Good to Know

The news in my part of the world is often uneventful and that is a good thing. Undoubtedly we have our share of accidents, murders and thuggery, but such activity is not a given. Therefore, our local newscasters often have to drum up stories whenever we are short on nefarious events. One of my favorite news segments is called Health Beat. The reporter is usually a cute little blond who is out and about gathering tips for keeping us healthy. Here are a few recent ones.

Did you know stress can cause unhealthy eating?

Well, thank you, Caption Obvious. The camera zooms in on a package of holiday cookies during the opening comments and then pans over to a harried shopper to get her thoughts on stressful eating. Miss Harried Shopper admits, publicly, that she has, perhaps, munched on a donut or two when life has gotten a little bumpy. But, she assures us all that she knows better and tries to make good choices. The camera zooms in on some blackberries and a midgy little dietitian who starts waxing and waning about all the alternatives to grabbing a donut or handful of chips. She tries to convince us that a bag of munchies will cause more stress than eating an apple. Sorry, not buying it. Cheetos have yet to fail me as a day brightener.

Did you know cold weather and furnace heated rooms can dry out your skin?

I have always wondered why my shins look like the legs of a tortoise this time of year. An interview with a flawlessly skinned dermatologist reveals more surprising information. Apparently, lotions and creams can help alleviate dry skin. Who knew? The dermatologist reminds us it is best to slather on the lotion right after a shower so your skin has a fighting chance in the moisture department. It is good to know I am on to something with my tub of goop and after showing greasing.

Did you know it is healthy to get a good night's rest?

Thanks for reminding us of our failures. Many of us are trying our darnedest to get eight hours of shut eye. Despite our best efforts, however, the grip of sleeplessness often refuses to let go and we find ourselves wide-eyed in the wee hours. Our alarm clocks mock us with every passing hour and dare us to fall asleep minutes before we need to arise. We finally raise the white flag of defeat and surrender ourselves to large mugs of coffee and carb-loading for another bleary-eyed day.

Did you know the holidays can cause stress?

According to Ms. Mental Health, preparing for gatherings and gift-giving galas with in-laws, out-laws and random pets can cause angst for many folks. Good to know. Ms. Mental Health also reminds us to beware of our meltdown points. I think that is a nice way of saying, watch out for that moment when you are going to blow your top. Spare yourself such unpleasantness and scale back, people. The sun will come up tomorrow, with or without the perfectly wrapped gift.

I hope you have a very Merry Christmas and remember to give your skin the gift of grease.

Glad Sad

The weather in the upper Midwest teased us with temperatures well above average for this time of year. T-shirts and shorts stayed in the wardrobe rotation cycle as we ignored the date on the calendar. Then, a cold front from our friends in Canada helped right the ship and we are now experiencing more familiar weather for December. There is a gladness and sadness about our slide into winter.

I am glad to feel the brisk coolness on my face when I leave the house each day. Air that hasn't been steamed up with high humidity and smoldering temperatures has a freshness about it and I am always energized by breathing it in. That being said, when and if temperatures dip below zero, the briskness turns to burning frigidity and my skin and lungs are always sad about that. Double digit temps are winter's sweet spot.

I am sad to see my garden give up the last of its bounty. It was a good run this year with the mild fall weather. We only recently dug up the last of our carrots. Going forward, we will miss our tomatoes oozing their juiciness onto our plates. No more fresh cucumbers adding snap and crunch to our side dishes. No more bright green beans sharing their joy with us and a few naughty rabbits. And saddest of all, no more fresh herbs adding sprinkles of color and flavor to our meals. Dried herbs will have to suffice until next June.

I am glad to gaze upon the varieties of recently harvested apples in the supermarket. A quick squeeze indicates their freshness. Yes, I am sad to give up summer fruits such as melons and berries but names like Honeycrisp, Gala, Ambrosia and Golden Delicious perk me up with their promises of deliciousness. Apple pies, apple crisps, apple bread pudding and applesauce are always better with fresh ingredients and count toward our fruit requirements, says this dietician. Apples and their best friends, the oranges, also help get us upper Midwesterners through the winter months and prevent scurvy. Win-win in my book.

I am glad for cozy. Cold weather and fewer daylight hours can send us into a state of sad torpor if we aren't proactively embracing the seasonal changes. Hygge is a Norwegian word for coziness and may have originated from the word hug. Winter hugs come from the fragrance of a tater tot hotdish in the oven and a pan of freshly baked bars. Sweaters hug our necks and fleece-lined slippers ensconce our tootsies with warmth. Fireplaces emit toasty conversations punctuated by snaps and pops to keep us entertained. Lap blankets keep winter's drafts at bay and are the perfect accompaniment for a hot cup of coffee and a good book. I say, bring on the hygge.

Most of all, I am glad for seasons. The hot languid days of summer roll onto the crunchy leaves of fall which become covered in winter's snow icing and finally melts into running streams of spring. Celebrate each one and love your favorite.

Anti-scurvy medication

'Tis the Season

Here we go, folks. The season of madness is upon us. Frankly, the countdown to Christmas seems to start the day after Labor Day as retailers chomp at the bit to start their holiday playlists and hang the garlands. Officially, we are now in full swing with Black Friday "finished" and inboxes filled with the latest can't-miss offers.

I will spare you another scroogish post despite the temptation to do so. I also promised my daughter I wouldn't hang up another picture of a Christmas tree and call it good. Therefore, I will clean up my act a bit and focus on a few things that are good during this season.

Holiday foods are always a favorite. This is not the time to listen to beleaguered dietitians touting ways to stave off overeating (eating celery before going to a party, really?). We don't need to indulge until we groan in despair but there are delicacies that make rare appearances during this season and one must take advantage of such goodness. Fancy cookies, this and thats covered in almond bark or chocolate, peppermint ice cream and a host of traditional family dishes lead the pack for indulging. January will arrive soon enough and we need to be prepared.

Traditions are family specific and can be enjoyed for many years. A pot of wild rice soup on Christmas eve is one of our rituals. The earthy smell of mushrooms mixed with wild rice and aromatic veggies is a welcome fragrance when returning home from a Christmas eve service. Adding a cup of cream to the broth amps up the taste-o-meter, for sure. After the last drop is slurped and the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher, gifts are exchanged. My packages are wrapped in last year's post-season discounted paper (who doesn't love blue penguins?) and sans bows. Spending money on something that will be trashed almost instantly is not in my DNA.

Christmas lights are charming when used correctly. Simple strings of white lights add a soft glow to whatever they are adorning. Old fashioned Christmas bulbs give a nostalgic pop to a tree or window frame. That being said, less is more. The gaudy glow of blow-up Santas and the frenetic flashing of over zealous decorating is a lesson in excess. And for the love of Pete, Christmas lights should be taken down before Valentine's day.

It goes without saying that holidays are about families. Over the years, my family gatherings have morphed from large gatherings with three generations mingling, eating, laughing and playing games to smaller groups with more subdued pursuits. The sign of a healthy family is being able to roll with the circumstances. We have enough pressure in our daily doings without adding holiday perfectionism to the list. Enjoy the people who you are with and let the unreasonable demands go.

I hope your holiday season is going well so far. Eat some favorite goodies. Have coffee with a friend. Read a good book. Bundle up and take a walk. Hang a string of lights if you wish. And stay focused on what is important.

 

Awareness

It seems that any given day, week or month has been given fill-in-the-blank awareness status. There are the big extravaganzas such as Great American Smokeout Day on November 16, Wear Red Day on February 3 and, lest we forget, Colorectal Awareness Month in March (book your roto rooter exam early). Lesser known events are World Rabies Day on September 8 (a.k.a. Know Your Skunk Day) and Fungal Disease Awareness week in August (not touching that one). My land locked friends can probably pass on Rip Current Awareness week in June and Tsunami Preparedness week in March. October has a couple of big ones, National Check Your Meds day and National Medical Librarians month (do they handle particularly heavy books?). My personal favorite is Don't Fry Day on May 26. I've marked that one on next year's calendar.

I do not know the legalities that result in an awareness status for certain causes. I suspect it has something to do with powerful people and politics, neither of which I am particularly interested in. I would suggest, however, that we each have the right to declare our own days of distinction if we so desire. Here are a few of mine.

1) National Couch Potato week--Feel free to pick any month for this celebration. Heck, I say every week should be sprinkled with plenty of couch time, especially if a good book and coffee are involved. I am not ashamed to say that I love my couch more than my sneakers. And couch time is cheaper than trips to Belize or the Holy Land. We can wear our Naugahyde ribbons with pride and boldly sit when we need a break. Naysayers, look away.

2) National No Christmas Music Allowed in Retail Centers Month(s)--The weekend after Halloween, a store I frequent was playing a country western track of Christmas music while I was trying to shop. I found it grating to the nerves. It should be illegal to blare Christmas music before Thanksgiving. It's bad enough the Christmas candy is nestled next to the ghost and goblin stuff in mid-October. Give us a few more weeks of neutrality before the holiday insanity begins.

3) International Reformation Day--This is a real one folks. It commemorates the day Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-five Theses on the door of his local church in protest of certain religious practices (500 years ago, in case you are wondering). My siblings and I were banned from trick or treating and in its stead we were required to attend a Reformation Rally. The guest speaker was usually a man of theological distinction from a nearby college. It was a hard sell when you are a kid. Hundreds of people in a stuffy gymnasium and not a candy wrapper in sight. Times have changed and many little reformers are now found going door to door with the rest of the tricksters. Sorry, Martin.

4) National Chuck It Day--I think everyone should devote at least one day a year to tossing out things that have lost their efficacy. If you are a hoarder, grab a baggie and do the best you can to fill it up and dump it or donate it to Goodwill. If you are a little more like me, use a hefty garbage bag and have at it. Old cards, dusty knick-knacks, shabby pillowcases and unused toys are prime candidates. At the very least, a day such as this would force us to evaluate our earthly treasures. Don't let the maintenance of stuff pull you away from what really counts in life.

Find a way to enjoy every day and if you need to make a special proclamation to your family for a certain celebration, go for it. In the meantime, don't forget to grease up with a little extra lotion this month. November is National Healthy Skin month.

Rocks

Walking into our school science office never ceases to bring a smile to my heart. Not only do we have the traditional office accoutrements such as a copy machine, paper cutter (circa 1956), pens, pencils and coffee maker, we have lab supplies filling all the nooks and crannies of our given space. It is not unusual to see a beaker of water burbling away on a hot plate while teachers nearby bang on Ziploc bags filled with butterscotch chips for an earth science lesson. Trays are at the ready with scales, coffee filters and gummy bears for a measurement lab. Carts are loaded with calculators and physical science equipment. The refrigerator is host to petri dishes filled with radish seeds awaiting observation of the effects of temperature on living things. Dry ice casts eerie vapors from a cooler on the counter.

And we have rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Brightly colored margarine tubs feature the rock collections of all shapes and kinds. Glossy smooth obsidian shows off its volcanic past with intense ebon hues. Pretty pink and white quartzite belie their strength as major players in the construction world. Limestone chunks intrigue with a chalky residue. Gneiss shows off sporty bands of feldspar and mica. And, no rock collection is complete without a tub marked miscellaneous. Some rocks just defy typecasting.

Perhaps more interesting than the rocks themselves is the reaction of teachers, science or otherwise, as they walk past the rock containers. An irresistible urge compels most to stop and touch the rocks. Many jettison back to their youth for a moment and recount fond memories of collecting rocks. I, too, remember little buckets filled with rocks collected on our vacation trips. My mother finally had to limit our quota. Our Dodge sedan could only hold so many kids and buckets of bulky rocks. Prioritizing became an early skill as I selected my favorite pieces of mica, rose quartz and a chunk of pyrite I was sure held flecks of true gold. A girl has to dream.

It has been said that kids are losing touch with nature. Flashy video games, YouTube shares, Snapchat drama and Smartphone apps sing a sweet song of entertainment. The things of nature struggle to compete. It is easier to focus on passive screens than to train the eye to watch the flight of a bird. Or squat down to observe a busy beetle. Or classify a tree with a field guide.

Maybe rocks are the answer. They are readily available. They are very tangible. They come in all shapes and sizes. They don't rot (unlike the mushroom collection of my youth. Sorry, mom.). They can be sorted, classified, painted, hidden, named and loved. Ramp it up a few notches with a junior rock polisher. Create jewelry or play hopscotch. All sorts of fun with the humble rock.

So, the next time you are out and about, look down, past the Smartphone and find a rock. If it fancies your curiosity, find out what kind it is or just enjoy it for what it is. Even the miscellaneous of this world never cease to amaze.

My husband's childhood rock kit. He also had a rock polisher. Spoiled baby.

Spared

"Good coffee and old stories are two of life's glories"--GK

A few weeks ago, I schlepped a big black trash bag of sundry contents to the trash bin in my garage. My husband happened to be in the garage and glanced at me with a bit of curiosity. I looked at him and said, "Look away. Just look away. I am in a purging mood and this bag of stuff needs to be gone." When his eyebrows raised, I added, "There is nothing in here that belongs to you. I promise."

It is true. I am a purger. It is also true that I do not purge his stuff. Mostly. Few moments give me more satisfaction than ousting goods that I deem obsolete or annoying. Acquiring and keeping new possessions must always pass the Big 3 for me: Do you fill a need (not want!)? Are you worth cleaning? Are you worthy of the space you inhabit? If the answer is no to any of the questions, the item will not be a permanent resident in my house.

That being said, I do have belongings that are safe from my grim reaper's bag, so far. Here are a few.

1) Garrison Keillor mugs.--We are a family of coffee drinkers so it doesn't take long for a collection of travel mugs, cups and souvenirs to accumulate. We have a valid need for mugs but our real estate space can only support so many receptacles. I have tossed out many cups along the way, but my Keillor mugs have never been on the chopping block. They bring me too much joy. I love to start my day with a steaming cup of coffee in a mug adorned with a few words of wisdom from Lake Wobegon such as "growing up in a place that has winter, you learn to avoid self-pity."

2)  Oil dispenser.--My daughter gave me a funky looking cooking oil dispenser as a gift. It is the kind of thing I would never have purchased on my own. Why go through the work of pouring oil into another container when the original one works just fine? What I didn't expect is how convenient a pour spout can be. Rather than spending time undoing a lid, glugging a sheen of oil in a pan and replacing said lid, I now just grab and pour, meting out the right amount of oil. And, the dispenser looks much more attractive on my counter than a Mazola bottle.

3) Sugar pig.--I come from a family of hog producers so my connection to the little oinkers is only once removed. I certainly do not collect little piggie things but many years ago I was given the gift of a blue ceramic pig. It is used to hold and dispense sugar. As with the oil dispenser, it is not something I would willfully purchase. But, to my surprise, the cute little porker has earned its keep. Its chubby shape is just the right size for grabbing when a little sugar is needed. And its innocent demeanor reminds me that everything is better with a bit of sweetness.

I am still in a pitchy mood but I also know it is wise to take breaks from my fits of dumping. I can get a little overzealous and make my world too spartan at times. And, my husband needs a break from bulging black trash bags being suspiciously mashed into the trash bin.

To Be Known For

Growing up in a town with a population less than the number of students in my middle school building means that everyone knew everyone, for better or for worse. Most folks were just average Joes and Josies, slogging along, doing what needed to be done each day. Almost everyone could be called upon in a time of need, day or night, and help would be rendered with no thought given to personal discomfort or inconvenience. And some folks gained a reputation for a skill or deed of noteworthiness. I am not talking about grandiose, heroic acts such as saving someone from a burning car or rescuing a fisherman who fell through the ice while winter fishing. My memories are of those who excelled at something that would never make it to the nightly news.

Here are a few who come to mind. (Names changed as per my policy.)

Martha. She was a widow who struggled with health issues that made it increasingly difficult for her to get out and about. But, somehow she acquired a laminating machine, a novelty most households certainly did not have at their disposal. Her specialty was laminating homemade bookmarks with inspirational poems written upon them. My mother-in-law gave me one of Martha's bookmarks as a gift many years ago. It is the least flashy bookmark I own but it is one I will not be parting with any time soon. It has a beautiful poem on it entitled, Sparrows. I use it as a place keeper in my Bible and cherish the love Martha put into this lowly piece of paper.

Jim. My brother-in-law was a man of very, very few words. I don't think I heard him speak until many months after my husband and I started dating. I came from a family who barely took a breath while constantly babbling so I found Jim's taciturn ways a bit puzzling. Jim was obviously not known for his gift of gab but he was known far and wide for his hunting and fishing skills. If anyone in the region wanted to know the best way to bag a deer or catch a prize walleye, Jim was the guy to see. He was able to stalk, kill and dress an elk in rugged terrain and successfully drag it out by himself. (I fuss if my grocery bags are too heavy.) After he passed away from cancer, far too soon, sportsmen came from far and wide for the auction of his hunting and fishing equipment. His passion spoke loud and clear to others.

Bernard. He was the man in the know. He and his wife did not have children so his time could be spent in other pursuits. Bernard had a scanner radio and never missed a crackly squawk, day or night. In a time before internet and reliable TVs, Bernard's ability to share the latest happenings gleaned from his radio or from keeping his finger on the pulse of a small town was often a valuable resource. What many folks did not know about him was his unsung, heroic military service during WWII. He shared that information with a select few in his inner circle. Bernard also had a gift for letter writing. He faithfully wrote letters to my uncle after my uncle moved into a veteran's retirement facility many miles away from our hometown. Bernard made sure his friends always stayed connected to their hometown, whether near or far.

Functioning communities are comprised of members allowing their jigsaw puzzle pieces to be used in the big picture. I am grateful for being able to experience many such communities, from work to neighborhoods to small towns. I am afraid my puzzle piece has something to do with incessant chattering. Just snap me next to the piece with a good listener and all should be well.

New Crop

Let's pretend I looked like this as I ran copies on a ditto machine my first year of teaching.

A new crop of 7th-graders arrived at my classroom doorstep a couple of weeks ago. This is my 19th year of greeting 7th-graders and my 29th year of teaching. Some things have changed over the years and other things have stayed the same.

Here are a few changes over the years.

Technology. No surprise on this one. Twenty-nine years ago, I was entering student grades by hand in a big red grade book. Report card time meant dragging out the calculator and entering each grade by hand and finding the average, student by student. I apologize, retroactively, to any student who did not receive the grade they may have deserved. My accounting skills are weak at best. Now, a computer program not only calculates all the grades but it enters them on the report card which is run automatically for all students. I am in calculation heaven.

Copy machines. My first years of teaching involved a ditto machine. A mysterious, albeit fun to sniff, fluid was poured into a machine that looked like a rolling drum. An inky master copy was clipped to the drum and a hand crank was used to spin the drum until the desired copies were made. Master copies were milked to the last drop, often involving a little squinting by the wee ones as the master finally faded away. Today, our copy machines are personal secretaries. They staple, three-hole punch, collate, enlarge, shrink and sing a little tune. I am not really exaggerating much on the last one. Our latest copier can be programmed to make all sorts of sounds, from xylophones to new age, while copying. I will not reveal how much perverse pleasure my department gets from selecting annoying sounds.

Chalkboards. Teachers of days gone by know what it was like to have chalk dust all over our clothes and hands. I had little helpers bang the erasers on the sidewalk occasionally in an attempt to reduce the chalk buildup. Despite our best efforts, chalk continued to float in the air. Now we use dustless markers on whiteboards and stylus pens on our SmartBoards. I can save a computer file with all my lesson information, notes and graphics for as many years as I need them. A fabulous time saver, not to mention my students don't have to decipher my sad handwriting.

As amazing as the changes have been over the years, there are also some things that never change.

Kids. Sure, they now have a fifth appendage called a Smartphone and their communication styles have morphed over the years, but when it is all said and done, kids are kids. They just want to belong and feel valued. Middle schoolers, particularly, don't want to be too different from others. Style is everything and an internal drive is pushing them toward autonomy. Parents, new to the teen scene, shake their heads and wonder what happened to their babies.

Teachers. My mother was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse over sixty years ago. She often shares stories from those days. No surprise that she faced some of the same struggles as we do today. Unruly students, curriculum challenges, budget constraints and long hours dogged her as well. What hasn't changed is the passion for a career that is more than punching a clock. We love what we do. We love watching kids learn. And we love hanging out with other folks who also believe in the power of education.

Here's to a new crop of kids. May the harvest be bountiful.

Cinema

A few weeks ago I experienced a nasty drug reaction (not a bad meth baggie, just a reaction to a prescribed medication). I will spare you the gory details but suffice it to say, the bathroom floor is an uncomfortable place to sleep. The post reaction time was spent lying on the couch like a flaccid noodle. As a distraction to my woes I watched television. Here are a few things I learned about the world of TV entertainment.

1) Less is more--The first few hours of television time is entertaining. I can hold my own with the kid edition of Jeopardy, thank you very much, Alex. I know how to boil pasta, Rachel Ray. I know that the average house buyer would buy a rat shack as long as it has granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances, House Hunters. I am aware of my complete lack of fashion sense, Stacy and Clinton, I appreciate your tips, even when they are a few years old in the rerun season. That being said, I was at a loss as to what next on the channel selections. Plenty of mind numbing material was gazed upon with a few sparks of interest. Just like drugs, small doses, please.

2) Some things never change-- I watched several old movies on the Turner Classic Movie channel. What struck me was how much hanky panky was going on in many of them. Lots of affairs, love gone bad, murders of passion and wardrobe malfunctions. No wonder so many of them were thin with all that prowling around going on.

3) Commercials are king--The frothy morning shows with women in sheath dresses and suited up men bantering back and forth about what is trending, the latest weather and a smidgen of news are quite popular TV fare. I enjoy some of the segments but become exhausted with the number of commercials. The average two hour show was dotted with at least forty or more minutes of commercials. Often the same ones, ad nauseum. I guess that is why God created DVRs and Netflix.

4) Wolves can be found in sheep's clothing--Frequently, commercials are advertising wonder drugs. Happy people living fabulously fun lives are attracting mates, walking along beaches, playing with grandchildren, eating out with friends and relaxing with cups of steaming coffee after taking the magic pills. All this is followed by the punch line. In hyper speed as the fun people fade out, a list of possible drug reactions is shared.  As someone who has been up close and personal with such side effects, be aware of the wolf at your door.

5) Subtitles can be handy--I am not usually a big fan of reading subtitles during a movie, but at 3:00 in the morning when one's mind simply must be distracted, watching a subtitled movie can help. The subtitles make it easier to turn the sound off and they force the brain to work a little. I watched a few black and white French flicks. Boy howdy, do those people know how to sneak around and commit their crimes of passion. Geniuses, really. No surprise why these movies are running after the kiddies have gone to bed.

Television is a good entertainment option and I will continue to enjoy my share. But like a stick of butter, a pat or two is divine, the whole stick is a bit much.

Enjoy a couple of pats this week.

Bonus

A few weeks ago, my husband came home from his job site with a bonus gift. Mind you, neither of us work in fields where monetary bonuses come our way. My bonuses often come in the form of chocolate bars and coffee shop gift cards from my students. Much appreciated, indeed! My husband's bonuses tend to come in the form of homeowner surpluses. Jars of fresh honey, bags of sweet corn and loaves of banana bread have been enjoyed by us throughout the years. Our recent gift came in the form of farm fresh eggs, two and a half dozen to be precise. I love eggs but also know that there are only so many egg bakes one can make before interest wanes.

Suddenly, I had a flashback from my youth. We grew up with eggs, lots and lots of them. The upper level of our barn was designated to the laying hens. Woe be it to the child who had to face that bunch of cackling, pecking and irritable chickens for removal of the eggs. Fortunately, I escaped the egg gathering assignment for the most part but rarely missed the chore of casing all the eggs for pick up by the creamery guy. We learned to pick up several eggs at a time and gingerly deposit them in the slots of large cases. Dropping an egg was a disaster, not so much for the loss of monetary value, but the nasty clean up process. Broken eggs are slippery little devils.

In the summer we added another level of egg collection to our duties. The baby chicks were now old enough to be called pullets and the females were laying small eggs all around the farm. My mother paid us for the eggs we brought to her. She rarely paid us for farm duties so it must have been worth it to her to get the eggs cleaned up and removed from the property. We would sneak around looking for egg jackpots. If we found a nest, we went to great lengths to hide the location from our siblings. I am sure we weren't paid more than a dime or two per dozen, but that was big bucks to us.

Needless, to say we had a lot of eggs in the summertime. A favorite way to use the eggs was to make cake. We had a recipe for Butter Sponge Cake that used one dozen egg yolks and a recipe for Angel Food Cake needed one dozen egg whites. And there was no problem getting rid of two cakes in a family of nine.

So, when my husband presented me with the egg surplus, I decided to take a step back in time and make the two cakes of my youth. Fortunately, I had saved both recipes (the cards were in good shape, imagine that). The Butter Sponge Cake turned out just as I remembered and the taste immediately brought me back to the farm. The Angel Food Cake did not rise to all its fluffy glory (in defense of myself, I used a loaf pan rather than a tube pan), but the taste was still there. We are not a family of nine, but somehow we had no problem finishing off the cakes, with a little help from a few friends.

The moral of this post is: If life gives you eggs, make cake.

Monsters

I suspect many of us have monsters under our beds. I am not referring to the ginormous dust bunnies residing under my bed or the stack of unread magazines awaiting a proper burial. The monsters I am referring to take the form of long-held fears, rational or otherwise. Recently, my 21-year-old niece shared her monster story with me. Mind you, she is a courageous young lady who has lived and worked in third world countries so her monster surprised me a bit. She has always been afraid of a bee's sting. She was sure she was going to have an allergic reaction and it would go down badly. A few weeks ago, her monster crawled out from under her bed and she was stung by a bee. To her great relief, she reacted with just the usual swelling and stinging sensation. She has now released the bee monster.

Truth be told, my monsters could probably populate an entire bed and mattress store. I am a bit of a nervous Nelly and struggle with keeping the ogres at bay. One monster reared its ugly head recently when the doctor told me I needed a brain MRI, with and without the dye injection. There are so many levels of anxiety with that simple statement. Small missile-like tube, lying still for an hour, dye injections, loud popping noises, PANIC! Yes, one can choose sedation, but my last round of sedation ended with a great deal of unpleasantness so I decided to face this truck head on, literally.

After a sleepless night, I dutifully crawled onto the missile slab, jammed a couple of earplugs into my ears and watched the technicians lower the football like helmet over my head. Their parting words were "Try to lie still and squeeze the ball if you need help." The smell of metal filled the air as the slab rolled its way into the mole passageway. The pops, bangs, snaps and vibrations began in earnest as I clutched my panic ball and willed myself not to have an anxiety attack. Lying still usually means an itchy nose, a tickle in the throat or a muscle spasm. Fortunately, I was spared any such movement-inducing events. I started singing every Sunday School song in my head that I could remember. A reminder that "Jesus loves the children of the world" and it is not good to "hide your light under a bushel, NO!"

After an eternity, the technician came into the room and started the dye injection. Another monster reminded me that I would surely have a reaction. I did not. But, I was disappointed when I was told that I was only half way through the testing process. One more time in the mole hole and a few more stanzas of "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know" and "He Owns the Cattle on a Thousand Hills." It also helped to remind myself that lying still isn't the worst job in the world. I imagined a nasty cleaning job and felt a new sense of relaxation in my muscles.

Finally, I heard the sweetest words ever. "You're done." Just in a nick of time as I felt my the cramp in my neck scream for relief. I carefully sat up in my fashionable tie-in-the-back gown and white harem pants. I wobbled my way past the next victim in the queue and congratulated myself for facing a couple of really big monsters.

And the really good news is:

1) I have a brain.
2) I do not have a tumor.
3) I have some empty real estate available under my bed.

Cheers to our monsters!

Hitched

Actual program copy from our wedding. 

Two of my college-aged nieces live with us this summer so I am in the swim of the goings on in the lives of 20-year-olds. It is a pleasant break from the old people humdrum of my own life which usually involves news about knee replacements and surviving long enough to celebrate a significant birthday. Commonplace events for the young crowd are more likely to involve engagements and weddings. My nieces are involved in several weddings this summer and I enjoy hearing about all the nuptial details. Venues can range from backyard gardens to decorated barns to sandy beaches in exotic places. Food is usually catered by companies providing a wide range of choices. Deejays are hired to work the crowd with just the right music for a night of fun and awkwardness. Gifts are shuttled away so the happy couple can deal with them at a later time. Toasts are made as couples are sent out into the world as sets rather than singles.

The weddings of my generation some forty years ago (not a typo) were far less elaborate, especially if you lived in a small town. Options were limited to say the least. Fortunately, we didn't know any better. We did not have Pinterest to guide us to the perfect place settings and guest favors, no catering companies wooed us with samples of raspberry sorbet cake, no venue websites beckoned our business and no event planners painted pictures of enchanted wedding days for us.

Our venue was usually the church. The ceremony was held in the sanctuary and we then proceeded to the musty church basement for the reception. The local community building (windowless and featureless) could be also be booked for the reception. There were no caterers in our town so arrangements were made with the church ladies' club. They were a seasoned bunch, ready to spring into action for weddings or funerals. The menu choices were limited but usually involved a skimpy ham bun, a scoop of potato salad, a pickle or two and, of course, the ubiquitous cream cheese molded mints. I remember stressing out about the mints. I am not into making hundreds of molded treats that taste a little suspect to me, but traditions must be upheld so we persevered.

Tables were simply adorned and always included little decorated cups filled with peanuts and baby pastel mints to help take the edge off the guests' hunger. Punch was a fruit juice concoction with some fizzy stuff and a block of frozen juice floating around in the pool to keep it cool. We were not allowed to dance (something about the devil being involved in musical movement, I guess) so our only entertainment option was a program after the meal. Sad, I know, but we made the best of it. We sang camp songs with the lyrics re-written to reflect the life of the bride and groom. Somebody's uncle was usually the sweating emcee who supplied us with the cheesy jokes and awkward introductions. Sometimes the literary relative in the family wrote a poem especially for the honored couple and shared pithy wisdom with the crowd. Trivia games about the newly married couple were popular and perhaps a prize or two was given for winning the contest. And if things were really dull, the couple opened each gift, one by one, and oohed and ahhed over bath towels and avocado green fondue pot sets.

Despite the variety of wedding styles and traditions, most weddings have a couple of things in common. They have two people who are committed to each other enough to plan an event celebrating their bonding. And there are a lot of friends and family rooting for them to succeed in their new life together.

Enjoy your wedding invites this summer and dance an extra dance for me. I'm behind a few, for sure.

Not actual mints from my wedding, but pretty sure the little
 suckers would have survived all these years.  

Spam

Happy Birthday, America! And Happy Birthday, Spam! For clarification purposes, the Spam I am referring to has nothing to do with the evil tidings often found sabotaging our inboxes. Rather, the little birthday boy is the iconic meat product called Spam. On July 5, Spam turned 80 years old and is still going strong.

Our little pink friend has certainly grown up over the years. What was once just one choice of meat product in all its gelatinous glory, has morphed into several varieties and packaging options. Available now are selections such as oven roasted turkey Spam, jalapeno Spam, Spam spread and Teriyaki Spam (receiving an 874 yum rating on the official Spam site).  Garnering the highest yum rating, however, is still the Classic Spam (3067 yums, in case you are wondering).

Spam usually elicits one of two responses, love or repulsion. It is often derided as a scourge upon the culinary world. And, yet, billions of cans are sold in 44 countries around the world. So there is still a lot of love going on for our porky friend. History buffs are quick to remind us that some of the infatuation is a result of World War II. Spam was the perfect food product for our troops abroad. It was portable, sturdy and best of all, shelf stable. Pacific island residents tend to be high volume customers of Spam due to their historical involvement in the war.  

I don't remember a lot of Spam meals growing up. We were on a farm with chickens, pigs and cows so our meat requirements were primarily being met without the blue can. Occasionally, however, my mother would fry up slices of Spam for a meal and we all felt like we just had a special treat. The key on the can was also a fascination for us. No can opener needed, if all went well with the key. The schlurp of the brick of meat plopping out of the can was an interesting process. Our homegrown meat was usually wrapped in white freezer paper and needed to stay chilled until time for cooking. Spam could sit on our pantry shelf for long periods of time just waiting to be called into action for a quick meal.

Spam had an aggressive marketing department. They created snappy ads in the 50's and 60's extolling their product's benefits. Their slogan was, "Cold or hot, Spam hits the spot." They released a recipe book and also included serving ideas in their magazine ads. My favorite was a well dressed gentleman suggesting Spam with salads. Chef's salad, perhaps? Not quite. The photo is a plate of sliced cold Spam nestled next to a lime green jello mold and a couple sprigs of parsley and a few radish slices. Gotta love the days of my youth. Salad usually meant something with jello or pudding and fruit cocktail.

Spam does not hold a spot on my pantry shelf but I still admire its tenacity and the lessons we can learn from a pork product in a can.

1) Be useful to others.
2) Support your troops.
3) Don't worry about the naysayers.
4) And above all, don't take yourself too seriously and maybe others will like you for 80 years and beyond.

Places

As is evident from my chubby little feet in the photo above, my husband and I have simple demands for our getaways. The probability of a post showing my feet nestled on a sandy beach with an azure ocean in the background is almost nil. Our requirements are twofold, quiet and no crowds. Throw in limited driving and no air travel and we are good to go.

Vacation destinations are often based on what a place has to offer. More importantly, one must also be aware of what a place does not offer. Here are a few does-not-haves that I believe contribute to a restful respite from the everyday routine.

1) Technology--Our favorite destination has no cell phone service, limited Wi-Fi and a small TV offering two channels. Conversations are uninterrupted by chirping phones. Decisions are few with just two channels to deal with. Time is spent on reading, meditating or just watching nature go by. Heaven, for sure.

2) Urban noise--The constant buzz of living in a city often goes unnoticed when one becomes numb to the clatter. Sitting on a peaceful country veranda located away from the commotion of a city is a tonic of peacefulness. Suddenly, the conversations of birds are crystal clear. The songs played by the wind in the tree tops are deciphered. The buzz of pollinators slipping in and out of summer flowers is distinctively detected. The silence gives rise to clearer thinking and deeper, more thoughtful breathing. Easier than yoga in my book. (Sorry, namaste friends.)

3)  Retail centers--I am a lousy shopper so this one is a no-brainer. I do not collect anything that needs dusting or maintenance so that eliminates souvenir acquisitions. Purchasing clothing is akin to a colonoscopy on the fun-o-meter for me so wardrobe offerings need not be perused. "Locally" made jams and jellies in diminutive jars with cute little gingham toppers unsuccessfully beg for a place in my refrigerator. Mugs sporting destination logos will mostly likely not improve the taste of my coffee and the t-shirts with cutesy catch phrases will have to adorn another tourist.

4) Amusement--There is a time and place for amusement opportunities such as water slides, ferris wheels and Epcot centers. Great fun for the young and the young at heart. That being said, there is also a time and place for quietude. Stimulative moments in today's world hurl away at us at abrasive speeds. "Down" time is viewed with skepticism and there is often a nagging fear of missing out on something if we are not always on the go. The popular mantra of FOMO (fear of missing out) exemplifies a comparative way to live. Never fear, you will be okay if you never rappel down the side of a castle wall or wend your way through the Amazon rain forest. I am the poster child for missing out on adventures and I am still able to function on a daily basis (no comment from my sibs, please).

Whether your summer vacation includes a trip to Distneyland or an afternoon at your local park, don't forget to make a little space for yourself. Breathe, watch the birds, sip on a cool drink, listen to the wind and let your thoughts settle.

And if you are really desperate for an adventure, do what I do. Go to the library and check out a few books. So far, my literary friends have provided me with near death ocean and river experiences, a nasty grizzly bear encounter and a whodunit murder mystery.  FOMO, be damned.

Promotion

Do not get excited about the implied meaning in the title of this post. I will not be getting a promotion any time soon. Let me rephrase. I will never get a promotion in my current career, unless you count the move I made from a windowless room to a room with a view of the cafeteria. I am not complaining, rather, I am simply stating the facts. Fortunately, my DNA is programmed to be less focused on promotions and  more on the job that needs to be done now. Therefore, I am puzzled by the recent craze of graduation ceremonies for every child, puppy or chicken who takes a step toward next year's requirements.

In my opinion, the most egregious example is pre-school graduations. They are filled with little peeps clutching certificates of merit and photo-ops with button busting parents. Flower bouquets are showered upon the tots as if to say they accomplished a climb to the top of Mount Everest without an oxygen tank. Rational parents are guilted into going with the flow so little Lena won't be the only one without a gift bag and a red rose. Seriously, folks, must we start with the formal ceremonies for the under six crowd? Darling as the munchkins are, their only true accomplishment was finding their socks and shoes and getting in the car when the parental units barked out, "Time for school!" Believing that the little ones earned a graduation extravaganza sends a message that rewards are given for doing what you are supposed to do.

I confess my eighth grade graduation was a ceremony with great pomp and circumstance and looking back, I wonder if it was necessary. It was certainly an evening of much anticipation. The girls always selected dresses of the same color (our mother's sewed back then) and we all had our hair done professionally. I went to the "Beauty Box" located in a basement room below a store on main street. I am not sure why I thought a bouffant style was a good idea but my new do made me feel older and more mature so I went with it. Pictures from the event confirm my suspicions, I looked like a 14-year-old wearing a blond helmet. Nevertheless, I was proud of my diploma and I didn't realize my only accomplishment was following state mandates.

A case can be made for most graduation ceremonies rewarding little more than compliance to given criteria. Although that may be true, there are many students (sadly) who do not make it through high school. A combination of life and poor choices can sabotage a walk across the stage for a diploma. Students receiving a diploma after 12+ years of formal education deserve some clapping of hands and parties of punch and cake. High school is also a fork in the road for teenagers. College, technical institutes and jobs await further exploration and many decisions will be made along the way. A graduation ceremony sends a message of celebration and support.

So, if your neighbor sends you a graduation invitation for their chicken who laid its first egg, stay strong. Decline the invitation but offer to make an omelet. That is a true accomplishment.

Excuses

Many schools are either out for the summer or approaching the finish line. Our school, unfortunately, is still trudging away, willing ourselves to finish strong. Despite the oft heard question from students, "Do we have to do anything the last week?", the oft given response continues to be, " As a matter of fact, yes." Taxpayers would expect no less I'm sure.

What will not change, however, is the litany of excuses for assignments not completed. After almost 30 years of teaching, some excuses stay the same but others are a sign of the times. Here are a few of my favorites.

1) "My nanny threw my project away when she was cleaning my room."--Say what? The first time I heard this one, I simply had no response. My world does not include hiring full time household help and we defy child labor laws by requiring children to clean their own rooms. Rest assured, the students using this excuse are still required to complete their academic obligations. Maybe some of them recruit a nanny to finish projects for them but such indiscretions are out of my control.

2) "Our printer is out of ink so I couldn't get a hard copy of my paper."--None of that phrase would have made sense when I first started teaching. Printers were real people in the back of newspaper offices. Ink was found in ball point pens and a hard copy was when someone had a difficult time cheating from a classmate's paper. Now, it goes without saying, printers are notorious at sabotaging last minute projects. My advice to all students is, "Don't wait until the last minute. Stuff happens."

3) "I left my binder in my Dad's car and I won't see him until next weekend."--This is a classic now. Whether the excuse is legitimate or not, the truth of the matter is that many, many, many children are shuttled between at least two households. The other kernel of truth is that the students who most often use this excuse have never even thought of bringing a binder home to work on homework. As is the case for most chronic excuse makers, an excuse keeps the wolf away from the door only so long. At some point the house of cards comes tumbling down, regardless of whose car ate the homework.

Finally, the most prevalent excuse used for avoiding work in the classroom:

4) "I don't have a pencil."--I have given away hundreds of pencils in the last ten years of my career. Bringing basic supplies to class seems like an unfair demand for many students. In fact, walking to the free pencil supply container on my desk also seems ridiculously strenuous for a few of my cherubs. I shake my head and give them the free lecture about "showing up at a future job without your uniform for the third time and seeing where that will get you". They shrug and head back to their seats with a big thought bubble coming out their heads saying, "Doesn't she know you don't need a uniform to be a famous you-tuber?"

If I sound like a teacher who is ready for summer break, you are correct. I am ready for an excuse-free couple of months. Unless you count the excuses I will be using for not getting my ginormous to-do list finished. But I promise to keep my pencils sharpened just in case I am ready to check off an item or two.

Dumb

Over the past few months, I have had several opportunities to utter the words, "Well, that was just plain dumb." Life can be buzzing along at a semi-normal pace and then an event occurs that is guaranteed to keep me humble. Here are a few examples.

1) Whack-a-Mirror--I have backed out of my garage no less than a thousand times over the past 20+ years and yet, I managed to wallop the integrity out of my passenger's side rear view mirror one early morning. I confess I was mentally distracted but there is no rational reason for putting a vehicle in reverse and not watching the garage door perimeter. Some part of me believed the mirror would right itself once I scraped my way through the yawning door. The shards scattered on the driveway and the dangling mirror on the side of the vehicle proved otherwise. My long suffering husband dutifully duct-taped the sad remnants to the vehicle so I could maintain a little dignity until the costly trip to the body shop. Paying the final bill added salt to the wound. Rest assured, I am easing my way out of the garage these days.

2) Case of the Missing Scallions--Most Saturdays, I begin my time in the kitchen with a chopping extravaganza so I have fresh vegetables ready to go for the upcoming week. Onions, peppers, garlic and carrots are frequent victims. I pile the vegetables on the counter and begin working through them until the last veggie is diced and tucked into containers. A couple of weeks ago I purchased a bunch of scallions to add to the mix. That evening I reached into the fridge for my chopped scallions and despite my best efforts, I was unable to find any evidence of their existence. I distinctly remembered the bag on my counter top but my memory was a little hazy as to the chopping experience. I finally decided I had accidentally tossed them out with the cutting scraps. Fast forward one week. I reached into a cupboard for a box of angel hair pasta and there, nestled in with the dry goods, was a bag of scallions. Needless to say, they were a little squishy and aromatic. Also needless to say, dumb.

3) Crispy crisp--I have been making rhubarb desserts for as long as I have known the joy of applying sugar to rhubarb. I decided to make a strawberry rhubarb crisp for guests last week because it is a no-brainer, go-to favorite. I sailed through the assembly of ingredients and put it in the oven for its usual thirty minutes. I heard the timer ding but was in the middle of some laundry issues. Surely, I would remember to check the dessert within a couple of minutes. More than a few minutes later, I hesitantly opened the oven door. The crisp had taken on a toasty glow, and not in a good way. I pulled it from the oven and willed myself into believing it would be just fine. I had no time to make another dessert so the crispy edges were removed from the pan and ice cream was plopped on each dessert as a tasty cover up.  My husband thought it tasted great but he is also well aware of who makes his next meal.

I am smart enough to know I am not finished being dumb. I only hope I can keep the vegetables in the fridge and the rhubarb leaves out of the desserts.

Fidgets

Patience begins to wear thin as the school year wanes. Add to that the latest craze for middle school students, fidget widgets. If you do not know what they are, consider yourself blessed. If you know what they are, sorry. A fidget widget is a spinning, whirring piece of plastic and ball bearings. In the hands of an easily distracted child, the gadget is tantamount to handing a baggie of cocaine to a meth addict.

Marketing geniuses discovered the Achilles tendon of parents. Advertisements tout the widget as an antidote for "fidgeting, stress, ADD, anxiety and leprosy" (okay, I lied on the last one). Somehow a spinning, noisy toy is supposed to let peace reign again in Kidland. There is a shred of truth in such logic. Restless kids do need an outlet for their energy, however, the students I have watched "destressing" usually fall into a hypnotic trance while watching their helicopters of desire go round and round. Meanwhile, their peers are subjected to the sound of buzzing bees and more students are off task than ever before.

The faulty premise of fidget widgets is the belief that no child should ever have to learn how to appropriately cope with stillness. News flash, most middle school students are riddled with pent up energy and angst. It is in their DNA. If Lester is antsy because he is supposed to write a one-paragraph response to a given question, that is normal. There are two ways such an assignment can go down. Lester can take out his widget and spin it until the period is over or Lester can pick up a pencil and start writing. Both involve action but only one gets the job done.

My advice to parents is to occasionally bring your middle schoolers to events that involve sustained periods of non-stimulation and, heaven forbid, sitting quietly. My parents chose to attend weekly church services, all children in tow, antsy or otherwise. This helped us exercise our muscles of respecting other people's space and understanding that egocentricity is not always advised. Drama presentations, symphony concerts and formal events also demand a quiet decorum. My old-fashioned belief is that teenagers are capable of more than staring at cellphones or watching things spin. It is the job of adults to guide them into maturity, not find quick fixes.

That being said, I have a few students who know how to quietly use a fidget gadget. I confess that I, too, found ways to quietly entertain myself as a kid. Enter, the hankie. Yes, I am that old. My sisters and I used them to create little boats, roll-ups and our favorite, babies in a blanket. The hankie was quiet and creative. Rest assured, however, if mom gave us the put-the-hankies-away-look, we stopped.

Certainly, we were not perfect kids and the same is true of most kids today. Parents, feel free to spend your money on fidget widgets or any gadget that may be a positive tool for coping. But, here are two cautionary thoughts:

1. Time and place for gadgets.

2. Hankies are cheaper.

Hankie Babies

Dandelion

Much hype the past few weeks over the impending loss of our little Crayola friend, Dandelion. Apparently, folks are quite attached to their boxes of crayons and in light of the current coloring craze, I suppose the umbilical cord of loyalty is increasingly difficult to sever. I am not a part of the coloring craze due to my ineptness with all things artsy, but I do love crayons. In fact, my first official memory of true covetousness was my lust for a flip-top box of 64 crayons with a built-in sharpener. (I also coveted my cousin's orange sweater in fourth grade. The Lord spared me from such nonsense considering my pallid skin tone.)

Purchasing back-to-school supplies was always a heady childhood experience. With seven children in school, budget was the foremost priority in our family, of course. One standard issue tablet of paper, a couple of pencils (real wood back then), perhaps an ink pen or two if you were in the upper grades and a crumbly gummy eraser were considered the basics. The piece de resistance, however, was the box of crayons. Mom held the purse so we were at her mercy. I am sure some begging and whining ensued, but the shekels in her wallet dictated whether we got an 8-count or a 16-count. Occasionally, a 48-count would slip into the cart (if you were in upper elementary) but, I do not remember acquiring the holy grail, the 64-count.

Despite my perceived lack of fortune, the brand new box of crayons, no matter the count, presented itself with its distinctive crayon fragrance as I opened the lid. All the colors stood at attention awaiting my creative commands. The array of color names was no less intriguing. Raw umber was perfect for shading the bark of a tree trunk. Maize added a golden pop to a flower or field of grain. Periwinkle was a dusty blue, perfect for an evening sky. Salmon was as close to the fish as a land-locked kid from the midwest was ever going to get and forest green took care of all your tree coloring needs. Of course, there were always the standards, red, blue, yellow, green and plum.

Crayola has stood the test of time with its hundred years of production and counting. They weathered the technology storm of LiteBrite screens, Etch-a-Sketches and coloring apps. Despite the dazzling allure of such options, the humble box of crayons beckons children and adults alike. Crayola wisely cycles crayon names in and out and creates a buzz of curiosity and nostalgia.

Thus, the exit of Dandelion. If you are so inclined, there is a farewell tour across America, bidding "Dan D" adieu. And sometime this summer, the adoption of a new color is in the wings, complete with a help-name-the-color contest. The only clue given about the new color is that it will be in the blue family.

So, get your thinking caps on. You could be a part of history and have a new crayon bear your favorite name for blue. If I happen to win the contest, I hope the crayon will only be found in the 64-count box. Surely, my contest winnings will include a new 64-count box of crayons.

Let the sharpening begin.

The corner

Long before there were parenting magazines, parenting blogs, parenting books and parenting life coaches, there were parents who figured out parenting. Generations before us managed to raise passels of kids. My own parents raised a household of seven lively children. The jury may still be out on their results, but so far, none of us are serial killers or drug addicts (unless you count blood pressure pills).

My mom was a teacher so she had discipline coursing through her veins. Rules were not suggestions and consequences followed poor choices. Picking on your little brother, "forgetting" to do your chores or talking sassy meant you were living dangerously. Mom meted out punishment swiftly and justly and there was a calming sense of order that prevailed.

One of mom's go-to consequences for naughtiness was "the corner." We were told to stand with our faces toward the corner of a wall in our kitchen. Mom set the timer so she could go about her tasks without having to watch the clock. There was something about staring at a blank wall with your back to the outside world that seemed torturous to a child. A five minute sentencing felt like five hours. Siblings sometimes giggled when they walked by your wall of shame. Your back ached because you had to stand still in one place. You were alone with your thoughts and you promised yourself that you would never commit such a crime again because the corner was not your friend. Finally, the timer dinged and you scampered off with a stern reminder from mom not to be so foolish again.

Such a tactic is now called time-out. I suppose it has a nicer ring to it than "the corner" but the concept is the same. Do the crime, do the time.

When the time came for me to begin parenting, books and magazines on rearing children were becoming more available. Dr. Spock (no relation to the Star Trek guy) was a go to author for many and I read some of his famous book, Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care. I have no recollection whether his advice worked or not but it was an interesting read. The internet was not available for the masses, yet, so we didn't have to deal with the comparison monster. My friends were not posting glossy photos of their fabulous trips or their adorable children doing adorable things in adorable homes. The only way I knew what my mom friends were doing was to visit them face to face. I discovered we were all changing poopy diapers, losing sleep with crying babies and wondering if we were good enough parents.

As a teacher, I have worked with hundreds of children. It doesn't take long for me to identify the kids who have good parents. Good parents have kids who understand consequences. Their kids are not perfect. Their kids make mistakes. And their kids test the boundaries. But, through it all, good parents produce kids who know where the line is and their kids know that crossing the line will come at a price.

"The corner" may not have been a fun part of my youth, but I am grateful to my mom for sending me there when I needed it. And, no, I don't need to share how often I sat there. Let's just say, sometimes I needed a chair to complete my sentencing. Thanks, mom.

Canis familiaris

For my friends who love dogs, this post is probably not for you. Don't worry, I will not be extolling the virtues of cats, if there is such a thing, but I will be exploring my tumultuous relationship with dogs. I grew up on a farm so I am no stranger to animals. My neurosis made sure I never fully bonded with most of the animals in my world, but, hands down, dogs were the most feared. The barking-sniffing-nuzzling-jumping-growling thing dogs do when they "greet" others is terrifying to me. I never know where to put my hands because dogs usually have this neediness to be petted or scratched or I-don't-know-what as they command my attention. They like to get into my personal space bubble very quickly and I am forced to call for help from someone who speaks dog.

Big or small or bows-in-the-fur or anything in between, most canines strike fear within my being. There was the dog (let's call him Beelzebub) who lived down the road a piece from my childhood home. He insisted on laying in wait as I pedaled my bicycle to visit my friend.  I would get off my bike as I approached the farm where Beelzebub resided so I would make less noise on the crunchy gravel. I am sure Beelzebub had a bicycle radar set up in his doghouse because he never failed to come out snarling and ready for a chase. I would hop back on my bike and pedal with all the speed of someone filled with gallons of adrenaline. My sister is a dog whisperer so I often took her along in an attempt to save myself from Beelzebub. Thanks, sis!

There was the extremely crabby and large dog (let's call him Lucifer) who lived in the same small town where I lived when I was first married.  On Sunday afternoons, I often rode my bike around town, sometimes with my young daughter buckled into the kiddie seat behind me. I usually avoided the block where Lucifer reigned, but one afternoon I decided to take a chance. I was alone this time and I noticed Lucifer was chained up in his owner's back yard. I held my breath and as quietly and quickly as possible sailed by Lucifer, hoping not to be noticed. No such luck. Lucifer raised his mangy head and glared at me. I assumed the heavy chain leash would keep him tethered. Not so. He ripped the stake out and barreled after me. His pathogen laden mouth clamped down on my leg and I rode at least a half block with him attached to me like a furry tumor. I am not sure how or why he finally released his grip, but I finally made it home. I reported the beastly incident to our small town cop and eventually Lucifer was no longer around. Apparently, I wasn't the only leg he tasted.

Over the years I learned techniques that help me cope, such as freezing and closing my eyes or making sure a dog translator is with me if I know a dog is likely to be present at my destination. I have also met a few dogs who respect my space. Charlie, the golden retriever who owns my daughter and son-in-law, is patiently attempting to teach me dog speak. Donner, the gentle German shepherd who was the sentinel at our favorite vacation destination, taught me not to judge a dog book by its cover.

Nevertheless, I am still a puddle of ineptness when I meet a strange dog. Last week, my mother was escorting me to the door of her assisted living home when a woman entered the building. She was clutching a leash with a small, dachshund-like dog tugging on the other end. I was trapped with the dog between me and the building's exit. I froze and hoped the dog would just trot along his merry way. Of course, he had to veer off course and head for my ankles with much sniffing and posturing. The owner gave the leash a little tug and I was saved. My mother suddenly broke out into a fit of giggles and said, "They just never leave you alone, do they?"

I guess dogs can bring a little joy, once in awhile.