Festivals

This time of year it is easy to get caught up in all things Irish. Although I don’t believe I have a drop of green blood in me, I must admit that I am a bit jealous of a culture that promotes festivals and parades just for the sake of fun and frivolity. Parade routes are painted with giant shamrocks and much ado is given to processions of Mc’s and O’s and everything in between. Corned beef, cabbage and Irish soda bread are on many menus and there are green McShakes available from the drive by food purveyors.

I don’t think my ancestors were much into merriment. In defense of them, it was a hard scrabble life during their early years on the prairie. Drought, grasshoppers and disease made it difficult to scratch out a living, much less find time to plan parades and festivals. But, I do wonder what it would be like to have a national day of Dutchness like the Irish have with their St. Patrick’s Day. This is what I think a Dutch day might look like.

First of all, we would probably not have a Saint something-or-other in the name. We’re not big on people being canonized. My people prefer keeping a low profile. So, I guess the name of our special day would probably be related to horticulture. Since there are a few Dutch tulip festivals in the country already, I think a national Tulip Day should do it.

The Dutch like to keep things fastidiously clean (pretty sure I didn’t get that gene) so, naturally, there wouldn’t be any painting on the streets before the parades begin. In true Dutch tradition, the streets would be swept and scrubbed in preparation for the event. The procession would be filled with De’s and Vander’s and the clomping of wooden shoes.

Menus would feature foods such as oliebollen (donut balls fried in oil), bunket (almond pastry) and snert (pea soup).  Edam and Gouda cheese would be promoted as well as red cabbage. And, of course, potatoes—mashed and infused with bits of carrots. Not sure what our traditional drink would be, but I’m pretty sure buttermilk pop wouldn’t be the selected favorite. My grandmother seemed to like it but it had a fear factor for most of us. We’ll probably have to stick with Droste chocolate drinks with a black licorice swizzle stick.

Trinkets would be blue and white Delft pottery, the real thing and knock-offs. Windmills and little wooden shoes (klompen) would be everywhere. Tins of Wilhelmina peppermints would be as popular as Altoids  and “I Love Oma and Opa” (grandpa and grandma) mugs and T-shirts would line the store shelves. Dutch aprons and hats would, of course, be the costumes of choice and any plant with a bulb on the end of it would be part of the festival wares.

I don’t think we’ll ever have a national Tulip Day. Not because it’s not a good idea, rather, I think it would imply that my people have time for gaiety and monetary extravagance. We are a nose-to-the-grindstone bunch and it’s best not to tinker with tradition. Yes, there are pockets of Tulip exuberance around America, but we’ll blame that on a community’s desperate need for tedium release.

So I will don a little green this weekend and tip my hat to the festival of shamrocks and lamb stew. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

DST

Love it or hate it, the time has come to set our clocks forward for Daylight Savings Time. No doubt my closest friends and relatives are, by now, skipping on to other reading material to save themselves the pain of hearing another one of my DST rants. For those who are still reading this, consider it a public service to my husband. His eyes glaze over every time I bring up this topic and I know he is forced to retreat into his happy place while I foam at the mouth.

I’ve done a little research on the significance of this sadistic adjustment of natural circadian rhythms and it is clear to me that this is a practice that has no innate value other than habit. There are just about as many stories about when and how DST began as there are arguments for and against the changing of the clocks. It is believed that Benjamin Franklin was the first person in the United States to mention the value of changing clocks to save energy, however, an official act of Congress did not occur until the early 20^th century. The theory posited was that electricity was saved when there is less light in the morning and more in the evening. After all, most people are sleeping in every morning so why waste daylight on the early risers?

My father, a farmer, was not a big fan of DST. His work hours were dictated by the needs of livestock and crops, not necessarily the clock. He always said DST was the invention of city folks so they could take their boats out and go fishing later into the evening. Imagine my surprise, when I discovered that my city friends claimed that farmers invented DST. They believed that farmers wanted the extra daylight hours so they could spend more time in the field. News flash. Tractors have lights. No extra daylight needed.

I would dare guess that parents with small children would also appreciate the abolition of DST. It takes a great deal of effort and finesse to cultivate a sleeping schedule for the little ones. Removing an hour from their sleep regime means a lot of grumpy folks under one roof. It can take weeks to develop an acceptable routine again. Never mind the pets scratching at your door early in the morning, demanding your attention because they never learned to read a clock.

It is no surprise that statistics indicate that there are more accidents the week following the beginning of DST. Groggy folks desperately slurp coffee on their way to work in the dark. Reflexes are dulled from the loss of REM time. Those of us with fragile circadian wiring and tenuous sleeping habits are now deemed a public hazard. It is probably best for some of us not to make any big decisions until April.

Despite its dubious value, I’m afraid DST is here to stay. World peace, jobs and the price of a barrel of oil will always be more important issues in Congress than setting our clocks forward once a year. I guess my only hope is to retire to Arizona or Hawaii. They have the good sense to stay off the DST train track and keep their clocks ticking along without interference.

Maybe, that is why Hawaii is called the land of paradise.

Snow Day

The weather did a little huffing and puffing this week which gave us the possibility of a snow day. One of the advantages of living in the upper Midwest and being in the field of education is the occasional gift of the unrequested day off. With it comes the anticipatory build up as the weather stations begin squawking away about the impending storm system moving into the region. Advisories, warnings and blizzards are color coded on maps as we try to piece together the puzzle of disaster. When the predicted day of doom arrives, we wait for that all important crawl across the morning TV screen announcing the school closings and late starts.

I must confess that the older I get, the less I long for a snow day. Yes, it is lovely to keep the jammies on a bit longer and read a good book rather than hammer out another day at school. However, my mind just can’t stop doing the math as I calculate the addition of days at the end of the school year. Seasoned teachers know that the fewer days in the last week of school, the fewer “last days” have to be experienced. If we are scheduled to get out on a Tuesday, we will have 2 last days and if we are scheduled to get out on a Thursday, we will have 4 last days. Productivity tends to wane during the final days and adding to the calendar isn’t enough of a carrot for me to fully enjoy our inserted day of freedom during the winter months.

This was not the case for me as I was growing up on the farm. There was nothing sweeter than my Mom announcing to us that we didn’t have to go to school because the radio had just announced the closing of our school for the day. Yippee!! Glee reigned among the children. I’m not sure our mother experienced the same exhilaration. Being cooped up with a house full of rambunctious children certainly would test the fortitude of most parental units.

I remember one year in particular. It seemed as though the snow never stopped coming down.    I don’t remember how many school days were called off, but I know it was enough to go down in regional record books. The snow was piled so high on our little country road that it became a one lane trail. Neighbors and occasional stray cows had to coordinate their travel along the snow packed thoroughfare. It was a great year for sledding down huge piles of snow. We didn’t have fancy saucers or polished sleds. We used aluminum hog watering pans that seemed to fit our little butts as we swirled down the piles of winter’s bounty.  Snow forts, snow huts, snowmen and snowballs kept pre-video game kids rosy cheeked and entertained. Mounds of wet, soggy coats and mittens kept our teachers and mothers longing for spring.

Well, our fair city dodged the blizzard bullet this time around. The rain-slush-sleet mix we received wasn’t enough to keep the busses from rolling. I, for one, was pleased to keep the school calendar intact. One less “last day” at the end of the year is a blessed thing.

Oscar

The buzz is in the air as we approach the big event for cinematic junkies. Yes, it is time for the Academy Awards, complete with the red carpet and glitzy dresses needing to be analyzed just as much as the movies. I wish I could say that I was a movie expert and could share with you thoughtful position statements on the movies and actors that I think deserve the awards. Alas, I am but a movie novice. It’s not that I do not like movies. On the contrary. I enjoy movies but I just don’t take the time to watch them. I’m also a bit of a Goldilocks movie watcher. Not too grisly. Not too sentimental. Not too long. I need movies somewhere in between and just right.

Finding the right time to watch a movie is the first challenge. Watching movies in the evening means that my husband and I cannot drift off during the same parts of the movie so that we can piece together the plot and the ending by the time the movie is over. This rarely happens, so we often have to abandon ship and make a vow to try again another evening when we are more alert (also, rarely happens). Going out to a movie involves planning and coordination. A movie has to be agreed upon, a theater selected, a departure time established and tickets purchased. Seems like a lot of effort when I can click the remote and play movie roulette for the evening, letting the cable machine decide for me.

The next movie challenge is my lack of motion picture heritage. My family didn’t have a television until I was well into school and the few snowy stations we received were not always conducive to the movie experience. Add to that the number of family members who needed to agree upon any given programming. Subtract the mom and dad factor that made sure most movies were censored. Divide the number of available movies on limited stations and the sum total was very few movies.

I also had limited movie experiences in school or the community. Our little town theater ran movies on an intermittent basis. Attending a motion picture meant that the planets needed to align with a ride into town, sufficient funding and the approval of my parents. I think I went to a total of three movies. School movies were just about as scarce. It was an event tantamount to the moon landing when our teachers set up a film projector with the reels flippety flapping their way through a production of Old Yeller or Heidi.  We were enthralled with the opportunity to slip into another world away from our spelling and arithmetic assignments. But, as soon as the movie ended, it was back to the books for another year or two before the movie machine might be dusted off again.

Despite my lack of movie proficiency, I am still on the hunt for a good movie. The Goldilocks in me keeps me from being more adventuresome. So, perhaps, I need to be a little more Red Riding Hoodish and head out into the woods with a basket full of popcorn, ready to experience the mystery of wolves, grandmothers and flashy capes.

Enjoy the show! 

Preferred

A very sleek and colorful booklet arrived in the mail today, announcing that we are on the preferred list for an exclusive credit card. The booklet is filled with enticing pictures of couples sailing on exotic seas and “getting lost on side streets.” All the participants are fit, tanned, snuggling and beaming with mouths of recently whitened teeth. To think that a little 3x5 card of plastic could buy all that for us…amazing, isn’t it? I did what I always do with the offers of wondrous goodness and ran it through my paper shredder. (It made pretty confetti, by the way.)

As I was listening to the whir of my shredder, I let my mind wander down lost side streets and open seas. Just where would I go if I had this little sapphire card? Would my imagination know no bounds as was promised in the brochure?

Here are a few places I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t use the magic card for.

1) Anything involving open water. I’m prone to motion sickness so the thought of bobbing along on waves and high tides is unpleasant. That, of course, eliminates cruises, yachts and skiing behind a speedboat. Kayaks are also out with their death grip on your torso and the prerequisite of being trained on how to get yourself upright in an emergency situation.

2) Tropical jungle excursions. Steamy, sweaty hikes into overgrown underbrush is best left for reptiles and arthropods. I suppose the hidden waterfall would be something to see but I don’t think I have the stamina to tromp through squishy things just to see falling water.

3) Adventure trips. You know this involves zip-lining and rappelling of some sort. I’m not much for signing waivers on my vacations. Quite frankly, my daily journey into a middle school classroom is adventure enough for me.

4) Dude ranches. Not sure why people want to experience the workings of cattle and horse events, but you can count me out on that guest list. Cows give me the creeps (especially their eyes) and I’m not a big fan of horses, either. We’ve advanced to cars for a reason.

Here are a few places I might be tempted to climb aboard a magic carpet for.

1) Ireland. I like gloomy weather and lugubrious music so I think I would fit in well with the locals. I’m also a big fan of potatoes, lamb chops and woolen sweaters.

2) Pacific Northwest. Again, I like rain. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean and because our daughter lives in that area, we would have an instant tour guide. Never mind that Lewis and Clark nearly lost their minds during the winter they spent on the coast. I’m going to assume our provisions would be a little more plush.

3) Restaurant Blitz. I’m not even sure what that means, but in my mind it would involve rolling from one restaurant to the next, sampling different cuisines and never looking at the prices. No queuing up and ordering a number three to go. It would be all about ordering menu items that don’t look like English and may or may not give you hives.

4)  Cabins with fireplaces. I’m a sucker for secluded bungalows with cozy, crackling fires. I don’t have to move much to enjoy a trip so the location is negotiable. A stack of books, a bag of Cheetohs, the glow of a fireplace and I’m at peace with the world.

It’s too late to retrieve my offer for a luxurious life from the shredder so I guess I’ll have to experience time the old-fashioned way. Pay as you go. That pretty much gets me to my local coffee shop where I can enjoy a crackling fire with a cup of dark roast. Add to that a good travel book from the library and a chocolate truffle.

All is well.

Conversation

Recently, my young niece and nephew spent the night at my house while their parents were away on a trip out of town. We had a great time eating copious amounts of candy, watching Kung Fu Panda2 and picking the charms out of the Lucky Charms cereal. The older brother was quick to remind his little sister that eating just the charms out of the cereal box would not be allowed if “mom was here.” I have no doubt that my sister is grateful for the good habits I instilled within their impressionable little minds during their stay with me.

One of the candy options I had available was a bag of Valentine conversation hearts. My niece isn’t old enough to read yet so I was happy to decode the little heart messages as she popped them into her mouth. While I was reading the pithy little statements, I realized that a few things have changed since I last read a conversation heart. My generation would not have understood the meaning of “E-mail me”, “Txt me”, “LOL” and “www.Cupid.”  Our candy hearts would have been more likely to say “Call Me”, “Angel” and “Cool.”  After a quick Google search, I discovered that conversation candy had its beginnings 145 years ago. The sayings and the type of candy have changed over the years, but the desire to read a quick quip seems to have remained strong throughout the passing of time.

I must admit that the little chalky hearts continue to fascinate me as well.  Perhaps it is because I come from a family that not only can’t say anything in two words, but feels the need to enhance, embellish and elongate every sentence (okay, mostly me). The very idea that thoughts and feelings can be expressed in phrases no longer than a small confection is baffling. And yet, it seems that it can be done. Here is a list of conversation heart sayings that I think parsimoniously articulate big thoughts.

1) Be True

2) Don’t Tell

3) I’m Sure

4) Just One

5) Ask Me

6) Love

And then there are the little hearts that are a bit fluffy.

1) Soul Mate

2) Hey You

3) Got Cha

4) Luv Me

5) Cutie Pie

6) Cup Cake

I’m quite sure my loquacious nature will keep me from ever applying for a job at the conversation candy heart factory, but you can count on me to speak my mind whenever given the chance. I am also fortunate enough to be married to a man that would rather listen than talk. I think that that is one of the reasons we have been married for 35 years.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Cluck Cluck

Our city is currently evaluating an ordinance that allows city folks to raise chickens within the boundaries of our municipality. Apparently, we have few regulations on this act of husbandry due to a rather vague and lenient ordinance on the books since the 1950’s. Now that there is a renewed interest in the trendiness of having chickens in the backyard, some feel it is time to revisit the original regulations and determine whether adjustments need to be made. It isn’t that the interested parties are against chickens. Quite the contrary. Bumper stickers can be obtained with the slogan “I’m Pro-Chicken”splashed across them. A charming Rock Plymouth chicken struts its stuff as a regal logo for the organization.

I must confess that when I saw the “I’m Pro-Chicken” slogan, I was motivated to ask myself whether or not I agree with the statement. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with the little cluckers. Growing up on a farm, I had direct contact with the good, the bad and the ugly of chickendom. I’ll start with the bad. Chicken poop. It’s stinky, it’s sticky and it’s guaranteed to find your shoe no matter how careful you think you are. As the oldest daughter in my family, I was always sounding the alarm to my younger siblings to watch out for the goo as we boarded the family car on our way to church. We only had one pair of decent shoes, so an encounter with manure was a recipe for disaster. Collective groans went out from the family while we all waited for the tainted shoe to be made public ready. Not an easy task in the days before paper towels and other conveniences.

The ugly of chickens is watching their social skills. They have none. Drop an egg in the chicken coop and watch the carnage begin. There is some sort of twisted logic in their incessant need to peck away at their own egg production and each other. Icky. And beware of the rogue rooster that rules the free range territory. Despite its rather small stature, an outlaw chicken has no fear of charging much larger species, humans included. Their talons are weapons of mass destruction and I learned to keep my distance from the evil little feather beasts.

The good of chickens is eating them. It was always a big day on the farm when it was time to butcher chickens. My mom deftly whacked their heads off as we formed an assembly line of plucking and packaging. We were entertained by the sight of a few chickens running around reflexively without their heads. We also found some investigative pleasure in checking out the contents of the crop for the remains of what would have been their last meals. Despite the rather grisly nature of chicken butchering day, our love of a plate of fried chicken was not diminished and to this day, we would probably still fight for the prized and precious few gizzards.

I don’t think the “I’m Pro-Chicken” individuals are planning on having butchering parties and gizzard rallies with their feathered friends. I suspect most of the chicken folks just want to experience a bucolic lifestyle and gather a fresh egg or two. I wish them the very best but I must sound this warning.

Watch your step.