Plans

(Warning: My photos will be more pathetic than usual due to an unfortunate
incident with my sad little camera. I am using my semi-dumb phone in the meantime.)

Living in the upper Midwest during the winter months means staying flexible with travel plans. Last weekend, we were looking forward to attending my nephew's out of town wedding. A personal day for me was requested and approved. A hotel room was booked. Sub plans were made. Anticipation of seeing my far-flung family was brewing. And then winter storm Decima huffed and puffed her way across the upper plains. We did as all mid-westerners do when a storm is imminent, check the weather, check the weather and check the weather again, The forecast was not good. The word "breezy" used by our weathermen is a bad sign. Air temperatures of 25 degrees below zero, also not so good. Add to the mix, several inches of downy snow and we have the trifecta of nasty travel. Slowly, I wrapped my head around the fact that we were not going to attend the wedding. The hotel room was cancelled. The suitcase was returned to its dusty shelf. Messages were sent to the wedding party regarding our disappointment. Plan B would be the plan. No wedding.

The good news is my college nieces were able to make their ten hour drive to our house before the storm hit. Their parents live in a different country so we are blessed to have them around when they need a place to hang out. Seeing their car pull into our driveway and watching them lug suitcases, piles of blankets and personal goods into the house took the sting out of Plan B. Hugs and relief for safe travels were shared as they wrestled their belongings into new spaces. Their glazed eyes and weary bodies made it clear they needed a good night's rest and some home cooked meals.

As I write this post on the day after their arrival, my heart is experiencing great peace. Niece #1 is tap-tap-tapping away on her laptop. She has two more papers to write and submit before midnight tonight (official end of the semester). I asked her if she does her best work when the wolf is at her door and she replied, "Yes, but you have to be careful. Sometimes the wolf eats you." Niece #2 is strumming away on her ukulele, experimenting with vocalizations and different chord patterns. Look out Don Ho!

The fragrance of cookies baking in the oven permeates the house in anticipation of Christmas treat trays to come. Quality control sampling is enjoyed. Okay, I confess, we are going a little beyond sampling. We will just adjust the size of our Christmas trays. Or bake some more. A hotdish made of meat, potatoes and carrots, affectionately dubbed "comfort casserole" by my nieces, awaits its turn in the baking chamber for a hearty evening meal.

A glance out the window confirms Decima's arrival. Fluffy flakes of snow drift and swirl as the winds whisper their blustery intentions. The downward march of the temperature reminds me the forecast of 25° below zero is quite probable. Birds flit in and out of my bird feeding station as they frantically gorge themselves in anticipation of things to come. A regal hawk swoops in and perches on the deck railing. His gaze confirms his place in the food chain. The little birds stay hidden until the coast is finally clear.

Whether you are experiencing Plan A, B or Z this holiday season, my wish for you is a very Merry Christmas! Eat cookies, drink tea and play the ukulele if you happen to find one handy.

Faves

Despite my tendency to eschew all things tinsel and holiday, I do find myself getting caught up in a few favorite traditions each year for the Christmas season. Mind you, I haven't sent a Christmas card in twenty years and I only put up a Christmas tree (miniature and artificial) if my son-in-law and daughter are making the long trip home. This year, the only thing that hints of Christmas at my house is the poinsettia plant my long-suffering husband purchased in an attempt to brighten up my beige world. I will, however, participate in the following traditions. Maybe.

1) Fudge--Who doesn't love a pound of butter, three cups of sugar, cream and a bag of chocolate chips melted and poured into a baking dish? Sometimes I have to make two batches because the first round doesn't last long enough to make it to the family gatherings. Oops.

2)  Wild Rice Soup--More cream and butter, please. Onions, celery, mushrooms and wild rice add a little healthy to the mix. It's the perfect way to add some cozy to Christmas Eve. And it is crockpot friendly, so easy peasy. 

3)  Holiday movies--My husband cannot pass up "It's a Wonderful Life." I get a little weary of Clarence floundering around in the snow and tinkly bells ringing, but it is undoubtedly a classic. I prefer "The Christmas Story" with tongues stuck to flag poles and perilous BB guns. Ralphie's decoder ring reminds us all how important Ovaltine is in our lives. 

4)  Chocolate covered cherries--Oozy liquid goo surrounding neon cherry centers is just wrong. But somehow a box of these always lands in my shopping cart.  I mumble something to the checkout lady about needing a last minute gift. Moments later, my chin is painted with a little cherry drizzle and it's game over. Good thing the boxes are rather small.

5) Schaums Christmas Cameos--During my 7th grade year (don't even try to do the math on that one), I received two Christmas piano music books. A recording went with them so I could hear what the songs were really supposed to sound like if executed properly. I never attained such perfection but every Christmas I dust off my books and play the songs once again. The pages have become soft with wear and the covers are long gone, but "What Child Is This" never gets old.

6) Calm--This one cannot be baked, bought or borrowed. It demands a little soul searching and prioritizing. I like to filter my choices with the simple question, "Is this really necessary?" Coffee and a good book definitely stay on my "to do" list. Decorated, rollout cookies, not so much.

Be courageous and trim a little craziness from your schedule. If you like wrapping gifts, go for it. If you don't, stick with gift bags or better yet, cut down on your gift list. If you like decorating, adorn to your heart's content. If not, gaze upon your favorite potted plant or photograph. If baking isn't your thing, buy a few treats and some peppermint stick ice cream. No woman should be measured by her ability to create the perfect holiday for others.

Clubs

For many of us, the frenzy of roasted turkey, pumpkin pies, family gatherings and holiday parades is beginning to fade. I was blessed with a very low-key holiday this year so I had the luxury of time to reflect on gratitude. I am thankful for the usual suspects: my family, co-workers, friends, warmth and food on the table. I am also grateful for clubs. Not the hit-you-in-the-head kind or establishments pulsating with loud music and weird lights. The clubs I appreciate are the ones where two or three are gathered for a common cause. The list is endless. Chess clubs for the analytical folks, bird-watching clubs for those with eyes on the sky, running clubs for people who like to run (hard for me to write run and like in the same sentence), Star Trek clubs for Klingons and book clubs for those who like to read or gather with friends for snacks.

My earliest memory of a club is from my childhood church. We had a girl's club called Calvinettes. Mercifully, the name has changed but the purpose remains the same: equip young women for a life of service to God and others. Each meeting began by standing tall, cinching up our little white club scarves with club embossed leatherette slides and following our leaders in a prayer, Bible verse and theme song. Our leaders were women volunteers from the church. They led very busy lives with many family demands but they stepped up to the plate to give me and my squirrelly little friends a chance to explore who we were and where we were going in life.

One of our favorite club activities was working for badges to be sewn on our scarves. A list of tasks needed to be accomplished before the badge could be issued. During my era, many of the badges dealt with homemaking tasks. I enjoyed cooking and baking so it was not a problem achieving those badges. Knitting and sewing were another story, however. A very longsuffering leader did her best to teach our group how to "Knit one, Purl two". The goal was to create a little dog that could be stuffed and added to our bedroom menageries. Mine looked like a maimed possum in lavender. I thought my sister's dog looked even worse (sorry, sis). Our ever-encouraging leader never gave up on us despite our obvious shortcomings. I suspect she was thrilled when the badgework was completed.

Another badge involved darning socks. For those of you under the age of fifty, darning is the ancient art of repairing holes in socks and other fabrics. Each of us was given a darning egg (think toy rattle without the jingle) and a large needle with chunky thread. It was knitting class all over again for me. The tumor I produced on my sock was not only an eyesore but I am sure a blister waiting to happen if I ever intended to wear the sock. I remember thinking I better get a decent job someday so I could buy new socks instead of darning them.

Most likely, I never personally thanked any of my faithful club leaders. They led our meetings, taught us new skills, chaperoned our outings, planned our parties and genuinely cared for our well-being.  I took their selflessness for granted but I am humbly grateful for their service. They inspired me to go on and achieve my junior counselor rank (came with a snazzy sash) and later, I became a senior counselor for my daughter's club.

So, here is my heartfelt thank you to all of my club leaders. You may have not been able to teach me how to knit but you certainly gave me a place to belong and bloom.

.5

A stranger moved in next door. At least, that was his status five years ago when the For Sale sign was removed from the lawn of the house to the east of our home. I did the snoopy neighbor thing and tried to piece together his identity by the contents of the moving van. It looked as though he was moving in alone and had lived a life of some means. Nothing flashy but nothing too flimsy, either. His gray hair and demeanor indicated a possible retirement status and the large snowblower he unloaded was a sign of Midwestern roots. It looked like he would be a quiet neighbor and I approved.

Soon after his arrival, the neighbor to the south of us shared a morsel of news that changed everything. The new guy had a past and it wasn't pretty.  In fact, our southern neighbor announced his decision to put his home on the market. He did not want his young family exposed to such things. We expressed our sympathy to the young man but we knew in our hearts that moving would not be an option for us, timewise or financially. We were neighborhood oldies and had seen many folks come and go. We were prepared to interact with the new resident with as much grace as we could muster.

Fast forward five years to a dinner party at the home of the couple who purchased the house to the south of us. Seated around the table were four neighborhood couples and one single gentleman. Depending on the juxtapositions of our homes, we knew little or much about each other. Our common denominator was the man with a past.  For two years, he had tried to gather us together so he could treat us to an evening of food and fellowship. As busy schedules would have it, nothing worked out until last week. Introductions and stories began to flow as the melt-in-your-mouth smoked ribs were passed with the homegrown corn and beets. And, of course, no Midwestern meal is complete without cheesy potatoes and thick slices of warm bread.

It wasn't long before we realized how closely related we were in our life experiences and personal connections. We knew mutual friends and relatives. We had visited similar locations in our travels. We endured early career hiccups that have morphed from traumatic to amusing with the passage of time. We cleared many sidewalks for each other after snowstorms. We mourned the loss of youthful vitality and embraced the urgency of capturing joy in life's fleeting moments. Our stories were punctuated by laughter and nods of empathy.

Near the end of our meal, the guy with a past raised his glass in a toast. "When I moved to this neighborhood I was, not unexpectedly, met with opposition. I wondered if I would be able to stay. Gratefully, each of you around this table let me be your neighbor and for that, I say, thank you."

We are Midwesterners, unaccustomed to compliments, but we raised our glasses and thanked our new friend for bringing us together. We all agreed the old adage of six degrees of separation is not really true after all. We are more likely a half degree away from each other. It just takes a dinner party and a few good snowstorms to find that out.

Goodness

When posed with the question, "What do you do for a living?" I, of course, respond, "I am a middle school teacher." Inevitably, the reaction from young and old alike is a cringe followed by, "Eew, how do you do it?" I often reply, "I just teach them. I don't take them home." This usually breaks the ice and the conversation train gets rolling again.

Without a doubt, middle school students can be a strange and curious bunch. One minute a girl is all giggly and hair twirly with her friends and the next minute she is sobbing in the bathroom because she just broke up with the only boy she will ever love. Boys jostle through the halls, making sudden leaps into the air as they prove to each other they can touch the top of door jambs (a conquest, indeed). Two best friends on one day become mortal enemies the next. Clothing choices and hair colorations test the waters of acceptability. Quirky rituals such as finger flapping, bottle flipping and taki eating gain cult followings. (Don't worry if the prior sentence makes no sense. The rituals make even less sense to teachers.) Student sizes range from diminutive to towering. Chatter is about who is going out with whom, who is mad at whom and who is getting back together with whom.

Blessedly, middle school is also filled with moments of sweet kindness. A few weeks ago, I was teaching a riveting lesson on the nitrogen cycle, root nodules and symbiotic bacteria. As I finished my lesson, I noticed Betsy holding a kleenex to the nose of Ella. While the rest of the students finished their written assignment, I asked the girls if anything was wrong. Betsy replied,  "Ella has a bloody nose and I am helping her stop it." I asked Ella if she needed to go to the nurse. "No, I get these a lot. I will be okay." Betsy nodded, "I think she is better now." With that, they both returned to their work.

What struck me about their interaction is that the two girls come from very different worlds. Their skin color is not the same. They travel with different circles of friends. Betsy comes from a stable, comfortable home. Ella comes from a home with many challenges. One is usually calm. The other is often restless. It would not have surprised me if Betsy chose to work on her assignment rather than help Ella. Something as intimate as a bloody nose usually calls for the intervention of a close friend or adult. Betsy chose otherwise.

I often share with parents that I can teach students science but I cannot always teach them kindness. Certainly, we promote helping others and we praise caring actions. But, the heart of a child is profoundly molded by watching others. Betsy's gesture of tenderness sent a bold message to all those around her, including me. I confess that I am beyond weary with the political vitriol of recent months. I needed the actions of two young girls to remind me that there is hope for the future.

Kindness wields the sharpest sword.

Sensible

One of the largest retail centers in our area made a breaking news announcement this past week. The Mall of America is keeping its doors closed on Thanksgiving Day. No more pre-Black Friday sales and no more cars circling the parking lot before the turkey has grown cold on the table. I am not naive enough to believe no retail sales will happen for the Mall on turkey day. Internet enticements will drip into the veins of the hard core bargain addicts, no matter what day it is. What is encouraging, however, is that one retail center decided to take a stand against the madness and allow the majority of its workers a chance to spend time with family, friends or self. Whether they are eating yams, curry or pho, matters not. A break before the oncoming holiday crush is good for the soul.

I understand the need for health care providers and public safety workers to work on holidays. Lives are at stake in their world (thank you for your service, by the way). But, being required to work so someone can purchase a six-pack of soda for half price or an electronic gizmo at near cost is baffling and quite frankly, embarrassing. The word Thanksgiving implies being grateful for the blessings you have been given, not the ones you feel compelled to purchase. Standing in line like vultures taking turns with carrion sends a message of greed and excess.

Full disclosure, I am not a shopper. Thus, I find it easy to support the Mall's decision. I have friends and family, however, who enjoy holiday shopping as a family outing. Not my cup of tea, but not a problem for me, either, as long as the shopping does not force retail workers to work excessive hours. I am also aware that some retailers offer their workers extra pay on holidays. How about this: give everyone a raise for their service every day and assure them that they will get a few holidays off. Workplace contentedness is priceless.

Undoubtedly, I have lost thousands of dollars in retail savings opportunities over the years. It is also a given that I will never have a retail entity reach out to me for help in hawking their wares via my blog (you're welcome). But, I don't think my quality of life has suffered. Yes, I am writing this blog on an aging Chromebook with a big chip gouged out of its side and a cord that needs just the right amount of finesse to stay charging. Yes, the couch I am sitting on is a bit of a sad sack. And, no I don't own a phone that is very smart. Despite my lack of worldly goods, I have been able to keep a job (thank you, co-workers), maintain a family and bake a mean cheesecake.

I can feel the upcoming holidays in my bones and see them in the aisles already. And, obviously, I am getting a bit cranky at the thought.  But, one thing will remain the same. I am staying home for Thanksgiving. And Black Friday. And most days. Sorry in advance to anyone expecting the perfect gift from me. Will a cheesecake do?

Fronts

It has been an unusually wet fall in the upper midwest this year. Blame it on global warming, climate change or God's hand in nature, it matters not much to me. In this part of the country we are accustomed to taking whatever we are dealt.  In fact, I think we take a rather perverse delight in the mercurial swings  of unstable weather patterns. Man vs. nature. Only the creatively strong thrive in such a habitat.

A couple of weeks ago, a storm front parked itself atop our fair city and dumped over four inches of rain on all things living and otherwise. One of our school parking lots is built on low ground next to a retaining pond. My vehicle, along with many others, contentedly stable up in the lot each morning until the final bell rings. That particular day, the rains came down and the floods inched up. Finally, the message went out that all vehicles needed to be moved, stat. The retaining pond was overflowing and a new river was forming.

The reality of teaching is that one cannot leave twenty-eight squirmy middle schoolers unattended or it's Lord of the Flies revisited. Fortunately, my dear colleague ran into my room and covered my class so I could rescue my vehicle. I grabbed a jacket (not rain proof) and waded out to my vehicle. The water rushed up toward my knees as I sloshed to my car door. Thankfully, the water was just below the door's threshold so no water entered the vehicle, other than from my soaked being. I drove up to high ground a block away and hustled back to my classroom through the pouring rain.  As I entered the classroom, I made an attempt to compose myself. Dripping water from my hair, skirt and jacket created a puddle everywhere I stopped. Even my best days are bad hair days so let it be said, I was a sad sight. My colleague dashed out to her vehicle and encountered the same scenario so at least misery had company. My students gave me assessing looks and I stated, "And you thought I couldn't look worse." They nervously giggled and secretly hoped they would never get old and have to run through rainstorms.

The next day, I pulled my vehicle into the same parking lot, in the same low corner, near the same retaining pond. Some part of my brain scolded me for not learning my lesson. That was overridden by the standard midwestern mantra, "It could have been worse." My vehicle was not harmed, my clothes dried out, my jacket dripped out the last of its moisture and my sandals lived to see another day.

Since that storm, several more fronts have ground their way through our area. Some brought warm, muggy gulf air to remind us that summer is not quite through with us. Others brought more rain. And a recent cold front blew in with flying leaves and Oz-like winds. Another reminder that predictability is not usually a word used to describe our region.

Soon enough, I will be toting snow boots and a window scraper as I snug into my parking lot space. I will be quoting another favorite mantra, "Variety is the spice of life."

Let's hope the winter doesn't get too spicy.

Sounds

The sweltering days of summer are slowly releasing their oppressive grip on the upper Midwest. Blessed relief is blowing in from the north and I, for one, am doing cartwheels of joy (figuratively, of course...old ladies struggle with fancy tumbling). Gravity is tugging on colorful leaves, birds are gorging themselves for upcoming journeys and warm pots of soup burble away on the stove. Beleaguered air conditioners gasp a sigh of relief as their time of rest approaches and apples crisply adorn produce aisles. And, finally, windows are thrown open and fresh prairie air dislodges three months of trapped staleness.

One perk of open windows is the flow of sounds added to the usual mix of daily life. Chickadees chitter and chatter at bird feeding stations. Trees clap their leaves in response to the demanding winds. Trucks lumber down the street. Trains whistle and rattle along the tracks and dogs yap like town criers. Muffled conversations of neighbors float in the breeze. The sound of playing children fills the air with hope.

Our backyard neighbors have a trampoline for their three young, boisterous boys. Their conversations of play stream through my windows and make me smile. The sibling dynamics of my youth are obviously alive and well today. The oldest boy is usually the boss, calling the shots on whatever game they are developing. The youngest tearily protests the injustices of said games and the middle child tries to work out a compromise for all parties involved. All the while, the squeak of the trampoline keeps a steady beat.

Recently, the boys were playing a devised game of throw-the-ball-at-each-other-as-hard-as-you-can while bouncing on the trampoline. The game came dangerously close to collapsing with shouts of "Not fair" and "That hurts" when a neighborhood girl, pulling a wagon filled with house playing props, stopped by and joined the brothers. The oldest boy bailed out immediately, sensing an imminent imbalance in power. The wagon was loaded onto the trampoline and suddenly, the dynamics of play took a drastic turn. The young lady stated that they were going to play house. With that she proceeded to explain the roles and parameters of the next activity. From there, the play acting unfolded as the boys followed the lead of their neighborhood friend. The three children continued their pseudo-family re-enactment until the boys' mother called for them to come in the house.

My husband remarked that a psychologist would have a heyday analyzing the spontaneous dynamics of play that changed with the arrival of the girl. There were no adults orchestrating how things should be done. There were no video games demanding instant, prescribed reactions. There were no politically correct agendas forcing certain actions. The kids were just being kids, making up things as they went along. The girl wanted to feather the castle's nest and the boys wanted to slay dragons.

The best part of all was the sound of authentic play. It is sweet music to my ears, even if some of the notes are a little flat with discord.

Soon enough the frigid winds of winter will force me to close my windows again. Until then, let the music play.

Simple

This summer I drank deeply from the nectar of simplification. Due to life's circumstances, my family and my husband's family have been involved in various stages of cleaning, sorting and dumping the detritus of others. Such activity gave me pause and was the impetus for evaluating my own shelves, closets and drawers. I am a tosser by nature and my sentimental muscle has always been willing to let go. That being said, I still managed to accumulate more stuff than I really need. Boxes of "treasures" that have not been looked at in years taunted me with their excess and mystery. Ziploc bags of cords, adapters and unidentified electronic gizmos begged for usage or death. Drawers of sad little items waited to be claimed or called into action.

Here are a few of my simplification stats so far.

400 pounds (not a typo, folks) of treasure filled boxes were sent to my daughter across the country. Little Pooky, the well-loved stuffed bear, clearly belongs in her house, not in my basement. The Anne of Green Gables series we read together also needed to be in the hands that held them the first time around.

10 trips to Goodwill with goodie-laden boxes. Dishes, knick-knacks, clothes, blankets, pans, sheets and shoes continued their journey of usefulness. The gentlemen who always assist me at the drop-off station knew my vehicle well.

4 bookshelves are sporting newly cleared looks. Many books are now nestled in with new friends at Goodwill or resting in library heaven. Sorting books was a bit painful for me but I saved enough of them to keep me company until the itch to toss needs to be scratched again.

12 weeks of bulging trash cans for the dump truck drivers. I am sure they are waiting for the "For Sale" sign to pop up on my lawn. Surely, someone who throws away high school yearbooks is preparing for a move to lands afar.  Sorry, Mr. Trashman, I am hunkered down for the long haul.

Probably the best advice for keeping things simple came from a service repairman. My dryer went on strike just before back-to-school week and a service call was necessary. I paced the floor while I listened to the technician trying to wrestle the dryer into submission. I added up the minutes times the dollars for a new machine in the event the prognosis was terminal. Finally, I heard a call, "Ma'am, can you come here a minute?" My mind conjured up the worst as I approached the ailing machine. The technician handed me a small fuse and said, "It was just a blown thermal fuse. An easy fix and it's all taken care of."

I sighed with relief and thanked him for his time and help. As I was paying the bill, he continued to impart laundry machine wisdom.

"You know, most folks go through 2-3 washers for every dryer. Washers have water pumps, detergent dispensers, drain hoses, agitators and so forth. Lots of things to go wrong. But a dryer, it's a simple machine with two main functions, tumble clothes and add heat. Not too complicated."

I handed him the check and as he left my driveway, I realized I want to be a dryer, not a washing machine. When life's curveballs come my way, I prefer not to have a lot of stuff around me that needs to be cleaned, organized and moved around.

Tumble and heat. That should be enough.

Challenge

The world of Facebook has developed a culture of sharing, liking and socializing. There is also the phenom of pop-up challenges such as ice baths for ALS awareness and scriptural posts for a designated number of days. The intent of most challenges is certainly laudable, however, there is something unsettling about calling out friends and family in a public venue. Please understand, I harbor no ill will toward anyone participating in such challenges. Many have been blessed by them. My uneasiness is born of a need for filtering challenge requirements.

A recent challenge requires participants to post pictures of themselves with their smiling spouses for seven consecutive days. The intent is to celebrate love and promote marriage. Excellent premise. Questionable process. Certainly, it is entertaining to gawk at wedding day photos of couples filled with promise and blissful expectations. Pictures of fun-filled vacations and church directory moments seal the deal for marital harmony. But, do seven photos times the number of your married FB friends really meet the intended goal? My guess is there are a lot of stories stitched between each polished photo that truly tell the story of what it takes to be married. I also feel a sense of empathy for my FB friends who are single or have recently lost spouses due to divorce or death. Splashing twosome photos on their pages seems tantamount to sharing a random couples powerpoint at a singles event.

A photo that spoke volumes to me was recently posted (the old-fashioned way) in my hometown newspaper on the obituary page. It was of a couple who I had the honor of knowing as a child and during my early married years. They had been married for almost 63 years. (Their story has since been picked up by the media.) By the grace of God, the husband and wife passed away peacefully within the same hour. Two of their five children were at their bedsides. The circumstances of their deaths are not pleasant. The wife had suffered from Alzheimer's disease and was confined to a nursing home. The husband had only recently gone to an assisted living facility due to his own health struggles and I suspect, somewhat of a broken heart. On a warm summer's day, he went to visit his wife in the nursing home and sustained a fall that put him in the same room as his wife.  Together once again, God called them home as a couple, the ultimate celebration of love, marriage and commitment, through good times and bad.  If they were alive and well today, I am sure they could tell many tales about the struggles of marriage, child-rearing and making a living during the volatility of economic swings. Maybe our ancestors were on to something when the only photos shared with the masses were a baby picture, a family picture and an obituary picture selected by others.

That being said, please don't de-friend me on FB. I do enjoy escape time into the virtual worlds of others. And I promise never to challenge anyone with a task.

Unless it involves Cheetos.

(Purchased for blogging purposes only.)

Geography

A random question arose in our household a few weeks ago prompted by something I was reading, "How far is it from the Arctic Circle to the North Pole?" I could see the look of despair on my husband's face as he tried to muster up an answer that would stop such nonsense. My college-aged niece was also with us and she politely looked interested. I teach middle school so I am accustomed to blank stares and apathy. I repeated the question again and my husband finally responded with another question, "Isn't the Arctic Circle and the North Pole the same?"

Now I knew I had my work cut out for me. "No, they are not the same. It's like the Tropic of Capricorn not being the same as the equator."

He gave me another loud and clear look of you-are-not-seriously-going-to-continue-with-this-Jeopardy-question, are you?

Undeterred by the lackluster conversation engagement, I asked a leading question, "Let's start by determining the latitude of the North Pole, which is....?"

< Insert crickets chirping>

"You know, the lines that circle the earth parallel to the equator," I added.

It was crystal clear to my husband and niece that there was no way off this convo train until resolution of the matter occurred. Each of them threw out a number with hopeful lilts in their voices. Neither was correct, so I dazzled them with my reasoning, "We live at 44 degrees N. latitude, halfway between the equator and the North Pole. The Arctic Circle is a little more than halfway between us and the North Pole so my guess is that the Arctic Circle is about 70 degrees N. latitude."

Suffice it to say no one was dazzled.

"Okay, let's settle this and look it up in the atlas."

I pulled out my handy dandy World Atlas, circa 1990, and flipped to the map of North America. "Now all we have to do is figure out how many miles are in each degree per latitude and we'll have this puzzle solved."

I dusted off my map skills and began measuring distances and converting them to miles. As I computed out loud, it was clear to all parties that I was losing myself in the weeds. Somehow my math was not matching distances and I was no closer to an answer than when the madness began. My husband was mentally checking out and reaching for the TV remote to create a diversion.

Finally, my niece sweetly responded, "You could Google it."

My husband and I locked eyes and exhaled a sigh of relief. Yes. Yes. That made perfect sense.

I handed my computer over to my niece and she started tap-tap-tapping away and in a few seconds she had the answer to my question. Problem solved.

Clearly, my brain is still paper wired. Telephone books and fold-out maps feel comfortable in my hands. Siri and search engines require concentration and translation. Writing a reminder note in cursive flows easily. Finding the memo app on a screen demands closer scrutiny. My world thinks in World Book rather than Wikipedia.

And just in case you are curious, the North Pole is about 1600 miles from the Arctic Circle. Such information could come in handy the next time you are wandering around in the Yukon Territory.

Homerun

Thirty-nine years ago, my husband received a phone call from a friend with some exciting news. "I just won four tickets to a Minnesota Twins game. Do you think you and your wife can join us?"

It didn't take long for my husband's reply, "Free tickets? Are you kidding? We're Dutch, sign us up!"

There was one catch, however. The date on the tickets was just a couple of days away and the game was at least a 7-hour drive one way. This was during our newly married, pre-kid days so it made perfect sense to all of us to throw a few things into the car, book a room and head down the road with minimal preparation. I have very little recollection of the game, but the thought of that trip always makes me smile. My guess is that we did silly stupid things, embarrassed ourselves in the big city and laughed until liquid squirted out of our noses. Not a bad memory.

Fast forward thirty-nine years and time for another phone call from our friend. "Hey, I just snagged four free tickets to a Twins game. Do you think it will work out for you to join us?"

Much has changed for all of us since that first phone call. My husband and I moved away from our home town. Kids are out of the house. Careers are sputtering through waning gasps. Grandchildren are waiting to be spoiled. Hair is thinning, graying or gone. Knees snap, crackle and pop. Parents are in need of caretaking. Vehicles have GPS systems and reliability.

What hasn't changed is my husband's response to free tickets. "We're Dutch, sign us up!"

This time the tickets were for a game a month away so we had time to make sure our medication pill packs, antacids supply and sunscreen were all in order. Expedia helped select a hotel with cutesy toiletry items and baby coffee pots in the room. Destinations were programmed into the navigator. A high school friend from the cities was contacted for a dinner out the night before the game. Departure times were orchestrated and parents were notified of our upcoming absence.

In the instant that our friends pulled into our driveway it was clear that our long-standing-many-years-separated friendship had not lost its zest. We were little country mice heading to the big city and the inside jokes that were funny thirty-nine years ago were just as entertaining as we rolled our way down the interstate.

That evening we met our high school friend and his wife at a nearby restaurant and hence, the storytelling began. Pranks in school, antics of questionable judgment, capers on road trips and the delights of youth were the common threads in all our tales. We laughed until we cramped our sides and agreed we were grateful for our long-suffering guardian angels. All too soon, our evening ended (due mostly to waning energy levels).

Quite frankly, I remember little of the ballgame itself. The Twins were not hitting well and I know they lost. Despite my foggy recollection of the details of the game, I smile every time I think of the trip.

Time with good friends is always a homerun.

Quick

Fast food is a convenience many folks partake of on hectic days. Truth to be told, I have limited experience in the fast food world and lest ye think I am a health snob, I am most certainly not. Goodness knows I could live on french fries for the rest of my living days without a murmur. My hesitancy in the quick food routine is my unfamiliarity with the lingo. Add to that my diminished hearing acuity and I am ordering with my fingers crossed, hoping to get what I want.

Case in point. I treated my niece to a Happy Meal last week. She is fairly savvy with the little box of goodies so she promised to coach me through the experience. We pulled up to the ordering screen and I confidently asked for one Happy Meal with chicken nuggets, Gogurt and milk. The faceless voice repeated my request and I confirmed her response. Just as I breathed a sigh of relief, the faceless one squawked "bozh or gurzh?" What? I repeated my order again, thinking I missed something. The garbly voice once again asked, "bozh or gurzh?" Desperate to comply, I said "Gogurt?", hoping I could just throw another word out and get this over with. Once again I hear "bozh or gurzh" and one more word, "toy." Now my niece realized the dilemma and said, "I think they want to know if I want a boy or girl toy in the Happy Meal." Last chance for me to get the drive through line moving again and I blurted out "Girl." Winner, winner, chicken dinner. We got the go ahead to pull forward. My niece sweetly consoled me and said, "My family always has trouble ordering, too." What she should have said was, "They have cheap hearing aids at Costco."

My husband is much more competent in the procedural requirements of ordering quick food. He usually knows what he wants and how to select items from multiple choice menus. He often has his food ordered before I have found the section on french fries. One gift we share, however, is difficulty in deciphering the voice on the other end of the drive through speaker. On our way out of town a couple of weeks ago, we found ourselves talking with the faceless one, hoping to get a cheeseburger, chicken nuggets and, of course, fries. All went well, until we heard, "You can get 2 muzmets for $5.00." What? "You can get 2 muzmets for $5.00." I looked at my husband and asked, "Do you know what she said?" He shook his head and was ready to ask for another repeat. At this point, I was getting impatient. We were already running late so I am thinking whatever deal she is offering is going to have to be ours. How much food can it be for $5.00? So, I yelled out to the faceless one, "Sure." My husband just shrugged his shoulders and pulled ahead. We grabbed our rather hefty looking bag of food and expectantly opened it up. In addition to our order, we were now the proud parents of 2 orders of chicken nuggets (10 each) for five bucks. Yes, that is 20 chicken nuggets. And this is where the story really takes a tragic turn. Twenty miles down the road, all nuggets were consumed and a few miles later, I was licking the last of the french fry salt from my fingers.  I looked at my husband and said, "I guess we were hungry." 

What I should have said is, "I'll pack sandwiches next time."

Unplugged

Once a year my husband and I step off the hamster wheel of daily life and take a week-long vacation to a cabin filled with solitude and serenity. The days leading up to our departure date, however, are anything but serene. Both of us experience moments of frenzy and frazzledness as we snarl our way through vacation preparations. The question is often asked, "Is this really worth it?" It would certainly be easier to stay home, but without a shadow of a doubt I know that our mental health depends on occasionally fracturing the mundane. With that in mind, suitcases are packed, meals are planned and supplies are wrestled into the vehicle. We grimly head down the road and wait for the cloak of demands to melt away.

During the first 24-48 hours, the vacation valves slowly release the tyranny of routine demands and we settle into a luxurious calm. Here is a pictorial rendering of my top ten reasons for committing to vacations each year.

...being welcomed in beastly style.

...wicking off the day's ills with a fluffy white towel. (My household towels should have an expiration date. They are no longer fluffy and white is too dangerous.)

...reading, glorious reading.

...nestling into a comfy reading chair.

...nodding off for a mid-afternoon nap, or mid-morning, or both.

...sipping freshly ground coffee, many cups.

...acquiescing to new trails.

...making new friends.

...relinquishing cell phone service. (My personal favorite.)

...greeting a full moon, veranda style.

I hope you are able to spend a few days vacationing this summer. Rest assured, your mental health will send you a postcard thanking you for it.

Order

Closet of Shame

No one will ever accuse me of being compulsively neat and clean. Clutter, however, is another story. Piles of mish mash and corners filled with lumpy bumpy stuff are like a mosquito in my ear. Ignoring never works and finally the time comes for the big swat. Near the end of each school year, my mantra is, "Leave it until school is out."  No surprise the cobwebs are now the size of small children and closets are bulging with detritus. As much as I would like to head to the library and load up on books, I have no choice but to dig in to the mosh pit of messiness.

Task number one is the living room, the least cluttered so the sense of accomplishment is most readily forthcoming. I had the piano tuner and the cable technician scheduled so there was heightened need for a little spiffing up. The piano was an easy gig with a quick swipe down and vacuuming the back area. The entertainment center, however, was another story. I unplugged three pieces of equipment before I found the cord I was looking for in the spaghetti mess of cords. Dust was fluffling up everywhere and hanging my head upside down was doing nothing for my balance. I tried to ignore random items stuffed in the base cabinets of the entertainment center but there was nowhere to go for future storage unless action was taken. Bravely, I parted with our complete collection of Boston Legal and Northern Exposure. Cassette tapes were also pitched due to the ancient factor. And I deemed it unnecessary to hold on to random remotes, cords and owner's manuals. No doubt, we will need something I threw away but I am ready to move on.

Task number two is the biggie, the hall closet. It is a magnet for everything from stray gloves to light bulbs to Gladware containers to cleaning supplies. By the end of the school year there is not one unoccupied square inch of space on any of the shelves. Serious intervention is necessary. The only way to tackle the job is to unload everything (see above) and pick through the mountain item by item. A draconian hand is needed at this point. The bowl with the pretty pumpkins painted on it that I have never used must go. The smushed pile of napkins is also a goner. Gloves with no mates, good bye. The potato that made the great escape to the back corner will live no more. Finally, the herd is culled and all the goods are sorted and organized shelf by shelf. Truly, I feel the heavens rejoice when the job is done. I know the feeling will be short lived as empty shelf space taunts us back into bad habits but for the time being, peace reigns.

Despite my early accomplishments, I am waning in exuberance. The goal is one room or closet a day. I just finished one of the bedrooms and the dust bunnies were frightful. Sorta took the wind out of my sails. I am hoping to persevere but the books and coffee breaks are singing their sweet song of seduction. It might be time for my other mantra, "Shut the door and look away."

Closet project

Canned

Recently, a colleague of mine leaned in toward me and stated in hushed tones, "Sometimes I just need to open up a can of peas and eat them. I know fresh is supposed to be best, but the taste of those mushy pale peas is so comforting." I followed up with a confession of my own. I am on a canned bean binge, french style with a little added butter. Insipid deliciousness.

Somewhere along the way, the whole farm-to-table movement has convinced us that nutrition and sophistication can only happen with fresh veggies and fruits and grass fed, free-range, happy livestock. Charles Birdseye and Nicolas Appert would roll over in their graves if they heard such chatter. Both scientists were pioneers in staving off hunger and starvation with the inventions of freezing fresh foods and the canning preservation method. Most of us would not be here today if our ancestors did not have access to such technology. Scurvy, be damned.

With full abandonment of the fear of public shame, here are a few more of my canned delights.

1) Sardines--Slippery little fish, eyes and bones included, what's not to love? I am a little picky on brand and brine. I prefer good old Chicken-of-the-Sea, slightly smoked, packed in oil. Scoop the little fishies onto a saltine and you have a tasty morsel of goodness.  Full disclosure: Chicken-of-the-Sea does not know I exist, therefore, no monies will fill my coffers for mentioning their name.

2) Cream-of-Whatever-Soup--Sorry, Martha Stewart, cream soups are pure midwestern magic in the land of casseroles. I can spend the extra time creating my own bechamel or beurre blanc sauces, but hot dishes cry out for something with a hearty soul. Add a can of creamed goodness to a meat, vegetable and noodle of your choice and you have dinner in a flash.

3) Spaghetti sauce--I am not Italian so my palette is a little weak in this department. My attempts at transforming a burbling, sputtering pot of tomatoes into a delicious sauce have been epic fails. In addition, I don't have the patience for long term pot simmering, stirring and sipping. Canned sauce dresses up my pasta just fine.

4) Canned peaches--We have about a ten-day window for good fresh peaches in the upper midwest. The other 355 days demand a little flexibility. My mother's canned peaches were the best, of course, but there should be no derision for enjoying a can of Del Monte sliced peaches. Add some crumbled topping for a delicious crisp or just slurp them straight out of the can. Fresh, no. Tasty, yes.

5) Pork and Beans--Dried beans scare me. Do I soak them overnight? Do I try a quick soak? Do I add baking soda to cut down on possible flatulence? How long should they cook before they turn into mush? Enter, a can of pork and beans. Pop the top. Fish out the flaccid piece of pseudo bacon. Add a few ingredients to spice them up. Heat. Serve. No more questions.

I hope you are able to enjoy a can of something this week. Your secret is safe with me.

Attached

By now, most of the Mother's Day bouquets are starting to fade a bit and the cards adorned with flowers, birds and lace are tucked away for memory's sake. We have survived another round of honoring mothers. Some of us have aged mothers facing the challenges of compromised abilities. Others have young and spry mothers still in the prime of their lives. Many have mothers no longer with them due to death or estrangement. And some have mothers they have never known. Biology makes it clear that all of us have a mother. Sociology reminds us that the manifestation of motherhood is often murky.

My own mother was a stalwart of consistency. Her definition of motherhood was making sure all seven of her children were fed, clothed and bathed. She faithfully drove us to doctor's appointments and school activities. Church functions were never considered optional. Piano lessons were highly encouraged and sports were supported if one of us was so inclined (most of us were not).  Hard work was prized and slothfulness was considered the devil's handiwork. She and my father were a team of well-coordinated disciplinarians and woe be to the child who broke the rules.

One thing my mother was not. She was not warm and fuzzy. Her DNA made it such that hugs, smooches and "I love you, darling" were not a part of our formative years. My own daughter has witnessed my genetic disposition to the same mothering style. Despite the lack of demonstrative affection, however, I never for a second felt my mother did not love us.

As my mother slips further into the grips of dementia, I witness glimmers of her affection for her children. She lights up like a Christmas tree whenever she receives a card or call from one of her kids or grandkids. She lovingly arranges and rearranges all her photos of us. She criticizes herself for not being a better mother in her eyes and marvels at the accomplishments of her children, despite her perceived shortcomings. She listens to our heartaches and reminds us that we are going to be okay.

Once a month, I entertain the residents at her assisted living home by playing the piano for them. Often my mother fusses about a woman who complained to her that my playing was too loud. I always tell her not to worry about it. I have been playing at senior centers for twenty years and I have heard it all. Finally, she looked at me with a mother bear gleam in her eye and said, "If she says it again, I am going to tell her she can just leave and sit in the entryway until it's over." At that moment I felt a surge of overwhelming devotion. Hugs and "I loves yous" may be awkward gestures for my mother. But, criticize one of her kids and you better beware. Momma is going to do what she has to do.

Here's to the mommas of the world. May they be given gracious children.

 

Harmony

My school day ends with a class called Directed Studies. Think high school study hall and fill it with restless 13-year-olds watching the clock like Cinderella's footmen. In theory, the students are motivated to check their assignments for the day, put pencil to the paper or fingers to the keyboard and knock out their school obligations before the final bell rings. In reality, another truth unfolds. Let me describe a typical series of events in period nine.

Class starts. Students queue up by my desk. "Can I go to the bathroom?" "I left my assignment in Ms. G's room." "Can I go to the library?" "Can I go to the art room?" "I am supposed to meet my mentor today." "My knee hurts. Can I go to the nurse and get an ice pack?" "I forgot to tell my mom I have a track meet tonight. I need to call home."

With Judge Judy decisiveness, I give the yay or nay to each request. The nays grumble their way back to their seats and join the rest of the class in an attempt to settle down for the required ten-minute quiet reading time. As I scan the crowd for malfeasant activity, I watch Lacey turn her chair discretely toward the boy of her dreams. She starts twirling her hair and making googly eyes, hoping he will reciprocate. Dream boy responds with head nodding and enough attention to keep Lacey from ever turning a page in her book. Meanwhile, Leonard has the volume up too high on his audio book and is scraping his chair on the floor just enough to irritate Doug, who hasn't read a book all year but is only too happy to point out the shortcomings of others.  Across the room, Lester is mouthing some kind of message to his buddy across the table. Giggles ensue and the girls nearby give them withering looks. I stoically focus on my book in an attempt to model appropriate reading behavior, with an occasional teacher glare thrown in for the good of the cause. Finally, the reading time is over and the announcement is made, "You may put away your books and work on other homework."

Immediately, another queue forms at my desk with a litany of questions and requests to leave the room for perceived emergencies. A few students pull out assignments and diligently get busy. Jeffrey, whose desk is right next to mine due to his meds wearing off in the early afternoon, begins roaming the room with no particular destination. Lyla starts cleaning her binder and discovers it is more dramatic when you crumple every single paper that needs to be tossed. Buster turns his computer away from my view and begins the single tap staccato required by on-line gaming.  One by one I quash the rascally behaviors and attempt to help those who need assignment assistance. Finally, the bell rings and the students let out a yip of collective relief.

It is truly no surprise to me that my students are restless, googly-eyed and impish during a study hall at the end of a long day of demands and chair sitting.  The diversity of personalities and behaviors is staggering and yet, somehow, someway they push forth and maintain some sense of decorum. I have witnessed the kindness of many students helping others and the sense of accomplishment gained by completed work. I have watched students from different social classes, nationalities and intelligence levels share space and get to know each other. I have seen students bicker and shortly thereafter, make amends.

Perhaps, a few days in my chair would be good for many adults. Tranquility is not a product of uniformity. It is bred by muddling through differences.

And, who doesn't want to be Judge Judy for a day?

Rich

Wealthy will most likely never be a descriptor used next to my name. I don't know how to play the lottery so jackpots will not be falling into my lap any day soon. I am a teacher so large salaries and bonuses appear on other people's W-2 forms. I forget what day is cheap popcorn day at the nearby convenience store so I end up buying it for full price. And I lose coupons, only to find them after they have expired.

My local grocery store is trying to make this process easier by offering coupon specials that can be loaded electronically onto my rewards card. So far this process has resulted in the following messages:
"This device does not support your transaction."
"The username or password is incorrect."
"Give up. You are old and will not figure this out." (Okay, I made that one up.)

Recently, a lady next to me in the checkout line at the grocery store tried to save me from my ineptness with money-saving deals. Just as my package of strawberries was being scanned by the 12-year-old checker, the lady leaned over and said, "You know if you mention the Hy-Vee Facebook ad, you can get those strawberries for a lot cheaper." At that very moment, I sensed this was going to take an ugly turn. I could see in the checker's eyes that some clarification was needed. I quickly interjected, "That's okay. I don't usually mess with all that Facebook ad stuff." Undaunted, the young lady pulls out her smartphone and starts scrolling and tapping away. The checker intuitively surmises that the bulldog is not going to give up so he says, "Well, you have to show us the ad because it only applies to certain stores." The bulldog, still scrolling away, assures him that it applies to all the stores. The checker tenses up and starts in with a long explanation about the procedure involved with the Facebook ad. The bulldog is still scrolling and tapping away, determined to usurp the checker's knowledge of store protocol.

Meanwhile, an extended line is forming in our queue. It is early morning, there is only one checker, people are in a hurry, the bulldog is sure she is right and I have had it. I turned to the lady and thanked her for her concern over my small package of strawberries. I looked at the checker and said, "I do not need or want the Facebook discount on my fruit. I just want to finish my order and leave so I don't hold up this line." The checker was only too happy to fulfill my request. I grabbed the receipt and made haste out of the store.

I didn't look back, but my guess is the bulldog was still haggling with the checker over my strawberries after I was out the door. The only item in her order was a jumbo container of vanilla latte coffee creamer. Clearly, she was in need of some serious coffee intervention.

And, clearly, I will never be rich. But I did enjoy my strawberries, even without the discount. And the checker gave me another coupon for paper towels...no password, device or bulldog needed.

Liablility

The student at my desk passionately explained, "I just found out in health class that the reason we are all getting so fat is because of the big food companies. Did you know they are purposely putting extra sugar and fat in all the food in the grocery stores?"

The curmudgeon in me raised its snarky head and asked, "Is there someone holding a gun to the heads of the shoppers so they have to buy all that food in the store?"

"Well, no, but it isn't our fault that all the food is full of sugar and fat. They should stop doing that, It is making everyone fat," he replied.

Unable to let his naivety go unchallenged, I countered with, "So, you are telling me that I have no choice but fill my shopping cart with sugary goodies rather than fresh produce and wholesome foods?"

At this point, the student was smart enough to realize that I wasn't going to agree with his new found wisdom. He shook his head and gave me the you-just-do-not-understand-conspiracy-theories look and shuffled to his seat.

In defense of the young man's health teacher, I am sure the lesson on nutrition included a reminder that processed foods often have hidden sugars and fats. In defense of the big food companies, producing food that tastes crappy is probably not a wise business move and sugar and fat tend to make food taste better.

My growing up years did not involve processed food choices so I know it is possible to survive without many of our current food options. My mother baked our bread, raised a large garden, canned fruits and vegetables, raised chickens for eggs and meat. My dad milked the family cow and raised pigs and cows for the dinner table. We all pitched in with picking wild asparagus, plums and mulberries. The fastest food we ate was a fried egg. Drive-thru wasn't in our vernacular in those days and the nearest we got to a ready made treat was a small vanilla ice cream cone from Zesto.

Don't get me wrong, I am no health food guru. I could live on Cheetos and anything with a chippy crunch for the rest of my days. Bacon makes my heart sing and butter makes everything better. But, I claim total responsibility for my choices. Blaming the food companies for a grocery cart full of sugary, fatty goodness is not my style.

It is probably just a matter of time before our television screens tout a class action suit against the big bad wolf of processed foods. "Have you or any of your loved ones ever eaten a Cheese Curl? Did you know this food contains salt and vegetable oil and could cause weight gain if eaten in copious amounts? Please call the following toll free number if you think you have been wronged by Frito Lay. Our operators are standing by."

The famous French Chef, Julia Child, said it best, "A party without cake is just a meeting." She also reminded us to watch portion sizes and choose our food wisely. That probably explains why she lived a full life until the age of 91.

Embrace your freedom to choose. Sometimes it's an apple and sometimes it's a cheese curl. And when your waistband gets cranky with you, remember, you are the one in charge.

Cereal

My colleagues and I recently had a passionate discussion about cereal. (Yes, we lead lives of quiet desperation.) It was clear by the twinkling in our eyes as we shared our cereal stories that our love for our favorites was more than just about filling our bellies. We had memories and routines that fueled our connections with the brightly colored boxes bursting with wholesome goodness. It was also clear that many of our favorites were probably not the most healthful, but the boxes boasted extra fortification, so surely that cancelled out any evil.

Frosted Flakes was one favorite. The ritual of eating the crunchy, sweet flakes as quickly as possible so more flakes could be clinked into the leftover milk can be quite satisfying. The final slurps of milk top off the delicious experience. The bright blue box with a gregarious tiger smiling at you each morning is not a bad way to start the day.

Reese's Puffs popped up as another delight. The name was spoken almost in a whisper as if it was a dirty little secret.  Instinctively, we sensed that something with so much buttery, sweet goodness might not be a nutritional  powerhouse, but risks are willing to be taken in the world of cereal. I confess that these flavorful little orbs never make it to a bowl of milk in my world. I eat them like candy straight from the box. Thus, the reason they are not on my shelf. Most days, that is.

A cereal from bygone days also received mention, Quisp. It was known for its cartoon commercials featuring a little other-worldly character flying around with his propeller driven beanie cap. The cereal is now in limited production but one of our co-workers snagged a box at a local grocery store. The small box commanded a hefty price, but the siren song of nostalgia beckoned and soon we were all enjoying a trip down memory lane. The little saucer shaped discs provided a slightly sweet, Cap'n Crunchy flavor. We agreed that our memory was probably better than the actual product but it was good to catch up on the latest escapades of Quisp found on the back of the box.

Cheerios will always be my cereal of choice. My shelf is rarely without the bright yellow box. The little oaty O's fuel my Calvinistic roots with their unpretentious steadiness. I like to eat them right out of the box when I am feeling a bit peckish or as an evening snack in a bowl of cold milk. There was a time when I doused them with sugar for a little extra zip, but common sense has since prevailed, and the cereal now remains au naturel.

So, the next time you are in need of a conversation starter, ask about favorite cereals. I guarantee you will be delightfully entertained. Your other option is to ask about favorite presidential candidates.

Enough said.