Dads

Father's Day is lurking around the corner and the purveyors of all things manly are ready to serve up the goods. Grilling tools, team logo caps, number one dad mugs and power tools promise to please the dads in our lives. Hallmark card verses range from the wacky to the sentimental to the musical. Grocery stores have plenty of steaks and burgers ready for backyard picnic gatherings.

Dads are indeed special. I witnessed two events within the past few weeks that reminded me of the unique flavor fathers add to a family unit. One happened on Mother's Day. I was hustling into the grocery store to pick up a few last minute items when I saw a young dad juggling a bouquet of flowers and a box of donuts. Trotting a few tiny steps behind his daddy was a little guy who knew they were about to cross the traffic lane in the parking lot. He looked up at his dad and realized there were no hands left for his safety tether. Without missing a beat, his dad quickly commanded, "Grab my pocket and stay close to me."  The boy immediately tucked his little hand into his daddy's pocket and they safely maneuvered their way to their vehicle. A mom in a similar situation would probably have the young tyke in the shopping cart so the child and the purchased items are all contained in one moving cage. Both methods achieve the same goal, safe transportation. The dad method had the element of risky trust in its execution, but dads know how to pull that off.

The second event also happened in the grocery store. (Yes, my social life revolves around grocery shopping.) A young mom was wrestling an oversized cart filled with two little girls and a few groceries. It was late afternoon and clearly, the girls had reached their patience limit, mom included. Suddenly, a gentleman came toward them, pushing an empty cart at a fairly good clip and nudged into the girls' cart. I expected to witness a mini-drama when I heard both girls giggling and squealing with delight, "Daddy!" Only a father can get away with playing bumper cars with a shopping cart. I watched the tension ease away from one exasperated mother as two little girls reached out for their dad. Dad took over so mom could shop in peace.

Not all of us have a dad for Father's Day. My own father passed away several years ago and I still have flashbacks of moments spent together. There were six siblings in competition for his attention but we never for a second doubted his love and loyalty to each one of us. He worked incredibly hard and faced health and business challenges without complaint to his children. His faith in God was evident in all he did and his motto each day (especially after receiving open heart surgery) was, "God has blessed me with another new day on earth."

Thank a dad this month, whether your own or the guy playing bumper carts at the grocery store. Fathers can make little kids giggle while moms are reminding them to "be careful."  Dads know how to walk on the wild side and still cross the street safely.

Thanks, Dad.

Stately

We lost an old friend this month. We met her many years ago when she was just a little tyke. We needed shade and aesthetic appeal near the corner of our newly built house so we planted her on the southeast part of our lawn.  Her shaggy bark and sprawling branches continued to grow and provide visual interest. The sun-shy hostas enjoyed resting at her feet. The melodic cardinals used her as a stage for their renditions. The squirrels raced up, down and all around her spiny racetrack and made flamboyant leaps from her limbs to our deck. Squawky robins hunkered down in nests built on penthouse branches with panoramic views.

Her name was Little River Birch and despite her moniker she grew to heights well beyond 30 feet. Her larger and dominant sister was planted a few yards from her so she was never far from kin. Both protected our home from the searing rays of the summer sun's power. Both gave us a sense of calm and order as their delicate leaves presented themselves each spring and left us in a yellow flurry when the calendar said Fall. Both framed our house with artful elegance.

Little River Birch's life was not without struggle. Her species is known for a malady called iron chlorosis. Her roots were unable to extract needed iron from the soil. Without expensive iron treatments, the long term prognosis was not good. We faithfully gave her the treatments she needed and I must confess I grumbled more than once as I wrote a check to the arborist. But, it never occurred to us to let her slowly die off so the checks were written and fingers were kept crossed. Little RB never rallied as heartily as her sister when treatments were administered and we always worried a little bit more about her future. Each year, her foliage was a little less lush and she dropped a few more branches. Not good signs when you are a tree.

And then the final blow came. Two years ago, a rogue spring ice storm walloped our city with a ferocity beyond precedence. The aftermath was a mass of trees twisted and tangled from the weighty strain of thick ice coatings. The wind and sharp temperatures added to the demise of hundreds of trees, power lines and exposed structures. Miraculously, we did not lose any of our trees but a severe pruning was needed for all of them as they dangled broken arms in a precarious manner. Little RB survived but never completely recovered from the trauma. The following season her branches struggled to produce buds in the spring and she shed her leaves hastily in the late summer.  

It came as no great surprise this spring when not a single leaf was produced by Little RB. Each day we longingly inspected her branches, hoping for a vernal miracle, but alas, it was not to be. An arborist was called. The prognosis was final. Little RB needed to be removed before the next wind storm passed through town. I took one last look at Little RB on my way to work and that evening I came home to an empty space.

I am not a tree hugger in the political sense of the word but anyone who lives in the upper midwest knows how precious trees are in this area. We live in a grassland biome and each tree is a symbol of tenacious resilience. Trees become longsuffering friends and we respect their contributions to our environmental relationships.

All that remains of Little RB is a dirt filled hole and fond memories. Her ashes are in an urn on our fireplace mantel. Just kidding. I am not that sentimental and I am certainly too cheap to buy an urn. Nevertheless, Little RB is missed and we might just wait a summer or two before we think about her replacement.

Rumbles

Coastal areas have their hurricanes. Fault lines have their earthquakes. Tropical lands have their monsoons. And the prairies have their thunderstorms. Big, roiling, pack-a-punch storms that threaten man and beast. Perhaps the intensity of our storms is magnified by the fact that we have few obstructions as we view a storm's development and course of action.

Long before Doppler radar and other such high tech detection devices, denizens of the plains learned to read the preface of imminent storms. Nature still sends cues to the observant. Some days begin with a heavy heat, laden with moisture and stillness. As the afternoon settles into evening, puffy, pillowy mammatus clouds signal a change in atmospheric conditions. Sometimes, the pregnant skies unpack themselves with little fanfare and other times, wind and hail are unleashed, forcing all to run for cover.

The gentle build up of marshmallowy clouds reaching toward the heavens often results in a cumulonimbus reminder that the day could end with a loud punctuation point. Flashing lights within the cloud mountain remind us that the show is just beginning. The direction of the air currents will determine whether the weather's instability will be viewed from afar or in our backyard.

Add a flattened anvil to the top of a cumulonimbus cloud and there is little doubt that a sucker punch is about to happen. It is best not to be out in the open when such a stormy beast rears its vicious head. Flash flooding and pelting hail can make for a miserable outdoor experience. Vehicles offer little comfort as the pounding of ice bullets threatens to break windows and smash eardrums.

Rip a cumulonimbus cloud to murky shreds and a wall cloud begins to form. The steely darkness slowly grinds along as it unleashes the turbulent pressure of the day. The air is filled with a mineral smell and fickle winds flutter and puff with a warning to take heed, now. The leading edge of a wall cloud threatens with cotton candy wisps, swirling into a vortex of danger. Daylight is stamped out by an inky curtain. At times, the prairie gets by with a scrubbing of horizontal sheets of rain and tumbling hailstones. Other times, a funnel flits between earth and sky, reminding all in its path that we are not in control.

We are entering storm season in the upper Midwest. The steamy moisture of the south is ready to duke it out with the icy chill of the tundra. This spring already gave us a schizophrenic thumping of snow, thunderstorms and tornadoes all in the same day, wreaking havoc with homes, travel and livestock. As spring unfolds into summer, there is only one constant. Storms.

Watch the sky. Be prepared. Revel in something bigger than yourself. And above all, know when to go underground. Prairie thunderstorms are equal opportunity events.

(No pictures of thunderstorms to share with you. Unlike my husband, I am usually in the basement when bad weather is brewing. If you like to look at clouds, NOAA has a great Sky Watcher Chart and information for the inner meteorological nerd in all of us.)

Spicy

A colleague of mine recently asked if I was ever going to spice up my blog. He was referring to another blog he was following that had become.....well, let's just say, "informational."  I reminded him that my blog is for those who are not afraid to live with beige and I am an old school girl. Some things are best said only in a diary with a little key attached.

Just to be clear, even the lives of beige people can contain a little spiciness. In fact, just this week I experienced a few heart pounding moments as I drove my car well beyond the recommended mileage for gas consumption.  Idling at a very busy intersection with the little red gas pump symbol flashing at me and the zero-miles digital reminder is all it takes to get my blood racing. Trudging to a gas station with a red can is akin to wearing a scarlet letter "S" for stupid. I made a mental note to be more proactive at the pump.

Teaching middle school students has its snappy moments as well. There is nothing that says trauma better than herding 350 fidgeting adolescents into a stuffy auditorium for a group presentation. My fellow teachers and I post ourselves strategically throughout the aisles as our eyes furtively seek out malfeasant activity. We zoom in with laser like precision as we pluck out any stinkers, all the while smiling and nodding along with the presentation. Middle school assemblies are always just one rabble rouser away from chaos, therefore, vigilance is not optional.

Filing income taxes is another Bates motel event. It is anybody's guess how that will end. Each year I confidently pull out my file folder marked "Taxes" and smugly believe it will contain all the information we need for our accountant. Each year I realize that pride goeth before a fall as my husband and I slog through piles of random receipts, only to realize a few of the most important documents have gone AWOL. And each year I wonder if our marriage can survive another year of filing taxes. Miraculously, vital scraps of paper are located, numbers are crunched and a check is grudgingly written. We emerge from the tax office, vowing to read the tome called Taxes and You. (I am not even going to address the brochure my husband picked up at the office entitled, Divorce & Taxes.) We continue to cling to our dream of becoming tax savvy citizens, despite our dismal track record.

Last, but not least, we have rhubarb, a fruit/vegetable/greenish-red plant that has enough pucker power to shame a lemon. We live on the edge of toxicity each time we pull the leaves off the prized stalks, wondering if anyone has ever died from a rhubarb plant. An hour later we have the smell of a pie edging out our horticultural fears and we happily dish up another piece of dessert goodness.

There you have it. Life in the fast lane with a beige person. If you need a little more spiciness, you are just going to have find the key to my diary. Be prepared to weep.

Tomato Jam

Some combinations defy logic and good sense. Avocado ice cream. Quiet children. Easy puzzles. Shadeless windows. Smooth transitions. Lowfat cheese. Small problems. Four season porches in the upper Midwest. My husband and me (almost 40 years of opposites attracting).

Recently, I stumbled upon another interesting combination, tomato jam.  I vaguely remember some such jam recipe many, many years ago in an attempt to tame a bumper crop of tomatoes. Blame it on a poor recipe or an unrefined palate, the jam never made it to the table. Fast forward thirty plus years and I am back at the stove watching a burbling mass of tomatoes, onions, sugar and ginger work its way into a jammy concoction. I am skeptical and intrigued as I taste and retaste. To be sure, this is not your mother's toast topper. The crimson jam's savory sweetness is best reserved for its true destination, meat. Lamb, to be precise.

I am on a determined quest to conquer the world of lamb, despite no background whatsoever with the bleating little hoofers. My protein needs as a child were provided by our farmstead homies, chicken, beef, pork and an occasional pheasant. Not a lamb in the herd. It wasn't until I ordered lamb chops at a restaurant that I discovered there was nothing to fear from the sheep. In fact, the taste was delightful and I needed more.

Thanks to the lamb procurement adventures of my brother-in-law, I currently have a freezer filled with lamb options. Marinated lamb chops, braised lamb shanks and Moroccan lamb stew deliciously warmed our bellies this winter. The lamb spareribs were tested and will not make another appearance on our table. The leg of lamb surprised us with less flavor than expected and challenged me to look for a flavor punch.

Enter, tomato jam. And an adventurous husband. We sliced the leg of lamb leftovers and layered them on homemade focaccia bread with a generous helping of the peppery sweet jam. Munch. Taste. Determine flavor profile. Nibble. Another bite. More jam. Add a little cooling yogurt sauce. Taste again. One more bite. Heads nodding. Mmm, leg of lamb sandwiches with tomato jam and yogurt sauce. Add it to the recipe repertoire.

And here is the best part. Old people can try new things. And like them. We may look longingly at the pasture across the fence and wonder if that is where we should be spending our time. But deep down inside we know that we still want to nibble on a little tomato jam once in awhile.

Keep your gates open. You never know which herd is going to show up.

Falling Star

One joy of living on the prairie is space. As much as I enjoy trees, mountains, oceans and lakes, my heart always settles when I am back on a grass studded landscape and my eyes can relax into a sea of subtlety. It is a place where shades of green, brown and gold are punctuated by a wildflower or two. It is a place that can be much maligned or valiantly revered. It is a place that sets forth no pretense of being flashy or instantly gratifying. Its harshness rasps off the unsubstantial and its gentleness nurtures the delicate. It is, most assuredly, not a terrain for the faint of heart.

Finding treasures on the plains is about contrast. Scanning a calm night sky can result in a gasp inducing falling star. Tromping through knee-high vegetation can stir up a circus of jumping grasshoppers. Listening to silence is quickly accompanied by a meadowlark's lilting ditty. Abandoned country roads are traversed by pickup trucks bobbing along with a determined purposefulness.

Perhaps one lesson of the prairie is learning to appreciate the mundane. Despite a steady stream of Facebook posts and Twitter feeds to the contrary, I suspect many of us live relatively flatline lives. We do laundry, dust furniture, go to work, sit in the dentist's chair, watch television, unload the dishwasher, mop up spills and make soup. Our eyes scan another ordinary day with a sigh. We wonder if a life of duty will make us dull. We long for a falling star.

It is time to embrace our inner prairie. Do not be afraid to rejoice in the balm of the ordinary. Celebrate duty as an opportunity to serve and obey. Smile when a bird sings. Fling open the curtains to peek at what will paint the sky today. Send a real birthday card and sign it in cursive. Drink two cups of coffee in a row. Skip a week of dusting, or two, or three. Eat cheese curls in the car. Play the piano. Sew on a button. Water a plant. Read casserole recipes. Buy a new broom. Pray.

Give the prairie a chance to send down deep roots and do what needs to be done. And, hey, if a falling star comes your way, stop and enjoy a moment even Pinterest cannot duplicate.

Baton

Spring is track and field season, or so they say. I have never had the skill or competitive inclination to run in oval patterns, jump over mini-fences, free fall from poles or hoist big stones. I am content to participate in less vigorous activities and eat cookies.

Spring is also the season of teacher fatigue. After grinding away through three quarters of hope, mercy and prodding, reality sets in with a deafening thud. Students continue to hand in late assignments, if at all. Class clowns find their audiences ever ready for another show. Copy machines squelch out obscene messages such as "paper jam". E-mail inboxes fill up with lists of students who are traveling thither and yon. The number 2 pencil of standardized testing is replaced with computers, earbuds, passwords and fickle internet connections.  And, perhaps the most challenging of all is the realization that there are a few students who might not win the school game this round.

They are the students who go home with us in our heads. They take up mental space as we drive to and from work. They force us to play the "What If" game. What if I moved her closer to my desk, or if I worked with him during lunch or if I called his mother again or if we started a new behavior contract. If, if, if. The perplexing swirl of uncertainty grates away at the bedrock of progress and makes us weary with doubt.

Maybe, it is better to take off the teacher glasses and put on a coach's hat in the spring. The school year is really a lot like a relay race. Students are handed off to us by their guardians and their previous year's teachers. We read the rule books and practice our hand offs, we know how all of this should work. We grab the baton with gusto and begin the run. Run, breathe, run, breathe. Make it happen.

Then the variables set in. Unforeseen slippery spots appear on the track.  Headwinds buck our progress. Opposing teams get into our heads. Fingers feel numb to the baton. Legs feel like jello. Self talk turns incriminating. The finish line is nowhere to be found. Give it up, give it up. Gut it out, gut it out. What's it going to be?

Teachers gut it out. We know this race called a school year. Some variables can be controlled and others are out of our reach. We are handed batons of regulation size and we are handed batons that are too heavy or too slippery or too large. We start around the track, believing we can win and resist the urge to look back and ask for a new baton. Win or lose, we chug forward.

And when the time comes to hand off the baton to the next team player, we know that we had a part in whatever the scoreboard eventually displays. Maybe it isn't our turn to have the best career stats. Or maybe the variables will get the best of us on occasion. But, by gumby, we show up and we run. We run with the belief that races can be won and that no baton is ours to keep forever. Pass it on and take a breath.