Joy

A time for reflection often begins after the Christmas festivities wind down and a new calendar year approaches. Most of us are still wading in piles of Christmas wrap and leftover packaging. The empty gift bags are awaiting possible repurposing and the new sweater that doesn't fit quite right beckons our attention. Gift cards need to be categorized so they don't get lost and go unused. Scavenged candy and cookie trays attract fewer gleaners. Expanding waistbands cry for mercy. The once clean and organized house is a little frazzled around the edges and in need of deliverance.

Mixed in with all the chaos and trips to the grocery store, we find joy. It is true that moments of delight are most often found in the little things. Here are a few of mine.

1) New leather purse. It is not flashy or dashy. It does not have sparkly baubles, chains and sophistication. It just feels and smells like real leather. I am a sucker for well crafted simplicity. It makes me smile.

2) Church figurine. It has been in the family for quite some time which makes it a bit sentimental. But, the best part is the little bulb inside that lights up the stained glass windows with a warm glow. I am not much for holiday decorations (scroogey, in fact) but I appreciate the symbolism of the charming little house of worship. It gives my eyes a restful break.

3) Chex Mix. Traditional, please. Spare the apple pie spice or the Hidden Valley seasoning mix or the cocoa dustings. Mainline me the worcestershire sauce, Lawry's seasoning, butter, garlic powder and Chex cereal (a little corn and a little rice). Bake in the oven, not the microwave, for toasty, roasty goodness. Hide in the freezer and hope the bag is still full when company arrives. Addicted and okay with that.

4) Three little kings. Our neighbors have three rambunctious boys under the age of ten. Cabin fever can be lethal. Their very wise mother bundled them up one day last week and sent them outside with three hammers. Their task was to dismantle the outgrown Playskool slide. The banging and whacking made quite a ruckus but it reminded me that good neighbors are certainly to be treasured.

5) Memories. They are without any monetary value and are priceless. I was blessed with many this Christmas. Our sweet daughter and son-in-law traveled through miles of flat plains, mountain passes and finicky weather fronts to spend time with us. My siblings from around the world gathered together for the first time in many, many years. My mom was still able to enjoy precious moments with her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The food was bounteous and laughter sponged away all woes.

Joy to the World, the Lord has come.

Peace and goodwill to all.

Letters

Dear Crabby Lady at the Grocery Store,

I am sorry you were second in a queue of three people in the grocery checkout line at six-thirty in the morning. I am sorry there was only one checker at the time. I am sure your schedule was far more important than the schedules of anyone else waiting in line. No doubt, your one item should have immediately overridden the ten items in the cart ahead of you. I am especially sorry another checker came by my cart and offered to check me out at another register. Your order was seconds away from being rung up so I should have asked you to pick up your pie and spend another minute getting to the new register and waiting for her to sign in.

Above all, I am sorry that more time was taken from your busy schedule so you could march over to my checker with your purchased dessert and yell at her. You made it very clear that the checker was an idiot for helping the third one in line rather than the second one in line. Despite my personal plea to you that it was my fault and not an oversight on the checker's part, you did a very good job making sure my checker was put in her place and won't ever commit such a heinous crime again.

I hope your pie was tasty.

Sincerely,
Stunned Shopper

I wish the above scenario was fiction. It is not. I am usually not privy to such antics in the early hours of the day so I was shaken and battered by the event. My checker assured me she was not bothered by it and I assured her that I was not only bothered by it, but outraged because she had to endure such a tongue lashing for helping me out. The checker confided that she was really assigned to be in charge of the night crew finishing up in the back room but saw there was a need for her in front so she jumped in to give the lone morning checker some relief. We shared a moment of sadness for the folks in the world who are so filled with internal rage that a few minutes in a checkout line causes them to snap and do foolish things. The checker mentioned she was accustomed to having angry people in her life so she was able to deal with animosity.

I left the store with a burdened heart. I was sad for the angry lady and whatever it was in her life that made her snappish. I felt sorry for the checker who was accustomed to angry people. No one should have to build that kind of resilience. Above all, I grieved the loss of decorum in our world. I am not sure when it became noble to put our needs ahead of others but I suspect it has something to do with a poor choice made in a garden long ago.

One more letter.

Dear Reader,

In a season known more for retail opportunities than peace and goodwill, please take time to thank a clerk or service worker. Smile at those who are working extra hours to make our purchases happen. Tip a waiter a little more than the usual recommendation. And, if you feel the need to yell at someone, get a hobby. Bake cookies, play piano, read books, build birdhouses . Better yet, re-evaluate your to-do list. If it doesn't say, "Be kind to others", add it. Make happy holidays happen.

Sincerely,
Cookie Baker

The Perfect Danish

Sometimes it is easy to get caught up in the feeling that the world is out to get us. Thoughts swirl about as we face one hurdle after another and we convince ourselves that we are always picking the short straw. This, of course, does no good in the attitude department but there is some perverse pleasure in rolling around in its murkiness.

Recently, I had a week of craziness that piled its load of short straws on my back day after day. It started with a raging head cold, complete with oozy phlegm and achy body joints. Somehow, between sneezing and blowing my nose, my students received a lesson of sorts. In addition, it was my turn for before and after school supervision duty. I would rather fall on a fork than wrangle three hundred students in one room waiting for the day to begin. If you are picturing cherubic faces with their noses buried in books and homework, think again. It is like a birthday party for three-year-olds and Chuckles, the clown, hasn't shown up yet. My mantra is, "Ignore everything but blood." Easier said than done.

The "quick" trip after school to sign papers for a vehicle purchase also became grueling. The dealership was short on office staff so we were queued up like cattle in a chute. Ahead of us, was a very grumpy pants couple who had been given misinformation by their salesman. This, quite naturally,  resulted in a lengthy visit with the manager and more waiting time for us. Just as we were on the homestretch, the salesman offered us one more add-on package to consider. Timing, buddy, timing. I spat out a "No" before the eager little guy could give us one more reason why we were crazy not to jump at his peace of mind protection offer.

The weather threw a curveball for the final day of school. The two to four inches of predicted snow became twelve to fourteen inches of fluffy icing on our cars, streets and parking lots. Best of all, the after school busses were late so five busloads of pre-hyped middle schoolers were herded into the gymnasium to await their yellow missiles. The bleachers were filled with a roiling mass of noise and varying degrees of environmental awareness. After all that fun, I floundered my way to the parking lot, through knee deep snow, and excavated my car.

It took until Saturday to break the short straw curse. One of my favorite guilty pleasures (besides chips and cheesies) is a cream cheese danish. It is a game of russian roulette each time I visit the grocery store bakery. Sometimes there are no danishes. Sometimes the danishes are overbaked and sometimes there are only apple and lemon danishes. This particular day I spied the Holy Grail of danishes. It was filled with cream cheese and it had been given just the right amount of oven time. Best of all, there was a crumble of extra goodness perched in the middle of the danish. I have no idea what the crumbly mixture is made of but I always enjoy each bite. The danish was immediately added to my cart and I felt the world becoming a little less cranky with me.

Sometimes, in a world gone seemingly mad, all we really need is a well crafted cream cheese danish and a bus that arrives on time.

Going Home

The holidays are moving toward us at warp speed and plans are being made for gatherings, large and small. Whether your roundup involves a herd of relatives or just two people, one theme stays the same. Home. Distance, logistics, in-laws and life's detours often dictate our plans such that we may not be able to assemble at our childhood home base. Nevertheless, we have been blessed with the capacity to go home, not always physically, but surely mentally. Our senses trigger our ability to shift back in time.

The fragrance of sage and thyme sends me back to the turkey dressing we made in our childhood days. Homemade bread cubes were tossed with chopped celery, onions, poultry seasoning, butter (the real stuff), salt and pepper. No diced giblets, oysters or secret ingredients. No recipe, just the basics, please. Delicious, without a doubt. I still crave that herby bread transformation whenever I cook turkey. And for the record, it tastes best when baked in a well loved 9x13 metal pan.

Pies are the taste of the holiday with pumpkin often being the most beloved. For me, it is a pecan pie. Rich, nutty goodness nestled in a flaky crust. A small wedge is all that is needed. We did not have the luxury of ready made crusts so the rolling pin was called into action. Flour, ice cold water, egg, vinegar, lard (not a misprint, folks) and a pinch of salt melded into a doughy disc, ready to be flattened and transferred to a pie pan. Syrup, sugar, eggs, butter, Watkins vanilla, pecans and a pinch of salt completed the filling. Bake, cool and serve with a dollop of whipped cream, compliments of the family cow. One of my brothers did not like nuts so my mother sometimes made a pecanless pecan pie for him. No comment.

Elaborate tablescapes trigger no visual memories for me. The plastic tumblers used for glassware during the week were just fine for a holiday meal at our house. Holiday decorations were deemed cluttery and superfluous. We did, however, pull out the glass serving bowls and platters for the big meals. My very organized mother wrote out meal components on little slips of paper and placed each slip in the appropriate serving vessel. The mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes went into the large yellow Pyrex bowl. The farm grown corn, bathed in butter, was placed in the clear dish.  The sliced turkey was arranged on two platters. The turkey gravy went into another large Pyrex bowl with a ladle, no small gravy boat would ever do for serious lovers of the sauce.

The percussion of clanging pans, rattling dishes and murmuring voices stirs up thoughts of an awaiting meal. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room, kids chasing through, penultimate sounds of the final event. Finally, the women nod at at one another and the call goes out, "Let's eat." Chairs scrape across the floor as bodies wedge around a groaning table. A prayer of thanksgiving is shared as bowed heads pause for a moment of gratefulness.

I will not be able to go to my mother's home for the holidays anymore. Her new apartment in the assisted living facility cannot accommodate large groups and her ability to host events is no more. I am, however, able to go home with the fragrance of turkey dressing, a bite of pecan pie, the sight of a Pyrex bowl and the sound of meals being shared.

Hope you are blessed with a peaceful Thanksgiving.  

Ebb and Flow

Fall finally arrived in the upper Plains. For some, the loss of summer is nearly unbearable. For others, it is a blessed relief. No surprise that I identify with the latter. As my long-suffering husband often hears me say, "If I wanted New Orleans weather, I would live in New Orleans." Unfortunately, he had to hear that statement two months longer than usual. Thank you, El Nino.

The change of seasons provides a soothing orderliness to those of us who are perched upon the northern latitudes of the Earth. And there is no better way to experience this than a vacation during the transition months. My husband and I attempt to schedule a getaway during late spring and mid-fall. The chance to submerge oneself into the sights and sounds of a shiny new season is a delicious experience.

Spring is filled with tree buds, warbling birds and scurrying little critters. The air is ripe with possibilities and the sensation of warmth nuzzles the dormant into life. Our back road travels reveal palettes that stun the eyes. Sunlight streams into our cabin window, giving us longer days as the Earth begins its tilt toward the sun. Frogs croak their love songs when daylight wanes. Twigs snap as creatures of the night begin their nocturnal business.  Stars sparkle on a black velvet canvas.

Tourist businesses are also infected with the potential of spring. Shops are spiffed up in anticipation of a new season. Clerks are friendly and eager to please. Conversations are inquisitive and complimentary. Shelves are stocked with an assortment of come hither goodness. Outdoor tables are shifted into place as the smell of grilled food drifts through the air. Fudge shops display their wares in street side window cases, enticing chocoholics to abandon all restraint.

Fall crackles forth with eye-popping brilliance. The air is ripe with the pungency of burning wood and decaying leaves. The sepia toned landscape is filled with brown subtleties and blood red splashes from sumac trees. Daylight hours dwindle as the Earth's northern axis turns its back on the sun. Shadows slide across our cabin windows with a reminder that winter is on its way. Crows and chickadees banter back and forth with their avian conversations.  The darkness of night is entwined with brisk air and the sharp light of the moon. The terrain prepares for its winter rest.

Tourist caterers also begin their fade into fall. Heavily discounted items are pulled to the front of shops. Shelves are minimally supplied and boxes are scattered around, awaiting their winter storage. Restaurants list the menu items that are no longer available. Clerks experience a fragility that reflects a long season nearing its end. Customer service becomes less urgent and more obligatory. Hours of business are tapered and "closed for the season" signs begin to pop up.

Many of us in the northern plains may never experience the froth of the sea pounding on our doorsteps or the subtle recession of waves pulling water away from the landscape. We do, however, understand the power of masses revolving in our universe. We know and feel the rhythmic surge of spring and the ebb of fall. And we are grateful for the wonder of it all.

A Gift

Some folks line up early for concert tickets. I line up early for a car wash. Recently, I scored a hit by being the first one in line. It was a Saturday morning and the OPEN sign hadn't started flashing yet. The kids with the pants falling down to their calves adjusted their earbuds and coughed up the phlegm of a morning that arrived a little too soon. One young lad was doing the hippety hop as he squished his feet into a pair of knee high rubber boots. The jumbo fans roared into action and the scrubbing mechanical dreadlocks started swirling around, awaiting their first grubby vehicle. Finally, the OPEN sign crackled on and a young man approached my window. I gave him my order and left my vehicle in the hands of the saggy pants boys and the chamber of soap and water.

As I handed my signed receipt to the cashier, I noticed that he took a special interest in my name. He looked up at me and said, "I thought I recognized you. You were my teacher." I studied the young man's metal studded face and responded as I have learned to do after so many years in my profession, "Wow." (slight pause) "Please forgive me, but you will have to remind me of your name." He introduced himself and fortunately, I remembered which school and grade level I was teaching when he was in my class. We enjoyed a brief nostalgic moment and I stepped aside so he could wait on the next customer.

My vehicle was getting its final wipe down when I noticed a little kerfuffle near my vehicle. Soon, a young man entered the waiting area and informed me that he was ordering my vehicle through the line again. "They didn't vacuum the hatchback area and there are still bugs stuck to the front." I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and told him that they had forgotten to vacuum that area the last time I was at their car wash. I didn't catch it until I got home and I didn't feel the need to go back and report it. "Well", he said, "We'll get it right this time."

I went back to reading my book as I awaited another car wash round, thankful for the chance to read a few more pages and have a clean vehicle, too. I read just a couple paragraphs when my former student stopped by my chair and handed me a card. "Here, this if for you and your inconvenience today." I looked at the card and it said: Good for one free car wash. I looked up at my student and saw that he was grinning from ear to ear. My heart was overwhelmed with gratitude and I told him that I didn't mind waiting because it gave me a chance to continue reading my book. He giggled a little and headed back to his station.

I left the car wash with another thank you to my student and a quick smile and wave to the attendant who took such good care of my vehicle. As I eased out into the street, I got a little misty-eyed. It is no secret that there are times when teaching sucks the life out of a person. Mischievous students, heart-breaking family dynamics, endless paperwork, demanding parents, overflowing e-mails and countless needs can make one very weary. Funny, how a little card for a free carwash from a former student can wipe all of that away.

Maybe, we do make a difference after all.

All I Really Need to Know

About twenty-five years ago, a small treatise entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten was published. It sold over seven million copies and is still quoted in graduation speeches and motivational talks. As I entered my mother's assisted living facility a few days ago, it occurred to me that all I really need to know about life I am learning at her place of residence. I don't have the patience or skill to write a bestseller so I will condense my thoughts into a short list entitled, All I Really Need to Know I Learned at an Assisted Living Facility.

1) Dining is better done together--My mom has an assigned seat for all her meals and she is joined by five other residents at her table. They have become her dining family. They trade newsy facility gossip, talk about the weather and bemoan their aches and pains. And as with any good family, there are irritations. Mom still cannot abide by folks who do not eat their vegetables. Maybe that is why I love vegetables to this day. Well, maybe not eggplant.

2) Slow down--On a recent Saturday, I scurried into the facility with my hands full of stuff for mom. My mind was on overdrive as I ticked off items on my mental to-do list. Before turning down the hall to mom's room, I was greeted by the sound of a beautiful voice singing a favorite song of mine. I followed the sound and realized that a band was playing for the residents. I put my bags down and joined my mother. In between each song, mom leaned over and whispered, "Do you have time to stay?" Each time I replied, "It is this or go home to housework." She would giggle and we would enjoy the next song. Truth to be told, I didn't have the time to stay, I thought. But the music chipped away at my restlessness and I found myself lost in the joy of calm. We finished the concert with a hand clapping version of You Are My Sunshine. Some folks were awake for it, others were lost in their dreams, all were entertained.

3) Dress for comfort--Residents sporting elastic waistbands, Sass shoes and cozy sweaters are the fashionistas of the place. No stilettos or Spanx to be had. Mom says the only thing most residents have to worry about is a bad case of chair head so she dutifully runs her hair pick through her silvery hair each time we prepare to leave her room.  She is right. I have seen some serious cases of chair head in the place. It is to be feared.

4) Live in the moment--My mother is able to recall how many quarts of beans she canned each summer when she was raising all of us on the farm many years ago. But, she cannot remember what she said two seconds ago.  Loss of short-term memory has left her struggling to make sense of a world of appointments, checkbooks and recipes. So, we are learning to enjoy each moment as it happens. She still laughs at all my lame jokes as we sip Lady Grey tea together and she always says, "Thanks for stopping by" as she accompanies me to the veranda of her new home. She may not remember that I visited her, but she enjoys the time we spend together.

Feel free to use any part of my list in your next graduation speech. Just don't forget to wear your Sass shoes and comb your hair.

Hacks

Sometimes I am completely baffled by the morphing of words in our English language. Case in point, my name. I was christened Gay Lenore by my parents who were very happy to have a healthy baby girl after losing a son to spinal meningitis. Now, my name causes puzzled looks from younger generations and a hesitation to speak it aloud. I cherish my name but I have adopted variations in an attempt to make it easier for others to cope.

Lately, the word "hack" has bewildered me. Prior to the age of technology, the word had three meanings for me. One involved weapons of cutting destruction, e.g. The cat hacked a mouse to death. Another meaning involved bronchial activity, e.g. The cat hacked up another hairball. A third meaning referred to endurance, e.g. The cat was unable to hack the long ride to the vet. A more recent definition emerged with computers, e. g. All my cat videos were hacked.

I will spare you the complete etymology of the word "hack" but apparently the first known use of the word had to do with rearing young hawks. Fast forward a few generations and the word now means shortcut or helpful tip, e.g. One hack for stopping cats from upchucking on your carpet is removing all your carpet.

In the spirit of the latest meaning of the word hack, I have a few hacks of my own.

1) Fruit juice--No, I do not create cutesy drinks from fruit gone bad. I do, however, need a small amount of juice on occasion for a recipe. I am not a juice drinker so excess juice goes to waste. Enter, frozen juice concentrate. I can scoop out as much apple or orange concentrate as I need to make just the right amount of juice. No more aging juice containers staring me down in the fridge.

2) Golf pencils--I am a middle school teacher and there is one constant in my life. Students with no pencils. It is a time wasting activity for all parties as said students bother classmates and the teacher for a writing utensil. My blood pressure demands a simpler solution. Golf pencils. Boxes and boxes of them, 144 per box. Each stubby little sharpened pencil removes one more excuse for not being productive. Productivity equals happy teacher.

3) Dim lights--I was probably a mole in another life due to my aversion to bright lights. There are advantages to pale lighting besides matching my skin. Dust is less visible when the lights are down low and a bad hair day can seem a little less repugnant. Take my advice and view the world with a little less garishness.

4) Dressing rooms--Is there anything worse than trying on clothes in a fluorescent-lit, 2x2 space? I discovered that if I take my glasses off, I can focus on what is important, comfort and fit. I no longer obsess about the misshapen image staring back at me from the circus mirror. The hazy image is now my friend and I am able to shop without terror.

Enjoy a little hacking this week, be it chopping, coughing, saving time or fledging a baby hawk.

To-Do

It is back to school crunch time for students and teachers. My to-do list seems to grow longer by the minute despite my attempts to cross off accomplished tasks. It is also difficult to finish jobs when unforeseen circumstances set up speed bumps along the way. One day last week was particularly fraught with dead ends.

First on my list was a car wash. My vehicle was in desperate need of a cleansing, inside and out. The birds had baptized the exterior with a Picasso-like painting and the interior was sprinkled with the remnants of several 240 mile trips to and from my mother's house in preparation for the sale of her house. Added to the mix was Cheeto dust, Cheez-It crumbs, empty water bottles and one very large cedar chest. Definitely, time for a purge. As I approached the car wash, I noticed that it seemed a little slow. Yeah, no long wait. Then I read the sign: Closed for the week due to the installation of new equipment. Drat. Move on to item two on the list.

I needed a bag load of items from the drug store such as toothbrush, vitamins, shampoo, deodorant, the essentials for good hygiene and health. Unlike the car wash, the drug store parking lot was packed so no chance of it being closed. The extra service vehicles, however, should have been a red flag. Upon entering the store, it was evident that a water crisis had recently occurred. There were missing ceiling tiles, whirring fans and swishing mops everywhere. Many sections of the store were cordoned off by yellow caution tape. I attempted to weave my way through the maze but it became apparent that the majority of the items on my shopping list were located in the do-not-enter zones. I left the store with two items from my list. Not good.

On to the office supply store for printer ink. After years of staring blankly at rows and rows of ink cartridges, wondering which mystery box matches my computer, I finally problem solved my way to a solution. I have a picture on my phone of my printer and the ink box I need. Brilliant for my old lady brain. Duh, if you are under forty.

Pride goeth before a fall. As I hustled toward the store I realized that my phone was sitting on the file cabinet at home. My low-tech brain does not view my phone as an appendage so this is a common occurrence. Time was dwindling so I took a chance on purchasing an ink cartridge that looked vaguely familiar. No surprise that the only thing correct in the purchase was the brand name. Grrr. Add another trip to the to-do list.

At this point I added one last item to my to-do list: stop chasing. I tucked my crinkled list into my purse and called on a friend for what should have been on the top of my to-do list: spend time with people I love. I was able to accomplish that task and my to-do list woes faded away.

I hope your to-do list includes something joyful and relaxing this Labor Day weekend. All work and no play gives one a bad case of the grumpies.

Luscious

We all have moments when only one descriptor will suffice. The ragged hangnail dangling on my index finger is gruesome. The giant orange sun sinking below the horizon is stunning. The toddler riding along in a little red wagon is charming. The grease spot eternally clinging to my shirt is annoying. The cardinal singing from the treetop is refreshing.  The black and blue spot turning green on my knee is creepy. The incessant heat and humidity of summer is revolting. The zucchini plant churning out monstrous squash is fascinating.

And there are moments of lusciousness. Here are a few of mine.

1) Cool fronts--I am not a fan of sultry weather. I can achingly feel the dollars slip out the door as my air conditioner desperately attempts to squeegee the heat and humidity out of the air.  A cool front unloads sweet Canadian air into our midst, giving us the opportunity to open up our windows and breathe freshened air. Lusciously divine.

2) Peaches--I have eaten my share of sad, fibrous peaches which makes it all the better when I bite into a truly good one. The juice drizzles down my chin and arm as I slurp the sweetness from the silky fruit. The sticky aftermath just asks for more. Cobblers, crisps and pies are given new life and bedazzlement. Luscious ambrosia.

3) Socks--My feet enjoyed a great deal of freedom this summer but the time is quickly approaching when they will require a veil of protection. I have plenty of run-of-the-mill functional socks that dutifully give my feet a place to go before a shoe is donned. The socks that give me pleasure however are the cushy, well formed, non-slipping, cozy kind. They are weekend socks that pair nicely with a cup of coffee and a new novel. They are prized for their Goldilocks status--not too tight and not too loose. Snuggly lusciousness.

4) Bleach--Sad, but true. I love bleach. It is a cheap and effective cleaner and few germs stand a chance against it. I am certainly not a clean-a-holic but I cannot resist the power of bleach. I do not want the lemon scented, ocean breeze scented or fresh linen scented brands. I want the hard stuff and I respect what it can do for me and the grubbiness in my life. Luscious sanitation.

5) Autumn trees--They take my breath away. The cornucopia of colors splash the environment with delight. Blood red, lemon yellow, dusty tangerine, mottled green, rusty brown, grassy chartreuse and rich burgundy flutter in the breeze. Add a cool front to the mix and I am woozy with glee. Luscious kaleidoscope.

6) Cheese--I am not ashamed to say that I am addicted to the stuff. I love it in all shapes and sizes. It is tasty sliced, chunked, shredded, creamed or melted. It can be mild, sharp, peppery or tangy. It pairs well with sweet or savory. And nothing says finger licking good like a bag of puffs coated with fluorescent orange cheese dust. Luscious contentment.

I hope you experience a little lusciousness this week. Enjoy.

The Dream

The start of a new school year means many things. Shopping carts fill up with notebooks, pencils, art supplies and locker organizers. Clothing racks get a workout as new duds for school are perused and purchased. Squirmy toes are stuffed into shoes abandoned since last spring. Calendars fill up with tighter schedules. Swimming suits are given a final dip before being tucked into the bottom drawer. Frantic vacations are taken as the clock winds down.

Teachers also hop on the bus of increased activity. Posters are released from dark drawers and given wall space. Lesson plans are forged and polished. Books are counted and organized. Supplies are inventoried and distributed. Meetings portend the back to school frenzy. A sense of urgency wells up in the souls of all involved.

School cannot begin, however, until teachers experience The Dream. The Dream takes on many variations but the theme is always the same. I AM NOT READY! A typical dream scenario for me is a classroom full of restless, edgy students waiting for my arrival. The clock mercilessly creeps its way to the official start time of the day. I run at heart pounding speeds through a labyrinth of hallways like a rat in a maze. Each door I open leads me into the classroom of another teacher. I can't catch my breath but...I. do. not. give. up. Panic besets me as I round another corner only to see the principal. The mind games set in. Perhaps he is on his way to my room because he has been alerted to my tardiness. Maybe I should just catch up to him and confess my inadequacies once and for all. Run, check a door, run, check a door. The insanity takes its toll. Thoughts of a job loss take over. All the hallways start to look the same. It is no use. I am toast. My legs give out and I slip to the floor in an agonizing nod to a complete surrender. And then I notice the final assault. I forgot to put on my skirt.

Of course, I wake up at this point in the dream with my heart beating at fearful speeds. My mind takes a quick assessment of the situation. Is there a room full of students waiting for me? Not yet. Do I have lesson plans ready to go? Getting close. Is my classroom organized for the first day? Almost. Are my supplies purchased and organized? Yes. Do I know what I am going to wear on the first day? The skirt is ready.

I have learned a few things in my 27 years of teaching. The opening bell on the first day of school will happen whether I feel prepared or not. The butterflies in my stomach will take flight with the butterflies my students are experiencing. There will always be one more lesson plan to write and one more copy to be made. The computer will go all glitchy on me just when I need it most.

And the coffee will always be on so I can chase the dreams and cobwebs out of my head.

Jello

Pecan Praline Cheesecake. No problem. Herbed Focaccia Bread. Bring it on. Creme Brulee. With my eyes closed. Jello......Pause..... Read the box again. Breathe deeply. Boil the water. Stir the grainy crystals around. Add more water. Chill. Cross fingers.

It is true. I am afraid of Jello. The process of morphing hot liquid into a globular mass is baffling and I do not always want to be a part of the mystery. I know I should trust the collagen of boiled hooves to work their magic but I prefer less creepiness in my cooking. Fortunately, Jello is not on my radar of food cravings so I am able to avoid the little square boxes for the most part.

Jello does hold a few fond memories, however. Recently, my mother moved to an assisted living facility so my four sisters and I sorted through my mother's unneeded household goods. Along the way, we stumbled upon many treasures, especially in the kitchen. My mother fed seven cheeping children and a hungry husband for many years without a single fast food option or pizza takeout menu. Everything was from scratch and shortcuts were rare. We found evidence of her diligence as we pulled the old bean snipper out of her cupboard.  We used to french cut garden beans one by one, a task that was fun for the first ten beans, less so for the next eight hundred. Her vast array of baking tools are a testament to the many delicious treats we enjoyed throughout the years. I have no doubt that her cookie sheets alone delivered thousands of dozens of chocolate cookies to hungry little and big mouths.

The well-stocked cupboard of recipes gave us pause as we thumbed our way through culinary memories. The book that brought a shriek of delight was a small, hard covered book called, The New Joys of Jello. We recalled the jello salads that were standards in the 60's, 70's and 80's. Orange jello with fruit cocktail, strawberry jello with bananas, lime jello with pineapple, poke and pour jello cake, lemon jello with grated carrots (super yuck!!). One by one we admitted that our jello days were over. It was cathartic to know that my sisters, too, have moved on to new dietary delights.

Despite my release from Jello, I could not resist keeping the one dish that my mom always used for Jello. It is a vintage covered glass refrigerator dish with vegetable details on the lid. It was perfect for one box of jello with fruit add-ins. There was also room for real whipped cream topping when a little extra fanciness was called for. The dish is beautiful and somehow it has survived forty plus years of family life. I felt the need to continue its legacy of providing food for others.

I have no plans to ever put a jello salad in my charming new covered dish but it will be called into service once again. Less than 24 hours after its arrival in my kitchen it was proudly holding a garden pasta salad for my family. No need for saran wrap or foil, the glass lid fits snugly on the dish. I do think the original purpose of the dish was vegetable oriented as is evident in the corn, carrot and tomato detailing on the lid. It is time for the dish to return to its roots.

Now if I could just figure out a way to make it dishwasher and microwave safe, I would have the perfect dish.

 
 

Mason

My 87-year-old mother and I recently attended a graduation open house for my niece. As we enjoyed our ice cream sundaes, we discussed how quickly the grandchildren were growing up and how exciting it is when each one leaves the nest and begins a new future. My mother has twenty grandchildren with high school graduations under their belts, three to go.

We slurped down the last bite of our sundaes and our attention soon switched to the tasteful table decorations, a stack of three school books tied together with twine, topped by a Mason jar filled with a few fresh flowers. I am a Pinterest virgin so I am always in awe of those who know how to add an aesthetic touch to a setting. My idea of decorating is keeping everything in drawers and cupboards so I have less to dust. God bless those who rise above such laziness.

My mom was most interested in the Mason jar. She knows nothing about Pinterest's obsession with jars but she does know the utilitarian purpose of a jar (thank you, Mr. John Mason, circa 1858).  She sighed and remarked, "I canned a lot of food in jars like that." Her elderly friend at the table nodded her white-haired head and commented, "It was a lot of work."

Suddenly, the cute little jar with flowers took on a whole new meaning. Somewhere between the 1950's and the Pinterest era, the jar went from a symbol of diligence and preservation to an icon of cutesy quaintness. For my mother, it is still a reminder of the frantic frenzy brought on each summer by the relentless need to transport garden vegetables and seasonal fruit into neat rows of clear jars filled with green beans, red tomatoes, golden peaches and mahogany cherries. Our already warm kitchen was often heated up a few more degrees with blanching water burbling away on the stove and a mysteriously dangerous pressure cooker rattling away like Mt. St. Helens.  The tools of the trade were scattered throughout the kitchen, a metal funnel, lids with rubber seals, metal lid bands, a canning jar lifter thingy and lots of kitchen towels. Add to the mix a bunch of little helper hands and it is a day of industrious duty and moments of insanity. My mother was either very patient or oblivious to our shenanigans because I never remember her shooing us out of her way when she was canning. My guess is that our patience waned first and we slowly bowed out of the process and let the expert complete the task on her own.

Early in my married life I attempted canning, but commitment and relatively inexpensive canned goods at the grocery store sabotaged any long term efforts. One by one, my Mason jars became receptacles for objects other than beans and beets. Nothing cutesy, mind you, strictly pragmatic.

I suppose this is the part where I should call upon my readers to share charming little Mason jar ideas. Feel free to do so but I am afraid I won't be able to pass your ideas along to Pinterest. Unless you think a jar of paper clips has decorative potential.

Simply

We moved my mother to an assisted living facility this week. Room by room, closet by closet, drawer by drawer, we sorted everything in her home into three categories: Keep, Give Away, Dump.  No small task. Eighty-seven years of memories and accumulated possessions had to pass through a very small sieve called Room #7. Fortunately, my mother is not a saver and is also a very organized person. Nevertheless, a multitude of decisions had to be made.

Sometimes the decisions were easy. Her stack of forty Taste of Home magazines quickly went into the big black trash bag. We both confessed we love reading magazine recipes but never really get around to executing most of them. The assemblage of VCR tapes, cassette tapes and unidentified CDs were also given the heave-ho along with the aging electronic equipment that may or may not work anymore. Frankly, she never really figured out how to use any of it after Dad passed away despite our attempts to write out step-by-step tutorials for her. The TV and the remote went into the Keep category. The monstrous entertainment center was classified as Give Away. The jumbo speakers she was using as end tables by her couch went to techno heaven and the political DVDs followed closely behind.

The euphoria of easy classification was not the case for every possession. When we opened her office closet, our eyes settled on the shelves with the photographs. We both released an audible sigh and looked at each other with pained expressions. She did a brilliant job of organizing her photos into labeled albums and converting boxes and boxes of slides to CDs. Yet, sentimental is hard to classify as Keep, Give Away or Dump, especially when space is at a premium. We decided to do an off-site Keep. They are now safely tucked away in my basement awaiting a slow drizzle into mom's space. Hopefully, her organized albums will shame me into attacking my jumble of haphazard photos, negatives and camera detritus from the pre-digital era. Not holding my breath. Advance apologies to my daughter.

Many possessions inspired a memory or two. The large painting of a soaring eagle ignited a sparkle in mom's eyes as she told the story of how Dad loved eagles and the picture was an obvious choice for both of them when they needed something new above their couch. The little brown teapot I had never noticed before was a gift to her parents on their 50th anniversary. The scrapbook from the Lewis and Clark bus tour we took together several years ago brought out a shared glow of fond experiences. The box of specialty teas reminded us of the fun we had selecting a favorite tea and the ensuing laughter and conversation. The sets of Bible commentaries brought out her passion for teaching Bible studies throughout the years. We laughed when we recalled that "naughty class of Sunday School boys" she was asked to teach. She got them to behave which was a good thing because one of them became my husband.

Despite the challenges of making a monumental move, my mother maintained a positive attitude throughout the process. She kept saying there were only three temporal things she needed to make her happy. Her easy chair, a stack of crossword puzzle books and a bird feeder to watch from her window. Gratefully, we were able to make that happen. Life should always be so simple.

Dads

Father's Day is lurking around the corner and the purveyors of all things manly are ready to serve up the goods. Grilling tools, team logo caps, number one dad mugs and power tools promise to please the dads in our lives. Hallmark card verses range from the wacky to the sentimental to the musical. Grocery stores have plenty of steaks and burgers ready for backyard picnic gatherings.

Dads are indeed special. I witnessed two events within the past few weeks that reminded me of the unique flavor fathers add to a family unit. One happened on Mother's Day. I was hustling into the grocery store to pick up a few last minute items when I saw a young dad juggling a bouquet of flowers and a box of donuts. Trotting a few tiny steps behind his daddy was a little guy who knew they were about to cross the traffic lane in the parking lot. He looked up at his dad and realized there were no hands left for his safety tether. Without missing a beat, his dad quickly commanded, "Grab my pocket and stay close to me."  The boy immediately tucked his little hand into his daddy's pocket and they safely maneuvered their way to their vehicle. A mom in a similar situation would probably have the young tyke in the shopping cart so the child and the purchased items are all contained in one moving cage. Both methods achieve the same goal, safe transportation. The dad method had the element of risky trust in its execution, but dads know how to pull that off.

The second event also happened in the grocery store. (Yes, my social life revolves around grocery shopping.) A young mom was wrestling an oversized cart filled with two little girls and a few groceries. It was late afternoon and clearly, the girls had reached their patience limit, mom included. Suddenly, a gentleman came toward them, pushing an empty cart at a fairly good clip and nudged into the girls' cart. I expected to witness a mini-drama when I heard both girls giggling and squealing with delight, "Daddy!" Only a father can get away with playing bumper cars with a shopping cart. I watched the tension ease away from one exasperated mother as two little girls reached out for their dad. Dad took over so mom could shop in peace.

Not all of us have a dad for Father's Day. My own father passed away several years ago and I still have flashbacks of moments spent together. There were six siblings in competition for his attention but we never for a second doubted his love and loyalty to each one of us. He worked incredibly hard and faced health and business challenges without complaint to his children. His faith in God was evident in all he did and his motto each day (especially after receiving open heart surgery) was, "God has blessed me with another new day on earth."

Thank a dad this month, whether your own or the guy playing bumper carts at the grocery store. Fathers can make little kids giggle while moms are reminding them to "be careful."  Dads know how to walk on the wild side and still cross the street safely.

Thanks, Dad.

Stately

We lost an old friend this month. We met her many years ago when she was just a little tyke. We needed shade and aesthetic appeal near the corner of our newly built house so we planted her on the southeast part of our lawn.  Her shaggy bark and sprawling branches continued to grow and provide visual interest. The sun-shy hostas enjoyed resting at her feet. The melodic cardinals used her as a stage for their renditions. The squirrels raced up, down and all around her spiny racetrack and made flamboyant leaps from her limbs to our deck. Squawky robins hunkered down in nests built on penthouse branches with panoramic views.

Her name was Little River Birch and despite her moniker she grew to heights well beyond 30 feet. Her larger and dominant sister was planted a few yards from her so she was never far from kin. Both protected our home from the searing rays of the summer sun's power. Both gave us a sense of calm and order as their delicate leaves presented themselves each spring and left us in a yellow flurry when the calendar said Fall. Both framed our house with artful elegance.

Little River Birch's life was not without struggle. Her species is known for a malady called iron chlorosis. Her roots were unable to extract needed iron from the soil. Without expensive iron treatments, the long term prognosis was not good. We faithfully gave her the treatments she needed and I must confess I grumbled more than once as I wrote a check to the arborist. But, it never occurred to us to let her slowly die off so the checks were written and fingers were kept crossed. Little RB never rallied as heartily as her sister when treatments were administered and we always worried a little bit more about her future. Each year, her foliage was a little less lush and she dropped a few more branches. Not good signs when you are a tree.

And then the final blow came. Two years ago, a rogue spring ice storm walloped our city with a ferocity beyond precedence. The aftermath was a mass of trees twisted and tangled from the weighty strain of thick ice coatings. The wind and sharp temperatures added to the demise of hundreds of trees, power lines and exposed structures. Miraculously, we did not lose any of our trees but a severe pruning was needed for all of them as they dangled broken arms in a precarious manner. Little RB survived but never completely recovered from the trauma. The following season her branches struggled to produce buds in the spring and she shed her leaves hastily in the late summer.  

It came as no great surprise this spring when not a single leaf was produced by Little RB. Each day we longingly inspected her branches, hoping for a vernal miracle, but alas, it was not to be. An arborist was called. The prognosis was final. Little RB needed to be removed before the next wind storm passed through town. I took one last look at Little RB on my way to work and that evening I came home to an empty space.

I am not a tree hugger in the political sense of the word but anyone who lives in the upper midwest knows how precious trees are in this area. We live in a grassland biome and each tree is a symbol of tenacious resilience. Trees become longsuffering friends and we respect their contributions to our environmental relationships.

All that remains of Little RB is a dirt filled hole and fond memories. Her ashes are in an urn on our fireplace mantel. Just kidding. I am not that sentimental and I am certainly too cheap to buy an urn. Nevertheless, Little RB is missed and we might just wait a summer or two before we think about her replacement.

Rumbles

Coastal areas have their hurricanes. Fault lines have their earthquakes. Tropical lands have their monsoons. And the prairies have their thunderstorms. Big, roiling, pack-a-punch storms that threaten man and beast. Perhaps the intensity of our storms is magnified by the fact that we have few obstructions as we view a storm's development and course of action.

Long before Doppler radar and other such high tech detection devices, denizens of the plains learned to read the preface of imminent storms. Nature still sends cues to the observant. Some days begin with a heavy heat, laden with moisture and stillness. As the afternoon settles into evening, puffy, pillowy mammatus clouds signal a change in atmospheric conditions. Sometimes, the pregnant skies unpack themselves with little fanfare and other times, wind and hail are unleashed, forcing all to run for cover.

The gentle build up of marshmallowy clouds reaching toward the heavens often results in a cumulonimbus reminder that the day could end with a loud punctuation point. Flashing lights within the cloud mountain remind us that the show is just beginning. The direction of the air currents will determine whether the weather's instability will be viewed from afar or in our backyard.

Add a flattened anvil to the top of a cumulonimbus cloud and there is little doubt that a sucker punch is about to happen. It is best not to be out in the open when such a stormy beast rears its vicious head. Flash flooding and pelting hail can make for a miserable outdoor experience. Vehicles offer little comfort as the pounding of ice bullets threatens to break windows and smash eardrums.

Rip a cumulonimbus cloud to murky shreds and a wall cloud begins to form. The steely darkness slowly grinds along as it unleashes the turbulent pressure of the day. The air is filled with a mineral smell and fickle winds flutter and puff with a warning to take heed, now. The leading edge of a wall cloud threatens with cotton candy wisps, swirling into a vortex of danger. Daylight is stamped out by an inky curtain. At times, the prairie gets by with a scrubbing of horizontal sheets of rain and tumbling hailstones. Other times, a funnel flits between earth and sky, reminding all in its path that we are not in control.

We are entering storm season in the upper Midwest. The steamy moisture of the south is ready to duke it out with the icy chill of the tundra. This spring already gave us a schizophrenic thumping of snow, thunderstorms and tornadoes all in the same day, wreaking havoc with homes, travel and livestock. As spring unfolds into summer, there is only one constant. Storms.

Watch the sky. Be prepared. Revel in something bigger than yourself. And above all, know when to go underground. Prairie thunderstorms are equal opportunity events.

(No pictures of thunderstorms to share with you. Unlike my husband, I am usually in the basement when bad weather is brewing. If you like to look at clouds, NOAA has a great Sky Watcher Chart and information for the inner meteorological nerd in all of us.)

Spicy

A colleague of mine recently asked if I was ever going to spice up my blog. He was referring to another blog he was following that had become.....well, let's just say, "informational."  I reminded him that my blog is for those who are not afraid to live with beige and I am an old school girl. Some things are best said only in a diary with a little key attached.

Just to be clear, even the lives of beige people can contain a little spiciness. In fact, just this week I experienced a few heart pounding moments as I drove my car well beyond the recommended mileage for gas consumption.  Idling at a very busy intersection with the little red gas pump symbol flashing at me and the zero-miles digital reminder is all it takes to get my blood racing. Trudging to a gas station with a red can is akin to wearing a scarlet letter "S" for stupid. I made a mental note to be more proactive at the pump.

Teaching middle school students has its snappy moments as well. There is nothing that says trauma better than herding 350 fidgeting adolescents into a stuffy auditorium for a group presentation. My fellow teachers and I post ourselves strategically throughout the aisles as our eyes furtively seek out malfeasant activity. We zoom in with laser like precision as we pluck out any stinkers, all the while smiling and nodding along with the presentation. Middle school assemblies are always just one rabble rouser away from chaos, therefore, vigilance is not optional.

Filing income taxes is another Bates motel event. It is anybody's guess how that will end. Each year I confidently pull out my file folder marked "Taxes" and smugly believe it will contain all the information we need for our accountant. Each year I realize that pride goeth before a fall as my husband and I slog through piles of random receipts, only to realize a few of the most important documents have gone AWOL. And each year I wonder if our marriage can survive another year of filing taxes. Miraculously, vital scraps of paper are located, numbers are crunched and a check is grudgingly written. We emerge from the tax office, vowing to read the tome called Taxes and You. (I am not even going to address the brochure my husband picked up at the office entitled, Divorce & Taxes.) We continue to cling to our dream of becoming tax savvy citizens, despite our dismal track record.

Last, but not least, we have rhubarb, a fruit/vegetable/greenish-red plant that has enough pucker power to shame a lemon. We live on the edge of toxicity each time we pull the leaves off the prized stalks, wondering if anyone has ever died from a rhubarb plant. An hour later we have the smell of a pie edging out our horticultural fears and we happily dish up another piece of dessert goodness.

There you have it. Life in the fast lane with a beige person. If you need a little more spiciness, you are just going to have find the key to my diary. Be prepared to weep.

Tomato Jam

Some combinations defy logic and good sense. Avocado ice cream. Quiet children. Easy puzzles. Shadeless windows. Smooth transitions. Lowfat cheese. Small problems. Four season porches in the upper Midwest. My husband and me (almost 40 years of opposites attracting).

Recently, I stumbled upon another interesting combination, tomato jam.  I vaguely remember some such jam recipe many, many years ago in an attempt to tame a bumper crop of tomatoes. Blame it on a poor recipe or an unrefined palate, the jam never made it to the table. Fast forward thirty plus years and I am back at the stove watching a burbling mass of tomatoes, onions, sugar and ginger work its way into a jammy concoction. I am skeptical and intrigued as I taste and retaste. To be sure, this is not your mother's toast topper. The crimson jam's savory sweetness is best reserved for its true destination, meat. Lamb, to be precise.

I am on a determined quest to conquer the world of lamb, despite no background whatsoever with the bleating little hoofers. My protein needs as a child were provided by our farmstead homies, chicken, beef, pork and an occasional pheasant. Not a lamb in the herd. It wasn't until I ordered lamb chops at a restaurant that I discovered there was nothing to fear from the sheep. In fact, the taste was delightful and I needed more.

Thanks to the lamb procurement adventures of my brother-in-law, I currently have a freezer filled with lamb options. Marinated lamb chops, braised lamb shanks and Moroccan lamb stew deliciously warmed our bellies this winter. The lamb spareribs were tested and will not make another appearance on our table. The leg of lamb surprised us with less flavor than expected and challenged me to look for a flavor punch.

Enter, tomato jam. And an adventurous husband. We sliced the leg of lamb leftovers and layered them on homemade focaccia bread with a generous helping of the peppery sweet jam. Munch. Taste. Determine flavor profile. Nibble. Another bite. More jam. Add a little cooling yogurt sauce. Taste again. One more bite. Heads nodding. Mmm, leg of lamb sandwiches with tomato jam and yogurt sauce. Add it to the recipe repertoire.

And here is the best part. Old people can try new things. And like them. We may look longingly at the pasture across the fence and wonder if that is where we should be spending our time. But deep down inside we know that we still want to nibble on a little tomato jam once in awhile.

Keep your gates open. You never know which herd is going to show up.

Falling Star

One joy of living on the prairie is space. As much as I enjoy trees, mountains, oceans and lakes, my heart always settles when I am back on a grass studded landscape and my eyes can relax into a sea of subtlety. It is a place where shades of green, brown and gold are punctuated by a wildflower or two. It is a place that can be much maligned or valiantly revered. It is a place that sets forth no pretense of being flashy or instantly gratifying. Its harshness rasps off the unsubstantial and its gentleness nurtures the delicate. It is, most assuredly, not a terrain for the faint of heart.

Finding treasures on the plains is about contrast. Scanning a calm night sky can result in a gasp inducing falling star. Tromping through knee-high vegetation can stir up a circus of jumping grasshoppers. Listening to silence is quickly accompanied by a meadowlark's lilting ditty. Abandoned country roads are traversed by pickup trucks bobbing along with a determined purposefulness.

Perhaps one lesson of the prairie is learning to appreciate the mundane. Despite a steady stream of Facebook posts and Twitter feeds to the contrary, I suspect many of us live relatively flatline lives. We do laundry, dust furniture, go to work, sit in the dentist's chair, watch television, unload the dishwasher, mop up spills and make soup. Our eyes scan another ordinary day with a sigh. We wonder if a life of duty will make us dull. We long for a falling star.

It is time to embrace our inner prairie. Do not be afraid to rejoice in the balm of the ordinary. Celebrate duty as an opportunity to serve and obey. Smile when a bird sings. Fling open the curtains to peek at what will paint the sky today. Send a real birthday card and sign it in cursive. Drink two cups of coffee in a row. Skip a week of dusting, or two, or three. Eat cheese curls in the car. Play the piano. Sew on a button. Water a plant. Read casserole recipes. Buy a new broom. Pray.

Give the prairie a chance to send down deep roots and do what needs to be done. And, hey, if a falling star comes your way, stop and enjoy a moment even Pinterest cannot duplicate.

Baton

Spring is track and field season, or so they say. I have never had the skill or competitive inclination to run in oval patterns, jump over mini-fences, free fall from poles or hoist big stones. I am content to participate in less vigorous activities and eat cookies.

Spring is also the season of teacher fatigue. After grinding away through three quarters of hope, mercy and prodding, reality sets in with a deafening thud. Students continue to hand in late assignments, if at all. Class clowns find their audiences ever ready for another show. Copy machines squelch out obscene messages such as "paper jam". E-mail inboxes fill up with lists of students who are traveling thither and yon. The number 2 pencil of standardized testing is replaced with computers, earbuds, passwords and fickle internet connections.  And, perhaps the most challenging of all is the realization that there are a few students who might not win the school game this round.

They are the students who go home with us in our heads. They take up mental space as we drive to and from work. They force us to play the "What If" game. What if I moved her closer to my desk, or if I worked with him during lunch or if I called his mother again or if we started a new behavior contract. If, if, if. The perplexing swirl of uncertainty grates away at the bedrock of progress and makes us weary with doubt.

Maybe, it is better to take off the teacher glasses and put on a coach's hat in the spring. The school year is really a lot like a relay race. Students are handed off to us by their guardians and their previous year's teachers. We read the rule books and practice our hand offs, we know how all of this should work. We grab the baton with gusto and begin the run. Run, breathe, run, breathe. Make it happen.

Then the variables set in. Unforeseen slippery spots appear on the track.  Headwinds buck our progress. Opposing teams get into our heads. Fingers feel numb to the baton. Legs feel like jello. Self talk turns incriminating. The finish line is nowhere to be found. Give it up, give it up. Gut it out, gut it out. What's it going to be?

Teachers gut it out. We know this race called a school year. Some variables can be controlled and others are out of our reach. We are handed batons of regulation size and we are handed batons that are too heavy or too slippery or too large. We start around the track, believing we can win and resist the urge to look back and ask for a new baton. Win or lose, we chug forward.

And when the time comes to hand off the baton to the next team player, we know that we had a part in whatever the scoreboard eventually displays. Maybe it isn't our turn to have the best career stats. Or maybe the variables will get the best of us on occasion. But, by gumby, we show up and we run. We run with the belief that races can be won and that no baton is ours to keep forever. Pass it on and take a breath.

Wild Plums

Fruit. The botanical temptress of both man and beast. Those of us living in the upper Midwest are all too aware of this fact. Yes, we can purchase squishy berries shipped in from Chile or sad little mangoes from...I don't know where, but the taste will never be the same as eating a peach or strawberry recently harvested from nearby locales. During the winter months, many of us resign ourselves to eating apples, oranges, apples, oranges and bananas. Occasionally, we might pick up a pear or two to spice things up and if we are really feeling exotic, we will go for a parsnip. Technically, not a fruit but they look dangerously able to keep scurvy at bay.

The most delicious fruit memories for me happened during my youth. The countryside was a perfect playground for foraging little vagabonds and we took full advantage of the seasonal opportunities. Our grove of trees included a few wild plum bushes, Prunus americana. Late spring saw the plum bushes sprouting sweetly fragranced white flowers with the promise of abundant fruit a few weeks later. Our daily trek to the mailbox at the end of the grove included a spot check on the plum situation. When the word went out that the fruit was ready to go, the urgency to beat the birds began. We brought out the little buckets and did our best to fill them fuller than our stomachs. No easy task. The branches on a wild plum bush are armed with thorns, demanding a deft hand and a keen eye. The first plum picked was ceremoniously popped into the mouth and the tart sweetness was declared delicious. We proceeded to pick and eat, pick and eat until our bellies could hold no more and our buckets had a reasonable amount of fruit for a jar or two of jam. In reality, wild plums are a thick skinned, mealy and sour fruit, hardly the food of gourmet distinction. We didn't know that. All we knew is that winter had released its glacial grip and spring had offered us a gift of juicy pleasure.

A little later in the season, the mulberry trees, Morus rubra, began sharing their bounty. Our jackpot tree was located down a rutted dirt road, through a barbed wire fence and across a few yards of prickly, stickly pasture land. The trek usually involved a jumbo-tired bicycle and a selfish doggedness to beat the rest of the siblings to the treasure trove. Occasionally, we brought a bucket with us but that was for prop purposes only. We all knew that the sticky sweet berries had only one destination and that was our stomachs. My mother was a wise woman and our attempts to convince her that the birds had gotten most of the fruit were trumped out by our blue stained fingers and shirts. I don't remember that she ever scolded us for our greediness but I also know that we never had an abundance of mulberry jam.

Our most prized culinary harbinger of spring wasn't a fruit at all. It was asparagus, Asparagus officinalis. The precious little spears nuzzled their way out of the cool ground and we watched them with an anticipation given to most newborns. When we could stand the wait no longer, the stalks were snapped gently at the base and gingerly taken up to the house for the first fresh green treat of the season. Usually the diners outnumbered the spears so each asparagus gem was parsed out with great care. To this day I enjoy the buttery "juice" left over from the boiled asparagus because that is often all that was left after the bowl had made it around the table to me. (Full disclaimer: My siblings often disagree with my table memories.)

We are just a few days away from the official vernal equinox and it is not too soon to get the fruit dessert recipes ready to go. Rest assured, we will enjoy every bite of what the sun has to offer.

Peevish

Pet peeves. We all have them. They don't have to make sense but they do drive us senseless. No matter how much we try to ignore them or sing another refrain of "Let It Go", pet peeves continue to niggle us. Occasionally, we are able to set one aside, but most often we are plagued with a persistent few that set our teeth into a grinding motion. Here are a few of mine.

1) Encroachment--I prefer to grocery shop when the rest of the world is sleeping in, but when I find myself caught up with the masses, I am quickly subject to muscle tension. This is especially true when I am going through the checkout line and the customer behind me insists on nudging a cart into my space. It is not like there is any doubt where their cart ends and my ample behind begins. It is more a case of urgency without respect to boundaries. It is difficult to sign my name on the card dealy-bob when I have a cart stuck in my rib cage and and my body is askew. Manners, people, manners.

2) Pop-up ads--One does become numb to the barrage of ads that troll around on our computer screens on a daily basis but there are occasions when it is difficult to ignore the flashing, spinning, cannot-find-the-close-button ads. In addition, there are the belly fat pictures, miracle cures from strange tropical fruits and, in my case, old age stuff. Creepy. And not tempting.

3) Dust--How is it that two people, living extremely dull lives, can generate a coating on so many surfaces in so little time? Nancy Neatnik, I am not, but I do feel slovenly when I see my butt print on the piano bench after I stand up. Not sure if I am more depressed about having to dust again or the size of that butt print.

4) Dibbles--Strictly defined, a dibble is a gardening tool. In my world, dibbles are the leftover bits and pieces from meals throughout the week. Cooking is not an exact science. There always seem to be a few leftover beans, one stray pork chop, a half container of yogurt, one clump of grapes and other such non sequitur items. Thus, there are times we have a dibbles meal with all the gusto of a sloth. More likely, I do the fridge purge and say a prayer for the starving citizens of the world.

5) Prescription drug commercials--They always start out with happy, smiling folks embracing a life free of some malady. And then the shoe drops. Boy Howdy. It is hard to stay focused on contentment when the list of possible side effects is finally disclosed. I am not sure I could muster up the courage to ask my doctor for a drug that can potentially cause double vision, leprosy or persistent diarrhea.

Hope you have a peeve free week. And if you like to dust, just let me know. I can make you really happy.