New Year's Promise

Since becoming a blogger, I find myself reading and analyzing other blogs. I probably should have done that before I started blogging, but I am quite sure I would have been too intimidated to begin so I guess it all worked out in the end. I have no right whatsoever to be critical of other blogs but I have noticed a few features that can be a bit annoying.

One is the choice of advertisement styles. I understand that the only way to make a living at this business is to make it a business and that means having ads splashed across one's blog. I just don't want to read a blog that includes flashing, twirling or blinking ads hawking my attention. No words of wisdom are worth that kind of abuse in my estimation. A few tasteful ads placed along the edges of a blog is really all one should have to cope with during a reading experience.

The second annoyance button for me is the word "journey."  Many blogs invite their readers to join them on their journey as they:
a. bake pastries from Grandma's cookbook.
b. care for an adopted 3-legged dog.
c. find peace in fitness.
d. eat paleo, gluten-free and organic meals.
e. balance work, photography, writing cookbooks, raising kids and never sleeping.

No thank you. I will let those folks walk the road on their own. I like bacon, 4-legged cats and sitting.

A third red flag for me is reading paragraphs that are sprinkled with strike throughs and hashtags. Certainly blogging is a writing style that allows for a great deal of literary and grammatical freedom (I am exhibit A), but I need a little more formality so I don't feel like I am reading another paper from my 7th graders. Leave the strike throughs for editing and the hashtags for tweeting.

Finally, I bypass blogs that have formats that are hard on my old eyes. Fancy schmancy backgrounds can be a distraction if they are not balanced with the site's color scheme and font choices. Too many pictures and too little writing can also make my head spin with scrolling and re-focusing.

Therefore, my New Year's pledge to you, dear readers, is that this blog will never have twirling ads that promise to bust belly fat in 5 days. I will not use editing marks to get my point across. I won't use hashtags for effect because, quite frankly, I don't really know what a tweet is. And above all, I will not ask you to join me on a journey to somewhere, doing something that doesn't sound fun.

You, of course, are invited to join me for a cup of coffee and a bag of chocolate chips any day of the week. That's a promise I can keep.

Happy New Year!

Gifting

I am gifting challenged, plain and simple. The world of retail is a baffling and anxiety-ridden place for me and I tend to avoid such activity if at all possible. Gift cards and good old-fashioned cash are my go-to friends when I am faced with holidays, weddings and other such celebrations.

Despite my retail insecurities, there are times when I think I know a gift dud when I see one. Here are a few on my radar.

1) Duck Dynasty Chia Pet--My husband is a huge fan of the Duck boys but I think he would prefer a duck call over a sprouting figurine. Yes, you get your choice of watching Si or Willy grow a green beard, but is this how you want to spend your money and time? Buy a window herb garden if you feel the need for green and DVR your favorite episode so you can watch Si deliver Si-isms rather than Chia sprouts.

2) Ear Wax remover--I saw this jewel on a list of gift ideas in one of our local ads. Somehow I equate an ear wax remover with a nose hair trimmer. Personal, yes. Creepy, double yes. Grooming tools are best left out of the gifting arena in my estimation.

3) Sound amplifier (a.k.a rechargeable hearing aid)--Goodness me. It's bad enough to lose one's faculties, but to receive such an item as a gift is tantamount to pasting an "I'm feeble" placard on someone. Continue to yell at us old folks and leave it at that.

4) Tins--These are often filled with various delectables such as popcorn, candies and fruitcake. And of course, there is the added bonus of having something decorative when one is finished with the treat. And therein lies the problem. When was the last time you wanted to use a rust prone tin for decorating? Let Currier and Ives snazz up your greeting cards and call it good.

5) Gadgets--Cookie presses, salad shooters and Belgian waffle makers promise  to make your life tastier. And your counters full of clutter. Unless you know someone who has excess square footage for such gifts, beware. (Full disclosure: I have a Belgian waffle maker and love every syrup-laden moment it provides. It's nestled by the flashlights in my back closet.)

6) 96-count eyeshadow palette (not making this one up, folks)--If you want to look like one of my seventh graders experimenting with fashion, this is the gift for you. Personally, I don't think there's an eyelid out there that needs more than two or three tasteful adornments. I suggest leaving this wheel of color on the retailer's shelf.

7) Candles the size of tree trunks--Yes, they meet the under ten dollars criteria. No, I don't want my house to smell like pine cones for six years. They also get very difficult to light after they start imploding. A few simple votives are more practical and one doesn't need to adopt a life long fragrance.

Please forgive me if you've already purchased one of the above items for your loved ones. As stated earlier, I'm a gift selecting idiot and not to be trusted. And no worries if you've wrapped up a salad shooter for me. My Belgian waffle maker needs a friend and I'm not afraid to re-gift if I can find a gift bag that is the right size.

Happy shopping!

Traditions

I gave my staff time off for the Thanksgiving holiday which meant that the bulk of the cooking was left up to me. And if you believe I actually have a staff, you might believe in Norman Rockwell feasts as well. My guess is that many of you belong to a family like mine, one that operates in organic spasms of change and revision. We don't follow a script that always includes perfectly roasted turkey, lumpless gravy and homemade pumpkin pie being served to a beaming family of impeccably groomed recipients.

There was a time when we gathered together as a large family unit with both my parents, all six of my siblings, the spouses and the grandkids. Extra tables were set up and bowls and bowls of food were passed. The little ones squirmed as we coaxed them into trying a little bit of the sweet potato dish and maybe a cranberry or two. The adults kept their forks and mouths in motion as food and conversation flowed throughout the afternoon. Snoozes in the easy chair (by the menfolk, if I recall correctly) were followed by more pie.

Time marches on and the feasts continue to change. Grandkids marry and have families of their own. Siblings move around the world from Peru to Papua New Guinea. Black Friday inches its way into Thursday's festivities. And, in the Midwest, the weather doles out the final verdict for all travelers.

This year, the cast of characters included two nephews from Peru, a nephew and his wife from North Carolina, my mother and mother-in-law, my husband, my brother and me. The setting was grandma's kitchen table near a large picture window with a grand view of her backyard birds. The dialogue was all improvised as we sampled our way through turkey, cornbread stuffing, orange jello and pumpkin dessert with Cool Whip. Intermission included a little TV football, more conversation and maybe a quick nap before the next round of snacking.

Norman Rockwell we might not be, but willing to keep the drama alive, that we can do. Whether you are gathering around tables full of kids and centerpieces or eating Chinese takeout with a few friends, rest assured, blessings can be found for the grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My kitchen the day before Thanksgiving. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart!

Here is a favorite pumpkin dessert of mine. I clipped it out of a newspaper the year the dinosaurs disappeared. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Dessert

Crust:

1 box yellow cake mix

1 beaten egg

½ c. margarine, melted

Remove 1 cup of cake mix and set aside. Add egg and margarine to rest of mix.  Place in bottom of greased 9x13 pan.

Filling

1 (15 oz,) can of pumpkin

¾ c. sugar

1-2 teaspoons apple pie spice

2 large eggs

1 (12 oz.) can evaporated milk
pinch of salt

Mix pumpkin, sugar, salt and spices thoroughly. Add other ingredients and mix well. Pour over crust.

Topping:

1 c. reserved cake mix

½ c. sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

2 Tbs. margarine (melted)

Mix and sprinkle over filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 45-50 minutes. Serve with whipped cream.

Country Mouse

Even though I have spent the majority of my life in urban settings, I still consider myself a country girl. Modern day interpretations of what it means to be a country girl often imply all things wholesome and tenacious. My perception of such a classification differs a bit. For me, being a country girl is an awkward, naive feeling that bubbles up whenever I'm thrown into a situation that feels urban and sophisticated.

Mind you, the urban setting I started my married life in was a town of 1,000 people. Hardly a bustling metropolis, but worlds away from the country house I grew up in that looked out on to the prairie. Night sounds in the country were filled with the banging of hog feeder lids and the rustlings of wildlife scurrying about. A towering yard light was the sentinel of security and illumination on our farm place. The day began with hearty breakfasts, ended with satisfying suppers and included two lunches and a dinner in between. We didn't worry about eating fat, clearing sidewalks or wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. The demands of the day were dictated by the needs of a farm family. There were garden beans to be picked, chickens to be butchered, peaches to be canned and weeds to be subdued. Meal preparation relied on the farmhouse cache and the weekly trip to the nearest town's lone grocery store. Life wasn't glamorous. Just necessary and practical.

Life in the city has a different heartbeat. There is a communal interdependence that demands a skill set that occasionally baffles me. If snow falls, one has 48 hours to get it removed. The sidewalk you paid for doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the city. Vegetation is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Water, fertilizer and weed control are used to maintain the look that neighborhoods demand. Retail centers are tucked into every available space, beckoning all passersby to come in and make a purchase. Streetlights punctuate the night with never ending illumination and vehicles rumble by no matter the hour on the clock. Wildlife sounds are limited to a few chattering birds and an occasional barking dog. Daily meals can be easily accessed with a trip to the nearest drive-thru, upscale restaurant or neighborhood grocery store. Supper is called dinner, dinner is called lunch and lunch is called break time.

Truth to be told, my years of urban living have softened me. I do not kill chickens for my dinner. I buy them in prepackaged trays at a grocery store that is less than two minutes from my house. I don't worry about getting into town because of the latest snowstorm. Snowplows are scraping by my house within 48 hours of a winter weather event. I don't need to milk a cranky cow for my dairy requirements. I can choose from 1%, 2% and skim (nasty stuff, I might add). I can find a gas station every few blocks when my vehicle is rolling along on fumes. I don't need to call the fuel company to make a trip into the country to fill a bulk gas tank for me.

Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded that I am just a little country mouse visiting the big city. My package of pre-cut chicken never includes the gizzard, a favorite of mine. When I step outside my front door I know that I will mostly like encounter human beings other than my family so it's time to put on a happy face and say, "Hi, how are you?"  My backyard is not a section of cropland, it is a tiny rectangle of carefully manicured grass.

So, whether I am in the city or the country, it is probably wise to remember the advice of Aesop's little rodent, "It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."

Daybreak

There is a serene promise that comes with a sunrise. In the early morning glow of the soft velvety light, we have a sneak peek into the possibilities that are ours for the taking. No matter how long or dark or harsh the night hours are, a new day is kissed with the hope of better things to come. Yes, I love sunrises. Not the kind where I hike to the top of some plateau in Namibia and wait for a burst of solar epicness to appear before me. I'm more in love with that moment of the day when it is just me, my cup of coffee and the gentle washing of light sneaking in through the window panes.

The winter hours are best. There is plenty of time to have the coffee made and  all senses firing before dawn releases its first hiccup of light. The birds join me in revelry as they gossip away about the latest happenings in birdland. A few ravens announce their presence with piercing caws and fly-bys. Service trucks and buses rumble into action. Folks blearily grab newspapers off their front steps and dogs of all sizes tug at their leashes while their owners (servants) gingerly follow behind.

Sunrises on vacation are certainly the easiest to behold and savor. The start of a new day among the Ponderosa pines begins with the sprinkling of light filtering its way in with muted color palettes. Sunrises over the ocean glisten off the incoming waves with reflected contortions. Lakes provide the perfect mirror for a double exposure of light popping forth. Mountains play peek-a-boo with the first light of day while wide open prairies give ostentatious views of the action on the horizon.

My most memorable sunrise, however, did not happen in any place exotic or particularly notable. It was on a Saturday morning in the parking lot of my local grocery store. I like to finish my weekly grocery shopping trip before the rest of the city wakes up. That means I am meandering down the bread aisle visiting with the delivery folks before the break of day. One particular morning, I exited the grocery store and was immediately greeted by an array of color tones that I believe are impossible to create by human hands. The colors enshrouded the car wash across the street, changing the ubiquitous building into a work of art. The swirl of radiance was jaw-droppingly glorious and challenging to the senses. I stopped for a moment and inhaled the beauty of the moment, thanking my Creator for such a wondrous gift during such a mundane task.

Life is funny that way. We bump along through our everyday tasks, doing whatever is on our to-do lists and then suddenly, without warning, we are greeted with the light of newness. Sometimes it happens in bursts of grandeur, but more often than not, it slips in through our windows with unpretentious potential, reminding us that it's okay to let the darkness go for awhile.

Piano Lessons

My very wise mother made sure that I, as well as my brothers and sisters, took at least a few piano lessons so we wouldn't be completely illiterate in the world of music. I don't want to point fingers, but I'm afraid some of her money was wasted on a few of us (sorry, little bro). I must confess that I, too, had moments of rebellion as I occasionally posted "I Quit" signs around the house, hoping my mother would reconsider her investment on such a recalcitrant child. Alas, she ignored my pleas for keyboard freedom and for that I am forever grateful. To this day, playing piano is one of my greatest joys.

Not to say that the journey was easy. My first round of lessons began with a short hike from my elementary school once a week to an old two-story house. I was always sure lightning was going to strike me at any moment as I entered the creaky, dimly lit, smoky interior. Mrs. S. had been teaching little Mozartlings for many, many years by the time I arrived on the scene and I think she was beginning to wane in enthusiasm. I handed her my quarter and started what I hoped would be a successful rendition of My Birthday Party from John Thompson's bright red Teaching Little Fingers To Play. Sometimes I performed my lessons with all the finesse of a fourth grader who had practiced before my arrival and other times, it was quite obvious that I had been lax in my obligations. One particular memory involved me struggling away on a piece that I had no love for (Song of the Volga Boatman, ugh) and just as I was about to hit one more misguided note, I saw Mrs. S. reach for my hand and quickly give me a rap on the wrist. I guess she had hit her quota of sour notes for one day and I was the lucky target. Needless to say, I proceeded with caution after that event.

Two more teachers followed Mrs. S. and I learned more than just piano lessons from each of them. Mrs. VB. made sure my sister and I knew how to play piano without looking down at our fingers. We were given a bib-like drape that covered our hands and asked to play one of our pieces for her. This was before Snapchat so there are no pictorial records of such a fashion statement. I think the bib marked the end of one of my sister's musical career, however. I learned that not all of us are born with the same gene for piano practicing. I moved on to the next teacher by myself.

Mrs. St. was my final piano teacher. She introduced me to the incessant and unwavering tick-tock of the metronome. Rhythm is and always will be my nemesis. I prefer a more free-spirited approach to the keyboard, rubato if you please. Despite my protests, I began each lesson with a series of scale repetitions, synchronized with an ever increasing metronome speed. I probably deserved a few raps on the wrist for my feeble attempts in the beginning, but I somehow managed to work my way through a few years of a very disciplined approach to the art of playing piano. I learned that playing Chopin doesn't start with Chopin. It starts with good old-fashioned drill and skill. Lots of it.

I regret that I never took the time to thank my past teachers (and my mother!) enough for their contributions along the way. In fact, I probably did more grumbling than was necessary. Let me say it publicly now.

Thanks, Mrs. S., Mrs. VB., Mrs. St. and Mom for believing that I could make music out of 88 keys. My years of playing for choirs, soloists, church bands and entertaining in nursing homes are the result of a few good women who invested time and money in my future.

D.C. al fine......

One Hundred

Two years ago, on a hot steamy August afternoon, my fingers started moving across my computer keyboard, writing my first blog post. I still have no idea why this happened. I had never entertained the idea of being a blogger and up until that point the number of blogs I had personally read numbered in the low single digits. Truly, I have no business entering into the world of cyberspace writing. But, here I am, fingers still pecking away at a keyboard as I write my one hundredth post.

I suppose this is the part where I announce a grand giveaway drawing for a free harpsichord or curling iron to reward you, my faithful readers, for being a part of my blogging community. Alas, there will be no drawings or free trips from this chick. Be assured, however, that I would love to reward all of you for your words of encouragement and willingness to look the other way when my grammar is less than stellar, my spell check fails me and my love of commas takes over. You are, indeed, a kind group and for that I am grateful.

I am not sure if I have another one hundred posts in me or not. Honestly, after each post I write, I am always quite sure that there will be no more. My muse is a fickle one and I am either inspired by a turn of events or I am staring at a blinking cursor, wondering why nothing is happening after the first sentence. Perhaps it is time for me to buckle down and establish a true focus for my blog (I think that is a Blogging for Dummies basic rule). Here are a few suggested possibilities.

1) Politics--Oh, gag me. I know enough about this subject to fill a tea bag. I am a faithful and loyal voter, but I am not ready to get aboard the HMS Partisanship. It is best for me to let others lead the charge in this arena.

2) Cooking--Intriguing idea due to my love of all things culinary. Unfortunately, I do not have the patience or photography skills to snap a photo of the 38 steps it takes to make dinner. I would also have to start measuring ingredients and that's a deal breaker for now.

3) Travel--ummm, gotta go places for that one. I greatly enjoyed writing my Oregon mini-blog series but once our vehicle was parked in the home garage, it's been back to reality. Work and...and....and....work. Hard to drum up a story with that route.

4) Teaching--certainly rife with new material. It is best, however, for me to keep things a bit more diverse. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl and sometimes I just need to step off the hamster wheel for a few moments.

5) Old lady stuff--obvious. Doesn't take much thought on my part for my age to seep into my writing. I'm up front about my advancing place on the number line but I'm not sure I want to write a series of blog posts about flu shots and early onset dementia (quite sure I have that one).

6) Arts and Crafts--giggle. I am aesthetically challenged and certainly not known for creating anything more than a dust storm when I finally get around to cleaning. I will continue to admire the works of others.

So, where does that leave the future of my blog? Do I continue to wander in the wilderness of blurred focus? Is it time to shut the whole business down? Is there a lucrative book deal looming on the horizon (another giggle) that will take me away from all of this nonsense?

I suspect my blog will continue as it always has. One post at a time with me still wondering what it is that makes my fingers move across the keyboard.

You have been warned.