A little while ago, two different advice columnists published the same letter from a woman driven to distraction by her mother's apparently distractibility.
You see, her mother never locks her car door while she's driving. She goes walking alone in the moonlight and comes back to her unlocked house. And all without some dreadful thing happening to her.
This poor woman has warned her mother of all the horrific things that could happen to her. Her warnings apparently fall on deaf ears as her mother goes about enjoying her life.
This is interesting to me.
I'm all for enjoying one's life.
I'm even more all for not letting someone else snatch that enjoyment from me.
In my life, I am the mother locking the doors and praying her children will always be safe.
Even more interesting were the advice columnists' responses.
The first one said (and I paraphrase): Leave your poor mother alone to enjoy her life. It's only just on this side of the line of possibility that something awful will happen to your mother, and some people simply prefer to not concern themselves with gruesome but remote possibilities. And maybe hinted at: Get some counseling.
The second one said (and I paraphrase): Good gracious! Did your mother grow up in the Garden of Eden that she is so naive as to have no idea of all the dangers lurking out there to catch someone like her unawares?!
Actually, there were dangers in the Garden of Eden. But I digress.
As one who devours every news story of mishaps to people, analyzes them to discover if she might be making the same mistakes herself, and corrects things about the house if she is, I am pretty sure that such a letter will never be written by a child of mine. I also intend to teach my children properly impressively about Dangers Out There and How to Avoid Them while they are properly impressionable, and then not nag them about it when they become adults.
In this story, there are clearly four points of view, leaving out mine. Or, perhaps I should say, two points of view shared by two people each.
I can see both as valid.
I suppose if the mother who is the subject of the letter was naive before, she certainly cannot be after her daughter has educated her until she is blue in the face. She's making a conscious choice to be unconcerned.
I suppose it's all a matter of how comfortable one is walking around in her own skin. Personally, I am more comfortable knowing for sure that no one could have entered my house without making a huge mess and/or racket to tip me off.
Where do your ideas fall?
Monday, September 5, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Rhythms of Life
Yesterday was my last official Friday off as a state employee.
I complained plenty when we were all forced by the former governor, Jon, Jr., to disrupt our family lives to accommodate his four-tens whim. But that was 37 months ago, and, well, I've adjusted to it.
At first, ten-hour days (with no lunch, in my case) seemed to last forever. I simply could not keep up the same rate of production for that long, and each day seemed endless. I even taped a cheat sheet to my desk underneath my telephone to help me cope. It told me at what time in the week I was 10 percent through that week, 20 percent through, etc.
I started going to bed at seven-thirty, with the children, so that I could get up at 3:30 or 4:00 to go to the gym before work. I started doing my laundry the minute I got home on Thursdays. Having to get my forty hours in exactly between 6:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. on four consecutive days worried me. What if a huge snowstorm made me late? I could no longer use my lunch time to make any adjustments. Believe me, it's difficult to have every minute of your life so structured that you would have to take personal leave just to mail a letter.
I soon realized that 4:30 on Monday, when I left my house, to 4:30 on Thursday, when I left work for the weekend, meant that my weeks were split nice and exactly in half. I had my home-life half-of-the-week and my work half-of-the-week.
Different worlds.
Guess which one I liked heading into better than the other one?
But, out of this strict schedule, I learned to take some comfort. Everything I did, it seemed, became part of a routine. My life became very predictable, but I found some solace in this.
I actually liked going to bed with a good book or a Sudoku puzzle early in the evening before the light outside faded away. I liked noticing the moment when the sun made everything in my bedroom burn a brilliant gold before fizzing out for the day.
I even liked sorting the laundry on Thursday nights, as though flinging my work cares and troubles into piles of darks and whites. Bringing order to my household as I let go of the workplace each week filled me with peace.
I learned to look forward to certain times of the week--when I get to open the Sunday paper, family activity time the morning when both my husband and I were home, hot chocolate time each evening.
Recently, I heard a radio program about a book a woman had written in conjunction with an Amish woman. The author pointed out how marvelous it was that the Amish woman stayed in touch with the earth's rhythms more than most of us do. In an electricity-filled world, we can pretty much ignore the sun and do what we want when we want to. She noticed the joy and freedoms the Amish woman found in keeping her life in sync not only with the daily sun, but with the earth's seasons.
Not that I'm about to give up electricity, of course, but I think there is something to that. Instead of simply dreading winter, maybe I can find some comfort in the changes it brings. We get to shut down certain functions, like yard work (not that it isn't replaced by snow shoveling). Winter brings certain things to our lives that we simply don't experience at any other time of year.
In thinking hard about the changes I'm facing next week, I've decided I might as well give myself over to finding new rhythms and making this work for me as best I can. I would prefer to still go in to work at the same time and leave early in order to be there for my family more, but this isn't going to be allowed.
I have to take a lunch, something I'm not used to doing. But I'm sure I can get some of my weekend errands done then, find a few minutes here and there to do needlework.
I plan to use extra time in the morning for more exercise and/or writing. I plan to use extra time in the evening for my children--not that it won't hurt us all for a while for me to be gone one whole extra day.
But I'm actually a little excited for the challenge. Maybe I won't have to say no to quite as many things that don't fit into my strict half-week-this and half-week-that schedule.
Maybe I'll find some new comforts and freedoms.
I complained plenty when we were all forced by the former governor, Jon, Jr., to disrupt our family lives to accommodate his four-tens whim. But that was 37 months ago, and, well, I've adjusted to it.
At first, ten-hour days (with no lunch, in my case) seemed to last forever. I simply could not keep up the same rate of production for that long, and each day seemed endless. I even taped a cheat sheet to my desk underneath my telephone to help me cope. It told me at what time in the week I was 10 percent through that week, 20 percent through, etc.
I started going to bed at seven-thirty, with the children, so that I could get up at 3:30 or 4:00 to go to the gym before work. I started doing my laundry the minute I got home on Thursdays. Having to get my forty hours in exactly between 6:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. on four consecutive days worried me. What if a huge snowstorm made me late? I could no longer use my lunch time to make any adjustments. Believe me, it's difficult to have every minute of your life so structured that you would have to take personal leave just to mail a letter.
I soon realized that 4:30 on Monday, when I left my house, to 4:30 on Thursday, when I left work for the weekend, meant that my weeks were split nice and exactly in half. I had my home-life half-of-the-week and my work half-of-the-week.
Different worlds.
Guess which one I liked heading into better than the other one?
But, out of this strict schedule, I learned to take some comfort. Everything I did, it seemed, became part of a routine. My life became very predictable, but I found some solace in this.
I actually liked going to bed with a good book or a Sudoku puzzle early in the evening before the light outside faded away. I liked noticing the moment when the sun made everything in my bedroom burn a brilliant gold before fizzing out for the day.
I even liked sorting the laundry on Thursday nights, as though flinging my work cares and troubles into piles of darks and whites. Bringing order to my household as I let go of the workplace each week filled me with peace.
I learned to look forward to certain times of the week--when I get to open the Sunday paper, family activity time the morning when both my husband and I were home, hot chocolate time each evening.
Recently, I heard a radio program about a book a woman had written in conjunction with an Amish woman. The author pointed out how marvelous it was that the Amish woman stayed in touch with the earth's rhythms more than most of us do. In an electricity-filled world, we can pretty much ignore the sun and do what we want when we want to. She noticed the joy and freedoms the Amish woman found in keeping her life in sync not only with the daily sun, but with the earth's seasons.
Not that I'm about to give up electricity, of course, but I think there is something to that. Instead of simply dreading winter, maybe I can find some comfort in the changes it brings. We get to shut down certain functions, like yard work (not that it isn't replaced by snow shoveling). Winter brings certain things to our lives that we simply don't experience at any other time of year.
In thinking hard about the changes I'm facing next week, I've decided I might as well give myself over to finding new rhythms and making this work for me as best I can. I would prefer to still go in to work at the same time and leave early in order to be there for my family more, but this isn't going to be allowed.
I have to take a lunch, something I'm not used to doing. But I'm sure I can get some of my weekend errands done then, find a few minutes here and there to do needlework.
I plan to use extra time in the morning for more exercise and/or writing. I plan to use extra time in the evening for my children--not that it won't hurt us all for a while for me to be gone one whole extra day.
But I'm actually a little excited for the challenge. Maybe I won't have to say no to quite as many things that don't fit into my strict half-week-this and half-week-that schedule.
Maybe I'll find some new comforts and freedoms.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Life-Changing Days
Every so often, life gives us a day that, like the earthquake in Japan earlier this year, shifts our axis a little bit and makes our outlook from then on just a little bit different.
The past twenty-four hours have been one of those days for me.
It started out fairly normally. I got up at my usual ungodly hour, worried about how my upcoming schedule change will hurt my life, worked out hard at the gym, went to work. I ate my same old day-in-day-out breakfast of an orange, two hard-boiled eggs, and a glass of milk. Saw the same people at work that I always see. Started my day with the same routine.
Then, mid-morning, it happened. Something out of the ordinary. One small event--an email, actually--that grew like a beanstalk I could climb into heaven and access a golden harp and a golden-egg-laying hen, if I want to. Suddenly, dreams I've harbored for a long time seem reasonable.
Best of all, my place in the universe seems defined for me. As a writer. As a mother and wife. As a worker. As a human being, even.
I remember as a child I often walked around the house wondering, "Here we all are, but what are we supposed to do?"
What I'm supposed to do, and, more importantly, who I am, both seem much clearer to me. My confidence has solidified.
The email was from a staff member of a newspaper, informing me that my first blog article, "Cooking Is Love," (look way back to the beginning of this blog), had been published in the online news. It's a small thing, but it's a start. It's a beginning, but it's an end of wondering why-oh-why.
From this grew affirmations from so many people in one day that my confidence, not only as a writer, but as a human being who is valued, grew right up into the sky like that beanstalk. Words like "brilliant," "funny," "very touching," came at me like wind up a hot-air balloon.
When I told my children that my article about their dad's cooking had been published, one of them gasped. "Does Daddy know you published that?"
I smiled. "Yes, he's the first person I told."
And it makes me smile--that I have him in my life, that our relationship has weathered storms to become something enduring and satisfying, like the tree growing out of the rock in my favorite painting.
There was one moment in my day that threatened to flush all of this. Someone who has some power over me heard something from someone else and repeated it to me in a not-nice way. She didn't take the time to hear my point of view and shut me down when I offered it. This brought all sorts of negative feelings and thoughts up for me.
I resented the lack of acknowledgement I got for doing her a favor in the first place, even though I had made one small mistake in doing it. I resented not being given a voice. And I resented the lack of acknowledgement or softening in her that I expected as I handled the situation maturely, taking full responsibility and apologizing.
I started to develop a new tic.
But as I reflected on that, it did seem to be a fitting part of the day, because there are changes I need to make. I've known I need to make them for some time, and this brought that back into view. And as I considered the source of the chewing out--both of the people involved, and acknowledged the wrong-doing on my own part, I felt at peace again. I am who I am, and I am really okay with that. I have grown in ways I needed to, and I can see my way clear for growing in the ways I still need to. I have gained perspective.
I have so much to be grateful for, and smallness on the part of one or two does not and should not cloud the validity of my worth to myself and everyone else I know, which, other than in that one moment of the day, had been coming through loud and clear.
Besides, some day, I can write about those people in detail.
To top it all off, a friend from high school I had reached out to four months ago and not heard back from finally got on Facebook and gave me the warm response I had hoped for. I had assumed all this time that he had not welcomed my hello, but, again, I just needed to be patient, and not assume the worst. Further validating to me.
I completed all of the evening chores and duties that I had upon my head and had myself put upon my shoulders, and went to bed.
Then I had a dream in which I was visited by another old friend. The details of the dream are not important. What is important is the feeling that I woke up with--that I matter. I matter to a lot of people who matter to me. What I have to say matters. I am who I am. I can do what I need to do. I have support and love. I feel confidence and courage.
I feel I can handle things better. The need to feel grouchy, or overwhelmed, or small, or stupid--less than I am in any way, seems to have vanished. Everything that matters to me is now in focus.
Thank you, everybody! And, yes, I mean you.
The past twenty-four hours have been one of those days for me.
It started out fairly normally. I got up at my usual ungodly hour, worried about how my upcoming schedule change will hurt my life, worked out hard at the gym, went to work. I ate my same old day-in-day-out breakfast of an orange, two hard-boiled eggs, and a glass of milk. Saw the same people at work that I always see. Started my day with the same routine.
Then, mid-morning, it happened. Something out of the ordinary. One small event--an email, actually--that grew like a beanstalk I could climb into heaven and access a golden harp and a golden-egg-laying hen, if I want to. Suddenly, dreams I've harbored for a long time seem reasonable.
Best of all, my place in the universe seems defined for me. As a writer. As a mother and wife. As a worker. As a human being, even.
I remember as a child I often walked around the house wondering, "Here we all are, but what are we supposed to do?"
What I'm supposed to do, and, more importantly, who I am, both seem much clearer to me. My confidence has solidified.
The email was from a staff member of a newspaper, informing me that my first blog article, "Cooking Is Love," (look way back to the beginning of this blog), had been published in the online news. It's a small thing, but it's a start. It's a beginning, but it's an end of wondering why-oh-why.
From this grew affirmations from so many people in one day that my confidence, not only as a writer, but as a human being who is valued, grew right up into the sky like that beanstalk. Words like "brilliant," "funny," "very touching," came at me like wind up a hot-air balloon.
When I told my children that my article about their dad's cooking had been published, one of them gasped. "Does Daddy know you published that?"
I smiled. "Yes, he's the first person I told."
And it makes me smile--that I have him in my life, that our relationship has weathered storms to become something enduring and satisfying, like the tree growing out of the rock in my favorite painting.
There was one moment in my day that threatened to flush all of this. Someone who has some power over me heard something from someone else and repeated it to me in a not-nice way. She didn't take the time to hear my point of view and shut me down when I offered it. This brought all sorts of negative feelings and thoughts up for me.
I resented the lack of acknowledgement I got for doing her a favor in the first place, even though I had made one small mistake in doing it. I resented not being given a voice. And I resented the lack of acknowledgement or softening in her that I expected as I handled the situation maturely, taking full responsibility and apologizing.
I started to develop a new tic.
But as I reflected on that, it did seem to be a fitting part of the day, because there are changes I need to make. I've known I need to make them for some time, and this brought that back into view. And as I considered the source of the chewing out--both of the people involved, and acknowledged the wrong-doing on my own part, I felt at peace again. I am who I am, and I am really okay with that. I have grown in ways I needed to, and I can see my way clear for growing in the ways I still need to. I have gained perspective.
I have so much to be grateful for, and smallness on the part of one or two does not and should not cloud the validity of my worth to myself and everyone else I know, which, other than in that one moment of the day, had been coming through loud and clear.
Besides, some day, I can write about those people in detail.
To top it all off, a friend from high school I had reached out to four months ago and not heard back from finally got on Facebook and gave me the warm response I had hoped for. I had assumed all this time that he had not welcomed my hello, but, again, I just needed to be patient, and not assume the worst. Further validating to me.
I completed all of the evening chores and duties that I had upon my head and had myself put upon my shoulders, and went to bed.
Then I had a dream in which I was visited by another old friend. The details of the dream are not important. What is important is the feeling that I woke up with--that I matter. I matter to a lot of people who matter to me. What I have to say matters. I am who I am. I can do what I need to do. I have support and love. I feel confidence and courage.
I feel I can handle things better. The need to feel grouchy, or overwhelmed, or small, or stupid--less than I am in any way, seems to have vanished. Everything that matters to me is now in focus.
Thank you, everybody! And, yes, I mean you.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Linger a Little Longer
My baby just came into my bedroom and tossed two little white socks up on my bed at me.
"Too small," he said, then turned and left.
It felt as if the socks were not little and fluffy, but heavy as cast-iron and had landed on my heart.
It's not that this particular pair of socks means a lot to me, although it's clear that their usefulness in my family is over. He'll never wear them again.
I was only still in bed because I had to finish reading, The Help, an important book about the vital need for and terrible risks of change, before I could function again. I knew what was next--the long run for the week that I'd been putting off all morning. And then, finishing writing my own important book, which I'd been putting off even longer, before it's too late for me.
I picked up the little socks and folded them back together again into a tucked-over roll, the way my mother showed me how to fold socks when I was his age. I squeezed them a little in my hand. Lovingly.
Inexplicably, I felt like he had given me a gift.
Not a pair of socks no one will ever wear again.
His own growth.
Every day of my life, I feel like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. Life stretches and pulls on me, forcing me out of my comfort zone before I'm ready. The old stuff pulling off hurts the new skin underneath.
But what does anything ever mean if it stays the same? Though I wish each moment could linger a little longer than it does.
Right now, half of my baby's brothers have already grown up and left the home. I have pictures, but they only capture seconds in time. His other brothers are away, with their father. They'll come back today. I expect.
At work, they keep throwing my department into the blender to see what else they can chop and mix up. I've had more supervisors in the past while than I've had in ten years before. Someone up above me in the department thrives on change. I think they're playing paper dolls with us and can't wait to see what we look like in the yellow outfit.
They tell us about the new changes planned and wait for us to thank them.
I think, "What will this mean to my family? Will I still see my friends? Will I get fatter if I can't work out on the new schedule like I can now?"
And then we all adjust to it and move on.
My baby is not really a baby anymore. He's been reading for almost two years. He counts everything on one hand, having learned a system for keeping the ten's place without involving his toes.
I want to believe the best part of his day--as it is the best part of mine--is when I gather him up onto my lap before he gets in his little bed and hold him, rock him, and sing to him. He wants to hear the babyish song I made up at his age for my mother to sing to me. He wants to hear an old favorite nursery rhyme that everyone knows so well they are sick of it. And he wants to hear a wrenching song about the crucifixion.
I sing the last song, at his demand, feeling guilty all the while that I've exposed his mind to this truth, that I've exposed his body to pain by bringing it into the world, that the love for him bursting out of my heart every time I look at or think of his angel face can't keep him safe from truth or pain.
And if that group of songs isn't life all rolled up into one, I don't know what is.
He reaches his little arm up around my neck, snuggles down into my softness, sighing out whatever stress has been in his day. For one moment, we are again connected, mother and child. I keep rocking after the songs are finished, hoping he will just stay that way with me a little longer, but he knows what is next in the routine and slips off my lap to accomplish it.
Like every other child, he knows his job is to grow up.
And I know my most heartbreaking job is to let him.
But I smile to myself. Because he is still here. Growing. That is my gift.
"Too small," he said, then turned and left.
It felt as if the socks were not little and fluffy, but heavy as cast-iron and had landed on my heart.
It's not that this particular pair of socks means a lot to me, although it's clear that their usefulness in my family is over. He'll never wear them again.
I was only still in bed because I had to finish reading, The Help, an important book about the vital need for and terrible risks of change, before I could function again. I knew what was next--the long run for the week that I'd been putting off all morning. And then, finishing writing my own important book, which I'd been putting off even longer, before it's too late for me.
I picked up the little socks and folded them back together again into a tucked-over roll, the way my mother showed me how to fold socks when I was his age. I squeezed them a little in my hand. Lovingly.
Inexplicably, I felt like he had given me a gift.
Not a pair of socks no one will ever wear again.
His own growth.
Every day of my life, I feel like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. Life stretches and pulls on me, forcing me out of my comfort zone before I'm ready. The old stuff pulling off hurts the new skin underneath.
But what does anything ever mean if it stays the same? Though I wish each moment could linger a little longer than it does.
Right now, half of my baby's brothers have already grown up and left the home. I have pictures, but they only capture seconds in time. His other brothers are away, with their father. They'll come back today. I expect.
At work, they keep throwing my department into the blender to see what else they can chop and mix up. I've had more supervisors in the past while than I've had in ten years before. Someone up above me in the department thrives on change. I think they're playing paper dolls with us and can't wait to see what we look like in the yellow outfit.
They tell us about the new changes planned and wait for us to thank them.
I think, "What will this mean to my family? Will I still see my friends? Will I get fatter if I can't work out on the new schedule like I can now?"
And then we all adjust to it and move on.
My baby is not really a baby anymore. He's been reading for almost two years. He counts everything on one hand, having learned a system for keeping the ten's place without involving his toes.
I want to believe the best part of his day--as it is the best part of mine--is when I gather him up onto my lap before he gets in his little bed and hold him, rock him, and sing to him. He wants to hear the babyish song I made up at his age for my mother to sing to me. He wants to hear an old favorite nursery rhyme that everyone knows so well they are sick of it. And he wants to hear a wrenching song about the crucifixion.
I sing the last song, at his demand, feeling guilty all the while that I've exposed his mind to this truth, that I've exposed his body to pain by bringing it into the world, that the love for him bursting out of my heart every time I look at or think of his angel face can't keep him safe from truth or pain.
And if that group of songs isn't life all rolled up into one, I don't know what is.
He reaches his little arm up around my neck, snuggles down into my softness, sighing out whatever stress has been in his day. For one moment, we are again connected, mother and child. I keep rocking after the songs are finished, hoping he will just stay that way with me a little longer, but he knows what is next in the routine and slips off my lap to accomplish it.
Like every other child, he knows his job is to grow up.
And I know my most heartbreaking job is to let him.
But I smile to myself. Because he is still here. Growing. That is my gift.
Friday, July 15, 2011
It's Independence Day Somewhere
Apparently, yesterday was France's independence day.
I don't know how I could have missed that!
Actually, I couldn't miss it, because I'm married to Paul.
And if there's any country out there with any independence day, Paul is the man to celebrate it!
When I got home from work last night, I found roasted pork and carrots waiting patiently for me in a foil tent. I found lentils, crepes, and bacon-cooked greens. Also a dish of green beans.
"Wow!" burst out of me before I even knew what I would follow that with.
I didn't know how to serve and eat all of these things. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that crepes were a dessert, but, well, they were sitting by the lentils, and, well, I've seen a lot of creative cooking in my house--mint in peas, peanut butter on meat, chili powder in chocolate. And, well, I grew up in a meat-potatoes-and-vegetable household.
But my daughter saved me from the full weight of my ignorance by pointing out YET ANOTHER dish on the south counter of prepared homemade raspberry sauce. "And you sprinkle powdered sugar on the top."
It was clear that Paul had been very, very busy. And, no doubt, had a great deal of fun. Why be bored cooking dinner when you can center it on a theme?
As we sat down to our feast, the baby declared the roasted carrots to look "ferocious yucky!" I already knew them to probably be the best part of the meal, because I had already sampled one. Okay, two.
"Oh, no!" I said. "These are going to be the best carrots you've ever had in your life."
He thought back over four years and was not impressed.
"Was Daddy playing Julia Child all day?" I asked, smiling.
"Who's Julia Child?" a middle child asked.
"She was a cook," an older middle child said snootily.
"She wrote 'The Art of French Cooking,'" I said.
"What's the art of French cooking--is that the meat? I don't like French."
Older child: "It's a cookbook!"
"Is that the cookbook Daddy used to make this food?" someone asked.
"No. Daddy doesn't use a cookbook," an older child snooted. "Just recipes."
"Daddy called and told me to heat some green beans to go with our meal, but I didn't add the savory, like he told me to," our daughter confessed.
I looked at the table. There were greens. There were beans (lentils). And then there were green beans. Paul had been very thorough. I told her I liked it when Daddy added savory. I think she had been thinking of the time when he had tried to add celery salt to all of our cabbagy veggies so the kids would eat them and I'd had to tell him those very same kids were plotting to hide the celery salt.
There was so much food I knew we couldn't eat it all, but I did encourage everyone to try a little of everything. It worked, partly because of the looming promise of the crepes! With raspberry sauce!
It worked on everyone but the youngest. He looked suspiciously at the crepes as he does regularly with all new foods. (We usually just refer to any meat on his plate as "chicken" to get him to not balk.) I got him to finally try his crepe by pointing out that it was like a pancake. The same line had worked earlier in the week on the Spaetzle we'd had with our Brats and Rotkohl. I had pried one paper-punch-hole-sized noodle into his mouth, but once he could look at them as teensy tiny pancakes, he'd eaten a plateful.
After showing our daughter how to cook the crepes, Paul had left for work. It was too bad he wasn't there to enjoy the meal and the comments with us. But he laughed hard at "ferocious yucky" later.
I didn't know how to serve the crepes. Never had one. Never seen it done. But, hey! A plate with a crepe, raspberry sauce, and powdered sugar on it cannot go wrong, right?
And my baby declared himself a "dessertarian"--something with which I think we can all identify.
I don't know how I could have missed that!
Actually, I couldn't miss it, because I'm married to Paul.
And if there's any country out there with any independence day, Paul is the man to celebrate it!
When I got home from work last night, I found roasted pork and carrots waiting patiently for me in a foil tent. I found lentils, crepes, and bacon-cooked greens. Also a dish of green beans.
"Wow!" burst out of me before I even knew what I would follow that with.
I didn't know how to serve and eat all of these things. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that crepes were a dessert, but, well, they were sitting by the lentils, and, well, I've seen a lot of creative cooking in my house--mint in peas, peanut butter on meat, chili powder in chocolate. And, well, I grew up in a meat-potatoes-and-vegetable household.
But my daughter saved me from the full weight of my ignorance by pointing out YET ANOTHER dish on the south counter of prepared homemade raspberry sauce. "And you sprinkle powdered sugar on the top."
It was clear that Paul had been very, very busy. And, no doubt, had a great deal of fun. Why be bored cooking dinner when you can center it on a theme?
As we sat down to our feast, the baby declared the roasted carrots to look "ferocious yucky!" I already knew them to probably be the best part of the meal, because I had already sampled one. Okay, two.
"Oh, no!" I said. "These are going to be the best carrots you've ever had in your life."
He thought back over four years and was not impressed.
"Was Daddy playing Julia Child all day?" I asked, smiling.
"Who's Julia Child?" a middle child asked.
"She was a cook," an older middle child said snootily.
"She wrote 'The Art of French Cooking,'" I said.
"What's the art of French cooking--is that the meat? I don't like French."
Older child: "It's a cookbook!"
"Is that the cookbook Daddy used to make this food?" someone asked.
"No. Daddy doesn't use a cookbook," an older child snooted. "Just recipes."
"Daddy called and told me to heat some green beans to go with our meal, but I didn't add the savory, like he told me to," our daughter confessed.
I looked at the table. There were greens. There were beans (lentils). And then there were green beans. Paul had been very thorough. I told her I liked it when Daddy added savory. I think she had been thinking of the time when he had tried to add celery salt to all of our cabbagy veggies so the kids would eat them and I'd had to tell him those very same kids were plotting to hide the celery salt.
There was so much food I knew we couldn't eat it all, but I did encourage everyone to try a little of everything. It worked, partly because of the looming promise of the crepes! With raspberry sauce!
It worked on everyone but the youngest. He looked suspiciously at the crepes as he does regularly with all new foods. (We usually just refer to any meat on his plate as "chicken" to get him to not balk.) I got him to finally try his crepe by pointing out that it was like a pancake. The same line had worked earlier in the week on the Spaetzle we'd had with our Brats and Rotkohl. I had pried one paper-punch-hole-sized noodle into his mouth, but once he could look at them as teensy tiny pancakes, he'd eaten a plateful.
After showing our daughter how to cook the crepes, Paul had left for work. It was too bad he wasn't there to enjoy the meal and the comments with us. But he laughed hard at "ferocious yucky" later.
I didn't know how to serve the crepes. Never had one. Never seen it done. But, hey! A plate with a crepe, raspberry sauce, and powdered sugar on it cannot go wrong, right?
And my baby declared himself a "dessertarian"--something with which I think we can all identify.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Crown Thy Good with Sisterhood
When I was in first grade, I had the good fortune to be placed in the class taught by my Aunt Rosie's good friend, Marie Stuart. She was tall, slim, and gracious, and probably about sixty years old, as Aunt Rosie would have been, had my aunt not succumbed to poor health two-and-a-half years before.
I remember Miss Stuart well. She told me that when she and my aunt were young women, they liked to introduce themselves as Rosemarie and "Plain Marie."
Miss Stuart encouraged all of us to write a list of numerals from 1 to 1000. Once we had done that, we were eligible for random prizes she would bring for holidays and changes of seasons. I remember a little heart pin I received around Valentine's Day. I wore it with a blue dress I had that went with a white pinafore with cats on it. It took us weeks, of course, to complete the task of writing to 1000. I was not among the first to be done, but once I saw the prizes other children were getting, I really wanted to be in that club.
But the thing I remember more than that about Miss Stuart's class was how, every morning, without fail, we saluted the American flag, said the "Pledge of Allegiance," and sang, "God Bless America." When we sang the words to the chorus, we raised our right arms up to a 1:00 position for "From the mountains," then lowered them to about 2:00 for "to the prairies," then straight out at 3:00 for "to the oceans, white with foooaaammmmmm!"
I know from other people's reports that I could not carry a tune at that time in my life, but that did not stop me from belting out the words, pride in my country bursting like fireworks in my heart.
Decades later, it was my misfortune to see sexism in action while dealing with domestic disputes in court against a male foe who seemed able to stop justice just by objecting to it. I thought back to that daily ritual, and wondered, "Why didn't anyone ever tell me back then that I was a second-class citizen?" I had certainly never suspected it.
In a workshop I attended once, the speaker made the comment that boys grow up to be more unified than girls do--traditionally, they play on teams together, wear the uniform, have each others' backs. Even as adults, the business suit is sort of a uniform. A man could probably wear the same thing day after day after day without it being noticed.
Women, on the other hand, have to wear outfits different from each other's. They must display constant variety. The typical girl grew up playing with Barbies, or playing house--each having her own stuff to compare and contrast and compete with her friends' stuff.
This struck me as one of the factors of the societal problem of sexism. We need more sisterhood! We need to stick up for each other better, help each other out of difficult situations, have more empathy for each other, provide more practical help, and compete with and judge each other less. We need to be on the same team, so to speak.
That's why, years back, I started singing "And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea" on the last verse of "America the Beautiful." I still sing "brotherhood" on the first verse. America needs both brotherhood and sisterhood, I explain to my kids when they look at me in wonder as I unconventionally sing the "wrong" word.
Truth be told, I wouldn't mind seeing the song officially changed to say "sisterhood" in the last line. And I have to wonder if Katharine Lee Bates, who wrote the song, would really mind, either.
My own sister was my rescuer from the worst situation I was ever in, and, without the laws in the United States of America being as good as they were, it could not have been done.
I like to remember one day in church when my second son was sixteen and we were singing "America the Beautiful" for the closing hymn. On the last verse, he looked at me, a smile playing on his lips as we neared that last line. He knew what was coming, and we beamed at each other as I sang it.
This year, some of my children noticed me choking up on the latter verses of "The Star-spangled Banner." They just can't know what it means to me to live in a country with more freedoms for women than most countries have--a place where women can vote, own property, work in an occupation of their choice, hold office, choose to marry or not and whom to marry or not, and all the other rights we enjoy. We still have a little way to go, America, but we have come a long way.
And I am grateful. My life is soooooo much better than it might have been in another time or in another place.
The ongoing prayer in my heart is, "America, America, God mend thine every flaw. . . And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea!"
I remember Miss Stuart well. She told me that when she and my aunt were young women, they liked to introduce themselves as Rosemarie and "Plain Marie."
Miss Stuart encouraged all of us to write a list of numerals from 1 to 1000. Once we had done that, we were eligible for random prizes she would bring for holidays and changes of seasons. I remember a little heart pin I received around Valentine's Day. I wore it with a blue dress I had that went with a white pinafore with cats on it. It took us weeks, of course, to complete the task of writing to 1000. I was not among the first to be done, but once I saw the prizes other children were getting, I really wanted to be in that club.
But the thing I remember more than that about Miss Stuart's class was how, every morning, without fail, we saluted the American flag, said the "Pledge of Allegiance," and sang, "God Bless America." When we sang the words to the chorus, we raised our right arms up to a 1:00 position for "From the mountains," then lowered them to about 2:00 for "to the prairies," then straight out at 3:00 for "to the oceans, white with foooaaammmmmm!"
I know from other people's reports that I could not carry a tune at that time in my life, but that did not stop me from belting out the words, pride in my country bursting like fireworks in my heart.
Decades later, it was my misfortune to see sexism in action while dealing with domestic disputes in court against a male foe who seemed able to stop justice just by objecting to it. I thought back to that daily ritual, and wondered, "Why didn't anyone ever tell me back then that I was a second-class citizen?" I had certainly never suspected it.
In a workshop I attended once, the speaker made the comment that boys grow up to be more unified than girls do--traditionally, they play on teams together, wear the uniform, have each others' backs. Even as adults, the business suit is sort of a uniform. A man could probably wear the same thing day after day after day without it being noticed.
Women, on the other hand, have to wear outfits different from each other's. They must display constant variety. The typical girl grew up playing with Barbies, or playing house--each having her own stuff to compare and contrast and compete with her friends' stuff.
This struck me as one of the factors of the societal problem of sexism. We need more sisterhood! We need to stick up for each other better, help each other out of difficult situations, have more empathy for each other, provide more practical help, and compete with and judge each other less. We need to be on the same team, so to speak.
That's why, years back, I started singing "And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea" on the last verse of "America the Beautiful." I still sing "brotherhood" on the first verse. America needs both brotherhood and sisterhood, I explain to my kids when they look at me in wonder as I unconventionally sing the "wrong" word.
Truth be told, I wouldn't mind seeing the song officially changed to say "sisterhood" in the last line. And I have to wonder if Katharine Lee Bates, who wrote the song, would really mind, either.
My own sister was my rescuer from the worst situation I was ever in, and, without the laws in the United States of America being as good as they were, it could not have been done.
I like to remember one day in church when my second son was sixteen and we were singing "America the Beautiful" for the closing hymn. On the last verse, he looked at me, a smile playing on his lips as we neared that last line. He knew what was coming, and we beamed at each other as I sang it.
This year, some of my children noticed me choking up on the latter verses of "The Star-spangled Banner." They just can't know what it means to me to live in a country with more freedoms for women than most countries have--a place where women can vote, own property, work in an occupation of their choice, hold office, choose to marry or not and whom to marry or not, and all the other rights we enjoy. We still have a little way to go, America, but we have come a long way.
And I am grateful. My life is soooooo much better than it might have been in another time or in another place.
The ongoing prayer in my heart is, "America, America, God mend thine every flaw. . . And crown thy good with sisterhood from sea to shining sea!"
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
A Great Great-Aunt
Once upon a time, about two years ago, I had a fantasy that we could somehow squeeze in a trip to a coastal California town--while we were visiting Phoenix--to see my husband's great-aunt. She is a lovely person in her mid-nineties, and I wanted my children to know her.
Well, yeah. That didn't happen. It would be just as far to drive from Phoenix (or here) to there as it was to drive to Phoenix. With five young children and a week, it just couldn't work.
So this year, I proposed we go see her.
My husband took my idea and ran with it. He calculated distances on MapQuest, checked out books and videos on San Francisco and Yosemite (because they're nearby, right?) and booked hotels. In nine days' time, we drove our van and five kids through eighteen California counties, and that's not counting what it took to get to and from the California border.
As soon as the trip-in-planning seemed like a reality, I emailed Paul's great-aunt and informed her we were finally able to come. Not having seen her for eight years, I wasn't sure what to expect. We didn't want to overwhelm her. So we invited her to lunch.
She emailed back that she was looking forward to it. We arranged to call her on the weekend. When Paul placed the call, I could tell that he was having a hard time getting her to understand who he was. Uh-oh, I thought. Finally, he said, "Yes, Janean's husband." That made me smile.
It turned out to only be a matter of a bad connection, however. She couldn't hear him well.
I still felt a little unsure about what to expect when we saw her. No one in my family has ever lived to the age she now is. However, when we pulled up to her center, she was standing next to the parking lot, waiting for us. Slim, radiant, made-up, and wearing an aqua-colored pant suit, she stood erect. She greeted us with warmth and wonderful manners. She was beautiful from her strawberry-blond hair to her nice shoes.
A good conversationalist, she paid attention to each one of us. She asked the children about their interests, their favorite subjects in school (she had been a school teacher), and their music lessons. She teasingly told the youngest that if he sat close to her, she might not be able to resist giving him a squeeze. And she gave him several.
She had arranged for her senior living center to serve us a lovely luncheon in a private dining room. The atmosphere and price could not have been beat.
After lunch, she showed us all around her center, including her beautifully-decorated apartment, the numerous flowers she is growing in various pots and baskets, the other buildings in her complex, the large room where she regularly plays the piano to accompany a chorus, her dining room, and the bridges she crosses on her walks. She introduced us to her director and some of her friends. Kindly, she announced each time, "This is my family, from Salt Lake."
Everything about her and her surroundings showed her care for herself, yet her conversation demonstrated interest in others. Her life still seems to be productive, inspirational, and challenging. She still uses her people skills and talents to make life meaningful for herself and others. One thing I noticed was how she ate. She saved her honeydew melon (an appetizer) to eat for dessert and didn't order a dessert (unlike the rest of us). She also ordered only a half-sandwich. She is probably only a hundred pounds--healthy for her petite size.
Her conversation was positive, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. She expressed happiness and gratitude.
I was right--the children warmed to her. It was rewarding to discuss with them later what a good example she is of living well and the important positive effects of good manners and thoughtful discrimination in choices.
It was a great and memorable trip for our family where we saw and did much. We had fun. Seeing Aunt Eleanor was, for me, the highlight. Lunch and a partial afternoon were not enough. Though she focused on us, I feel I have much to learn from her.
I hope we see her again.
Well, yeah. That didn't happen. It would be just as far to drive from Phoenix (or here) to there as it was to drive to Phoenix. With five young children and a week, it just couldn't work.
So this year, I proposed we go see her.
My husband took my idea and ran with it. He calculated distances on MapQuest, checked out books and videos on San Francisco and Yosemite (because they're nearby, right?) and booked hotels. In nine days' time, we drove our van and five kids through eighteen California counties, and that's not counting what it took to get to and from the California border.
As soon as the trip-in-planning seemed like a reality, I emailed Paul's great-aunt and informed her we were finally able to come. Not having seen her for eight years, I wasn't sure what to expect. We didn't want to overwhelm her. So we invited her to lunch.
She emailed back that she was looking forward to it. We arranged to call her on the weekend. When Paul placed the call, I could tell that he was having a hard time getting her to understand who he was. Uh-oh, I thought. Finally, he said, "Yes, Janean's husband." That made me smile.
It turned out to only be a matter of a bad connection, however. She couldn't hear him well.
I still felt a little unsure about what to expect when we saw her. No one in my family has ever lived to the age she now is. However, when we pulled up to her center, she was standing next to the parking lot, waiting for us. Slim, radiant, made-up, and wearing an aqua-colored pant suit, she stood erect. She greeted us with warmth and wonderful manners. She was beautiful from her strawberry-blond hair to her nice shoes.
A good conversationalist, she paid attention to each one of us. She asked the children about their interests, their favorite subjects in school (she had been a school teacher), and their music lessons. She teasingly told the youngest that if he sat close to her, she might not be able to resist giving him a squeeze. And she gave him several.
She had arranged for her senior living center to serve us a lovely luncheon in a private dining room. The atmosphere and price could not have been beat.
After lunch, she showed us all around her center, including her beautifully-decorated apartment, the numerous flowers she is growing in various pots and baskets, the other buildings in her complex, the large room where she regularly plays the piano to accompany a chorus, her dining room, and the bridges she crosses on her walks. She introduced us to her director and some of her friends. Kindly, she announced each time, "This is my family, from Salt Lake."
Everything about her and her surroundings showed her care for herself, yet her conversation demonstrated interest in others. Her life still seems to be productive, inspirational, and challenging. She still uses her people skills and talents to make life meaningful for herself and others. One thing I noticed was how she ate. She saved her honeydew melon (an appetizer) to eat for dessert and didn't order a dessert (unlike the rest of us). She also ordered only a half-sandwich. She is probably only a hundred pounds--healthy for her petite size.
Her conversation was positive, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. She expressed happiness and gratitude.
I was right--the children warmed to her. It was rewarding to discuss with them later what a good example she is of living well and the important positive effects of good manners and thoughtful discrimination in choices.
It was a great and memorable trip for our family where we saw and did much. We had fun. Seeing Aunt Eleanor was, for me, the highlight. Lunch and a partial afternoon were not enough. Though she focused on us, I feel I have much to learn from her.
I hope we see her again.
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