Tale of Two

My early Saturday morning ritual of completing my grocery shopping before the break of dawn has wobbled of late. My primary shopping happens at a fairly large grocery store (Big A). It has a cheese and deli section, a bakery, a coffee shop, a restaurant, a meat department, a pharmacy, a wine and spirits department and aisles and aisles of everything from avocados to zwieback. Now there is the new kid in town (Little B). Due to a number of reasons, not the least of which is my mushy brain of forgetfulness, I am darting over to Little B after my first grocery run so I can pick up a few more items.

Little B muscled its way into the neighborhoods of some pretty big players in our city's grocery world. On paper, Little B should be tucking its tail between its legs and leaving town by now, beaten into submission by the Alpha dogs. Not only has that not happened, Little B is thriving. The two stores I visit are radically different in tone and philosophy.

Big A is open 24/7, humming away with hordes of worker bees. I recognize a few of the early morning bees but for the most part the ever changing crew is busy doing their thing as they rub the crudlies out of their eyes and hope the next shift arrives on time. The produce department is often just starting to clear out the overnight detritus when I arrive. I make it a point to check the temperature of the grapes. Warm means stay away, cold means purchase. The produce guy is a bit of a grumpy cat and prefers to focus on banana purging and leafy green placement. The personal shoppers scurry around with their beeper guns, loading carts with groceries for others. The ends of the aisles are stacked up with boxes, ready to be unloaded for the next big rush. The checkout counter is usually manned by one lone teenager who drew the short straw for shift assignments. Said teenager often struggles with identifying produce as I give him tutelage on pear varietals and the difference between a shallot and an onion. I feel like I hit the jackpot when there is someone to pack my groceries. If I start packing my own groceries, a manager sometimes steps up to the plate for a mercy packing.

Little B is open from 7 a.m to 9 p.m. and steadfastly closed on Sunday. When I arrive at Little B, promptly at 7:00, the front checker chirps out a cheery hello. The grapes are always ready and cool to the touch. The meat department is an open concept with butchers bantering back and forth as they prepare meat for the day. When I want a soup bone, they know what I mean and I am rewarded with a nice beef shank. Checkout is usually with the cheery one and she asks me if I am making soup when she sees the shank come through. She immediately calls for assistance if someone needs help taking groceries out to the parking lot. And then she thanks the assistant for helping out up front. I admit that I cannot help but smile when shopping at Little B.

One would think that Little B is my grocery store of choice. And it is for the small town feel it gives me and the warmth of service it provides. But, I also appreciate Big A for all the shopping options it offers. The beauty of having two grocery within a few blocks of my house is that I have choices and I am not forced to choose one or the other on a regular basis.

And the best part of all is that I don't have to face the bleary-eyed teenager at Big A again when I realize I forgot something during my first shopping go-around. I just head to Little B and they think I have my act together.

Glaze

The word glaze usually conjures up visions of cakes and cookies enshrouded with a thin blanket of sweet goodness. Those of us living in the upper Plains have another meaning for glaze and it is not quite as comforting as its culinary counterpart. Glaze can also be a meteorological term which is (and I quote) "a thin coating of ice that forms when super cooled liquid precipitation falls onto exposed objects whose temperature is below or slightly above freezing." We have another term for such a weather event  around here and that is "Yuck."

Our local TV meteorologists are in the midst of training all their viewers on the latest terminology for winter weather events.  We now have Winter Storm Watches, Winter Storm Warnings, Winter Weather Advisories, Blizzard Watches, Wind Chill Warnings, Ice Storm Warnings, Blizzard Warnings and Freezing Rain Advisories. Adding to the mix we have live Doppler, European weather models and American weather models for forecasting said events.  It is no wonder why many of us want to curl up in a ball and eat bacon for the rest of the winter.

Unfortunately, we experienced the dreaded "Glaze and Winter Storm Warning" this past weekend. There is a general rhythm to such events around here. It begins with hordes of people descending upon the grocery stores to pick up milk, bread and copious amounts of snacks in preparation for impending doom. Hardware stores are flooded with requests for Ice Melt products, shovels and snow blowers. Cell phones ping away with weather warning information. Frothing TV meteorologists share the latest radar updates. And TV reporters with the least seniority are sent outdoors to shiver and shake their way through reports on deteriorating weather conditions.

We learn to live in the moment with weather events. The ping-ping of ice crystals scratching away on our window panes is a sure sign we will have to change travel plans or experience white-knuckled driving (not advised). Whooshing winds remind us to beware, especially if snow and black ice are added to the mix. Dimply ice coatings on our windshields require sturdy ice scrapers and defrosters running full bore. Our feet send weather messages to our brain as we navigate various sidewalk coatings. Slick sidewalks require the penguin walk. Snowy terrain can be crunchy, fluffy or sticky, all demanding specific foot work for safe movement. High winds cause us to "turtle up" as we scrunch our heads down into our parkas and keep our hoods tied up snugly. Stinging nasal passages let us know the wind chill factor is dropping.

I am grateful for the advances in meteorology and weather prediction techniques. One just has to read The Children's Blizzard to be reminded of the alternative. I am also grateful for something in our lives that we cannot completely control. It reminds us of a power greater than ourselves and it is okay if we need each other to help us survive.

My weather advice for all is simple. Stay aware of your surroundings and above all, make sure your glaze recipes includes cream. And lots of butter.

Full Hearts

'Tis the season for all things excessive and unsettling. Wild-eyed shoppers scurry around on Black Friday, hoping to score the perfect gift at the perfect price. Beleaguered cooks trudge behind squeaky grocery carts, picking up enough items to feed the masses. Worried grandparents peruse wish lists, praying the selected gifts will forever please the grand recipients. Guilt-ridden hosts and hostesses absorb Pinterest suggestions as if their very salvation is dependent upon such things. And Amazon smiles all the way to the bank.

Despite our tendency to gravitate toward shiny objects of desire, there is still goodness to be found. Teaching in a middle school affords me the opportunity to peer into the worlds of my students. Most afternoons, after the final bell rings, a gaggle of students rendezvous in my room. They chatter amongst themselves about school, music, friends and all things teenage. They allow me to eavesdrop on their conversations, providing me with greater insight into their lives.

Luis is often one of the group members. He is round-faced with a pair of glasses perched upon his chubby cheeks. He has a kind heart and loves to show his appreciation by sharing a quick hug and a thank-you. At the start of football season, he told the group that his family didn't have enough money to purchase the kind of shoes he needed for the games. The other group members nodded their heads in commiseration with Luis. They know all about trade-offs and what it means to go without. They don't wear the newest clothes or carry the latest smartphones. They walk home rather than wait for big SUVs to pull up and give them rides. They don't spend time at a lake cabin in the summer and they certainly don't take a week off school in the winter for a trip to Turks and Caicos. By the standards of some, they are not part of the cool crowd.

If we are perfectly honest with ourselves, we probably all have times when we yearn for a membership in the cool club. Marketers know all about this. Pop-up ads remind us of the new jacket that could be ours with a click of a button. Fitbits are replaced by smartwatches. Jeans go from bootcut to skinny to faded to ripped, depending on the year. Spinach loses out to kale and chip dip slides over for hummus. The voices in our head scream, "Not enough, not enough."

When the group asked him what he was going to do about the shoe problem he told them that it had already been taken care of. He said, "My dad sold his music CDs so he could get some money to buy me new shoes." And then he proudly stated, "And that's how I know my dad loves me."

Perfect gifts, meals and decorations be damned. All it really takes is someone who cares.

Disaster

Two weeks ago, to the day, a disaster struck my world. It was not a tornado, no little dogs were whooshed into the air. It was not a blizzard, no toes lost in the process. And it was not a broken hip, no surgery needed. It happened in a split second and in that moment there was no turning back. "Oh, noooooo!" was audibly gasped. (There may or may not have been other vocabulary words used, but I have no proof.) Needless to say, my blood pressure spiked and heart palpitations ensued.

My disaster was the loss of all my cellphone contacts. The context for such folly is neither here nor there. Suffice it to say, I am an idiot and my quest to clean up another tech problem with my phone resulted in a bad move.

As I tried to console myself with possible "it-could-have-been-worse" scenarios, I realized I am moving into a world of fewer and fewer hard copy lists of people, places and phone numbers. Gone are the days of a phone book. My tattered, battered and stained address book (my lifeline years ago) is used less and less. The memorization of phone numbers has gone the way of the spelling bee. Physical calendars are replaced with digital organizers capable of sending reminders to us, electronically of course.

And yet, my feet continue to plod along in the old world, too. I still have a family calendar posted on my refrigerator. It serves as a visual beacon for upcoming events such as recycling pick-ups, Schwan's deliveries and dentist appointments (clearly, my life is free of glamour). I have pads of paper and little notebooks scattered throughout my house and work spaces just in case an idea or reminder needs to be taken care of. I copy recipes from the internet for three reasons: I am too cheap to buy a new printer; sticky, greasy fingers and digital devices do not mix and writing down a recipe forces me to commit to its execution. I have a landline because I prefer to hold something that fits the shape of my gripping hand when I am talking to my friends and family. I tell the sweet little clerk at my local retail center, "No, I don't have your app. Just, well, just because." I like to touch a blanket in a real store before I purchase it. I look at clocks rather than look for my phone to check the time. I prefer to let music bathe over me in a room rather than use little pluggy things in my ears. And I am not sure if my only friend needs to be Alexa.

All that said, I am committed to having a cellphone and I need my contact list. Fortunately, I kept my previous dinosaur of a cellphone and was able to do a phone-to-phone transfer of my contact list. I am sure the average 10-year-old could have completed said process in ten minutes. I will spare you the agonizing details of how long it took me. Just the same, I am patting myself on the back for an electronic disaster being thwarted and note to self, look before you leap.

Address Book, circa 1976

Bubbles

A long time ago, in a little town, in a little school, a little girl in 4th grade was handed an ominous looking booklet with the letters ITBS stamped on it. She was told by her teacher not to open it until the all clear was given. She was also handed an answer sheet that was filled with tiny little bubbles filled with tiny little letters. And her journey of standardized testing began.

My memories of that moment are dim but I do remember the novelty of the process. Being a nervous little Nelly, I was always afraid my pencil wasn't the required "Number 2" or that I would fill in the bubbles too much or too little, a grievous sin indeed. I glanced at the clock frequently because I knew at any minute the teacher was going to say, "Time's up. Put your pencils down." In all honesty, I have no idea how I did on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. I suppose my parents received some information but they were never ones to dwell on such things unless there was a reason to be concerned. My school days seemed to chug along with the usual flow of math, reading, story time and jump rope contests. I never knew if I was smart or dumb (no comments from my sibs, please). I did know that I loved reading and I could go the rest of my life without ever participating in another field day.

Such is not the case today. Every one and every thing gets a rating. My dentist wants to know if my recent visit met my expectations. You mean, was it as traumatic as I thought is was going to be? Hmm, yes, as per my vivid imagination. The company I ordered a sweater from wants to know if my ordering process was as pleasant as I had hoped. Well, sure. It arrived without having been dragged under a bus first. My neurologist's office wants to know if I would recommend their services to others. Why not? I could do so if someone else is stuck with a crappy health issue.

Then there are those in the hospitality business. Namely, hotels, motels, campgrounds, yurts and glamps. Technology has made it such that with the click-clack of a few buttons every disgruntled user of such services can rate, post and rant about their stay. I have learned I cannot read too many online reviews before I travel or I will choose to sleep in my vehicle instead. On the flip side, there is the practice of some vacation rental sites of rating their guests. Case in point, a friend of mine was afraid to give honest feedback on a rental site for fear she would receive a lower rating herself. Good gracious, do we really need something else to worry about while we are on vacation? And will there be a hotel left standing after the trolls have their way with such places?

I think it is time to stop the insane ratings mania. I propose we go back to bubble sheets. It will involve a piece of paper, a stamped envelope and a number two pencil. It will also require a little time for pondering and true purpose. And at some point, we need to say, "Put your pencils down."

Frozen

My husband is a night owl and I am a morning lark, therefore, our usual routine is early to bed for me and late to bed for him. I often hear him puttering around between the kitchen and his man cave in the garage after I've settled in for the night. A few nights ago, I awoke to a little extra noise in the kitchen. Further investigation revealed an unwelcome intrusion as my husband declared the dreaded words, "The chest freezer in the garage isn't working."

Apparently, he had reached into said freezer for a fudgesicle, only to find a puddle of brown goo. The canary in the coal mine had spoken. No more freezer. He didn't want to waken me (too late) so he started wrangling foodstuffs into our refrigerator freezer. He went to the 24-hour convenience store to stock up on ice for coolers and loaded them with less fragile freezer items. Thanks to my husband's nightly ice cream routine, the problem was detected before all was lost. That being said, some items needed to be tossed and other food, such as the baked goods, had to be eaten before staleness set in. Bring on the cookies and sweet potato bread.

The next morning required a decision with our morning coffee, to fix or not to fix. A nanosecond of thought resulted in the fate of our faltering friend, time to unplug. R.I.P., dear Whirlly, you served us well. Whirlly was purchased shortly after we were married and, of course, her only repair happened a few months later. Because my husband and I are incredibly lucky people, the part needing replacement was a few weeks past warranty so, ouch, another expense during the lean years. It was smooth sailing after that and despite being a little worse for the wear, she put up a good fight during her forty years of chilling.

Whirlly was home to countless packages of home baked cookies, bars and breads. She hosted containers of chicken soup, wild rice soup and vegetable beef soup, awaiting a rainy day. Bags of frozen pesto cubes saved their herby pungency for the dead of winter. Pork, lamb and beef kept each other company until it was time for grilled chops, lamb stew or our family's "comfort casserole." Whirlly often came to the rescue for occasions such as the annual cookie fair fundraising event at my daughter's school when twelve dozen pecan tassies had to be baked and stored for a couple of weeks. Umpteen bags of ice spent time with Whirlly, as well as fudgesicles, popsicles, ice cream sandwiches and buckets of Schwan's vanilla ice cream. And she never passed judgment when a stray package or two got lost in the shuffle and had to be disposed of rather than used in a timely manner.

When the appliance store truck "deet-deet-deeted" its way back into our driveway and loaded up dear Whirlly, I resisted the urge to play the theme song of Frozen but I did nod my head with a farewell of thanks. I hope her shiny new replacement hums along as well as she did.

Time to bake a few more cookies.

Simple

Recently, a colleague and I commiserated about the challenges of finding a printable recipe on many cooking blogs. We decided that some of the bloggers are suffering from PWWS, Pioneer Woman Wannabe Syndrome. Our dear internet friend, Ree Drummond, of Pioneer Woman fame, has built an empire through her blog, one post at a time. She now has her own cooking show, cookbooks and cookware. She has a Mercantile purveying all things Pioneer, from her signature cookware to her children's books about the family dog, Charlie. She recently opened The Boarding House, a "cowboy luxury" hotel, featuring guest rooms designed by Ree and her handsome husband, Ladd. And she has four kids. And she seems nice.

As a blogger, I can relate to the fact that most of us will never become powerhouse bloggers. Therefore, I am puzzled at the tactics some bloggers use in an attempt to build a blogging kingdom. My guess is Ree's recipe for success is massive amounts of hard work, a solid business sense, talented writing skills, a sprinkling of good people in her life and a dash of good luck.

On the heels of my 7th anniversary as a blogger, here is the sum total of what I have learned about blogging.

1) Success is relative. I remember the hot day in July I decided to write for more than just myself. The back to school bell was soon to ring as I clunked my way through the Blogspot process (emphasis on clunk). I wrote a piece describing a little bit of my world and hit the "publish" button. My brain screamed, "What are you doing?" and my calmer self replied, "This too shall pass." Over 200 posts later, my fingers still believe there is a tale or two to tell as they peck out another post. Success for me is perseverance and consistency. My reader stats could be read by the average pre-schooler but I am okay with that.

2) Know your purpose. My blogging goal is to celebrate the everyday. Many of us do not live lives filled with exotic traveling, fine dining or trendy happenings. We should not feel like we've fallen short because we aren't wearing the latest fashions or driving cars with retractable roofs. There is no shame in plain. So far, my dull life has provided me with blogging inspiration. No passport needed.

3) Comparison is the thief of joy. I stole that quote from Teddy Roosevelt. I'm sure he won't mind if I pass it along. My guess is that the average blog reader can sniff out a wannabe pretty quickly. Not all readers are swayed by mason jars photographed with clever drips of caramel cascading off the sides or plates of biscuits with rough hewn tables used as the backdrop. Frankly, I am more confident that perusing a community favorites cookbook with sticky pages will provide me with recipe inspiration.

4) Respect your reader. Nothing says disrespect more clearly than pop-up-down-and-all-around ads while I am trying to read a blog. I know this is how bloggers make money but for the love of Pete, stop it. When I cannot get past the first three sentences of a blog without running through a gauntlet of ads, it makes it easy to answer the inevitable blog plea asking me to "sign up for weekly e-mails". No, thank you.

I do have one thank you I would like to pass along, however.

Thank you, readers. You are a kind bunch of folks and I appreciate your acceptance of my world of beige.

Empty Nest

Postcard of Iris and L'el'e 

As some of my readers know, I was over the moon obsessed with a family of ospreys in Missoula, Montana (Hellgate Canyon) this summer. Through the eyes of a well positioned web cam, folks from around the world watched Iris (mom osprey), Louis (dad osprey) and L'el'e (baby osprey) live their lives as raptors in nature. It was a summer of heartbreak, joy and nail-biting drama in and out of the nest. Through it all, the O family taught me several lessons.

1) Procedures matter.--Osprey are fish eaters. They are phenomenal divers and their powerful wings allow them to haul a struggling fish out of the water and back to the nest. The fish are always eaten from the head to the tail and consistently in that order. Never once did I see them start with the soft belly, no matter how hungry they were. They forcefully ripped through the lips of their prey and worked their way through the softer inner parts and finally, made a final gulp to accommodate the forked tail. I can only speculate that this procedure gave the O's maximum nutrition and kept the nest free of stray fish parts.

2) Keep your nest tidy.--From the moment Iris and Louis arrived in the spring, their nest was in a constant state of upkeep. Large "crib rails" were hauled in, stick by stick. Soft pieces of moss and grass were tucked into corners here and there. Much fussing and fiddling with sticks in the nest was common throughout the season. And the number one rule for all the O's was "Never poop in the nest." When it was time for a poop break, the birds backed up to the edge of the nest and let 'er fly with great projectile force. I found it fascinating in a twisted sort of way.

3) Trust the O's.--Nature is nature and any attempts on our part to anthropomorphize our little bird family resulted in heartbreak and frustration. It was an astoundingly difficult spring in Missoula for fishing. The Clark Fork River was raging and the turbidity levels were off the charts, resulting in near starvation for our O family. Siblicide is one way ospreys cope with low food availability. We watched as Iris and Louis ignored the attacks of the oldest nestling on the younger siblings. Our heads knew this was the only way any of the offspring had a chance for survival, but our human hearts wanted to intervene. Sadly, two nestlings succumbed but the remaining chick grew into a strong, beautiful osprey. The species continues to the next generation.

4) Never give up.--The most critical moment this summer was a 36-hour stretch of no fish being brought into the nest by Louis. It was cold, rainy and the river continued to churn violently. The remaining chick was within hours of death if food didn't arrive soon. Iris was keeping the chick warm but in a surprising move, she flew off the nest and shortly thereafter, returned with a fish. Iris is much older than Louis and her hunting prowess and motherly instinct gave her a life saving advantage that fateful day. Throughout the summer, Louis developed into a fierce fisher bird and his deliveries to the nest were always met with great fanfare.

Fall is arriving in Hellgate and our osprey family is feeling the urge to fly south. Soon the nest will be completely empty and we will most likely never see L'el'e again as the young do not return to their birth nest. The timing is good for me as I am back to school and I need to migrate out of the nest myself.


Until next spring, that is.

Screenshot of L'el'e in early August

Hometown Chronicles

My husband and I moved away from our hometown over 30 years ago but we continue to subscribe to our hometown's newspaper. Mind you, the town does not have a population much over a thousand people but it continues to faithfully print and distribute a weekly paper. My husband and I are like vultures on carrion when the paper arrives each Thursday and may the best bird win rights to the first read through.

The paper has all the sections one would expect in a small town paper. The front page is dedicated to the news of the town such as school board elections, businesses changing hands and local celebrations. The inner pages include letter(s) to the editor, sports updates of local teams, pictures of school happenings, library news and classified ads. The last page is reserved for obituaries and a column written by the current editor.

One of our favorite sections is called "News from our Files". It reprints a few news items from decades gone by, beginning in 1908. Yes, our hometown has a longstanding tradition of printing newspapers for its constituents. My favorite decades are the oldest ones. I don't recognize the names but I am fascinated with what was in the news and even more intrigued by the interesting language often used to describe events. One example came from July, 1908: "Hail last Saturday evening caused considerable damage to crops northwest of town. The storm also put a quietus on the circus, which was being presented in town that night." Another news item from one hundred years ago noted that a teacher from a local country school was leaving "due to some unpleasantness." News items from the 30's and 40's give me a window into the Great Depression and the war years. Local young men made the news for leaving home, for returning home and sadly, for never seeing their hometown again.

Along the way, I have learned a couple of lessons from my hometown paper about the folks who live there.

1) They support each other. Almost weekly, there are fundraisers for individuals and groups. Sometimes, they are for someone who needs help with medical bills. Sometimes, they are for churches raising funds for designated causes. And, periodically, the town tackles a really big project such as a new swimming pool. The town is fiscally conservative with a small taxpaying base so building a new pool is not done without a lot of sweat, time and fundraising dinners. The monies for the pool were  secured and the children are not only enjoying a beautiful new pool but they also have their own swim team. As someone who took swimming lessons in the local leech-infested lake, I wholeheartedly endorse pools for kids.

2) The residents in my hometown take pride in their community. It is not unusual to see a front page op-ed piece encouraging others to shop locally. There are many photographs highlighting the latest school play or the winning run in a wild baseball game at the local ballpark. The beautiful new city park is often featured with events for outdoor family activities. The Memorial Day program is published with an emphasis on honoring those who served our country.

It is no secret that many newspapers are going the way of the passenger pigeon. But, I believe in the tenacity of small town papers and their readers. They are less likely to believe that social media will be their only source of information and most of the faces and places in the paper are recognized by almost every resident in town.

My subscription money for my hometown paper is money well spent.

When I Grow Up

"When I grow up, I want to be______."

Most of us remember how we filled in the blank during our younger days. Some folks filled in the blank at a very early age with a selection that was spot on for the future. Others filled in the blank with a variety of career choices over the course of many years. While I was growing up, I filled in the blank with several options reflective of my generation: secretary, dental assistant (WHAT was I thinking), librarian, church organist (no pay) and teacher. I wisely never entertained the thought of being a nurse. There would be fewer people alive today if I had gone that route. You're welcome.

Not surprisingly, my strongest career choice was teacher. I often corralled my younger siblings into the game of "school". The youngest ones were my unsuspecting targets and they learned quickly that this game had only one rule. Their oldest sister was the teacher and she was in charge. The school game was usually short-lived for obvious reasons.

Fast forward many years (30 years of teaching later) and I am once again trying to fill in the blank. Retirement means many things and soon enough, I need to know what I am going to do when I grow up. As during the days of my youth, there are "career" choices reflective of my age and generation: Walmart Greeter (get to wear a snappy vest), Sample Lady at Hy-Vee (snack time), Valet Parker at the hospital (probably need to know how to park for that one) and Professional Volunteer (limitless). None seem particularly appealing at this time so I keep my eyes and ears open to possibilities.

A Lay's Potato Chip truck pulled up next to me on the street a few days ago and I wondered about that job. Sitting amidst snack items all day must be very comforting. Being evaluated by my driving skills and not being able to eat said snack items is a deal breaker. Scratch that idea.

Any job involving extended periods of time outdoors (more than 10 minutes) is probably not going to happen either. My see-through skin and aversion to temperatures above 70 degrees make it difficult for survival in occupations involving Mother Nature. She is precocious and I am weak. Not a good combo.

If a job is fraught with a lot of multi-tasking details, I am dead in the water. Administrative assistants are saints and waitresses are warriors in my book. My spongy brain and fuzzy hearing would likely result in being "asked to leave." Some jobs are destined for failure.

Yes, it is true. I am a one-trick pony. My skill set is shallow and my original career path prepared me for one task, teaching. So, I am saddling up for another year in the classroom. And if I figure out what I want to be when I grow up, you will be the first to know.

Badger Week

Ecosystems are like stages filled with actors playing their roles. The plants act as energy converters so the sun can feed the crew. Herbivores graze their way through the show while passing their energy on to carnivores and omnivores. Scavengers make sure the stage is cleaned up in the event a crew member goes down. Decomposers stealthily take care of the final remains so everything is ready for the next act.

And, as any successful playwright knows, a good show needs a villain. Enter the apex predator. Love them, hate them, fear them or admire them, they are certainly difficult to ignore. Having survived another round of Shark Week it is evident that predators hold our fascination. Almost thirty years ago, Shark Week television shows were rolled out as the antidote for misinformation concerning sharks. Now, the craze includes everything from Jaws marathons to docufiction shows, science be damned.

I think it is time for a prairie predator week. Enter the American Badger (Taxidea taxus). It is a squatty little character but, boy howdy, is it fearless. It has huge foreclaws and a muscular body. It is related to the powerful wolverine (always good to have a bad boy in the family tree) and feeds upon all the prairie has to offer. It has no problem digging into other animals' burrows looking for tasty snacks and it enjoys a wide variety of food on its buffet such as birds, mice, prairie dogs, bees, skunks and lizards. They will also nibble on an occasional plant or two when need be.

There are flashier prairie predators such as the wily coyote and the venomous rattlesnake. But, it is the badger that has the real star power. Badgers have been known to assist coyotes in their hunting escapades and badgers are considered one of the primary predators of rattlesnakes. Top billing goes to the badger.

I am not sure I ever personally saw a badger during my years on the farm. I do have memories of tromping around in the hay field and remembering a warning given by my father to "never tangle with a badger." None of us were ever mauled by one so apparently we heeded his advice. I do remember seeing a badger hole or two and giving them wide berth. In reality, I should have given thanks for each badger hole I saw because they were helping cleanse the field of my nemesis, mice. I was convinced that small vermin could scamper up my legs and under my shirt at any given time. My fear was born of a warning given by my mother. My parents were a wealth of useful information.

It is probably a given there will never be a widely embraced Badger Week. Sharks are sexier and have their own soundtrack. Badgers look like grizzled rugs moving across the grasslands. Sharks have massive jaws that are rimmed with conveyor belt rows of teeth. Badgers have a single row of teeth and aren't attracted to flailing swimmers.

But, if the networks ever have a change of heart and decide to feature the star of the prairie, I am booking a front row seat. Any animal that can take on a rattlesnake is worth watching in my book.

Church in the Vale

Vacations are memories stitched together by moments in time. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a family that valued time away from the day-to-day minutia of general life. We never took exotic trips and many times the trips were just a few days, but the goal was always the same, experience a place as a family. We would take pictures (no selfies back then), collect souvenirs, eat picnic lunches and learn how to get along in new environments. My parents were saints when I think about it now, but my mother says she only remembers fun times.

My husband and I recently had the good fortune of vacationing with our daughter and son-in-law in one of our favorite places, the Black Hills. The weather was very warm and uncharacteristically humid due to recent rains in the area. But our cabin veranda was blessed with shade and soothing breezes. We spent many hours in conversation punctuated by a meal or two, or three or more. We also took field trips out and about in the Hills. 

As with all field trips, some events are planned and other events are totally serendipitous. One trip was a drive to a former mining town (pop. 21) that is still a destination for many due to its iconic watering hole and beautiful location. After we reached the little burg, we took a break in the parking lot of a nearby country chapel. My daughter tugged gently on the front door out of curiosity. Not surprisingly, it was locked so we wandered around the property to stretch our legs. 

Within minutes, a small blue car pulled up and an elderly lady (probably my age) rolled down her window and asked if we wanted to go inside the church. We were a little stunned by her timing but did not want to her to think we were casing the joint for some big break-in, so we agreed to her generous offer. She unlocked the front door for us and we entered the little brown chapel. The musty smell of air encapsulated without air conditioning greeted us. The church would have been just another country chapel if it hadn't been for the zeal of our tour guide and her husband, sporting a trusty water bottle fastened to his side in a holster. 

Our guide shared with us the history of the church which had its beginnings in the bar down the road. Volunteer ladies of the church would clean up the beer bottles and mess of Saturday night's revelry and prepare the bar for Sunday morning's worship. When the congregation garnered sufficient funds, a chapel was built and the pride in their progress continued to glow. Our guide pointed out the pews that replaced the original folding chairs, the new cement installed for the side entryway, the stained glass artwork decorating one of the windows and the brand new hymnals just purchased. She ended her history lesson by stating, "And every Sunday, we sing the song about the little brown church in the vale." As we prepared to leave, she gave us a parting gift, a paper place mat from their recent anniversary celebration. We thanked her and her husband for their time and made our way back to our vehicle, waving one last time to our new friends. 

Our original field trip itinerary did not include a stop at a chapel but it was certainly one of our highlights of the day, thanks to a very passionate woman, her husband and a little church in the vale.

Trending

News shows often share a feature called "What's Trending." I do not live on the cutting edge of anything so I am mildly interested in the latest and greatest. I did, however, take note of a particular announcement this week. The first one being Best Buy's decision to no longer carry music CDs. No surprise given our obsession with all things digital. The follow-up decision was the kicker. Best Buy will continue to stock vinyl records. What? The technology that was shunned and disgraced out of existence is now popping up on the radar as "cool" or should I say, "lit"? Here's a news flash. Vinyl is old technology. My parents used vinyl so we are talking really old.

One of my mom's beloved pieces of furniture was the console stereo. Mom instituted a sacred quiet time after our noon meal. The littlest ones napped, the middlings read a book or pretended to nap and my dad stretched out on the living room floor for one of his quick power naps. To set the tone, Mom put a vinyl record on the stereo and we drifted off with George Beverly Shea singing "How Great Thou Art" or a gospel quartet harmonizing their way through "The Old Rugged Cross." Christmas time was always exciting because Dad picked up the latest Christmas compilation album from my uncle who owned the local TV and appliance store. One of my favorite albums had a partridge in a pear tree on the cover. No surprise I learned all the verses to the "Twelve Days of Christmas" that year.

One of our first purchases as newlyweds was a stereo system that was far more expensive than we could afford. At the time, it seemed logical that musical equipment would have the highest priority on our list of needs (yes, we were idiots). In defense of ourselves, we continue to enjoy memories of the vinyl albums we played and replayed on that system.

As time moved forward, we jumped on the CD music wagon with the rest of the world due to the convenience and ease of using CDs. No more jumpy needles on a turntable. No more fear of scratching vulnerable vinyl records. No more bulky album covers. No more wonky 8-track players or curled up tapes in a cassette player. We were keeping up with the times and that should be enough.

When the wave of digital music arrived, my husband and I let it splash on by. I can pull up a song on Spotify if I have to or put together a playlist from Amazon Prime music under duress, but using digital music is like speaking another language for us.

And that brings us back to vinyl. We can speak that language very well. We know the joy of an artistically designed album cover. We understand the commitment it takes to purchase a compilation of songs that are not just comprised of our favorites. We know the fun of falling in love with a new song. We know the care and feeding it takes to keep vinyl in good shape.

And we know, vinyl never died. God Bless America.

(P.S. If you are interested in "why real things matter", read the book Revenge of Analog by David Sax.)

Soul Care

Soul care is a term as old as Plato and Socrates. Despite its longevity in our vernacular, the term has only recently popped up on my radar as worthy of further exploration. If you are a theologian or philosopher, my apologies as I am not going to wrestle with the nuances of the meaning of soul care. I am, however, going to share my application of the term, no deep thinking allowed.

I have declared this summer my Soul Care Summer. After a difficult school year filled with challenging students and a personal battle with chronic pain, I am in need of respite. Call me selfish or pagan, it matters not as I push forward with rest.

Here are a few ways I am underachieving this summer.

1) Meditate: My skeptical self usually classifies meditation as a voodoo, sprinkle dust business.That being said, I am currently following a program that encourages quieting the mind and relaxing with intent. I do not chant anything and I confess I think about the physics of air pressure as I breathe. I think I am safe from selling out to the nameste crowd but I am finding some of the techniques helpful.

2)  Set limits: I am still on my Facebook and Instagram cut back and I can honestly say I am refreshed with the renewal of experiencing life in real time. If I ask someone if they have been traveling lately, it is because I sincerely want to know and not because I saw a dozen or more dazzling posts on FB and I long to relive it again. I want to hear first hand the good and the challenging aspects of the lives of others. Not surprisingly, there is an expectation that I should know about life happenings because I have a FB account. Forgive me when I ask about your well being and I ask you to fill in a few blanks. That is what shared cups of coffee are all about.

3) Make Music: My piano has remained rather silent of late. Changes in life circumstances resulted in less demand for my volunteer services and less desire to rifle through my cache of music. A few weeks ago, I pulled out my stack of prelude/postlude music and started playing my way through memory lane. A quick call to the piano tuner improved my experience and needless to say, my soul is singing with the feel of black and white keys beneath my fingers once again. Beware, neighbors.

4) Give: This may seem antithetical to soul care but soul care is not only about taking in. It is also about the nurturing that happens when we exercise our giving muscles. The giving that takes care of us involves the opportunity to use our personal gifts for others. I like to cook and bake. Sharing a batch of cookies with someone gives me great joy and nourishes my spirit.

I am still cleaning my house (sort of), doing the laundry, showing up for appointments and schlepping in bags of groceries. That's life. But, life should also include a little kindness to the soul.

Cheers.

Power of Small

It goes without saying that grandness gets credit for being powerful. The mighty oak tree rises sixty feet above the diminutive 20-foot crab apple tree. The 80-foot long Blue Whale dwarfs the 18-inch Atlantic Herring. The stocky American Bison, weighing a solid ton, hoofs its way around the 2-pound prairie dog. The 7-foot wingspan of the Bald Eagle soars past the Chipping Sparrow with its dainty 8-inch wingspan.

Not surprisingly, nature does not always favor the most photogenic species. Enter one wee little insect, Agrilus planipennis, commonly known as Emerald Ash Borer. It is less than a third of an inch long, about the size of one grain of rice. It has been living a happy arthropod life in Asia for many years, coexisting peacefully with the native trees. And then a few adventurous Borers hitched a ride on a freight ship headed to the Great Lakes near Michigan about thirty years ago. Upon leaving the ship, the Borers discovered a tasty new food source, Green Ash trees. Yum, yum. Good for the Borers. Mega-bad for North American ash trees. One by one ash trees are losing their lives as the larvae of the Borer tunnel into the trees, cutting off the tree's food and water source when the xylem and phloem of the trees are severed. Not a pretty death.

The voracious and resilient nature of the Borer has resulted in a steady march of the bugs from east to west in North America. And here is where it gets personal. Our city just had its first Borer sighting and the battle cry has been sounded. If you have an ash tree on your property, you are responsible for removing the tree(s) or treating them. Kah-ching. Kah-ching. And, of course, we have two beautiful ash trees shading the front of our home. My readers may recall we also have a birch tree that, unbeknownst to us when we planted it, is in need of iron treatments every year. More kah-ching, kah-ching. We do not buy lottery tickets for a reason.

My husband and I are too old to think we can replace our ash trees and hope to enjoy the shade and bird harboring benefits our current trees provide. Therefore, we will become BFFs with our local arborist as we watch him inject anti-borer-juice into our ash trees and iron supplements into our birch tree. I am glad we have the option to save our trees. I am not glad about the hit to our bank account.

Meanwhile, our city is ready for war against the little beasts. Meetings are being held. Brochures are being distributed. Arborists are touting their services. Homeowners are making life and death decisions. There is no winning this fight. We can only hope to mitigate the damage and cross our fingers that the Borers move on after their ten-year cycle wraps up.

Clearly, the littlest of creatures can wield great influence. No large teeth or sharp talons required.

Timeline

Cookbooks are like snapshots on a timeline. My cookbook collection gives me the chance to peer into my past and experience my culinary trek through time. Some cookbooks are in pristine condition due to infrequent use and some are falling apart due to the ravages of repeated use and sticky fingers. My cookbooks are not organized in any particular order but if I had to classify them into categories, it would look like this:

1) Standards--My classic Betty Crocker cookbook was my first "real" cookbook (not sure of the copyright date due to lost pages). Someone wisely gave it to me as a bridal shower gift and I can safely say I used it more than any other gift I received. It had everything from dips to cakes to "variety meats" to cooking tips. I loved paging through it for recipe ideas and it was a trusted friend for many years. I have since upgraded my standard cookbooks, but if I ever need to cook tripe or glazed beef tongue, I know where to go.

2) Brand Names--Recipes sell products and there is nothing better than a cookbook devoted to a brand or ingredient to encourage experimental cooking. Case in point, the Jello cookbook. My readers know  I have a love/hate (mostly hate) relationship with the jiggly goo. Alas, my Jello cookbook did not stay in my collection nor did my Philadelphia Cream Cheese cookbook. My Pillsbury Bake-Off cookbook, however, has literally been used to death. Most of its 511 pages are pulled away from the binding so I carefully extract the page I need when it is time for Chocolate Chip Pecan Pie or Cinnamon Coffee Cake Loaf. Baked goods always make me smile.

3) Travel--Gift shops are tourist gold mines. I have little use for chotskies and doo-dahs, but I love books. Browsing and perusing is such fun and occasionally, I purchase a place specific cookbook. My Naniboujou Lodge cookbook always takes to me back to beautiful Lake Superior. It is filled with historical information and the stories of those who are still committed to preserving a slice of history.The lodge's dining hall is adorned with stunning art designs and their bread pudding was the impetus for purchasing the cookbook.  A different body of water inspired another cookbook acquisition for me, namely, the Atlantic Ocean. My knowledge of beach life could fit on a thumbtack, but I love seafood. The cookbook, Beach Cuisine, written by a home economics teacher from that area is now one of my favorites. Recipes like St. Helena Shrimp Scampi and Stumpy Point Stuffed Summer Squash remind me of a place far from my landlocked home.


4) Ladies-next-door--These are the day to day workhorse cookbooks produced by church groups and civic organizations with titles such as "Heavenly Dishes" and "Community Favorites." My first such cookbook was published by the supporters of the high school I attended. A rush of fond memories wraps me up like a warm blanket every time I read the names of the ladies who submitted their favorite recipes for the cookbook. Many of the ladies have since gone on to their eternal home but their legacy lives on through their commitment to providing good food and loving homes. This is evident in one of the recipes in the cookbook called Dried Beef and Cream Cheese Wraps: Take pieces of dried beef and spread with softened cream cheese. Then wrap around a green onion. Men love them.

Perhaps cookbooks are falling out of favor due to the overwhelming abundance of recipes available on the internet today. But I am grateful for my stained-up, loose-paged, dog-eared collection of cookbooks. They are my scrapbooks of joy.

Obsessed

With my social media fast still raging on, I find myself preoccupied with other forms of entertainment. My latest obsession involves bird web cams.  Yes, I know, web cams can technically be classified as a type of social media, but I assure you, the birds are not tweeting (excuse the pun) or instagraming the life they want us to see. They are just being birds, ruffled feathers and all. They eat. They poop. They squeak and they squawk. And they lay eggs with the hope of at least one chick surviving. It is gritty life and death drama moving in slow motion.

My favorite bird cam is located in Missoula, Montana. It features a pair of ospreys named Louis and Iris. I have followed this cam off and on for a few years so I feel they are my friends (no request required). Iris already lost one mate, Stanley. Ospreys are monogamous so we know Stanley met his demise one winter during their migration southward. Fortunately, Louis took over and he is an excellent provider, which is a good thing as Iris just laid her third egg.

Louis and Iris bicker like any married pair. Whenever Louis attempts to bring large sticks to their nest Iris becomes very opinionated about their placement in her nest and Louis usually is not the winner. Iris also prefers to be the one to incubate their eggs, but she occasionally gives Louis a chance to hunker down gently on their orbs of parenthood. Compromise is the glue of most relationships.

What Louis does best is fish. An osprey's diet consists mainly of live fish. There is a river near their nest so Louis is often gone fishing for Iris. It is an interesting sight to see Louis fly into the nest with a squirming fish. Iris likes to bite off the head of the fish first, going for the tasty bits right away, I guess. She gobbles up her meal and either takes a short break from egg duty or gets right back to her nesting.

I am getting very attached to my osprey friends. Too attached, perhaps. From my years of growing up on a farm, I know the cruel blows life in the natural world can wield. Last year, all three of Iris and Louis's offspring died of starvation. The river nearby rose to flood levels and made it all but impossible for safe fishing for the bird pair. This year, the river is again rising and the same fate could be ahead. And that is why I find authentic bird cams so fascinating. No one is attempting to paint a pretty picture for the viewers. I am not subjected to perfect lives and exotic vacations. Instead, the camera posts the triumph of a well caught fish as well as the potential for heartbreaking tragedy.

I am rooting my avian friends, no matter how this year's chick raising chapter ends. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy watching them carry out their daily duties. One stick and one fish at a time.

Not a bad motto for life.

Snail

Living in the upper plains prepares one for weather diversity and adversity. On the fifth anniversary of one of the worst ice storms recorded for our city, we received an arctic punch that had even the hardiest of folks mumbling and grumbling. It started with thunder and lightning. A crack of lightning in our neighborhood struck a pole nearby, causing electricity issues for some. Then the heavens opened with a rain and ice mix. Not exactly snow. Not exactly hail. We will call it snail.

The snail continued on and off for hours, causing a pebbly-like build up on the streets. Add large vehicles driving over said surface. Sprinkle on more snail. Turn on sixty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Warm it up just enough to partially melt the snail. Keep the snail going through the night so sleep is impossible with the ping-pinging on the windows. Change the snail to full on snow until twelve inches is received. Whip the wind into a frenzy so tree branches are waving good bye. Coat everything with more snow icing. Shut down the interestate highways in two directions. And voila, you have yourself a spring storm, Dakota style.

After two days of being pummeled by the weather, a peek out the window revealed the aftermath. Snow gathered in heaps wherever there was an obstacle in its path. Small branches awaited gathering up. Snow on the streets threatened to swallow up unprepared vehicles. Little rabbit tracks made their way to bushes, indicating the chance for small critters to nibble on the tops of vegetation, rather than the understory. The chug-chug of snow blowers geared up with earnest battle cries, fully determined to shave down the mountains of white stuff.

My long-suffering husband takes care of our driveway and the neighbor's larger corner lot and driveway. Sitting on my ample behind, watching him chip away at operation snow removal seemed beyond lazy, even for me. So I picked up a shovel (the smallest one, I am weak) and hacked away on our deck. To be completely honest, I was probably more concerned about the birds than my husband. We had packed up the feeders before the storm for fear of losing them to the wind and ice. During the storm, I watched the little juncos and sparrows flit about looking for any tidbit left behind. It was like my trip to the store in the wee hours of day two of the storm. The shelves were barren. Time to live off the land and whatever was left in my fridge and freezer. My vision of chicken soup quickly morphed into a pot of beef stew instead. The milk was parsed out sparingly. And the oranges rolling around in my crisper drawer held off scurvy. We lived to see another day.

It is said that you never have to shovel sunshine (smugly stated by those living in warmer climes). I would add that shovels are tools reserved for optimistic realists. We know that April snail brings May flowers. Maybe.

Ode

April is National Poetry Month. I know from experience that poetry is wickedly difficult to compose. Good poetry demands a parsimonious touch with words that my stream of consciousness has never allowed with any success. Therefore, I will not subject you to any poetry penned by my hand.

Many folks seem to have a love/hate relationship with poetry. The little ditties of our youth such as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Rock-a-Bye Baby are etched into our brains until death do us part. But who of us could name more than a handful of poets, much less recite a poem more than ten lines long? I am guilty as charged.

Surprisingly, I do have a favorite poet and his name is Badger Clark. He was the first poet laureate of South Dakota (1937). He preferred the title "poet lariat" due to his love of all things cowboy. I am not exactly sure when my fascination began with Badger. My best guess is that it happened during a vacation of my youth. My mom was a teacher and my dad had an insatiable appetite for learning so no outing was complete without some sort of educational "event." One year, a trip to the Black Hills included a stop at Badge Hole, the cabin where Badger spent almost 30 years reading and writing. My childhood memory is a bit weak but I remember Badger's signature tall boots lined up along the wall and his many shelves of books. I don't think I read any of his poetry immediately after our visit but his name stuck in my brain.

Fast forward many years later and I had a desire to read a poem or two by Badger. My public library had a nice collection so I checked his books out. I was smitten. His ability to describe his love of nature and the lost art of being a cowboy kept me coming back for one more reading. I am not one who rereads a lot of books but Badger Clark is the exception.

My husband and I had the pleasure of visiting Badger Hole many years after my first visit. My adult eyes soaked up the view of his cabin nestled in the beautiful pine trees. The volunteer attendant at the cabin enthusiastically shared Badger's story as we marveled at his multiple pairs of tall boots and his vast collection of books. It was impossible for me to leave without purchasing a few of his books after gushing away about my love for his poetry. I am quite sure the sweet attendant with the distinctive southern accent knew I was a true believer and not just an out of state looky-loo. As we left the cabin, my husband remarked that I could probably take over the attendant's job someday and I had to admit that would be a dream job for me. We also agreed that a paycheck would sweeten the pot and that was never going to happen.

At risk of imprisonment for copyright infringement, let me leave you with a few lines from Badger Clark's poem, "The Bad Lands".

No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide;
   It is all stark red and gray,
And strewn with bones that had lived and died
   Ere the first man saw the day.
When the sharp crests dream in the sunset gleam
   And the bat through the canyon veers,
You will sometimes catch, if you listen long
The tones of the Bad Lands' mystic song,
   A song of a million years. 

Fasting

The almighty juggernaut, Facebook, has come under fire of late. I am not smart enough to understand the intricacies of their alleged misconduct. I know it has something to do with the manipulation of data. I know that all of this has an Orwellian flavor to it. I know we have to be idiots to believe the mission of Facebook is solely for the purpose of connecting people with people.

All that said, I am on a Facebook fast. After a bit of reflection, I realized that I have been allowing FB to add layers of perceived demand in my life. Such as:

If I "like" one friend's post, do I need to "like" everyone's posts?

If I "hide" friends' postings, will they find out?

If I never post, will I be considered a lurker? (Too late for me.)

Do I have to post a birthday greeting for everyone?

Do I have to confirm every friend request?

What will I miss if I stay away from Facebook?

All of the above are self-imposed challenges for me. Nevertheless, I am allowing such nonsense to become annoying. I am also spending too much time on FB, scrolling through pages of posts that may or may not be necessary. I am spending too much time descending into rabbit holes of snoopiness. Some of it has been entertaining, but a big portion of it has not been very edifying. FB allows me to be a Peeping Tom without the fuss of hiding in bushes near a picture window.

In addition, I find it awkward to have meaningful conversations with folks who post everything but their booger production on FB. Favorite conversation starters such as "How are your kids doing?" and "Have you been traveling lately?" become silly when I have read and seen pictures of everything on their FB posts. It is like asking someone a personal question when you just finished reading their diary.

Social media is the darling of our fast paced world because it is a quick way to keep up with the world around us. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. But, you get what you pay for. Because I am old, I know that there was a time when I could look up something in a World Book encyclopedia and no one knew what topic I was interested in but me, myself and I. Today, if I google a topic, all my devices are suddenly flashing ads related to my topic of interest, age and political affiliation.

My Facebook fast has been good for me so far. I am turning the pages of real books rather than mindlessly scrolling through computer screen pages. I am watching birds outside my window now that spring is luring them back (sorry, about the recent snows, little birdies). I am enjoying the freshness of conversations with others.

I have no end game in mind. I could go back to FB tomorrow or never. My fast is not about shaming others to do the same. It is a personal decision to be more mindful of my own actions. I want "face" and "book" to be two separate terms.

Hope you can enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend this week. Or send an old-fashioned card to someone you care about. Or belly laugh with someone you love. No data disclaimer required.

One Another

There are many challenges in the world of teaching in a middle school. Students can become ornery, sassy, apathetic or defiant on any given day and at any given hour. Their mood swings are notorious. Girls are often embroiled in whispers of drama and relationship angst. Boys become fascinated with girls but are unsure of how to deal with them. Add to the mix a cocktail of hormones swirling around in their bodies and it is truly the perfect storm.

As they struggle to morph into adults, teens test the waters of maturity. Recent student protests featured in the news focus on this murky process. Administrators across the nation are grappling with ways to allow students the freedom to take a stand without compromising school policies. The fervor of youth can be a tidal wave without boundaries if left unchecked.

I am not smart enough to have the answers to this problem. I do know, however, that there are a lot of good kids who are doing the one thing that will probably make the greatest difference in schools. There are kids who are watching out for one another. There are kids who care.

This lesson was brought home to me by a couple of incidents that occurred at the end of the day outside my classroom. Leah, a young lady who is often hypersensitive to the remarks of others, was once again visibly upset as she pulled her backpack out of her locker. Three other girls were gathered around her, ready to assist. The young ladies represented different races, social classes and degrees of edginess. But all three were united in their genuine concern for Leah. They asked her what was wrong. Leah said she had her feelings hurt by the remarks of another student. Without missing a beat the three girls gave Leah a group hug and continued with words of support. Girl One comforted Leah by telling her she was going to be all right. Girl Two validated Leah's feelings by assuring her that some students are just plain rude.

Leah basked in the support of the three girls, none of whom are her closest friends. When they asked her if she was going to be okay, Leah nodded her head and said she was feeling better. As the girls started to leave, Girl Three said, "I promise I will pray for you, Leah."

Two days later, Leah was once again in a state of turmoil at the end of the day. This time two boys came running into my room and said they were worried about Leah and that I should check on her. Mind you, neither boy is known for his stellar behavior in the classroom, but they cared enough to find an adult who could help. As I counseled Leah, another girl passed by and said, "You've got this, Leah. You can be a superwoman."

Most likely, Leah will continue to struggle with self-esteem issues as she navigates middle school roads. Most likely, there will be more rude remarks made to others in school settings. And, most likely there will be students who are too wounded to act appropriately.

Blessedly, there are students who want to do the right thing. They are learning the powerful lesson of caring for one another. It is a superpower, for sure.

Misfortune

Sooner or later, a thief is bound to strike in such a way that the victim's sense of security is sliced open and left raw. It was my turn to be the victim. No, I wasn't robbed at gunpoint in a parking lot. Nor was my home burglarized. The thugs in my case were not brave enough to show their faces or leave a set of fingerprints. They carried out their malfeasance through the nameless, cowardly world of cyberspace.

A few days ago, my bank called to alert me of suspicious charges made on my bank debit card. I immediately checked my account and was shocked to see three pending charges that were not made by anyone in my household. I quickly deactivated my debit card so I could prevent further bleeding. My emotions swirled in fear, anger and disgust. Fortunately, the debits were under fifty dollars but the sense of personal violation knows no dollar amount. And I did not appreciate the inconvenience of getting a new debit card and filing a claim on the unauthorized account charges.

Early Saturday morning, I started the damage control process with a phone call to my bank. My call was taken by a chirpy young lady named Melissa. She sweetly asked how my day was going and I answered with, "Just fine. Waiting for a storm here." She responded, "Oh, you mean thunder?" I laughed and said, "No. We have snow coming our way." She gasped a little and said, "I live in Texas so I don't know much about that. We have bipolar weather right now. Warm one day and cool the next." We both agreed that weather makes life interesting.

Melissa cheerfully helped me navigate the waters of fraud. She skillfully closed out my debit card and issued me a new one. She gave me a verification number for the next step of filing a claim against the unauthorized charges and transferred me to the claims department.

A kind woman named Belinda answered my call. She seemed a little weary around the edges as she asked the tough questions inherent in a claims department.

"Have you ever given your card to anyone else?" No.

"Has anyone in your household used your card number to purchase something on line?" No

"Are you sure the charges you are refuting were not made by anyone in your household?" I burst out laughing on this one. I said, "Maam, the charges were for iTunes. Trust me when I say there is no one in this house who knows how to access such a thing, much less pay for whatever it is they are selling."

She graciously finished her questioning and took care of the charges for me. I thanked her for all her help and wished her a good day.

The experience taught me a few lessons. First, there are nasty folks in the world who spend more time being bad than good. Second, there are kind folks in the world who watch out for us and help us mop up trouble. And finally, I am glad I only know how to order CDs for my music. It made things a little easier this go around.