. She is struggling with morning sickness and still doing her best to continue to help out around the ranch. She and her husband are looking forward to starting their family and doing it all without a nanny, driver, housekeeper, accountant, personal chef and monthly vacations.

Well, I’m not sure my prairie women series has much of a future on primetime television. For some reason glitz, false body parts and trips to Moracco are what viewers demand. I guess that is okay, but please, oh please, stop calling these shows reality TV.