Play

My young niece occasionally spent time at my house this past year. My home does not have video games, fancy toys or a backyard full of play equipment. That didn’t seem to matter, however, as long as my candy bowl was well-stocked and the world of make-believe was at her fingertips. Her favorite activity was to play “office.” She would pull up a hassock toward an end table by my couch. The table was supplied with the following accouterments: a cup filled with pens, pencils and markers; post-it pads in different colors and sizes; a calculator; paper; a colored pencil set and, of course, snacks. It was never discussed but it was clear that my niece was the CEO and I was the administrative assistant. My job was to answer to the beck and call of a busy six-year-old company executive. My paycheck was the chance to make time stop for awhile and just play.

The world of make-believe was a dominant part of my growing up years. The absence of a computer, video games, TV, sports (thank goodness for me on that one) and fancy toys meant that my siblings and I were often compelled to invent our own entertainment. One of my personal favorites was playing “plane crash.” This rather macabre re-enactment involved lining my sisters up on the couch with their dolls and pillows. I was the stewardess, barking out the orders for our flight and our inevitable crash. When the point of crisis was imminent, I was the one with all the rescuing advice involving the protection of the babies and huddling up with the pillows. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day analyzing this game, but, I thought it was fun, in a creepy sort of way.

We also played church. My sisters were lined up on the couch with their dolls, a songbook and a Bible. I, of course, was the preacher and the organist. My propensity toward being the bossy one in charge started young, obviously.  I don’t think the church game ever lasted very long due to my lackluster preaching and my rudimentary attempts at playing a few hymns.

Another favorite activity was playing dress-up. My cousins and my sisters had grand fun digging into my grandmother’s dress-up bin. We planned elaborate style shows in our gauzy, drapey, oversized fashion designs. We clip-clopped our way down imaginary runways in our teetering high heels and strutted our claim to stylish fame. Hours of time passed with the contents of one bin of used clothing. Cheap fun.

Occasionally, my sisters and I would set up a bakery. This involved two basic ingredients: dirt and water. We would mix the ingredients to just the right consistency and make mud cakes of all shapes and sizes. Little sticks and grass pieces served as decorations on our masterpieces. We would climb atop our dad’s feed grinder (a piece of farm equipment that had a flat top) and let our cakes bake in the sun until they were dry and ready to serve. Business was a little slow for our finished products, but enough fun was had in the process that all was well.

One product that we actually did have a market for was our hobo toast. We would take a large empty can and build a small fire under the open end of the can. When the can was hot we would take a piece of buttered bread that had a small hole cut out of its center and place it on the surface of the can. An egg was poured into the center of the bread and in a few minutes the whole concoction was flipped and ready for serving. I think we even enticed our brothers into this activity due to the food factor.

I hope you all have memories of make-believe worlds that filled your childhood. I would love to hear about some of them if you have a few moments to share your thoughts. Playing is always more fun with a friend.

    

Tips

When I was growing up, a very popular feature in our newspaper was a column called Heloise. A pleasant and wise looking woman named Heloise dispensed a fount of tips and tricks to make life easier around the house. (I think some newspapers still carry this column, now authored by the daughter of said matriarch). Back in the 50’s and 60’s, many women were still managing their households as a full time job and were grateful for guidance on how to streamline their challenging and often mundane daily tasks. Frugality was also a hallmark of the exchange of ideas, particularly when most households were balancing their budgets on one income.

It seems that there are always “wonder products” that pop up at any given time. One that was very popular in the Heloise columns of my youth was nylon net. It was a mesh like material made of strong nylon strands that seemed to be the answer to many cleaning and craft demands. One could buy yards of the stuff at most purveyors of dry goods. It came in different colors which added to its range of possibilities. Crafters would make nylon net scrubbies in various shapes and sizes. Most everyone had a cache of the wonder cleaning scrublings ready for action in their kitchens.

Panty hose was another common household go-to product. Women actually wore hosiery back then so there was a never-ending supply of nylons gone bad. The nylon material made it possible for them to be used as scrubbing and polishing tools when a finer touch was needed. Crafters created draft stopping “snakes” that could be placed at the base of a closed door in an attempt to keep the cold winter winds from sneaking into the house. Another panty hose suggestion was to gather up slivers of used soap bars, stuff them into a portion of the hose and create a soap-on-a-rope. Can you say, “Pathogen hangout”? Not recommending that one.

I’m not sure what Heloise is recommending these days, but I do have a couple of products that seem to be my go-to lifesavers. One is Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser. They named this invention correctly as it is truly a magical cleaning product. It works on everything from a grease splotched oven top to a gunky tub. I’m not Ms. Spick and Span so any product that can help me clean up the sludge of overdue house pollution is my new BFF.

Bleach is my other cleaning comrade. I love bleach. I have tried a myriad of cleaning products. Some make me wheeze. Some smell like flowers. Some have nozzles that drip and ooze. Many of them just plain stink. Bleach, however, smells like clean. All it takes is a sink full of bleach-laden water and the battle cry has gone out against the bacteria kingdom. Bleach is cheap. Bleach is easy to store. Bleach is a lovely product.

Not to worry. I have no intentions of beginning a household tips blog. If I did, however, it would have to include one more venerated product: duct tape.

Don’t get me started.

Flotsam and Jetsam

Each summer I make it my goal to dig out a school year’s worth of sludge from my house. The good news: I begin the summer with a wolverine’s ferocity, snarling away at the mess, leaving no drawer unopened. The bad news: As the summer wanes on, I become a lamb with a much more pastoral desire to graze on a good book.

Currently, I am still in quasi-wolverine mode. Each day, I decide upon a distasteful task and rev up the engines for a dive into the untidy underworld. The actual cleaning part is relatively easy with a bucket and a rag. It’s the sorting, organizing and worst of all, determination of the fate of each item plucked from its storage space that presents the challenge.

Basically, there are three piles. Keep. Goodwill. Toss. Should be simple enough, however, the mind can play silly tricks during this process. That hand-carved Christmas ornament I picked up during a Wyoming vacation fifteen years ago should probably head to Goodwill. I haven’t put up a tree in years so the need for that little treasure has expired long ago. One item down, hundreds to go.

Here is how the piles are shaping up so far.

Keep:

1) Bundt pan, circa 1976—Two reasons why this one made the cut. First, it was a gift I received at my wedding shower many decades ago. Secondly, who doesn’t love a Bundt cake? Enough said.

2) Empty shoe boxes—Fortunately, I don’t buy very many shoes so the supply is not overwhelming, however, the few boxes I have just seem so right for future needs. Tax receipts, small gidgets, scarves and office supplies snuggle into the rectangular boxes with ease. And best of all, there are handy dandy lids to keep everything dust free and stackable.

Goodwill:

1) Clothes—It’s no secret that I hold onto clothing items long enough for them to go in and out of style several times over. I was ruthless this year which means I’m going to have to add shopping to my summer to do list or maybe not. I kept a few “classics” and I’m not afraid to repurpose them into service for another school year. Look out colleagues, my gray crocheted vest might be making a comeback.

2)  Decorative items—If it’s bigger than a coffee cup, strike one. If it has no re-gifting possibility, strike two. If it has to be dusted, strike three.

Toss:

1) Gladware—I love the invention of the handy dandy little containers that aren’t as precious as Tupperware. The trouble is, I’ve been keeping them like Tupperware. So, Auf Wiederhesen, my pitted, stained little workhorse friends. You served me well, but it’s time for new pals.

2) Shorts—I finally threw away my last pair of stained painting shorts. First of all, shorts will never again be part of my wardrobe. The world just isn’t ready for that much white. And, secondly, I need a little more coverage when I paint. Neat, I’m not.

So, I continue to plod forward with my quest to tame the beasts of clutter and chaos. I’m not bold or naïve enough to believe that I will conquer all my closets this time around. But, I do know that I will have a few less things to pack when I head off to my assisted living apartment.

I’m sure my new friends will enjoy a Bundt cake just as much as I do. 

Duty

My husband and I voted this week in our state’s primary elections. I would like to be able to say that we did so out of a deep seated civic conviction and a careful researching of the candidates. Not so much this time. Although we are firm believers in the privilege of voting and rarely miss an opportunity to do so, for a number of reasons we were ready to pass on this round of elections.

Reason #1: Who do we vote for? We had a very busy spring and we were out of town for the week preceding the election, thus, we had not kept up with the candidates and had missed the last minute ads and campaign push.

Reason #2: Where is the sample ballot? A quick perusing of the newspapers upon our return from our vacation resulted in the loss of our usual source of a sample ballot. An internet search resulted in a maze of voter ID information that quickly eroded my civic fortitude.

Reason #3: Is the primary election really that important? The races seemed a little lackluster this round so we started leaning toward a no show for us.

Despite our declarations of “not voting this time”, I must confess we were both experiencing a niggling that just wouldn’t go away throughout the day. As we sat down to dinner, we stated again that it just wouldn’t be right to vote when we were both so ill prepared. And then it all changed.

We were watching our local news while eating our dinner and the reporter was salivating over the early poll results. As they scrolled across the screen, I saw the name of a candidate that I knew and disliked intensely as a state representative. My husband and I looked at each other, looked at the clock, looked at our dinner and instantly agreed, “It’s time to vote.”

So we wiped the barbecue sauce off our fingers and headed on down to our polling site. On the way, we quickly  brainstormed what little we knew about the possible candidates and using somewhat dubious methods came up with a plan of attack. We have great neighbors and we also know which neighbor is most politically aligned with us so we decided to use that lawn sign as an endorsement for our district pick. Another candidate was mentioned during a conversation at church a few weeks ago, so that would have to do for our representative pick. All other candidates would be chosen on a wing and a prayer.

With minutes to go before the polls were scheduled to close, we arrived at our polling site. As we were entering, we met an exasperated couple who said, “Hope you are at the right polling site. We are being sent to another location.” Confession time. We have lived at our current address for over fifteen years, but I have never changed it with the voter registration folks. As far as the voting gatekeepers know, we are still living in our first apartment in the city. Updating our address has never popped up on my urgent to do list.

I presented my voter ID information and was handed a ballot, no questions asked. My husband, however, was snagged at the gate. For whatever reason, the gatekeeper caught the mismatch on his ID and voter registration address. Apparently, my husband was not aware of this discrepancy. Oops. Maybe, I should have explained this possible scenario to him before it actually happened. Just as he was getting anxious about the address with an apartment number included and I was trying to clarify the inconsistency, Mr. Funnypants, right behind us in line, starts squawking, “Voter fraud. Voter fraud.”

A hush has now fallen over the meager crowd. Shouting, “Voter fraud,” at a polling site is tantamount to shouting, “Salmonella,” at a potato salad convention. But, God bless the nerves of steel the voting officials are given. Our gatekeeper looked up from her tome of sanctioned names and clearly stated, “If your name is in the book. You can vote.” Crisis averted.

As we left the polling site, we high fived ourselves for getting out to vote. We also added two more items to our to do lists:

Change our voting address and do a little more than read a lawn sign for the next round of elections.

  

The Bully

Unfortunately, bullying has been around since the days of Cain and Abel. A recently released movie focuses on the damaging effects of this sadistic practice. My school district and many others across the nation are implementing proactive strategies for our students as we continue to deal with the scourge of harming others. I remember a few bullies as I was going through my school years and I must confess that my own actions sometimes crossed lines I am not proud of.

While visiting with a couple of my sisters recently, I was reminded of the bully that was the bane of my existence one particular school year. It was my job to drive my younger siblings from our farm in the country to the grade school in town. From there, some of my siblings and I took a bus to our high school in another town. The logistics of loading up kids, books, lunchboxes and assorted Show and Tell projects often goaded me into becoming a drill sergeant, only too happy to point out the shortcomings of my passengers as I started the engine of the old beige Dodge and hoped we would all make it to town on time. My mother always set our clocks to “town time”, meaning it was set for the time we should arrive at our destination if all went well. I watched that clock with an urgency not always appreciated by my sibs.

One year, however, I came up against a loud and abusive bully that made it almost impossible to keep a timely driving schedule. About two miles from our farm, on a rock-strewn gravel road, there lived a gaggle of geese. It was clearly evident that this flock of geese had never participated in the Olweus Bully Prevention program. They were out to get anyone or anything on two legs or four wheels. One particularly aggressive winged creature was only too happy to stand in the middle of the gravel road as I approached and honk in a most raucous manner. And to add insult to injury, the goose would peck at our car’s front bumper and make our movement forward an intricate and delicate dance each morning. My attempts at sneaking by without them noticing us in the first place were always thwarted by the crunching of our tires on the road’s surface.

One particular day, I had had enough. As I approached the home of the flock, it was clearly evident that my tormentor was fluffed and puffed and ready for a show down at OK corral. Something snapped in my brain and I barked out an order to my siblings. “Hang on. The goose is going down!” I stepped on the gas and went full throttle forward. I drove right over the goose as my sibs looked out the back window in horror.

Here is where the story gets a little murky. I felt no thud or crunch of bones under my tires as I proceeded to roll over the goose. I’m also quite sure that I saw in my rear view mirror the wings of my feathery perpetrator flapping away, indicating an alive, albeit, ruffled goose. 

What I do know for sure is that my pulse finally returned to normal when we arrived at our destination on time. My siblings took me seriously when I told them they needed to behave while I was driving. And, best of all, I never saw a goose again on that stretch of the road.