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HELPING RAY
A middle grade novel by Mary C. Ryan
Seventh grader Ray Brennan has a lot on his plate. A major trumpet solo in the school stage band’s spring concert is in serious jeopardy, things aren’t going well at home, and to top if off, there’s the question of who’s been watching him. Add a mysterious girl who nobody seems to know and a best friend who’s no help at all, and Ray is wondering if things can get any worse. As it turns out, they can. His trumpet goes missing. Ray eventually learns that help can come from very unexpected sources, but that it’s not always easy accepting it.
SCRAPBAG
I’m gonna sit right down and write myself an e-mail,
And make believe it came from you.
I’m not so sure this is what Fats Waller and a myriad of other recording artists would ever have envisioned when they covered this charming, but somewhat snarky song way back when, but it sure seems to be where the world is heading, isn’t it? It came to me a few weeks ago when, putting the Christmas decorations away, I noticed on a nearby shelf, an old plastic tub simply overflowing with “stuff.” So much so that the lid wouldn’t stay on any more. I worried that some little mousies might be looking for material for a nest and by some miracle, I had a few free minutes. So I got it lugged upstairs and started to go through it. It turned out to be somewhat of an archaeological dig.
One of the first things I uncovered was a blue plastic bag filled with newspapers and magazines from the Kennedy Assassination, nearly fifty years ago. At the time, and maybe even still, I figured they’d be worth something to somebody, so into the family archives they’d gone. Along with, I might add, newspapers and magazines from the first landing on the moon, and a special edition of Life on the elevation of John Paul II to the papacy. Interesting, but do I want to keep those things? I do. For now.
The next layer held a bunch of photographs, invitations to our 15th wedding anniversary party that the kids threw for us, old concert programs, and well, you know. I’m sure you have a box or two of such things in your house. I sorted it all out, tossing several items that I had no idea why they were there in the first place. I had a fair pile to go into the recycle bin.
But then towards the bottom came the motherlode. The sarcophagus loaded with golden artifacts. The Holy Grail.
A bunch of letters. Letters the kids had written from camp, from college, from after they were married. Letters from other family members. Letters from my mom. Letters from Pat’s mom and dad. Letters from me to Pat and he to me. Precious. Endearing. Funny. Jubilant. Thankful. Loving. Begging for an extra bit of cash, for a prayer. The whole spectrum of life to read again and again, not click on Delete and forget.
How long had it been since I’d added to that stash? I wondered. What with emails and text messages, we hardly ever have to pick up a pen and actually compose our thoughts to put on paper in a permanent way. Even I, the resident technophile, began to feel a sense of loss because I knew those opportunities for a personal connection with others was going to keep fading.
I suddenly remembered a picture of my oldest sister that I’d recently found. So, I sat down, grabbed a pen and caught her up on a few things that have been going on in my life, enclosing the photo. I wrote another to a second cousin whose mom had recently passed away—and got a handwritten note back. Each time I stuck a stamp on an envelope and popped it in the mailbox, I felt as if I had accomplished something. I think I’m going to do a lot more of it, even though my handwriting has deteriorated somewhat over the years.
Will letter writing ever completely disappear? Obviously not. But the opportunities for doing it are slowly disappearing. Do kids at summer camp write to their parents anymore? (Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah. . . Hint: You can find it on iTunes.) What a loss if they don’t. Do you even get baby announcements, or just a link to a Facebook page or web site where you can see pictures of the new arrival just moments after birth and Mom looking like she just stepped off the cover of Glamour magazine due to having a makeup artist in the delivery room? You know, I even gave some thought to handwriting this column, but figured I’d hear about it and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Don’t expect a letter from me anytime soon. But hey, you don’t have to wait. Take a few minutes and write—actually write—a note to someone. It doesn’t have to be Lincoln’s Gettysburg Add
I think it may have started with a particularly good homily that evidently started a chain of thoughts until one night, my husband looked at me and asked, “What can I do to make your life easier?”
Now, I’m not sure if there’s anything a wife would rather hear. “Can I change that diaper?” Maybe at one time. But that was long gone. “How about dashing off to Paris for a few weeks?” Better. Probably too much to wish for. Personally, I’ll take making my life easier. I had an answer all ready for that one. It came out without missing a beat. “Cook on Sundays.”
Like many a wife who has been married—oh, probably anywhere over 30 years, I had come to the conclusion that figuring out what to eat every night was among the all time most mind-numbing jobs ever invented. Even Mike Rowe hasn’t dared touch it. I welcomed any opportunity to get out of it. I’d already parlayed a deal where we’d go out for pizza every Friday. Here was my chance to ditch yet another day.
We were not “chicken every Sunday” people. We didn’t eat big dinners at 1 pm as was the case with many families when we were kids. We tended more towards brunch—eggs, bacon, hash browns after Mass. Then a light supper. Over the years, the brunch mitigated into more of a fix it yourself event. But there still was supper. And frankly, I was tired of it.
“Deal,” said my husband.
“Deal,” I said.
What followed was interesting, to say the least. The next Sunday, I waited. And I waited and waited and waited. Finally, the question popped out. “What’s for supper?” Only it didn’t come from me.
“Uh,” I said, trying to be tactful. “I thought we’d agreed you were going to do that.”
“Oh.” There was a long silence. Over the rumblings in my stomach, I could hear the wheels turning in his brain. “Well, how about soup and sandwiches?” Followed closely by “Where do you keep the soup?” and “Do we have anything for sandwiches?” I pointed out the cupboard where the soup had been residing for the nearly 20 years we’d lived in the house, and the refrigerator where, on any given day during the same time span, he could find lunch meat and cheese. And the basket where we/I store the bread. And so we ate. And it was good. Enough.
There were a few (actually, a lot) more Sunday of “Ooops. Forgot.” Then, he started to get creative. He went to Giant Eagle and picked up a box of something that when you threw it into the microwave for a while, turned into something vaguely resembling Italian food. One portion. We split it. I kept my mouth shut—after eating my half. My stomach wasn’t quite so forgiving, but maybe the ballgame was on and he didn’t hear it.
Eventually, we had a little chat. I won’t go into the details. You can probably figure it out. And so we stumbled along, week after week. Lots of soup and sandwiches, and some meals that had you fed it to POWs, you would have been cited for violation of the Geneva Convention. I bit my tongue a lot, both literally and figuratively. The best thing you could say about it was that with all of our travels, we weren’t often home on Sunday night.
Just a few weeks ago, however, we had a major breakthrough. He arrived home from work and said, “We were talking about Beef Stroganoff today. We haven’t had that in a while. I think I’ll make it on Sunday.”
Oh, lord, I breathed, I can see it now. I’m going to have to stand by his elbow every step of the way like a pitching coach. The last time I did that was years ago when he wanted to make my signature German coffee braid for Christmas. It’s a yeast bread. Does that give you some idea of the amount of time I was “on call?” The result was spectacular, I must say, with frosting and holly decorating the top. The dog ate it, except for the holly. The saving grace of that episode was that over the years, it has made an excellent family holiday story.
On Sunday, he got re
“Not spend Christmas at home?” I stared at this sudden incarnation of Ebenezer Scrooge, whom I normally refer to as my husband. “Are you crazy? Christmas at home is a tradition! Remember how the kids always come into our bedroom at the crack of dawn, and then you go out to check if Santa left anything, and then we all form a line, youngest to oldest, and then—“
He let me babble on for a full minute before cutting in. “We can do the same things there.”
There, I had just been told, was an A-frame chalet nestled in the rolling hills of western New York’s ski country. Supposedly, it supplied all the amenities—hot and cold running water, two baths, a furnace and potbellied stove, and sleeping quarters for a small army—necessary for a family with six children. It sounded nice enough, except that it would be Christmas and it wouldn’t be home.
Pat was clearly disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm. For several years running, he’d mentioned that he’d like to do something different for the holidays. I’d always managed to come up with some excuse. There wouldn’t be any friends or relatives to share the joy of the season. We’d miss a lot of parties and good times. What if we got suck in a blizzard? Could we afford it?
“You worry too much,” he said now. “We survived the Blizzard of ’77, didn’t we? As far as parties go, they’re always the same. We can invite people to join us for some skiing, and yes, we can afford it.”
“But—“ I saw his eyes. He really wanted this.
“All right,” I sighed. But my heart wasn’t in it.
The kids didn’t share my discomfort. Skiers all, they were ecstatic about the chance to schuss to their hearts’ content. I’d given up the sport many years ago. So, while they gleefully put their gear in order, I shopped for Christmas gifts and packed warm clothes for everyone.
The first sight of our new abode brought back memories of Heidi. Perched halfway up a hill off a dirt road, its triangular roof was already decorated with Christmas lights. Behind it rose a small forest of evergreen. As soon as everything was unloaded, Pat, with the owner’s permission, sent the kids up to cut one of the pine saplings. They went about it with a pioneering spirit and soon returned with an acceptable specimen. They stuck the tree into a hole bored into a log and promptly decorated it with ornaments, lights, and tinsel provided by the chalet owner. The rest of the day was spent staking out claims to bedrooms and settling in.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, Pat and I took a leisurely stroll down the main highway to the tiny village in the valley. The sun was unseasonably warm. As we passed the local ski resort, it was evident the weather was not, at this point anyway, about to accommodate the skiers.
But it occurred to me, suddenly, that this Christmas Eve was different from the many that had preceded it. It was peaceful, for one thing. There was no last minute tearing around for forgotten items, no phones ringing, no visitors dropping in. The family was together. And it felt absolutely wonderful.
After supper that evening, rain began to fall. Rain on Christmas Eve? We refused to let it dampen our spirits. We sat around chatting and ignored the slanting streaks of water on the windows. Finally, around ten o’clock, someone brought up the fact that we had a custom of everyone opening one gift on Christmas Eve.
“You two go first,” the kids cried. They’d evidently chipped in and bought us something special. What could it be?
Matching red long johns, that was what.
They wanted a fashion show. Our protests availed us nothing. Pat and I retired to our room and reappeared looking like a couple of middle-aged Santa clones.
In a sudden bust of what could only be called idiocy, Pat grabbed my hand. “We need to do a snow dance!” he yelled.
We’ve already received our “I’m b-a-a-a-ck!” wake-up call from Old Man Winter, but Mother Nature was kind enough to give us a little reprieve so we could get out and deck the outside halls without numbing our fingers. Strands of broken and useless lights were replaced by new ones at our house. We should be pretty sparkly.
Even had the time and the temperature for one last paddle on the Upper Cuyahoga on Veterans Day. The scenery was vastly different from high summer, but had its own beauty, and a nice hint of wood smoke in the air.
One of the best Black Fridays we ever had was the day we handed out the advertising flyers from the newspaper to everyone at the breakfast table and tried to find the most useless Christmas present ever. It generated a lot of laughs. I can’t remember what won, but the electric nail polish dryer was in the running. Obviously, people have forgotten how to wave their hands.
Stepped out the front door the other day and a huge flock of Canada geese flew honking right over my head. Heading south, of course. Smart birds.
The kids are always asking what we want for Christmas. I have a philosophical problem with coming flat out and requesting certain things, but my resolve has crumbled in recent years. My previous system was to float ideas out throughout the year. Didn’t seem to work. Even I didn’t remember what they were half the time.
Love the seasonal arrivals—pomegranate, rutabaga, Clementines, chestnuts. And I’m eager to make my first pot of stew. Nothing like it on a cold evening.
We bought a new electric blanket. We like to sleep with the window cracked and that warm nest sure beats freezing cold sheets!
Despite the fact that stores have been playing Christmas songs for weeks, I’m waiting until after the great feast of Thanksgiving to start singing along. But just to get the ball rolling, here are a few you won’t find on anybody’s iPod:
Bring a torch, Jeanette Isabella,
Someone swiped my spotlight again . . .
Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle with good cheer.
The mailman’s bringing cards and gifts
So keep that mailbox clear.
God rest you merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.
Remember those mosquitoes
Have finally gone away. . .
Snowplows we have heard on high,
Gently rumbling down the lane
And snow mountains to the sky
Give my back an awful pain.
Christmas is a’comin’, ‘tis the season of good will.
Please to put a dollar in the store clerk’s till.
If you haven’t got a dollar, a five or ten will do.
If you’re broke, they’ll send a basket and a “God bless you.”
I’ll be home for Christmas.
You can count on me.
Cleveland’s ice and blowing snow
Cut down the visibility. . .
It’s good to be a grandparent. It’s a little like Social Security, I guess. You put in a lot of hard work initially, and then down the road a bit, you get it back with a lower tax rate (no diapers, two o’clock feedings, teenage hysterics, or college tuitions) and get to spend it pretty much the way you want to.
We have been blessed with thirteen “returns on investments,” if you will, ranging from two to twenty-five. Some have finished college and are off on their own. Others are learning their ABC’s and starting school. In the summer of 2009, we had them together in one spot and for much of the time, there was this magical ebb and flow of young bodies where there were no ages, no genders, no big, no little. Aside from afternoon naps (the little ones) and evening pub crawls (the older ones), the days were spent wandering the beach, splashing in the pool, playing card games, biking, laughing, and eating. It sure was fun to be a part of—and occasionally, just watch.
The only downside of our particular situation is that none of the grandkids lives, or has ever lived, in the same area as we did. Thus, we’ve spend a good deal of time on the road, making Exxon and Continental very happy campers. We get up to Western New York pretty often, and make annual or semi-annual trips to the Northwest. We even spent a special two weeks in Italy when our Navy son was stationed there.
In the fall, we often find ourselves heading to Indiana, where four of the younger grandkids live. One of the trips traditionally takes place around Halloween, so one October, we stopped and bought several rolls of toilet paper and wrapped up Grandpa like a mummy. Then we snuck around to the back of the house and tapped on the window. Were they scared? Well, not so much, but they were surprised, and that was almost as good. And the germ of an idea was born.
The next time, we didn’t even let them know we were coming. In days past, without cell phones, it would have been almost impossible to pull off. Now, through constant communication with our daughter Anne, we were able to position ourselves in the cereal aisle of the local supermarket just as they stopped in to pick up some groceries after school. Pat and I were concentrating on the display of crackers opposite the breakfast food, when the four of them came pelting down the aisle in search of their favorite brands. As they stood there excitedly grabbing boxes off the shelves, Pat turned around and said, “Excuse me, but do you know where I can find the Cocoa Krispies?” The looks on their faces were priceless.
Since then, we usually do a surprise visit at least once a year. We showed up for a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese. Once, when they were on their own trip to Washington, DC, we were sitting in a booth where they stopped for lunch in Zanesville, Ohio. I like to think we keep them a little off kilter, wondering where we’ll show up next. Don’t spill the beans, but this coming weekend, we’ll be hiding in a corn maze in Indiana. I can’t wait.
Life seems to go by with the speed of light. These are precious times with the most precious gift God has given us. Family. May you and your loved ones hold your particular blessings in your hearts as you celebrate Thanksgiving.
An early morning mist hangs low over the Upper Cuyahoga where it flows peaceful and serene past Eldon Russell Park on this summer day. The bow of my kayak slices cleanly through the water, my eyes alert for strainers up ahead that might spell trouble. In my concern about getting stuck and possibly capsizing, I pretty much paddle a clear passage. Beside me, however, my friend Audrey, owner of the bright blue and red kayaks, pokes around the reeds at the river’s edge, looking for what, I’m not quite sure. Baby Moses? I tell myself I need to be more adventurous, but then again, I worry about the camera nestled in my lap. I probably should have left it in the car, except I didn’t want to miss another shot like the one of Audrey paddling furiously through a flock of Canada geese, their wings flapping as they try to get airborne while Audrey is grinning madly. Fortunately, it’s nicely imprinted on my memory, but I would have liked to have shared it. Maybe on Facebook.
(Another day, on LaDue Reservoir, as we’re exploring the edges, we spy what looks like an iguana zipping along under the tree branches. It’s green and sort of triangular. Funny how we both think that before we comes to our senses and decide it’s possibly a small beaver or muskrat with a freshly gnawed leafy twig in his mouth.)
A great blue heron erupts from a tree in front of us. As startling as it is, we both take the time to admire the graceful flow of its body as it flies down river and out of sight. We disturb him a few more times until he finally hides (or so he thinks—
Audrey has eagle eyes) in the lower branches of a tree back away from the river. We seem to have the river to ourselves.
We come to a Y. It’s evident that the main channel goes off to the left, but Audrey, naturally, decides that the other way is more interesting. I remember that line from Robert Frost and paddle after her. And it does make a difference. It definitely seems less traveled. I’m never quite sure whether we’ll run aground beyond the next curve or whether my paddle is going to become tangled in some grasses that bend and flatten with the current. I spy a lovely white and pink water lily unfolding in a bed of lily pads. I move over and snap a picture, then decide to put the camera back in its plastic bag and just enjoy the ride. Go find your own splendor, I mutter to the millions who probably will never see my snapshots anyway.
Eventually, we come to the end of things and turn around while its still possible. The trip back is not bad, even against the current. Our heron friend is still perched in his tree, probably very happy to have his feeding grounds all to himself again.
A few weeks later, we’re back on the river, a few miles further downstream where the Camp Hi people have graciously trailered the kayaks. About eight days before, I’d plied this seven mile stretch with Pat in a canoe. In contrast, the kayak seems lighter. Of course, it is. I’m the only one in it. The day is a bit overcast, which, we decide, is for the better.
We’re not alone this day—Labor Day. We launch ahead of the crowd, but due to our leisurely pace, get overtaken by groups of teens and families and some guys and an older couple. (Well, probably about our age.) The wife is putting on a brave face, but I can tell that the constant paddling is taking a toll. Several times, the husband sprints on ahead, then turns around and comes back, which I think is nice.
There’s a place where the river narrows and the current is swift enough to just carry us along, with an occasional dip of the paddle to keep straight. Ahead, though, I begin to hear the sound of white water. Not exactly the mighty Niagara, I remind myself, but I keep my eyes focused for V’s as the water goes over some protruding rocks. The kayak hits it perfectly and I’m through, taking no little pride in the fact that I read it right. I’d done some rafting and canoeing before, but there had always been someone in the boat with expertise. Pretty small potatoes, to be s
SCRAPBAG
Until about twenty years ago, the only thing I knew about Ohio was that it was one of our fifty states. I had been here only once, to attend a party celebrating a friend’s marriage. I distinctly remember driving around and around and around an area with the rather quaint name of Chagrin Falls until we finally gave up and called our host to get more specific directions. It was a wonder we made it back to New York.
Little did I realize at the time that Ohio was about to become our “second” home state. It began to happen within a couple of years. A job opportunity came up and we relocated to – well, Chagrin Falls. It may have the only place I was even slightly familiar with (despite the fact that most of what we’d seen on our previous trip was dark and trees), plus a feeling that the East side was a bit closer to Buffalo. We didn’t stay there long. Two years later, we were back in New York. I’d been homesick and although I’d been delighted with all those trees that had originally frustrated me, and had become acquainted with the Cleveland Indians, I was more than ready to split.
God does have a sense of humor, however. Within two years, due to some quirk of fate, we found ourselves heading back to Chagrin Falls. This time, it stuck and we’ve now been happily ensconced for almost as long as we’d been in New York.
Busy with life, however, we never really took the time to explore the rest of Ohio, so in 2008, to celebrate my birthday (08/08/08), my husband arranged a lovely weekend that started with a B & B on Kelleys Island. From there, we just decided to wander, hitting the Vermilion lighthouse (and the drug store where I had my first chocolate phosphate in years!), then heading south where we stumbled upon a lovely public garden which I can’t at the moment remember the name of (and Google isn’t cooperative today). We ended up in Loudonville on the Mohican River for a leisurely 7 mile paddle along with half the population of Ohio, I think. Just the thing to do on a warm summer day. We headed home across the center of state, hitting the Warther woodcarving museum in Dover as a last stop.
Our 2009 discovery trip started in Cleveland with a corned beef sandwich at Slyman’s, followed by an engaging wander through the art gallery. We stayed at the Wyndham Hotel, enjoying a lovely dinner and meeting one of the staff who unwittingly sent us on our next adventure – zip-lining at Canopy Tours in Logan. It was an exhilarating experience and one that’s on our list for a repeat someday.
For 2010, we drove south along the mighty Ohio River, where we found the Sistersville Ferry that shuttles cars and people between Fly, OH and Sistersville, WV. Did you even know we had a town named Fly? The ferry could hold maybe six cars and was powered with a unique sort of attached tug. It spans the longest straight stretch of the Ohio (some twenty miles) called the Long Reach and takes about five minutes to get across. For pedestrians like us, it’s a free round trip. The ferry operator even provided a loaf of bread to feed the ducks and geese that greeted travelers on both sides of the river.
Our ultimate destination was Marietta, which turned out to be a bit disappointing, mostly due to construction on their main road. The glass museum, which we wanted to see, was closed. We did walk around the historic district with shops full of interesting antiques and art and walked around the confluence of the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers where there is a wonderful hike/bike path and park. We were looking for canoes or kayaks to rent, but was told that although they had been available a few years ago and might be again next, this year we were out of luck. So, we decided to head north along Rte. 60 to see if we could find a boat livery. We did find the Dillon Dam and a great little cafe in McConnelsville, then swung east again, stumbling upon the Longaberger Homestead. Due to it being a Saturday, nobody was working on the huge factory floor, which I found a
While others are wrestling with the “Back to School” mania, I’ve decided to just relax and look back over the past months before the memories slip away to a collection of photos in some dusty box or on-line file labeled “Summer, 2010.”
I don’t have a picture of it anywhere but in my mind, but one of those little miracle moments happened in late June as we were driving along a backroad in Indiana at dusk. On either side stretched fields of corn, at that point about as high as a horse’s eye. Heat still shimmered up from the ground, and in and around and among the corn and weeds were fireflies. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. It was nothing short of spectacular. We actually had to pull over to the side of the road and watch Mother Nature’s light show.
And while I’m on that subject, someone just reminded me that I once called those delightful creatures “lightning bugs.”
Like a mother putting her child to bed, drawing up the covers so the bogey man will be kept at bay, I go out in the evening and pull the net over my tomatoes, cukes, and pumpkin vines so the deer won’t repeat the carnage of a month or so ago.
The family outing over Memorial Day hosted five of our six kids and seven of the thirteen grandkids. It was fun to just play together—baseball, swimming in a kiddie pool, card games on the deck, walks in the park, and a fantastic afternoon cooling off in the Aurora branch of the Chagrin River. Even Baby Kate got a ride in the rock flume.
Several days were hot enough to even convince me to turn on the A/C. I don’t do that easily. I’d rather put up with a little discomfort than feel exactly like the prisoner I am in February.
I was a little late with my blueberry run and was about ready to give up on the bushes with sparse pickings, until a kindly gentleman told me I was in the wrong place and if I moved over a few rows, I’d find a better yield. Thanks, whoever you were.
There’s nothing nice than lingering in bed in the morning watching the birds flit back and forth outside—only to realize that they’re not birds, but bats—and they’re not outside, either. Instant double espresso latte with triple mocha!
I couldn’t wait for my crop of green beans to come in, so I bought some at Marc’s for pickling. Son Joe declares my dilly beans better than any pickle. They have a kick, too, because of the addition of red pepper flakes, along with a big clove of garlic. He’s earned himself a jar. But I’m starting to run out of refrigerator space. Oh, well. Guess I’ll have to start eating them.
I’ve been going to morning deep water watercize classes in Solon in the outside diving pool. It’s kind of a floating gab fest, but it does wake you up and get your muscles moving.
Morning walks in Beartown have yielded several sightings of my buddy, Jim, the blue heron. One day, he let me get within about 20 feet before he took off. I’ve learned to take my camera along. There’s one poor Canada goose who seems to have lost most of one foot. Elizabeth named him “Nub.” Apropos.
Finally got a chance to go to “It’s Still The Jake.” The Tribe lost, unfortunately, but it was a pleasant evening and Dollar Dog Day. I accounted for two of the over 50,000 hot dogs sold.
The long dry spells have meant retention of the awesome chalk drawings the grandkids have done on the driveway.
As of this writing, there are more even more memories ahead: more family gatherings in the offing and more chances to wear capris and sandals and more tomatoes ripening and more sunshine to soak up and more nights with the bedroom deck door open and the sounds of bullfrogs and owls lulling me to sleep.
At my grandson’s college graduation a few years ago, the speaker actually had some helpful advice to hand out, rather than the old “you are standing on the threshold of a new life” chestnut. He had three suggestions for success. I think I wrote them down somewhere, but as usual, I haven’t a clue. It’ll show up eventually, I’m sure. But I do remember two of them.
One was to think globally. It’s not your grandfather’s world out there these days. The last couple of decades have taught us that. While old-fashioned values like honesty, compassion, and understanding have not lost their importance, the playing field is a lot bigger and the rules more complex. We all need to add a little humility, too.
The second point, and the one I remembered best, is to embrace technology. It’s true of seniors in high school, seniors in college, and the “other seniors.” Us.
When the Internet first began changing the way we all communicate, I thought to myself, This is going to be one of the best things for us as we age. It’s going to make such a difference in our lives, make us more knowledgeable, keep our minds active, keep us in touch with the world around us. And it’s indeed wonderful that so many of us have become comfortable with computers and e-mail, can research healthier options for food and exercise, will pick up a remote for a game of Wii bowling with the grandkids, carry a cell phone, learn how to program a DVR. (I personally do not know how to do this yet, but only because we don’t have cable and I haven’t yet found anything on our TV that bears taping.)
So, good for us! Keep it up. If finances are an issue, use the computers at the library. Have your kids and grandkids teach you something new. And if you still long for bygone days, well there’s www.hulu.com and other sites where you can catch those old Cary Grant flicks for free.
My gadget of choice is the iPod Touch, which is like the iPhone without the phone. I’m constantly in awe of what I can accomplish when I combine it with a little wireless access: Starbucks, the library, hospitals, some restaurants, etc. It’s literally an entertainment center and business station that fits in the palm of my hand. In its honor, I’ve composed this little ditty, with apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein. (For the as-yet uninitiated, “apps” is short for “applications,” or programs, if you will.) And yeah, I know the rhyme is a bit off in places, and I apologize for that, but there isn’t yet, as far as I know, an app that will compose good poetry. Although Wikipedia (yet another app) does give some rhyming suggestions, which I used.
ODE TO MY IPOD TOUCH
(To the tune of My Favorite Things)
Banking and newspapers, recipes, weather,
Music and photos, a tip calculator
Notes that remind me to pick up some bread.
Three little goldfish who need to be fed.
Books I can read or else give a listen,
E-mails to send when the kids I am missin’,
Locate a place with the aid of some maps.
These are a few of my favorite apps.
Travel and Skee Ball, alarm clock and TV
Stock market, Scrabble with a great dictionary.
All this I do with a couple of taps.
When I’m accessing my favorite apps
Play the slots or
Watch a movie,
Google search or
Hear a song.
I simply will touch on my favorite apps
And life can’t go too far wrong.
Facebook.
Love it!
Hate it!
I could care less.
What’s Facebook?
Unless you’ve been living under a rock lately, you’re aware of Facebook, the popular and controversial social networking site. Where we used to get our personal news from the town crier, and then Mabel, the gossipy telephone operator, and more recently, the annual Christmas letter, we now have our own giant cyberspace bulletin board. Is there such a thing as TMI? Too Much Information?
Legitimate worries abound: privacy, stuff you post coming back to haunt you in a job search or college application, ads targeted to your spending habits, crooks looking to see when you’re going to be on vacation so they can break in and make off with your plasma TV. And more.
Facebook probably isn’t going to go away any time soon. I don’t know how many gazillion users it has at the moment, but it’s a huge number. I’m one of them.
I like to think I use Facebook sensibly. I limit viewers to those people I invite to be friends, I check in periodically to see who’s doing what, I try not to put anything personal out there, and I’ve pretty much trained myself to ignore any and all web-based advertising. Maybe you’re not a business or need to stay connected with everyone you ever met, but there’s no reason not to use it. And several good reasons why you should.
Few families live around the corner from each other any more. More likely, it’s around the world. I currently have close relatives in Japan and Thailand and at least a quarter of the 50 states. It’s hard to keep up with everyone, and everyone with me. Facebook has been, therefore, like an ongoing family reunion, without Aunt Sally’s famous baked beans and the water balloon tossing event. I can even pass around my photos and see the latest additions to the clan, sometimes only hours after birth. During the recent upheaval in Thailand, my nephew was able to quickly assure everyone that he was okay. I learned when a friend had returned from Paris and it was a lot easier for a wife who was meeting her relatives for the first time because she’d “met” them already on Facebook. During the winter, one of my nephews posted something about Robert Frost’s “Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening” and several people had fun chiming in with the subsequent lines. There are frequently calls for help in finding things to amuse a sick toddler and I’ve been able to assure a college-age grandkid that we’re praying for him during exams. The older I get, the more these connections mean to me.
Maybe you’re not a computer person. There are plenty of you out there. Rest assured, I’m still going to enjoy getting those hand-written Christmas cards with the yearly family updates.
NOTE: This is not posted on Facebook: My potatoes are doing great, at least as far as the foliage is concerned. It’s pretty frustrating when the only part of the plant I’m interested in is underground.
It’s planting time again and since I added Growing Pumpkins to my “Done That” list last year, I decided it was time to move on to other adventures in agriculture. I’m going to be growing potatoes.
I have to admit that up until a few months ago, I knew absolutely nothing about potatoes, except that you don’t want to toss raw ones in your compost bin and that as French fries, they really dress up a burger. But my master gardener sister gave me one of her Ozette potatoes and I was smitten.
Ozette potatoes, at least the one I had, looked more like a hot dog. It was long and skinny and well, kind of funny-looking, and came complete with a history that captivated me even more than its unusual appearance.
The Ozette Indian tribe of the Pacific Northwest once lived on a little slice of land on the westernmost side of the Olympic Peninsula, which is still only accessible by water. They had quite a culture, including the ability to make wooden boxes out of a flat piece of wood without sawing anything. I saw an example of this at the Makah Cultural and Research Center in Neah Bay, Washington. My sister had worked for the US Public Health Service in Neah Bay for several years and was eager to see the new display about the Ozette people when we visited there last October. It seems the tiny coastal village was decimated around 1700 by a mud slide. The survivors paddled up the coast to Neah Bay and were eventually assimilated into the Makah tribe.
The town lay buried and ostensibly forgotten, until it was discovered that tidal erosion was gradually washing what remained of the settlement out into the Pacific. Thus began a massive 11 year project to remove the ancient artifacts. Water was pumped into the site as a means of uncovering the artifacts, as digging and other common means of excavating would have damaged them beyond repair. Some 55,000 objects were retrieved and are on display at the Makah museum. If you ever wander out to what is frequently referred to as the westernmost part of the contiguous United States, be sure to visit the museum. It’s well worth spending a half of a day, and its new Welcome Statues, some 30’ high, are delightful introductions to the small fishing community.
Ozette potatoes were introduced to the Northwest by explorers from Central and South America. There has been renewed interest in the tasty tubers in the Seattle area and elsewhere, so I feel myself honored that perhaps I can introduce them to our area. My sister adds to my collection of one potato by adding several more smaller seed potatoes.
How to grow them, though. I needed to find that out. Potatoes like lots of sun, which is in somewhat short supply on our property. Where can I dig a hole that doesn’t impact the septic system and which is out of the shade? As I mull this over, my sister comes to my rescue once again. There is, she e-mails me, such a thing as a potato bag. I go to the link and find that indeed there is—a large container that appears to be made of perhaps landscape cloth. Fill it with dirt and potatoes and plop in a patch of sunlight, water well, and voila! Spuds for the upcoming winter months. I order two of the bags. I figure I can use the other for either regular potatoes or maybe some squash vines. Although enticed by the availability of special pre-mixed soil, I draw the line. There’s something about paying for shipping dirt that just doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.
As of this writing, my potato bags have not arrived, but rest assured I’ll be detailing my progress as the summer (if we ever get one) waxes and wanes. Happy growing, all you gardeners!
Sometimes of an early morning, as I stir and stretch, my mind drifts in the stillness of a new day and I begin to wander through the homes where I have lived.
Today, it’s my childhood home—a lovely Tudor-style single family that my mother and father had built just before the end of WWII. It was a split level, unusual for its time, with four bedrooms, a bath and a half, a family room, laundry room, basement and attic. It cost $12,500. We moved in the summer of my fifth birthday.
I enter through the milk chute. In those days of home delivery, it was a handy place for the milkman to stash the bottles, but also provides an emergency hatch if you find yourself locked out. For a few years, anyway, until you get too big..
Once inside, I’m standing in the laundry room—a full sized room with washer/dryer, double laundry tubs and a whole wall of built in cupboards and closets. I envy it now. In winter, the popular feature is the Mitten Rack. I think my dad built it. It comes out from the wall with arms on either side to slip on soggy mittens after a day on the slopes.
Through a short hall is what we call the Pine Room, paneled in knotty pine. It houses our upright piano and also a wonderful vent in the wall that pours hot air out between the couch and bookcase. In one corner is the infamous Dragon Vase, which I inherited. With good reason. I used to stash my old apple cores and tangerine peels in it.
Up a level is the kitchen with its family table in front of a picture window. There are glass shelves on it that hold an assortment of knickknacks. I can almost taste the mashed carrots and baked potatoes that kept our insides warm in winter and the exquisitely decorated birthday cakes.
On that floor is the dining room, scene of Sunday dinners with family, as well as Thanksgiving. Also, the living room, traditionally furnished with a cheery fireplace. In front of the picture window, I see our German feather Christmas tree, decorated to within an inch of its life. It’s a comfortable place and used quite a bit. In Lent, I see us all kneeling to say the Rosary, and in a sadder time, it holds my father’s casket.
The major staircase, where I learn the words “newel post,” leads up to my parents’ bedroom and mine. For a time, I shared it with my sister Kathy, six years younger than myself. I think we may have engaged in a few hostilities here and there. There is a cubby hole in my bedroom. I think it was to keep blankets in, but it was also great for trying out my brand new super-duper glow-in-the-dark decoder ring as soon as it came in the mail.
Up a few more stairs is a landing and a full bathroom. It’s there I construct my May altar to the Blessed Mother, with strings of blue and white crepe paper and vases of sweet-smelling lilacs, tulips, and lilies of the valley.
Off the landing is my brothers’ bedroom with its plaid wallpaper and my older sisters’ room, with its huge walk-in closet where I once hunted for Christmas presents in early December.
All windows have storms on them in winter to keep out the cold. However, at the bottom is a slot that can be moved up to expose three holes that let in the crisp night air.
The attic tops the house. It’s where our Christmas tree is kept, and the old glass-fronted bookcase that holds my dad’s medical books. I love thinking of the fact that it now holds our son’s medical books.
I cast my mind around one last time, spying the fruit cellar in the basement where my mom keep the jars of tomatoes, from which she makes the most awesome spaghetti sauce, simmered for hours in the deep well in our stove. I see the screened-in back porch so good for summer sleeping without mosquitoes, and the detached garage and double drive-way where I once practiced three point turns because nobody could go out and work on my driving with me. Sheltering the yard is the huge split-trunk maple I brought home as a small twig from Aunt May’s house. I climb it and sit among its branches onc
The Arizona sun feels warm on my face and my whole body is just sucking up all the Vitamin D it can absorb. Peering out from my sandals, my toes look the happiest they’ve been for months, even though a pebble occasionally jumps up from the trail to lodge under my foot. After enduring piles of snow for the past two months, everything feels delicious.
Moving ahead, trailing behind, or amiably ambling next to me are my two brothers and three sisters. We’re exploring the fascinating Desert Museum outside of Tucson. It’s a museum, zoo, and botanical garden all in one and I’ve been making the acquaintance of some animal species I’ve never encountered before, such as the somewhat pig-like javelina, which roams wild and like our deer, can do a number on local landscaping. In one cage is a roadrunner, running, of course. The video on my camera isn’t fast enough (or I’m not) to capture him, but he climbs up on a pile of rocks and poses for a still shot. One of my sisters comments that until recently, she thought a roadrunner was just a cartoon figure. That’s not an uncommon belief, I’ve discovered. But he’s real enough. Just doesn’t go “meep-meep!”
As we wind around the museum’s paths, we also encounter a variety of cacti and other desert flora. Some of it is in bloom, although they do say in a few weeks, it will be quite colorful. (Which seems to be the story of my life, at times. Either too early or too late.) We find a hummingbird garden and see a mother hummingbird sitting on her nest. Also, a bird sanctuary, which sports quail and other birds unknown to easterners. We see a wolf, rattlesnakes, a gila monster, bobcat, birds of prey, and iguana, to name a few, before deciding that our feet need a rest and head for the charming open-air restaurant and lunch.
We are spending the week in Tucson, the six of us. Every day is a new adventure: the Saguaro National Park, Sabino Canyon, the Mission of San Xavier, the Tubac art colony, Biosphere 2, Old Tuscson (an old West movie set), and the Kartchner Caverns. At night, we relax and have a happy hour, during which time we dredge up all the old stories/arguments and do a lot of laughing. Then we eat dinner, followed by a soak in the hot tub (or gene pool, as my brother calls it) until bedtime. For a bunch of old—well, a bunch of seniors, we’re doing pretty well. In fact, we are mightily blessed.
This is the third time we’ve taken a “siblings trip,” the first about ten years ago, right after we officially became orphans. Ranging from our 60’s to our 80’s, we live a fair distance from each other and so it makes sense. We’ve been gravitating to the Southwest, which is fine with me. Yes, at times tempers flare and the old “I did not!” “you did, too!” surfaces. Kids, take note: some things really do never change.
But generally speaking, we’re family. And in the long run, all that counts.
SCRAPBAG
Hate taking pills?
You’re not alone. None of us likes to think of our body as less than perfect, and unfortunately, the older we get, the less perfect it is. At some point in our lives, most of us will face the fact that we need a little help if we want to hang around awhile.
I’m not talking about tossing down an aspirin or Tylenol once in a while for a headache or sore toe, or maybe a few of the big boys after major dental work or open heart surgery. It’s the every day, maybe several times a day, for the foreseeable future pill popping that’s the most irritating, and the type that everybody in their 30’s and 40’s claims they are never going to succumb to.
Hah!
About ten years ago, I could answer the question “What drugs are you taking?” pretty easily. In fact, the nurse used to look up and say, “Is that all?” Well, no more. The vials in my bathroom are now lined up like a platoon of those Chinese terra cotta warriors all around my sink.
Let’s say your doctor has given you the good news (you’re alive) and the bad news (it’s questionable how long). And say you’ve finally gotten to a grudging acceptance. You fill the prescription, only to have a new host of problems arise. Your bottle might have a little label that says “take with food. Pretty easy. However, what if your doctor adds yet another drug for that or another condition. Which, of course, says, “take on an empty stomach,” so taking them together is not an option. And that’s if you only have to take one pill a day. But what if one is once, but the other is twice of three times? It’s easy to see that as things add up, you’re going to have a scheduling issue similar to Amtrak.
Fear not. Medical science is wonderful. Even now, they are trying to come up with ways of reminding you about your meds so that you won’t have to worry. The Wall Street Journal recently published a story about some of these developments. One company is considering putting what is known as a “GlowCap” on top of your prescription bottles equipped with a wireless transmitter that plugs into the wall and which “emits a pulsing orange light” when it’s time to take your pill. “After an hour,” the Journal article goes on, “the gadget starts beeping every five minutes, in arpeggios that become more complicated and insistent. After that, the device can set off an automated telephone or text message reminder to patients who fail to take their pills.”
OMG! as they say. And what if when, as has been known to happen, I completely forget the entire morning array? I can see my bathroom looking like a “Q” performance of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. And if I happen to be a complete no-show there (i.e. I’m off running errands), Verizon would be absolutely delighted to put through those calls and texts on my cell phone. At an additional charge, if I go over my allotment of minutes that month. There are other options, too, including a micro-chip that you swallow and which alerts you to a missed dose, an iPhone app, or even a personal call from your pharmacy if you haven’t renewed your prescription lately, asking if you need more information.
A brave new world, indeed. Best option? Stay as healthy as possible. And invest in pharmaceuticals.
We never ventured onto Lockwood’s Hill during the summertime, but once the first crunchy layer of white coated its slopes, we knew the witch was snowbound and we would have the place to ourselves. Then out of the garage would come the wooden Flyers and the sounds of singing runners echoed again through the winter air.
Probably one of the few land uprisings of any proportion in the entire city of Buffalo, NY, Lockwood’s Hill still crouches low between Downing St. and Dorrance near the Lackawanna city line. But although the old dirt road still runs up past the water town and the ancient house, streets have been carved into the sides where we spent so much of our childhood winters.
There never really was a witch who occupied that Victorian dwelling on the crest of the hill, but rumors were rampant. The mere thought of coming to a toe-to-toe meeting with Old Annie deep in the woods was enough to keep me away. There were, however, a few devil-may-cares who scorned the relative safety of the windswept slope in order to attempt a slalom run through the trees, often ending in a bone-jarring collision with a sturdy oak.
The hill was good enough for me. Taking a good lengthy run off the top, I’d flop down on my outstretched sled and careen madly down, wind singing in my ears and a spray of snow blinding all vision. A good run was one that ended in a low soggy place near the sidewalk on Downing St., and although it might result in a soaked mitten or boot, that was the ultimate. One could literally go no further.
One winter, someone built an ice slide. It was slick and bumpy and extremely dangerous, but it eliminated the problem of dragging your sled back up the steep and slippery incline. As I recall, it was given a coating of ashes after a near fatality. There was also a group of madcaps who actually had skis! They were usually older boys, but occasionally girls, and they constructed small jumps to test their skills. For the reset of us, though, sleds were fine. They were a lot easier to steer than today’s molded plastic or inflatable tubes.
What I remember most of all was the six block walk back home, after darkness had fallen, though silvery mica crystals of snow. Tired, hungry, and cold, thoughts ran on ahead to a warm house, a welcoming family, a hot meal of mashed baked potato and carrots, and a quiet evening around the radio.
Although we didn’t know each other then, Pat and I had actually zipped down the same hill, possibly passing each other or narrowly avoiding a collision halfway down. We walked through that same winter air to different houses, but to the same feelings of warmth and belonging. Every age has its simple pleasures. I doubt if they’re any different now for our own children and grandchildren. It only seems that way.
A few weeks ago, while driving home, Pat said he had a sudden urge to grab me and a sled and head over to the hill at Beartown. My first thought when he mentioned this was a deep shudder. Then I thought about it. True, a few years had gone since that last bellyflop on Lockwood’s Hill and we were too fond of our bones to risk that again. But did it mean we were too old for a little fun? Not on your life!
Before we’re even finished dealing with the train wreck that was last year’s New Year’s resolutions, it’s time to make more. Or again, as it were. What possesses us to set ourselves up for failure every January 1? It most assuredly has something to do with hope. Hope that one of these days, one of these years, one of these decades, we can affect some meaningful change in our lives. Nothing wrong with hope. Here, therefore, is my list for 2010.
1. Run the Boston Marathon
2. Bring about world peace
3. Make every deadline for the Spirit of Bainbridge
4. Eat healthy, exercise more, lose weight (yadayadayada)
5. Finish my novel
6. Keep up with my blog
7. Grow a bigger pumpkin
8. Go gray
9. Read The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
10. Regularly check myself for breast cancer
Now, as every politician and diplomat (is there a difference?) knows, it’s always best to have a fallback position—something you can live with in the event you don’t get exactly what you want.
1. I probably won’t even visit Boston, much less run there. Last summer, I did start trotting from the park path to my back door, a distance of about 60 yards, about half uphill. It took me a few weeks to work up to it, but I finally made it. It wasn’t pretty, and took me an equal amount of time to catch my breath, but I didn’t die. That I know of. The beauty of this resolution is that I can wait a few weeks until the snow goes away and the weather warms up a bit.
2. I’m pushing things a bit here, I know, but I (and definitely my husband) will be happy if I learn to hold my tongue instead of informing him that OF COURSE THE PEANUT BUTTER IS IN THE CUPBOARD. IT’S BEEN THERE FOR 16 YEARS, FOR PETE’S SAKE!
3. Anne will love me for this and I’m really going to try. Hey, I’m one for one already!
4. This is fuzzy enough that if I have a carrot stick, walk to the mailbox, and pass up that chocolate chip cookie, I can check that one off the list.
5. Well, I’d like to at least get past Chapter 2, which is where I’ve been stuck for two years.
6. Blogs are sort of like having a new baby. They require lots of attention. I have to confess that I’ve been cheating a bit and posting my Spirit articles, so if you’re reading this, it’ll just be a repeat. But on the off chance I occasionally take off on some other flight of fancy, the URL is www.entropyplaza.blogspot.com
7. I’m not aiming to break Jim Domo’s 925 lb. record, but I’d like to see something that resembles a basketball, instead of a softball. I have some seeds from a white French heirloom pumpkin that has bright orange flesh and cool warts all over and I’d love to bring that off, as well.
8. No way.
9. I’ve heard this is a great book and I already have the sequel on my MP3. If I start now, I might be able to finish by December 31. My problem is that where I used to read until all hours of the night, anything longer than a Robert B. Parker mystery gives me a good case of zzzzzz.
10. Since I got blindsided by this in 2009, you can be sure it’s one resolution I intend to keep. And it would behoove all you ladies out there to do the same.
Happy New Year!
There are football coaches and pitching coaches and Lamaze coaches and life coaches and coaches for just about everything under the sun. This year, I got myself a pumpkin coach.
Lest you immediately get a mental image of a squat little Disney fairy godmother waving her wand to produce a carriage suitable enough to haul Cinderella off to the ball and happily ever after, rest assured that Bainbridge resident Jim Domo is not a bibbity-bobbity-boo sort of guy. However, he annually wields his magic to produce pumpkins that, while not able to cart off Cinderella and her poofy ballgown, might make a nice home for a whole castle full of singing mice. And nice guy that he is (nobody who grows pumpkins can be nasty), he agreed to take on the challenge of helping me achieve my life long dream of growing my own pumpkins.
We started off with some basic truths about pumpkin growing. You need lots of room. Right off the bat, I knew I was in trouble, at least for growing giant pumpkins. Jim’s garden is about the size of my living room. Mine is 8’ x 4’. So I extracted a promise from my husband that he would not mow anywhere there were vines. This helped enormously since my plants escaped like toddlers from their playpens as soon as they had a couple of leaves.
Then, there’s the issue of seeds. I had saved some from a particularly nice pie pumpkin I’d purchased last year. Jim added to my stash by providing me with a handful from his 2008 specimens, weighing around 750 – 800 pounds, cautioning me that I would probably only use one or two plants and as a first-timer, might only get some in the 50 lb. vicinity. Hmm, I thought. Maybe we ought to declare a moratorium on any mowing!
I started my pie pumpkin seeds fairly early in April in the house. I actually waited too long to plant the giant ones. I was out of town and wanted to make sure they were watered, etc. Big mistake. They never really did get going with any degree of energy. My pie pumpkins, however, took off like crazy as soon as I transplanted them in my garden.
Then came the tricky part. You have to know the difference between a male and female pumpkin flower. This had always puzzled me. They sure looked the same to me. But, Jim told me, the female flower is very different, when you got up close and personal, and only by going out every day and checking, can you be sure when one shows up. When I finally took the time to look, it was pretty evident, even to me. But since the female flower only blossoms for one day, the chances of fertilization is an iffy thing. I resorted to taking a Q-tip with me and “playing bee.”
“I actually pick the males and bring them in the house,” Jim told me later. “In the morning, I take a paintbrush and a glass of wine and transfer the male pollen onto the female flower.” A twinkle in his eye says he might be joking about the glass of wine, but maybe not. It sounds like a good idea to me.
Only a few days after the bee thing, I discovered green bulges on the bottom of two of the female flowers. Heady with excitement, I relayed the information to Jim. “Houston, we have pumpkins!” I chortled. Jim agreed.
A sudden fear struck me. What about the numerous deer who traipsed through our property. Would they be in the mind for a bit of pumpkin appetizer? I grabbed some netting that I often used to keep birds off the raspberries and other things, and draped it over my babies. I also shoved a piece of Styrofoam underneath to keep out critters who came up through the ground. I have to admit I didn’t have the energy around my project that Jim has. I didn’t fertilize or debug--pretty much left well enough alone. But soon, without the fertilizer and extra water or interference from Bambi, they progressed from marble size to golf balls, to tennis balls, and onward.
Meanwhile, Jim was reporting progress in his own garden. His two “babies” were already topping 30 pounds! At one point
Here's a couple of pictures that will give you some idea of what happened in that very long period of time between posts. The posts that I didn't delete, that is.
That's me, hanging around in Hocking Hills, Ohio! What fun!
And Baby Kate having her first up close and personal encounter with the ocean. (P.S. She loved it!) Hilton Head, SC
Okay, so I've been a slacker. I never was too good at keeping a lot of balls in the air, and this one fell in the midst of a whole bunch of issues, vacations, and just plain LIFE. I've made a date with myself to post to my blog every Monday morning, first thing. I'm even putting it on my calendar so I remember. Meanwhile, I'm sending along this essay that I did for a local newspaper. That committment has at least kept me writing something. Enjoy!
SCRAPBAG
Fall comes with a slight tilt to the sun that brings thoughts of fuzzy socks and wool sweaters and a sudden longing for a bowl of soup and a chunk of hearty bread.
Like Richard Nixon, I am not a cook. Something like that. What I mean is that in over four decades of being the primary source of meals in our family, never once did anyone ever complain about e-coli or salmonella. You may, to this day, hear them cast aspersions about my Creamed Tuna on Toast or Peanut Butter Meatballs, but they had the good sense to wait until they were out of the house.
There is one area, however, where I shine. Or at least throw off a few glints. Baking.
Some might argue that there’s no difference between baking and cooking, but I disagree. The difference is simple: ingredients.
With cooking, you’re always faced with buying stuff like jicama and tahini and bean threads and orzo and a thousand other ingredients that you might use once and then spend the next several years worrying about their expiration dates.
Baking is a lot less complicated: flour, butter, eggs, yeast, salt, maybe some honey and seeds and oatmeal, things like that. It just depends on how you put them together. I recently made some rye bread and used caraway seeds that I guessed were at least 25 years and three or four moves old. (Not to worry. Nobody in this viewing area had occasion to ingest them and those that did, didn’t die. To my knowledge.)
Another thing about baking. With cooking, there’s always what I call the Euwww factor, as in “Euwww. I don’t like turnips (or venison or Brussels spouts or garbanzo beans or fill in the blank).” That’s why the entrée offerings on a menu are always more plentiful than the dessert list. Rarely do you see anyone turn a nose up at a chocolate brownie, for example, or a thick slab of Italian bread, or a doughnut.
Baking is also a lot more fun than cooking. With cooking, you have hoards of family or company hovering like vultures, often drooling, right there in the kitchen, waiting for you to put something on the table. You have to placate them with offerings of wine and little crackers on which they spread all kinds of weird stuff like artichokes or sauerkraut or goat cheese or jalapenos or crab meat. You might get a few minutes of rest while you’re eating, but then it’s time to clean up the dishes.
When I bake, it’s very often a quiet day, on the cool side, and with nobody else around. I put on my apron (or not—jeans often suffice) and soon I’m happily covered with flour and stirring and mixing and kneading my frustrations out with a vengeance. By the end of the preparation process, I throw the whole thing in the oven or in a bowl to rise and spend the next half hour or so reading a good book. When I feel like it, I leisurely wash up the measuring cups and spoons and add the bowls to the dishwasher.
Later, when whoever shows up for dinner, they enter the house and immediately exclaim, “Oooohhh! What smells so good!” This is the power of yeast and/or chocolate—the Oooohhh factor that is the complete opposite of the Euwww factor. I smile, pull boxes of frozen chicken and frozen broccoli out of the freezer, grab a potato or two and toss everything in the oven, serving it by the time you can boot up a computer and check e-mails, complete with a slab of warm bread and butter. Fresh bread that has the power to overcome any culinary deficit.
Bon appétit!
Okay, so I've been guilty of procrastination. Mea culpa. Even more extreme than that. Mea maxima culpa. Yes, there have been some issues I've been dealing with, but nothing that should have resulted in zero production. It happens. The old mind dries up. I should know better by now how to deal with it. Write. Write, even if you don't have anything to say. Write, even if what comes out is gibberish. Write, even if it isn't perfect. Sit there. Ignore the siren call of Big Fish games. Ignore the wash and house cleaning. You don't like those things anyway. Why they all of a sudden seem attractive is beyond me. And why, for heaven's sake, am I thinking of getting a dog just so I'll have some excuse to get out of the house and stop staring at a blank computer screen?
New leaf. At the end of this week (it's now Monday), I promise to have a new post that details at least one more finished chapter.
Oh, and make note that shortly, my books will be listed on Amazon.com. Look me up--and write a review. A nice one, if possible!
Well, it's been a slow start, but a start nonetheless. Had a few things get in the way, including, but not limited to, watching the innauguration. I guess it was great to be there, but I had a much better view than somebody, say, close to the Washington Monument. Plus, it was warm.
But back to the book. I did some revising of Chapter One and did, indeed, manage to get a few pages into Chapter Two. It's a little like my car these cold winter mornings. You crank it up, but it takes a while to get things running smoothly. Things will improve, as long as I adhere to the BIC method--Butt In Chair. It's a little easier working with familiar characters. You already know their pattern of speech and their personalities. Luckily, I've been collecting material that I'm going to need because of this being so local and that has helped enormously. A friend (and I won't tell you who) has already asked to be the villain of the piece and it will be fun turning such a nice person into a bad guy. Gotta have those bad guys!
This new endeavor has been in the back of my mind for a long while. I'd even gotten around to writing the first chapter. So, maybe it wasn't in the back of my mind all the time. Whatever, I blew the dust off the folder yesterday and re-read it. And found it pretty good. Enough to get me excited to write Chapter 2. It's a sequel to The Secret in The West Woods, published in 2000 by Dragonseed Press. Sort of. Different character point of view. There's a working title, but it needs changing. Like so many things, a book is a work in progress and is constantly morphing, all the while, hopefully, adhering to the basic skeleton of an idea that a writer begins with.
Writing about this journey is one way, I've reasoned, to keep me focused. My nose to the grindstone, if you like cliches. Already, I see the old bugaboo of procrastination creeping steadily upon me. It's 11 a.m. No sense starting something so close to lunch, right? Maybe I'll do a few exercises on the Wii. Keep my physical muscles in tune. That's important, right? Unfortunately, the dishes are done, so is the wash, and we don't have a dog/cat/bird/guppy. It's too cold to go out for a walk and shoveling snow is not supposed to be on my agenda these days. Not to worry. I'm committed to this project. It may take a few days to rev up the writing muscles (is there a Wii game for that?), but I've no doubt the kinks will gradually work themselves out. I hope to do a weekly entry to let you know how it's going, and maybe encourage someone else who's out there trying to do the same thing.
Just to let everyone know that I'm alive and well and have been pretty busy, what with one thing or another. Some good, some not so good. But now I'm on the cusp of a New Year and of course, one of my resolutions (do I need more than one to keep track of?) is to be a more faithful blogster. So, please return in 2009 and see what's new and interesting in the life of this writer in her quest to Catch the Bad Guys! (Hint: a new project will be underway shortly. Resolution #2, I guess.) Blessings!
In my "spare" time, I've been writing a column for a small local paper. It's kind of an off and on thing, but I thought it might work to post my scribblings to this site. The column is called SCRAPBAG, because in days gone by, people used to keep scraps of fabric in a bag to use in mending or making quilts. So, these are little snippets of thoughts from my brain. Here are a couple of the most recent.
I call him Jim, because he reminds me of a guy I knew who could be found each and every morning standing at the local Dunkin’ Donuts, jump-starting his day with high test coffee. (I almost changed my mind and renamed him “Mike,” after the gangly Olympic wunderkind with whom he has so much in common—especially an affinity for anything water. But, well, named is named.)
Each and every morning, I see Jim standing in the middle of Lower Bear Lake or in the reedy fringe, his body perched high on stork-like legs. I like his summery suit of pale blue and white, almost like a seersucker. Ready for the office. Thin neck crooked, he peers into the depths as if contemplating the day’s assortment of pastries. Let’s see. Sunny? Bass? Hmm. Maybe too much of a tangle with that one. Then, suddenly the neck uncrooks and a sharp beak stabs the surface of the water, returning seconds later with a flapping piece of breakfast. A few quick gulps and he’s back to his musing. If I get too close, he flaps his huge wings and skims off to a more remote spot.
The past month or so has been excellent for early walks, before the day heats up and I find more excuses than I need not to get out and stretch the muscles. I, like Jim, need a jolt to get my day going. And it’s good to be out among the rest of the world, whether it’s Jim or the man who moseys along with his two elderly dogs or runners and cyclers or the little clutch of ducklings who seem a bit small for this time of year. The other day, I thought I saw a kingfisher, and a couple of deer paused on the path that leads to the house. We all paused, politely waiting for the other to pass, but I won that round and they eventually wandered off. Then, there are the smaller wonders—gossamer spider webs or a leaf that has already turned bright red or slanting rays of sunlight piercing the trees like golden fingers. I have to remember to bring my camera. Once in a while I have captured a special image to upload onto my jigsaw puzzle web site. It’s fun to put them together, recreating the moment piece by piece.
A few times this week, we’ve taken the longer bridle path through the woods. There are more ups and downs than on the lake trail and my muscles eventually feel the strain. I take comfort in the thought that I’m doing them some good. I’ve taken the time to stretch before my walks lately, which seems to make a difference. Sometimes I make a game of it, standing Jim-like on one leg to see if I can balance, but keeping close to something solid in case I topple.
It’s been a gorgeous summer for being outdoors. I’ve visited quite a few places, some purporting to be paradise, but nothing can compare to a splendid day in Northeast Ohio. I think if we could ask Jim, he’d agree.
“See? This is why I don’t want to get old.”
It was July 4, 2008, and my son and I were standing on the aft deck of a boat that was cruising along the Kona Coast of Hawaii’s Big Island. Up top, a couple of surfer dude-looking guys were scanning the ocean for a pod of spinner dolphins that had been lazily digesting their nocturnal meal of squid as they swam. The intent was to position the boat ahead of where the dolphins were moving so that we could all jump off.
On the boat were perhaps fifteen or twenty people, ranging in age from about ten to—well, me. We were all excited to see these gentle beasts of the sea up close and personal. I was especially happy to be doing it with kids and grandkids. It would certainly be an adventure to share.
A stir in the water to the left signaled that we had found the pod. Several dolphins had surfaced, some skimming the water in the traditional arc, others leaping into the air with the twisting motion that gave this particular species its name. Fascinated, we watched for a while, then the boat put on a bust of speed to get in front of them. The engine came to a halt and the signal was given to enter the water. We had been told to just lay flat on our stomachs and use our flippers. Flailing hands might scare the dolphins.
I’d like to say I gracefully eased into the water, but from a foot or so above the water, a splash is inevitable. I managed to get my mask and snorkel in place and took off after those already moving away. Head down, hands at my sides, I paddled along, my eyes shifting from side to side. Then I remembered that the surfer dudes had said to look down.
Suddenly, there they were, several feet below me, moving along like huge silver bullets. I didn’t even think to be afraid. They looked so peaceful and for sure, they weren’t interested in the rather odd shaped pink fish up above. Movement to the side of me. A trio of dolphins swam by about a yard away. I almost could have reached out and touched them. One had a neat, circular bite mark near its tail, the result, we discovered later, of an encounter with what’s called a “cookie cutter” shark. As they passed, one playfully nudged another with his nose and they all disappeared into the murky distance. Moments later, more dolphins appeared. I tried to swim after them, but of course it proved futile. My muscles are no match for theirs.Back on board, the excited chatter began. “Did you see…?” “Did you hear them talking?” Everyone had a story.
Five separate times, we were privileged to enter the dolphins’ world. I didn’t want the day to end. Which what had prompted my comment to my son.
At some point, we both agreed, everything will come to an end. The trick is to stretch it out as far as you can. So far, I’ve been blessed with the healthy genes that seem to run in my family, although I’m beginning to understand what my mother meant when she often said, “If they only knew how much effort it takes to look this good!”
Old is what you make of it. Live it to the max. Do some kind of work. Play. Laugh. Learn something new every day. Eat right. Make your body move as much as possible, even when it hurts. Read. Help somebody else. Have friends. Have faith. And hope. And love. There’s no better way.
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Hi Mary--There is a definite difference between cooking and baking--you described well. When the Eeuuwww factor kicks in at a so-so meal, it's the ooooh promise of dessert that gets them to eat the brussels sprouts. That gives dessert real nutritional value!
Sally