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. 

  

Going Green

For my generation the phrase “going green” most likely meant the color of a kid’s face after getting off the school merry-go-round for the tenth time. We had a color barometer for when something interesting was about to happen. Red meant a kid was just a little overheated from too much exertion. Green meant you were about to say goodbye to your lunch. And white meant it was time to call the teacher.

Today, of course, going green is an expression used for all things recycled, reused, reduced and regurgitated (okay, I made that one up). It may seem that the going green worldview is a new approach to global stewardship; however, I can recall a time when we had another word for this kind of frugality. It was called survival.

Growing up on a farm with nine people demanded strict monitoring of waste. Our heritage also required a tight fist on the monetary flow of what was available. It was shameful to live a lavish lifestyle and prudence was cultured along with the vegetables in the garden.

A few of my “gone green” memories are:

1)     Shoes:  We had three pairs of shoes—one pair for church, one for school, and one for every day, capable of withstanding chicken poop and other farm products. We polished the church shoes to extend their life and squeezed toes for as long as possible until there was no other alternative but to replace them.

2)     Games: When we wanted a popular game called Snap, my mother cut out cardboard squares from laundry detergent boxes and designed the components of the game on our newly created deck of cards.

3)     Books: When the country schoolhouse down the road was ready to close its doors, my parents procured the books from the school and created a family library for us. I spent many hours with Flicka, Ricka, Dicka and Stumpy, the chipmunk.

4)     Food: We were hearty eaters so I do not remember many leftovers, but any little dibble that might happen to be unused went to the farm cats. They were well fed without the luxury of Fancy Feast in a can and they kept the vermin population in check.

5)     Trash: We did not have a garbage service so every item that went into the trash had to be dealt with on a personal level. We were loathe to toss anything away that wasn’t absolutely necessary. The waste that was capable of being burned went to the “burn pile.” It was a metal ring with a bit of wire fencing around it. We waited for a day without gale force winds (no easy task in our neck of the woods) and started the flame. It was always a high alert day as we monitored for stray sparks and sudden wind changes.

6)     Household: Any furniture that still had the bones to be able to withstand the torments of children, was polished and reupholstered over and again. Upholstery was selected not for its aesthetic value. It was purchased based on availability and price point. (To this day, I love that forest green rocking chair.)

7)     Pop cans: No such thing in our world. Milk was the drink of choice and our farm cow made sure we didn’t need to use any plastic containers for our supply. We did have an occasional orange soda supplied by my grandma. The empty bottles were always carefully rinsed and returned for a deposit.

Back in the day, I guess we didn’t need a campaign to remind us that we should be parsimonious and sparing. We just needed to heed my grandmother’s advice.

Waste not, want not.