Voices

I have the grand luxury of enjoying moments of self-imposed silence. Of course, silence is impossible in most settings, but being seated in a quiet home, without electronic devices blaring, is like drinking cool sips of water in a parched desert.  In the early morning hours, before most of the living roust from their nests, I am able to soak up the voices of natural causes. And things that go bump in the night.

My early morning greeting is often the gentle banging of doors in my basement. My husband says it is the change of pressure that causes such sounds, but I prefer to imagine a sweet little ghost taking care of business when no one is living in our lower level. The banging sounds always make me smile and sometimes I utter a cordial good morning greeting. I am alone at such times so no fear of mocking by others.

Our refrigerator whirs out the churn of making new ice cubes. Except, we have no ice making function on our refrigerator. I can hear the clunk, clunk of the pseudo ice cubes at the end of each cycle. Before you start using the crazy word, my husband recently startled to the same sound. He asked, "Did you hear that?" I responded, "It always does that. It's just the ice making dreams of our refrigerator." He had no reply. And no explanation. I continue to enjoy the process.

Occasionally, I hear the pop, pop, pop of something aching in the bones of the walls. I have long since stopped trying to analyze the source. Envisioning pipes ready to burst or studs in the throes of death does not provide calming thoughts for me. So, I assume little Casper from the basement is sending me Morse code messages. I just hope he isn't telling me that a pipe is ready to go.

The most mysterious sound also comes from my basement. It is a sharp ping that is identical to the sound of a freshly canned jar of peaches alerting the world that the seal is final. I have no idea what causes the sound as I haven't canned anything since my early years of marriage. I do enjoy it, however, as memories of the bounty of summer come flooding back. Jars of peaches, beans and cherries line up like jewels, ready for winter's dark days. A pleasant memory, for sure.

One of my favorite sounds is the rat-a-tat-tat from my deck. A downy woodpecker regularly visits the suet I have positioned on a deck post. She indulges her instincts by pecking away with rapid fire on the block of fat and seeds. I don't think she needs to push very hard to make dietary progress but she enjoys the motion of pecking away. Sometimes we all have to listen to our instincts.

We live in a culture of manufactured sound. TV, Netflix, podcasts, Spotify, books on tape and playlists all vie for our time. None of which are bad. But, sometimes it feels good to disconnect and release control of our surroundings. Listen for the voice of others, the hoot of an owl, the creaking of floor tiles or your favorite house ghost. You may not understand the conversation but you will understand the moment.

Pillow Talk

On the heels of the wretched event called Daylight Saving Time, I went on the hunt for new pillows. Mind you, this is becoming a frequent event and I wish it were not so. One would think that four decades of pillow acquisitions would make me an expert. I am not. In fact, my pillow shopping is now under the heading of "Fails."

I did not grow up with interesting pillows. We did not pluck the feathers of wild geese or use straw ticking to make our own pillows. In fact, I have little memory of our bed gear. I am quite sure that our family's frugality limited our pillow shopping to infrequent at best. It is possible that the pillow I started with in elementary school served me until I left the house. Which makes me wonder why I can no longer find a serviceable pillow. More likely, I was oblivious to such things at the time.

My challenge with pillows is their propensity to go flat. Or squishy. Or lumpy. Or sad. Oh, so sad. I do not buy the cheapest pillows I can find. In fact, I have upped my game recently. I look for pillows with a warranty and some reputation in the bedding world. I am discovering that the warranty is just a decoration on the packaging. I have yet to keep a pillow up to the 10-year warranty mark. And how does one go about cashing in on a failed pillow warranty? Does one stuff it into a big mailer and send it in? Is there a depreciation rate for said pillow? Is their a squish factor at play or is it simply customer satisfaction? I will never know as the hassle factor for such a process is far greater than sucking it up and moving on to the next pillow.

Thus the reason I found myself wandering around in a big box store, looking for more pillows, again. I have a Clem Kadiddlehopper complex when I go retail shopping. I feel totally out of place and my resolve to be a savvy, confident shopper dissolves within minutes. I start to sweat profusely and my ability to communicate with clerks becomes muddled and agitated. The store I was wandering around in relied heavily upon fragrances being pumped into the air that I am sure are the result of a marketer's desire to appeal to its target audience, young and hip moms. My days of young are long gone and hip will never be attached to my name.

A sweet little clerk tried to help me but I was too far gone by then. I carried on alone and dug around in the bins and shelves of bed chiclets. I ditched any pillow with a celebrity's name attached to it and did the same to the bargain pillows and the elite pillows. I settled on two mid-range pillows, one for a side sleeper and one for a stomach/back sleeper. Both felt firm enough, no lumps evident. And both came with a 15-year warranty.

I have a new pillow plan, now. Enjoy the pillow while it gives rest. Ditch it when it slumps into despair. And, don't try to overthink the process.

Duct Tape Man

Many of us enjoy goods and services on the backs and knees of hard working men and women toiling behind the scenes for us on a daily basis. One such individual is a man I do not know personally. I do not know his name, address or family details. He does not know me but we recognize each other because our paths cross almost weekly.  I know what his job is and the hours he works. And I know he wears duct tape.

DT Man works the overnight shift at my local grocery store as a shelf stocker. When I arrive at dawn on my Saturday morning foraging trips to the store, DT is usually finishing his shift. I hear him chatting with his fellow stockers about the usual components of life such as weather and store events. I often see him on his knees sliding cans of kidney beans and tomato soup into place with the well-ordered precision needed to showcase products for the upcoming day. I have never heard him complain, even when the aisles have been ravaged by frothing holiday shoppers. I am sure the weekend before Thanksgiving resulted in a few overtime hours as the cases of canned pumpkin and jellied cranberry sauces towered above the ends of the aisles. DT was on his knees again, replenishing the depleted shelves.

One would think DT would have no knees left, given the amount of time he spends using them. And I am sure an Advil or two is needed on occasion to alleviate discomfort. But DT also has a secret weapon. Duct tape. He has padding on his knees, secured in place by copious amounts of silvery duct tape. He is easily recognized with his gangly gait and shiny knee ornaments. He is clearly one who chooses to live with clever frugality.

Last Saturday, I met him in the aisle just as his shift was completed. His 5-buckle overshoes clanked a tune as he walked with a driven purpose. He was clutching two jars of salted roasted peanuts and he appeared to be on the hunt for something. I watched as he sprawled out on the floor and stuck his head in between two floor level shelves and moved items around. Clearly, salted peanuts were on sale and finding more of them was worth another bend of the knee.

Occasionally DT's shift is completed before I arrive and I see his lanky frame heading down the street, duct tape still intact. I don't know what his destination is but I presume he is headed to the bus stop or a place of abode, no car needed. He has the demeanor of someone who has finished a job and that is that.

I may not know much about DT but I know that I am grateful for his work. I depend on his knees to make sure I have the can of tomatoes I need for soup or the bag of brown sugar I am using to bake cookies. He makes my life easier.

Thank you, Duct Tape Man. You're better than the average Marvel hero to me.

Eyes of Others

I suspect we all have moments when the life of a hermit seems appealing. Visions of a secluded cabin on a remote mountaintop dance in our heads. Trapping rabbits for the stew pot, foraging berries for our homemade yogurt and making friends with ravens seem appealing in a primal way.  No meetings to discuss how to move forward. No compromises on what to eat for dinner. No tedious yammering by human entities. No blaming others for missing socks (unless you count the ravens). And no alarm clocks set by the calendars of demand.

The number one reason for being a hermit is, most likely, autonomy. Getting along with others is hard work, sometimes mildly difficult and other times, excruciatingly painful. Ask anyone who has served on a county township board or a church hospitality committee and the truly honest will agree, folks can disagree on anything from land easements to new salt and pepper shakers. We are humans, not robots, and that means we have opinions.

Fortunately, for most of us, living like a hermit is not an option. I, for one, am incapable of being self-sufficient. My nervous Nellie nature does not allow me to live in isolation, especially living off the land. I would most likely harvest the dangerous mushrooms or accidentally gouge myself with a hunting knife only to meet an early demise, alone and forsaken. Such thoughts keep me swimming in the stream of humanity.

Despite our independent tendencies, sharing life experiences with others is often filled with rewards. It is acceptable to experience the wonders of Disneyland as a solo person, but it is difficult to surpass the ability to see a princess or two through the eyes of a child. One person dining at a new restaurant is not discouraged but the same menu becomes more interesting when banter and sharing dishes is added to the mix. Watching a movie with a bag of popcorn for a date is good. Watching the same movie with a friend is better as more eyes analyze nuances in the plot. A cup of coffee is delightful on its own, but two cups with two people is even better as conversation is fueled by a caffeine boost.

As a child in a large farm family, I had plenty of eyes interpreting life for me. My mother made sure I could identify the birds in our fields. My father taught me to watch the body language of livestock (not a skill I mastered). My older brother made sure I didn't see life as my sole domain. My younger brother preferred to use my eyes for reading, book reports did not spark joy for him. My sisters saw life as sisters do, something to be shared or compromised upon.

It is Valentine's weekend, loved or loathed, depending on who you ask. I hope you can enjoy a moment or two with someone you care about. Life is always more interesting through the eyes of another.

The Blast

Even by upper Midwest standards, our weather was cold this week. Very, very cold. Actual air temperature plunged to the negative 20's and beyond. Factor in a burly wind from the north and exposed skin didn't stand a chance. Schools were closed and some businesses cut their hours.The  Midwestern statement, "It could be worse," was not uttered much for a day or two. Meteorologists dubbed it "The Polar Vortex".

The sights and sounds of polar air attacking an environment are unique. My trek to the parking lot after work had a squeaky, scrunchy quality as I squashed frozen rivulets of snow and ice. The smell of exhaust was in the air as cars, started by remote starters, belched out their white plumage. My gray icicle of a vehicle (no remote starter in my purse) beckoned me with all the protection of a meat locker. The door squealed in a high pitch screech as I pulled it open. My face was non-pliable and I braced myself for the rock hard car seat. Moments of panic niggled my brain when I fumbled with the key, hoping against physics that my vehicle would start. The familiar errr-errr-errr was followed by the whoosh of the engine starting. Instinct told me to crank the heat but experience reminded me that a blast of cold air is not advised. My vehicle's tires crunched over the parking lot tundra and a chilly drive home began. My vehicle was warm when I pulled into the garage. Perfect timing.

A quick trip to the grocery store revealed the fashion statements of tundra people. Parkas with fur-trimmed hoods were bound up by bulky scarves. Mittens punctuated the ends of coat sleeves. Boots clomped along in the aisles and store employees were dressed in layers as the outdoor air followed us like strong perfume. There is probably a reason the Midwest is not known for elite fashion runways or trendy attire. I cannot help but smile when I see folks dressed for the weather rather than the latest fashion forecast. (My apologies to those who are stylish and live here.)

Comfort food takes on a utilitarian meaning when the temperatures plunge. Salads are lovely but nothing says survival like fat. Bring on the hearty soups, laden with potatoes or cream or both. Pass me another round of meatloaf and white bread. Drink another cup of hot chocolate, no skim milk allowed. And eat bacon. Several slices, if need be.  I guarantee it will take the edge off. Cold weather is a fight to the finish and I prefer to win.

My Florida sister apologetically shared that they were also a little cool this week at 60 degrees. I told her not to apologize. I reminded her that all regional locations have an upside. Our frigid temperatures are freezing the bejeebers out of damaging larvae lurking in our trees and mold spores snoozing in our gardens. Alligators and venomous water snakes are also less likely to join our ranks. No complaints here.

The really good news about a polar vortex is that it won't last forever. In fact, meteorologists are predicting a fifty degree swing upward for a day or two. Even from negative twenty, that is not bad. The parka hoods will be flipped back. The mittens will go back in the closet. And our cars will breathe a sigh of relief. We will miss our beautiful sun dogs but we are survivors. Bring it on, weather.

Brain Food

Don't be afraid. This is not a post hawking a wonder food that is guaranteed to sharpen memories and increase neuron connections. I will leave such claims to the marketing experts wearing snake skin boots. My claim is based on the power of food and memories.

A recent discussion with a few of my colleagues at work resulted in just such a connection. We shared  plans for our evening meals and the subject of Tater Tot Casserole came up. Three questions were raised: "What vegetable is used?" "What sauce is used?" and "What type of topping is used?" We went back to our youth and the components were quite similar with some variations. The veggie was either corn or green beans (french style for some, cut style for others). The sauce was good old-fashioned cream of mushroom soup. And the topping was tater tots, of course.

Our discussion took a detour when we delved into deviations we've experienced from others. Some cooks throw a handful of shredded cheese on the tater tots for a little extra punch. Some change up the geometry of the potato topping by using diced potatoes, potato crowns or hash brown rectangles. The mushroom soup can be replaced with cream of chicken. And the veggies could be a medley of peas, corn and carrots. Nothing wrong with deviations, but we agreed that our classic memories were the most comfortable for each of us.

Next, we meandered into internet land and discovered attempts to "modernize" the classic recipe. Apparently, a can of cream soup is the demon of the culinary world as many recipes substitute bechamel sauce for convenience of the can (so sorry, Nicolas Appert, inventor of canned goods). One of the pin-me-follow-me-hashtag-me bloggers suggested a recipe with soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, milk, sour cream and fresh parsley and thyme. Good grief, no wonder tater tots are added to that hot mess. Why else would you eat it?

My friends and I concluded that we eat casseroles for two reasons: convenience and comfort. Each of us was blanketed with warmness as we remembered the Tater Tot casserole of our youth and the kitchens and potlucks where we enjoyed humble meals with others. None of us felt the need to adjust the ingredients too far from our original recipe. We wanted taste to match memory. Done deal.

Sheri Castle, renowned Southern cookbook author, states, "Casseroles are for the the hungry and heartbroken. If you don't know what to say, let a casserole do the talking." Feeling sad? Whip up a hotdish. Need a quick meal for weary travelers? Pop in a casserole. Getting ready for a potluck? Load up a 9x13 dish with love.

Celebrate some brain food this week and make a dish that takes you down memory lane. Use a can of creamed soup if you wish. Throw in a veggie of choice. Skip the fresh parsley if you live in the upper plains. Casseroles don't judge. They just warm the heart.

New Year

Time to turn the page to a new calendar year. As usual, a new year means aggressive advertisements for fitness clubs, fitness gear, fitness machines, weight loss potions and all things healthy. January screams, "Do something. Now." Many heed the call and others, myself included, plod along with less lofty aspirations. This year, I have the following goals.

1) Bake bread. I dabble in the world of yeast, water and flour, but I do so infrequently. Bread is the universal language of sustenance and the ingredients are quite simple. However, the process can be a speed bump for me. I own a hefty mixer with a dough hook so I have no excuses there. Time is the  primary challenge as bread needs several hours to complete the kneading, proofing and baking steps. Experience is another hurdle. My mother baked loaves and loaves of bread each week and I never saw her use a recipe. I am tethered to a recipe when I tackle bread. Bread dough also senses insecurity so my plan is to march onward with determination. The fragrance of a well baked loaf of bread is a sweet perfume, indeed.

2) Read. I love to read but I confess that I often participate in mindless activities rather than read. It is all too easy to flip my way through seemingly endless choices of TV shows and Netflix picks and never really settle on anything that is worth my time. It takes no effort to scroll through pages of social media posts and not be any the wiser as the minutes or hours ebb away. Whenever I finish a book, I feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. My mind has been soothed, challenged or tickled in some way. And I earn another trip to the library, one of my favorite places to be.

3) Starve the guilt gibbon. Those who know me, know that I like to feed the guilt gibbon who rests upon my shoulder. I never write enough thank-you cards. I adore potato chips. I throw away cheese because it gets away from me. I allow vegetables to languish in my crisper drawers. I make bad purchases for clothing because I hate to shop. I don't make jam. I fail to check my cellphone in a timely manner. Years of stuffing my guilt gibbon's face means this is one goal that will most likely remain dormant. Again.

4) Laugh. I am blessed with colleagues who love a good chortle or two or more. Sometimes, we get a good laugh from a video clip about the humorous side of teaching. Sometimes, a dog or cat meme tickles our funny bone. Sometimes, it is an old-fashioned Ole and Lena joke that gives us joy. But, our best laughs come from the foibles of daily life. Everything from student quips to failed science experiments to compression hose is fair game. Bellyachers are a dime a dozen but a good belly laugh is priceless.

Happy New Year, my dear friends! And may your Cheeto bags always be full.