Mothers Guilt

Young mothers wear me out trying too hard.  I'm just exhausted watching them as they strive to reach some goal of perfection in motherhood.  They are busy making cake-pops, photo cards, hand-made decorations, and perfectly presented children.  They are scouring the shelves in the grocery for the latest dates on the canned goods, the freshest dairy products, and just laid eggs.  They are searching for the best performing brand of diapers, the most brain stimulating toys,  and clothes that are environmentally friendly.  They seem compelled by some massive competition to prove they are the best mothers by their compulsive selectivity on any item. 

It's a long way from the way we were raised and we all managed to survive.  In fact our generation even managed to produce some intelligent, articulate, productive people.  And, boy, were we ever raised by parents who thought of child-rearing differently!

Yes, most of our mothers stayed at home (I was one of the few kids I knew raised by a two parents who both worked).  It wasn't necessarily by choice, women weren't given the opportunities for jobs, education and equal pay.  On the other hand, we didn't have as many "things" as our kids do. 

Our mothers also had a different attitude about mothering, too.  I don't think my mother ever worried about the date on a milk jug--if it smelled bad and tasted awful, you used it in cornbread not kids.  They never worried if the food had the right antioxidants for our little bodies, they just worried that there would be plenty on the table.  We weren't asked what we wanted either, you just ate whatever was in front of you.  My sister did manage to get away with being a picky eater, but it just meant that if we had peas she had none.  No one fixed special for her. 

We wore lovingly hand-made clothes, not because it was politically correct but because it was cheap.  Often they were crafted from garments handed down from older siblings or recut from adult clothing.  We had beautiful, natural Christmas decorations because we could go out and collect pine, cedar, holly, pine cones, and other evergreens from yards and fields at no cost.  (One of my fondest Christmas memories is shooting mistletoe out of trees). 

Our parents worried a lot more about our manners than the brand of our clothes. 

They didn't worry about spending quality time with us.  They worked hard, often long hours, and often the only time I would spend with my dad was to snuggle up before bedtime when he would read the funnies to me.  They never planned days when we could do nothing but play together.  Instead they planned ways that we could be with them while they did other chores--we chatted while pulling weeds, shared stories while folding laundry, learned to cook while helping in the kitchen.  They weren't chores--they were our quality time. 

I think the biggest difference that hits me is that for so many young parents their children are running their world.  They worry incessantly about whether their children are receiving the right stimulus,  seeing the right friends, participating in the correct activities,, eating the best foods, playing with the best toys, wearing the best diapers, attending the best pre-school, Their whole world is focused on their children.  If they aren't doing for or with their children they feel guilty. 

My worry is that in the effort to be the "perfect" parents they are forgetting something that our parents knew well.  First they were a couple, then they were parents.  Our parents never let us forget that we weren't the authors of the world....they were.  My dad got the best piece of chicken, my mom picked the tv programs.  Kids weren't given first choice or decision.  It was that way in everything.  Their word was law.  We might grumble but rarely did we rebel. 

I might have felt mistreated, but I never felt unloved. 

You see, our parents knew an important fact.   Love isn't shown by things or even specific actions...it just is.  And there never was a child or person, when surrounded by love, that didn't know it.

Merry Christmas to You, Too, Mr. Trooper

Tuesday was one of those days when you wish you had just pulled the covers over your head and stayed in bed.

This Christmas I am running late with everything and wrapping my presents is no exception.  In the middle of wrapping the gifts for the grand kids over the week-end, I made the horrifying discovery that a gift I was sure I had purchased wasn't there.  I don't know if it was a brain fart on my part or if the package was left at the check out, but I didn't have a gift for the younger of the Iowa granddaughters.  Naturally, the item couldn't be found locally but only in a mega chain in Lexington or Louisville, both over an hour away. Monday I was tied up all day in a meeting, so on Tuesday, I checked the stores on line and discovered it was sold out in Lexington but still available in Lousiville.  With that I jumped into my clothes and tore out for the city.

Upon arriving, I discovered that they could not find my "hold for me" order I was sure I had successfully sent that morning.  The very patient manager led me to the shelf where the similar themed toys should be.  Wasn't there.  He looked at me helplessly, "Now, what exactly is it you are looking for."  An endless time of web-waiting and I had a picture and description for him.  He retired to the back to see if they still had it.  He returned with a grim expression on his face.  The computer showed that there were indeed four of the toys in the huge store....somewhere.  Obviously, they had been picked up and put down when shoppers changed their minds.  I was welcome to look....but....  It didn't take me long to decide that I could find a substitute gift or I could spend the day inventorying the store for the misplaced toys. 

During all this time the manager was fielding call after call on his walky-talky, to each one he replied patiently, I'm helping a customer.  I'll get right back to you.  He was calm and helpful, even in the face of my increasing frustration.  Like he had no stress in his life!  Feeling a little ashamed, I gave him a heartfelt thanks for his kindness and help.

Clutching my substitute gift (which my daughter will hate but my granddaughter will love!) I climbed back in my car for the drive home.  Traffic was heavy but I finally was out of the city and making my way across rural roads to home.  Feeling stressed and put upon by the basically fruitless trip (I could have gotten the substitute gift closer to home) I hurried to get back to the chores piling up at the house. 

I was leaving a stretch of four lane road and entering a section of rural two lane, cruising along, muttering to myself about my miserable day when I hit a little downhill section with more speed that I should have.  As I neared the end of the hill I looked up to see a car with Christmas lights on top coming toward me.  As I glanced down in horror I saw that I was doing 70 in a 55 mph zone.  No getting out of that.  I was really and truly caught.  As we passed, the trooper flipped his lights on and they began a cheerful red and blue flashing.  With a sinking feeling, I began braking and looking for a place to pull over safely, knowing that this was really going to make my day a lot worse.  The replacement toy was looking to be the most expensive Christmas gift I gave this Christmas.  I glanced back in my mirror to check on the trooper behind me and was just in time to see him flip off his lights and give me a cheery wave as he continued on down the road.  He had gotten his message across and I was slowing down.

With a sigh of relief I continued on down the road, grateful for his gift, and much slower.

Thank you Mr. Trooper for the Christmas Gift.  I really appreciate it.  That's one expense that would have been a little hard to explain to my insurance agent hubby.

Let the Little Ones Come to Me

Thursday morning found me sitting in a room full of grandparents and parents waiting for the annual Christmas program at the elementary school.  With a grandson in pre-school and one in first grade, I had arrived early to be sure of a good seat with a clear view (so did everyone else!), so we spent the time chatting about our little darlings and catching up on news. 

I sat there with a huge, silly grin on my face as the little ones filed in to sing.  The grandsons sang with tremendous seriousness, trying hard to remember every word and gesture.  Their eyes searched the sea of faces until they spotted the familiar grins in our row, then standing a bit taller they gave a little grin back.  I don't know who was prouder- me or them, but we both thought they were doing a pretty spectacular job.

This little scene was repeated around the room as parents and grandparents filled the air with the intensity of their pride and love.  The kids sang their hearts out with the joyful, innocent enthusiasm that only the very young possess.  As the music floated through the room, more than one eye was damp.

Then on Friday, I sat stunned, with a nation, while we watched in horror the unfolding story of death and sadness.  The unbelievable had happened.  Our most precious things, our children, had been attacked.  I thought of all the innocent faces of the children I had watched the day before and the pride and love of their families.  Then I thought of those parents who would not hold their precious little ones again and I cried with the nation. 

Murder is always hideous, but the taking of children who live so intensely in the moment and bring such joy to those around them , is somehow so much more heinous.  They are too young to understand hate, envy, political views, distrust, revenge, or rage but only live to be happy.

We can only begin to imagine the pain and agony that these people will endure as they try to deal with their loss.  We can't help them.  We can only mourn with them in our own small way.  We'll hug our little ones and deep down inside we will be glad that we aren't the ones suffering. 

And we'll weep.

The Flow Blue China

Several years ago, hubby and I were browsing through an antique show when he spotted a display featuring some china.  Wandering over he pointed to one of the plates and recalled that his mother had some dishes like that.  The plate had a white background with a deep, cobalt blue design that looked like it had bled into the plate.  The whole effect was a muted but bold design that was very pleasing.

He went on to relate that the dishes had belonged to his grandmother, who had left them to his mother.  They were her prized possessions and he swore they only got to eat on them when the visiting preacher came for dinner.  The rest of the time they were stored safely away from her three rambunctious boys. 

The next visit to my mother-in-law I asked to see her china.  With delight she showed them to me, explaining that they were called "flow blue" in reference to the bleeding of the deep blue color.  Her mother, the daughter of Swiss immigrants, had married another young Swiss and set up housekeeping.  Times were hard and they were struggling to make ends meet on their hilly farm.  With hard work and a large garden she managed to see that they had plenty, but she yearned for a few of the finer things.

She did her best with hand crocheted doilies and tablecloths, but she really wanted some nice dishes for company.  All the dishes she looked at just cost too much to even consider.  Then she discovered that you could get pretty china in laundry detergent.  For years she bought the detergent and collected the pretty blue dishes.  Finally, she had enough for her family and company.  She treasured her lovely dishes and like her daughter, only brought them out on very special occasions. 

Neither woman treasured the dishes because they could brag of a  famous brand name or because they cost a huge amount.  They treasured them for the touch of grace they added to their homes and the memories that they associated with them.  With love they served their family and friends on the best they could provide. 

When my mother-in-law died we found a little notebook that she had kept.  In it she had written down items that she wanted to go to specific members of the family.  Mostly they were items that held special meaning to her and she thought would be special to that person.  With tears in my eyes, I saw that she had wanted me to have her treasured flow blue china. 

Now it is displayed proudly, safely away from my rambunctious grandsons, but still a treasured memory of two gracious ladies.  Neither of these women probably ever realized that their soap box dishes have now become one of the prized collectibles of our generation.  However, in spite of the china's greatly increased worth, it is the memories of these two women and their struggle to provide a touch of grace for their families, that is it's true value.

The Christmas Gift

Few children ever realize the love, effort and sacrifices that parents put into making their lives full, fun and rewarding.

Our kids were fortunate to spend their early years supervised by a neighborhood of caring and watchful adults.  Since the houses were close together, the streets fairly quiet, and the parents all known to each other, the kids all banded together and ran in a pack, like puppies.  Like puppies they tumbled, ran, wrestled, and played first in one back yard and then another.  As parents you came to know the kids and the parenting skills of the other parents.  We started our family a little later than most of the others.  The mothers of these neighborhood children became a great source of information, encouragement and wisdom as I struggled to figure out the whole parenthood thing.

We were all young, just getting our lives started.  We had lots of fun but not much money.  This was particularly stressful at Christmas when our wants for our children often outpaced our pocketbooks.  We had enough for our needs but the extras of the holidays often took some creative planning. 

One of the mothers, who had been a true mentor for me, wanted to give her children something special that they would remember for years.  More than just a toy that would be worn out and forgotten in a short period, but a memory that they could take out and enjoy for years to come.  She thought and thought and decided that one of the most magical things to her was the magic of a live stage production.  Add Christmas to the equation and you have a stage production of  "A Christmas Carol". 

With a little looking she discovered an excellent production in a nearby city that had received wonderful reviews.  She determined that her children would be able to experience this.  The tickets were pricey but with a little creative budgeting she could squeeze out tickets for her 7, 10 and 13 year old children to attend.  The day in December arrived and dressed in their best clothes the children tumbled into the car for the one and a half hour drive to the theatre.  Upon arriving, the mom hustled them into the door and presented them each with a ticket.  She then gave them detailed instructions on how to find their seats and what to do after the show to find her. 

You see, she could manage the tickets for the children, but the budget wouldn't allow for her to have a ticket too.  So she had planned on sitting in the car outside and waiting for them until after the show was over.  The children nodded solemnly and went to find their seats.  An usher standing nearby overheard the whole thing.  He approached the young mother and told her that if she would wait until the show had started he would see if there would be a seat that she could use to watch the show.  Soon he was back and escorted her to the section where her children were seated, engrossed in the show. 

She recalled later that she never saw a bit of the show.  She spent the whole time watching the delight and fascination on her children's faces as they experienced the magic of the performance.

The children are grown now with families of their own, but they have never forgotten the wonderful present their mother gave them all those years ago.  This year, to tell her how much it meant to them, they all reunited, with grandchildren, to take their mother to see "A Christmas Carol" at the same theater.  This time she probably didn't watch it again....maybe because of tears in her eyes.

A Horror Story

Most young people today won't notice that this is a special day.  Most in fact tend to view World War II as something they only know about because of history classes in school.  To them it isn't real.  In fact, to my generation it's only stories that our parents talked about (or not).  For some of us it is still a time to remember the horror of war and the many who died during that time.

My mother worked for the local electric company when I was young.  She and my dad became close friends with the lineman and his wife.  He was a kind, gentle man who always took the time to talk to a little girl.  Once, in December, when I was questioning the meaning of "Pearl Harbor Day" she told me his amazing story of Pearl Harbor.

The United States wasn't in the war but fighting was going on and tension was building up world wide.  Young Lewis decided to join the navy and see the world and perhaps be ready if his country needed him.  He wound up stationed in paradise, along with thousands of other sailors, in beautiful Hawaii.  They spent days enjoying the sunshine and showers, crystal blue waters, swaying palm trees, and colorful flowers.  In between enjoying the sunshine and beauty they went about their jobs of training and caring for their ships. 

December 7 dawned as another beautiful day.  Since it was Sunday Lewis and several of his buddies had been given shore leave to go to town.  They left early to enjoy a peaceful day in paradise.  That paradise was destroyed when the Japanese launched a surprise attack on the fleet anchored in the harbor.  Wave after wave of bombers flew over leaving destruction, devastation, and death behind.  Air fields, ships, houses, and buildings were on fire, wounded were being transported to hospitals by cars, carts and jeeps, air raid sirens blasted, men shouted and ran for their stations.  The chaos was indescribable. 

Lewis and his young friends were caught on shore during the beginning of the attack.  They immediately attempted to return to their ship.  No easy feat, with bombs exploding around them, transportation at a standstill, and their help needed in dozens of places.  When he finally reached the harbor he found to his horror that his ship was one of the ones that took a direct hit and been destroyed.  Unsure of what to do next he simply reported to the first group he found that needed his help and went to work.  For three days he did whatever was needed--whether it was initially attempting to fire back at the flying bombers or later in the struggle to restore order to the destroyed military. 

One of the more gruesome jobs he did was to attempt to locate bodies and identify them to be sent home to families.  This wasn't always as easy job since some bodies were blown to bits by the explosions.  His description has always stayed in my mind with a feeling of horror as he explained that, "we gathered up two arms, two legs, and a torso, and a dog tag and put them in a tarp.  Then we sewed it together and sent them to the morgue set up inland."  Literally thousands and thousdands of families suffered the pain of the loss of a son, husband, daughter (yes there were women serving as nurses), or relative.  Telegrams were sent night and day notifying the families of their loved ones deaths.

Little did Lewis know that his own family received one of these telegrams.  His ship went down with all the records on board and since in the chaos that followed his name had not shown up on any other ship, he was presumed to have been lost with his crew mates at the bottom of Pearl Harbor.  It was several days before Lewis finally was attached to another ship and his name began to circulate through the system.  In the meantime, his family mourned his loss, held a memorial service and placed his name on the memorial plaque in their little church.  I shudder to think of the heartbreak and pain that they endured.  It was probably equal to the joy and ecstasy they felt when the telegram arrived telling them that their son was still alive.  How does the heart endure such stress and joy?

It was due to events such as these that military personnel were to be classified as Missing in Action, presumed dead, until proof could be obtained. 

Wars are awful.  Period.  However, I am proud to know many such men and women who have served in the armed forces to protect our country and our way of life.  Thank you for your dedication and courage. 

May we never forget the sacrifices made for us.

Cheap Plastic Ornaments

I love decorating the house for Christmas.  I hate dragging the decorations out of the tiny attic,  I dislike the mess it creates in the house, I am frustrated by the time it takes out of a busy schedule, but I love the actual decorating. 

The oldest grandson was my helper when it came time to decorate the tree.  The little boys had opted to play outside in the balmy, 70 degree weather.  As we placed the ornaments on the tree the conversation centered on the unusual selection of ornaments I had.  I laughed and agreed that my tree certainly wasn't a "theme" tree with color coordinated and stylish ornaments, rather it was a "memory tree".  Each and every ornament has it's own story.  There is the little glittered block that his dad had made in kindergarten, a clothespin Rudolph from third grade, a crude, green frame with a snaggle-toothed picture of my daughter, aged 7,  and a little stocking with my grandson's name on it that he had made.  There are ornaments given by friends, some who are far away, and ornaments I have made.  Many of our vacations are represented by ornaments I have collected while traveling.  There are ornaments representing family milestones, such as graduations and births, family pets, first cars and hobbies.

As we continued placing ornaments I told him the stories of each of the little decorations.  Then he reached in the box and pulled out a yellow, plastic lantern with a little poinsettia inside.  Obviously cheaply mass produced, he was confused as to why it was nestled carefully in a bed of tissue paper along side a glittered bell with most of the glitter gone.  "Do you want to use these?" he doubtfully asked.  I smiled and said, "Yes indeed!  These go in the best spot on the tree." 

"You see, when we were first married we had very little money.  We were both in school and just paying tuition, rent and utilities took about everything we had.  Our Christmas tree was a cedar cut from the farm where hubby was working part-time.  It smelled wonderful but was painfully prickly.  We went to a local store and bought the cheapest ornaments we could find and some cheap tinsel.  It didn't look too wonderful but the colored lights were cheerful and the little ornaments sparkled in the glow.  We thought it was beautiful."

"We didn't have much but I made cookies and we invited our friends over.  We listened to Christmas carols and enjoyed the season with lots of fellowship.  We didn't give lavish gifts--I made homemade goodies to take to friends.  I don't remember what we gave to each other, but I do remember that it was a wonderful time of love and thankfulness. "

"Now each year these treasured little plastic ornaments come out to be placed lovingly on our tree to remind us of where we started from.  To remember old friends, simpler times, family members that aren't with us any longer,  and a time when we had little but were thankful for much. "

During this season that has become so lavish and filled with activities, festivities, gifts, and abundance, I find my eye drawn to the little, cheap ornaments and remember what is really important in life.  Love, family and friends.

I turned to my grandson.  "To me these are the most beautiful ornaments on the tree. "

He still looked puzzled and more than a bit skeptical.  Someday he will look back on times in his life that hold special meaning and he will remember my ornaments and understand.

Until then at least he tolerates his crazy grandmother.

Payback

I am constantly amazed at the really stupid things that people do.  I witnessed one such example of driver stupidity (or sheer hatefulness) on a trip through Kansas.

My daughter and I were enjoying the drive to visit my son, who was then living in Dodge City, Kansas.  The day was beautiful and the traffic, while fairly heavy, was traveling smoothly and well spaced out.  We were taking a major state road across the state from east to west that was used a lot by large trucks making deliveries to the in-state cities and towns.  The land was flat and the road was good and straight (a novelty to us from the curvy roads of Kentucky) and the traffic was moving at a good clip. 

We had been traveling a while when the traffic started to bunch up and slow down.  We found ourselves sandwiched in a line of huge tractor-trailer trucks as the speed dropped.  We were on a two lane road, and while the traffic wasn't heavy, it was constant enough that passing wasn't a good option, so we settled down to wait.  Kansas has a lot of two lane roads but the planners were considerate of the high number of trucks that use them, so every so often the road would widen out to three lanes to let slower vehicles be safely passed.  We figured we would just have to wait for one of these passing lanes to resume our speed.

It was as we approached one of these lanes on a slight incline that we were able to see the cause of the slow down.  Up ahead was a line of five motor homes or 5th wheel trailers, enjoying their trip at a leisurely pace.  We all relaxed, seeing that we would now be able to pass them and continue on our trip.   The truckers started jocking for the left lane, ready to pass the slow moving caravan.  Just as the passing lane opened up the lead motor home pulled into the left hand, or passing lane.  The others followed along in the right lane at the same steady speed.  The truckers fell in behind in the passing lane following the lead motor home assuming that he would pull over and let them by.    The lead motor home continued on his steady pace, effectively blocking the trucks from passing the other homes.  At the end of the passing lane he pulled back into the caravan of homes with the truckers no better off than they had been.

The line of trucks and motor homes continued on for several more miles, with the tension becoming almost tangible.  Up ahead we saw another passing lane coming up and I let out a sigh of relief.  Now maybe this tense situation would be resolved and the trucks could pass the slow traffic.  Once again the motor homes approached the passing lane and once again the lead home pulled into the left lane and blocked the trucks from passing.  I looked at my daughter and told her to slow down and drop back because things were going to get ugly.

Sure enough as the passing lane ran out the motor homes squeezed to the left once again, and the trucks were now inter-meshed into the line of slow moving vehicles.  You could almost feel the frustration and anger as the truckers followed along, unable to get an open spot to pass.  Finally a brief break in the oncoming traffic allowed the first truck in the line to start to pass.  There was little hope that he would have enough time or space to complete the line of vehicles.  As he ran out of space before the approaching traffic he just pulled to the right, forcing the lead recreational vehicle off the road and onto the wide, flat shoulder.  He bounced to a halt as the trucker zoomed on.  One by one the remaining tractor-trailers started passing at every opportunity. As they ran out of room they just squeezed the motor homes off the highway and onto the shoulder.  My daughter and I found ourselves cheering the truckers on as they put each vehicle off the road. We both felt it was a deserved payback! Before long, all of the recreational vehicles were sitting on the side of the road, unharmed, as we zipped by them.

I have never been able to figure out why the recreational vehicles chose to intentionally create such a situation.    They had to have realized that an angry trucker with a huge truck holds all the aces.  Fortunately, the truckers did them no harm, other than stopping their trip briefly.  I wonder if they ever realized how lucky they were that their actions didn't create a more dangerous situation.

As for me, I learned one thing.  You don't mess with a trucker!

Thanksgiving Musings

Thanksgiving is the kick-off for what I have referred to as "the 30 day stuffing".  The turkey being stuffed being ME!  I heard a commentator the other day encourage people to quit agonizing over the unhealthiness of the Thanksgiving meal.  It is by definition a day of pure gluttony.  After all the Pilgrims were celebrating a bountiful harvest that gave them plenty of food for a feast.  (They also had to eat as much as they could before the things that couldn't be wintered spoiled or rotted!) 

Today we celebrate being able to eat all we want without feeling guilty for not eating low-fat, low-calorie, low-cholesterol, low-salt, sugar free foods.  I can tell you no one in my house suffered by eating healthy!

Thanksgiving for us is all about tradition, as it is in most homes.  We use the dishes hubby and I received for wedding gifts, the silverware from my Aunt Gertrude, the candlesticks from a first Christmas, a serving platter from my mother-in-laws family, and decorations including acorns and buckeyes collected by the grandkids.  Every dish has a story and a history.  Everyone's favorite is the "Dead Salad".  Years ago, when my children were young, they eagerly looked forward to church pot lucks.  As with most churches the ladies outdid themselves bringing their best foods.  One widow lady would often bring a molded salad consisting of pineapple, nuts, cream and cream cheese.  The only other time she made this salad was to take to a bereaved family after a death.  She said you had to come to a church pot luck to eat it before you were dead--thus she called it her Dead Salad.  In memory of this lovely, if quirky, lady we always have Dead Salad on Thanksgiving.

It also is the one time I don't bow to the trend to casual entertaining.  I lovingly set the table with linens, china, and silver.  (I spent one whole evening polishing the damn stuff but the dining room gleamed!)  We have candlelight and a centerpiece.  This year we had a small crowd and there was room at the table for the boys to join the adults.  Usually, the young people are seated in the kitchen or at a small table to themselves, which they actually enjoy because of limited adult supervision. 

With wide eyes the "little boys" came into the dining room.  They were directed to their places and stood beside their chairs waiting for the signal to eat.  I held my breath, since these two at four and seven are just barely "housebroken".  Under normal circumstances their eating area tends to look like the aftermath of a "dirty bomb".   I had placed them with an adult on each side to supervise but had set a full table setting for them both.  

The food was passed with the adults helping the little ones serve themselves.  I smiled to overhear my son instruct his seven year old that the "little" fork was for his salad.  He then gently touched an eager arm and told the four year old to wait until everyone was served to begin eating.  The little boys behaved like little gentlemen, eating quietly and neatly, obviously feeling the weight of the occasion.  I was proud of them.  I believe that children rise to the occasion and should be included.  They proved me right. 

Of course, it didn't affect the near free-for-all as they fixed sandwiches out of the left-overs a few hours later.

It's Over--So Drop It

My mother always told me there were two things a hostess should avoid as topics of conversation during a dinner--politics and religion.  The inclusion of those topics would insure a polite dinner turning into a shouting match.  As usual, mom was right.

I make it a point not to discuss politics at all.  I prefer to read and listen then make up my own mind.  I also don't tell who I vote for.  That's my business and it's private.  I wish I could say the same for everyone else!

The weeks leading up to the presidential election have been a miserable time to endure.   I have rarely been subjected to such endless diatribe against both candidates.  The utter viciousness of the attacks has left me unsettled and concerned.  Blame and finger pointing have been leveled for everything from hurricanes and drought to global economy--by both parties at both parties.  And this isn't happening on television but in my town by my friends.  Neighbor has turned against neighbor and the intensity of the attacks has been unnerving to say the least. 

The last straw for me was the day after the election when a young man I know posted on Facebook that he was "unfriending" everyone who hadn't agreed with him during the election.  Really?  I thought that was the reason that this country was originally founded--so we could have an opinion that was different from someone else.  In the process we decided that the leaders would be elected by a vote of the people they would govern.  Once elected they would strive to do the best for the country and ALL of the people.  When did this change into the back-biting, self-serving party system in place now?  When did belonging to one party or the other mean you were automatically a *&*%%^$#$ son-of-a-bitch? 

I guess I am simple minded, but I seem to think that if all the men and women elected to to various seats in Washington worked for the betterment of the country (instead of their own agendas) it might actually result in some good for the people of that country.  That was the idea right?  I also seem to remember that the Constitution has a built in set of checks and balances to ensure that we don't slip into a dictator type leadership.  (The old guys who wrote that declaration had been there and done that!)  So the election of one person to lead the nation shouldn't automatically ensure that total destruction of the nation will automatically occur.  So I guess all of those of you have been loudly decrying the downfall of the United States in only a matter of days, can unpack your bags and stick around.   Have a little faith that the idea of democracy first envisioned all those years ago by a group of citizens hungry for the freedom to make their own choices will work no matter who is elected as top dog.

Especially drop all this agonizing, name calling, shouting, and abuse and get back to the important things in life like hugging your kids and enjoying the time you have!!
                                                     ***********
"Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer.  Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past.  Let us accept our own responsibility for the future."
                                  -John F. Kennedy-

Chicago Honeymoon

It was 1947, they were young and in love.  It wasn't a time of lavish, over-the-top weddings, instead they were married in the courthouse by the local judge.  She was supported by her sister and he had his best friend at his side.  She wore a lovely rose suit borrowed from another sister while he was tall and proud in his blue pinstripe.  He had adoringly presented her with a small corsage but was too shy to pin it on, allowing her sister to do the honors.  The ceremony only took a few minutes and they were back on the sidewalk as Mr. and Mrs., ready to begin their new life.

They didn't have much money but he had worked and saved what little he could to give her a honeymoon she would remember.  They only had a few days, but he had planned it carefully.  They caught the local train and were soon on their way to the "Windy City".  To a couple growing up in a small rural town it must have seemed as exotic as Paris or Tokyo--Chicago, the biggest city in the Midwest.  Filled with lights, excitement, and unheard of delights, all theirs to enjoy for two whole days.

They caught a cab from the train station, another adventure for the small town couple, pulling up in front of the stately Palmer House Hotel.  They stared in awe at the beautiful structure, already a grand lady having served the Chicago elite for 76 years.  She hesitated, tugging gently at his sleeve, "Are you sure....?"  He patted her hand and smiled reassuringly, "It's our honeymoon.  I want you to have the best."  She hugged his arm and they walked up to the registration desk. 

The clerk smiled a warm welcome and in just a few minutes they were signing the guest register for the first time as Mr. and Mrs.  "That will be $11 per night for two nights and for 75 cents a day more we will put a radio in your room for your enjoyment."  "Oh, no!", she gasped, "that's too much!".  He again quietly patted the hand clinging to his arm, "It's our honeymoon, I want you to have a honeymoon to remember."

And remember it she did for the next 65 years.

"Mom!  You'll never guess where I'll be staying while on a business trip to Chicago?" the man laughed as he watched his aging mother carefully mix biscuits in the kitchen.  "The Palmer House. Isn't that where you and dad spent your honeymoon?"  With a soft smile on her face she nodded, "Somewhere I think I even have the old receipt from that stay."  After lunch they took a trip through memory lane while she fingered through old mementos in the flowered box she pulled from the closet. Sure enough she had the receipt for the amount of $11 per night plus 75 cents for the radio. 

On an impulse, the man took a copy of the receipt with him on his trip.  While checking in, he mentioned that his parents had stayed here on their honeymoon 65 years ago for a much lower rate than today's prices.  The clerk looked at the receipt wide eyed and immediately asked if he would wait a minute to talk to the manager. It seems that the hotel is currently compiling a history of it's long years of serving the Chicago area, would his mother be willing to part with the original receipt?  In return, the hotel would treat her and a guest to a night at $11 and throw in the radio for free.

Which is how 65 years later she traveled again to Chicago, this time with a granddaughter, to stay once again at the stately Palmer House Hotel.  She was greeted by the manager and whisked to her room with champagne and a cheese tray awaiting her.

Her only wish, she said, was that her much missed husband of 57 years had lived to share the adventure with her again.

The Coffee Group

After all you have heard about women gossiping, I'm here to tell you that farmers have the corner on the market when it comes talking.  Anywhere that there is farming done you will find a coffee shop where the men gather to share the "news".  It is there, usually in the morning and again in the afternoon, that they discuss the crops, weather, agriculture outlook, machinery, cattle, and a thousand other things that are central to farming.  It is also where they discuss their kids, grandkids, household chores, wives, neighbors, economy, politics,  and who-did-what-with-who!  There is no topic that is not fair game.

I guess it is a universal club with open membership because hubby located the coffee group on a visit to our daughter in Iowa and was instantly welcomed as one of the boys.  He would leave the house each morning to go to "town" to catch up on the local happenings.  During the afternoon, there would be an urgent need for a part that would require he and our daughter's father-in-law to stop work and head for town.  He may not have known the farming practices or the people that well but it didn't stop him from picking their brains and enjoying the fellowship.

Later we would bump into his "cronies" at church or in a restaurant and he would be greeted like a long lost friend.  "How's the repairs on the combine coming?" he would ask with familiar ease.  "Aw, we're going to have to go to the city for a part." would come the answer.  "Too bad," he would respond, "that'll keep you from finishing up that section this week."  I would glance at him in amazement.  He's chatting along as though he did this everyday and I know for a fact that he couldn't turn a combine around on our whole farm!

The coffee group will discuss any topic.  There is absolutely nothing that is off limits.  Hubby comes home with the latest news about marriages, divorces, babies, affairs, bankruptcies and get-rich-quick
schemes.  They discuss land sales, cattle sales, house sales, and business opportunities.  They decide the best plants for my garden, best time to prune the shrubs, methods of watering the garden, and canning recipes (honest).  When I was taking chemo they told me to drink grape juice (it worked).
When we first started to drive to Iowa they told us the route to take (it didn't work).  Whatever the question, you can count on the coffee group to have an answer.

With that in mind, if you are ever in a small town and enter the local restaurant to find lots of "gimmy" hats and bib-overalls, you have just found the coffee group.  Sit back and be prepared to learn all about the latest "news" and be highly entertained--just remember not to call it gossip!!

Rain's Coming

Today's farmers are walking media hounds.  You won't catch one far from a computer, smart phone or a tablet.  Even hubby has succumbed to the lure of instant information on his smart phone.  This week everyone was constantly checking the latest weather report while we watched a major storm system march toward us.  Naturally we had two major jobs to be finished before it rained....that's just farming.

Our son had given a small, late patch of tobacco to the oldest grandson.  This piece was the last to be cut and managed to get a heavy frost on it.  That meant leaving it in the field for a few days before hanging it in the barn to stabilize the damage from the frost.  However, it needed to be in the barn before the rain hit or risk losing it.  The trick was leaving it as long as possible and still get it put up before the weather hit.  Hence, the close watching of the weather front.

Hubby had cut a late crop of hay in front of the house.  Most of our hay now is done in big round bales that can sit in the field without damage from the weather.   However, hubby wanted to square bale this late crop to have in the barn for those times when you needed to feed new mothers in the barn or weanling calves in the barn lot.  It's much easier in close quarters to use the smaller square bales.  Unfortunately, they don't do well if they are in the field when it rains.  The cool weather had slowed the curing of the cut hay so the hay was ready about the same time as the tobacco.  Naturally.

The tobacco crew (a group of friends and hands that join together to cut and house each other's tobacco) showed up and lit into the tobacco patch.  In short order the tobacco was loaded and hung in the barn.  One job down and the rain was still holding off.  Now it was time to tackle the hay field.  It wasn't long until the field in front of the house was dotted with bales of hay. 

I had just finished ironing (yes, I am the only remaining person that still irons!) when hubby appeared in the kitchen.  "We need your help!" he asked, "the boys are taking pictures and we're short handed."  It seems that the grandsons had been scheduled to do pictures and weren't going to make it to the farm in time to help.  The process of loading hay is fairly straight forward.  Two (or more) men pick up the hay bales and put them on the wagon and one "ricks" or stacks the hay securely.   When the wagon is full it is them unloaded by lifting it up into the loft of the barn.  Farm boys never needed to lift weights at a gym to get great muscles.  The problem was they had only three men and no one to drive the tractor.  So, guess who was elected?

I reminded my son that the last time I drove picking up hay I dumped half a load in the field.  He grimaced tiredly and begged, "I think I might cry if you do it again."  In my defense the guy ricking that time was a novice and the load was tottery before I made that fateful turn.  This time son was ricking and he's good at the job.  So I climbed on the tractor and started to the field.  It's certainly not hard--the tractor is going at a slow walking pace and all I have to do is keep it between the rows of bales so they can pick up from both sides. 

The problem is that I have an exhausted hubby giving finite directions on how and where to drive.  The key is he is doing it from the middle of the field with lots of gestures that I can't quite decipher.  "You want me to go through here?' pointing left, "or here?" pointing right.  He responds with a five finger point down the middle.  I choose left he screams "just go between the damn bales" pointing right.  Suddenly he stopped, threw up his hands with a pleading expression on his face, "it's OK, you are doing great!!"  I just laughed and kept on in the direction he pointed.  You see he had suddenly remembered that this was the same wife who had once left him stranded in a field because I don't take screaming well. 

It's good to know that they can be trained.

We got the hay up with no hurt feelings--but plenty of hurt muscles.  We don't do much heavy lifting anymore.

The Tomboy

For years, when I was working in the public, I presented what I hope was a well groomed presence to the world.  My job required me to "dress for success", so each morning I donned my suit, heels, make-up and hair spray and tackled my day.  Since no quarter was given for the circumstances of that day, I might be standing in front of an audience or tromping across a field, but all was done in heels and hose!  I'm sure than many people thought I had been born all prissy and proper...far from it!

I was the youngest of two girls, born while we were living on a farm.  From the beginning I reveled in the freedom and challenges of growing up in the country.   Unfortunately for me, my mother rebelled against the challenges of living without running water, indoor plumbing, and electricity (she was a townie) and we moved to town when I was three. If  she hoped that I might grow up more lady-like in more cultivated surroundings, she was to be disappointed.  I was a to-the-bone tomboy.

My friends in town were the neighborhood boys, since they were always doing the more interesting things.  With them I played cowboy and Indians, rode stick horses for miles, built forts, dug ditches, constructed dams, excavated roads, caught frogs, lizards, tadpoles, fish, and hundreds of bugs.  I refused to accept that any boy could out-do me at anything, which led to bruises, scrapes, skinned knees and elbows and once a broken arm. 

My dad, recognizing a kindred spirit, allowed me to follow him when he went fishing or on long treks through the woods.  I learned to shoot, (targets only, daddy wasn't a hunter), identify tracks, build traps, fish, camp out, identify trees and plants, and generally become a woodsman.  

At about fourteen I decided maybe being a girl wasn't so bad after all.  I was concerned about how to break the news to my dad, but my mom just smiled and said that she thought he had figured it out.  My mom then took over my education and attempted to put a glossy veneer over the rough girl underneath.  She must have done a pretty good job because people are still surprised at some of my unusual talents.

For example the year that I had to go to 4-H camp as the Extension Agent and they had no one to teach rifle, so I said I would. The men all looked a little smug and said they would need to take me to the range and show me what to do.  Once there they presented me with a single shot 22.  Again looking a little smug, they asked me what I would do now.  "Well, first I would show them how to clean it ", I replied, sliding the bolt free and sighting down the barrel, "which, obviously no one has done.  Then I would load it and show them how to aim and shoot."  With that I proceeded to load, aim and shoot at one of the targets on the range.  Someone was looking out for a hard-headed little girl because the bullet went true to the edge of the bulls eye.  With surprise on their faces, they quietly filed out of the shooting range and back to their other jobs.  They had just discovered the tow-headed tomboy that still lurked underneath the polish and make-up.

For all the skills and knowledge I gained through education and working, the things that have been the most help for my real world of parenting have been the things I learned as a "tomboy": bumps, bruises, and scrapes won't kill you, especially if you get the job done,  learning about the world around you lets you live easier within it, girls can do anything that boys can do except pee standing up, and always check the pockets before you wash!

Supersize It

The recent uproar over the super sized servings at food chains in New York made me take a long look at the world around us.

Back when the Golden Arches were a new concept, their claim to fame was their monstrous burger with two patties, special sauce and a bun.  It was the burger that the guys ate on dates, while we girls ate the smaller ones.  Now it's considered a small burger.  It can hardly hold a candle to a recent addition that has hamburger patties, shredded barbecue and french fries ---all on a bun!!

Think back to the cokes we drank in our youth.  The little "souvenir" bottles you see in the grocery were the actual size of the first cokes.  They were 8 oz bottles.  Then RC cola came out with a 12 oz. bottle and everyone soon followed.  Before we knew it, soft drinks were coming in 16 oz. bottles.  Now you can get a 32 oz. refillable cup!!  Not only do we get a whalloping big cup of a soft drink, we now think it is the thing to drink for every meal and in between.  We've come a long way from the cokes we saved our pennies to buy as the occasional treat!

The fact that everything is getting bigger was really brought home to me the other day.  I finally decided that after forty-something years it was time to replace the beat up muffin tins that I used.  I picked up a new set and wondered why I had waited so long to replace them.  The first time I made the cornbread recipe I had used for years I knew...the recipe that had made 12 muffins for years now made 9.  Yep, the muffin cups were way bigger than the old ones.  That means cupcakes, muffins, rolls, are all going to be bigger servings than they once were. 

It's not just cupcakes that are bigger.  Look at any of the foods that we usually eat and buy.  TV dinners, formerly the epitome of small servings, now have big portions for our bigger appetites.  Everything from hamburgers, french fries, soft drinks, desserts, even main dish entrees are much bigger now.  I am especially amazed at the desserts that come in serving sizes that you can share with the whole table! 

The problem is compounded by the fact that we all are eating out more and more.  Where once we ate three meals at home with mom preparing them, now we eat in restaurants once or twice a day.  Our schedules tend to cause us to use fast food, prepackaged food and restaurants instead of preparing meals at home.  Why is this important?  One, when we eat out we order more because we are hungry--then we feel like we need to eat it.  At home if you are still hungry you can have seconds but you don't have to.  Two, most fast food is higher in calories and fats than the ones fixed at home.  Three, mom prepared meals tend to be lower in cost, servings, and higher in nutrition than those in restaurants.

Is it any surprise that we are all getting "super sized" too?   Not only are we getting bigger, but we are getting "fat" diseases more and more.  Type II diabetes was once as rare as it's cousin Juvenile diabetes.  Now it's the common disease associated with aging, especially among those who have years of fast food behind them.  The thing that is really frightening is that we are now seeing this disease show up more and more frequently in elementary children.  Something that was virtually unheard of even 20 years ago.  The incidence of high blood pressure, heart attacks, and strokes are also on the rise.  Again thanks to our poor eating habits.

Look around at your neighbors, children, strangers in the Mall--what do you see?  It's an epidemic folks and the only ones who can stop it are the ones making poor eating choices -- US. 

Only in the Movies

Sometimes I think I live on a Hollywood set of a small town.  You've seen all of the cliches on the big screen...the police force, small but determined, the good ole boys sitting on the tailgate drinking beer (I confess to doing that a time or two myself), everyone saying "hi y'all" to everyone else,  kids running through crowds without a care,  bands marching and front porch sitting.  It's classic, from Andy Griffith to Sweet Home Alabama, all the cliches are there.

Well, it's official--the movies actually got it right.

Sunday our little community celebrated it's annual harvest festival.  We had all of the usual happenings that go on during the weekend - 5K runs, a parade, bands performing, booths, games, contests, and a car show.  We decided after church to take the grand kids to town for an afternoon of sampling small town festivities.

We gathered them up from their house and walked the two blocks to Main Street through sunshine filtered through leaves just beginning to turn colors.  Along the way we met up with a young couple and their three children, so we soon had our own little parade marching along.  The first thing we reached was a big tent set up for the afternoon entertainment by a local band.  Hubby gave a shout and we realized that the guitar player was the auctioneer who works with his real estate business.  A little "ribbing" was exchanged concerning grandpa duties on one side and guitar picking on the other, then we wandered on. 

We drifted down the street, with the kids investigating the various booths lining the street and the adults visiting with other parents out for an afternoon with their families.  A trio of plastic swords were purchased and a furious mock battle soon was in place.  The adults greeted friends, inquired about new babies, listened to proud grandparents, shared week-end activities, caught up on news (gossip) and generally enjoyed the sunshine and company.  The children wandered happily with friends from this to that ending up in the car show admiring, along with the local police chief,  a snazzy 1956 pick-up truck.

I was struck by the fact that indeed we did live in a place that is seen as fictional by many people.  For many the idea of wandering happily, visiting with friends and neighbors, in your town is hard to imagine.  Some can't visualize a world where children run freely through friendly crowds.  Some can't believe that there are places where no one worries about bombs, gunfire, strife, war, famine, persecution, and terror.  For others the idea of the freedom to choose to live in a small town, city, or anyplace is a dream.  A place where ice cream cones, funnel cakes, and hamburgers are part of the fun, not a meal to a starving child.  A place where security, peace, and even the right to live are not things we had to fight for.

Sometimes we are so busy yelling about the things wrong with our country we forget to be thankful for the things that are right.

Mud Holes

Two great truths of life.

Girls like kittens.  Boys like mud.

I don't know what the attraction is, but if there is a mud hole a boy will find it.  I rediscovered this fact while on an outing with the grandsons to pick up walnuts.  It's become a fall tradition to gather the usually abundant walnuts during fall break.  The walnuts are then sold for "pocket money" to a local dealer.  Usually this involves the oldest grandson and grandma spending a sunny fall afternoon gathering the big, green globes while visiting.  This year was a little different.

I looked up one afternoon to discover the four-wheeler and cart pulling up to the back door.   The cart was already loaded with a cooler, feed sacks, buckets, and two grinning grandsons.  The third was grinning from the four-wheeler, as he braked to a stop, calling, "Jo-Jo--come on.  It's time to pick up walnuts!"  Laughing I grabbed some gloves (the things stain your hands brown) and climbed on behind him.  Off we went with the little grandsons bouncing around in the cart like peas in a bucket. 

The first trees we found were surrounded by poison ivy and had few walnuts, so we passed them by.  Continuing on our trek down the creek we finally found a large tree on the bank with a fair number of nuts.  We all piled out and began picking up the bounty and throwing it in the buckets.  We soon had the ground cleaned up and discovered we could reach a lower branch.  Vigorous shaking created a veritable hail storm of nuts.  The little boys were excitedly running around collecting the new "windfall" of nuts when the older grandson decided to move the four-wheeler closer to the now heavy buckets.

Hearing the little boys laughter, I looked up from my gathering, to see the four-wheeler and cart stranded axle-deep in a mud hole.  The grandson was pouring on the gas and rapidly digging himself in deeper and deeper.  I looked around in disbelief--he had literally found the only mud hole in the whole field!! I marched over, scolding and laughing equally, to see how we were going to get out of this mess.  Naturally, I had forgotten my phone so it was either get "unstuck" or face the long walk to the barn for help. 

We tried everything--rocking it back and forward, putting branches under the wheels, hunting rocks, but for every foot we worked forward we would lose a foot and a half.  (Mostly because grandson just couldn't resist the chance to spin the tires in the gooey mess.)  It wasn't long before the cart, bags of walnuts, cooler and boys were splattered with thick mud.  Grandson is long on hard-headiness and short on patience, so it took some yelling to convince him to unhook the trailer.  With that the four wheeler plowed on out of the mud and he was able to return to the barn for a chain to pull out the wagon.  He soon returned, a little sheepish from the ribbing from the men at the barn, and in short order we had the cart out.

Muddied but not finished,we decided to try one more tree, located uphill from the creek just below the feed barn.  This venerable old tree is huge and probably as old as the farm.  Upon sighting it we all cheered as it was loaded with hundreds of walnuts.  We loaded up all the ones on the ground and then took turns retrieving the chunks of wood that the oldest would throw up into the tree to dislodge more nuts.  The little boys soon tired of this sport and wandered off to play. 

We were busy filling our buckets when a childish wail hit our ears.  We both turned to see what mischief the two little ones had gotten into.  It took a minute to figure out why they were standing in the corner of the fence wailing.  Then it hit us -- they were literally stuck in another mud hole.  The littlest one had marched out into a mud hole where the cows had churned the mud to a bottomless quagmire of goo, there he had sunk until he was unable to pull his feet out of the gunk.  The older one had tried to reach him to help, only to discover he was caught too.  As we watched in amazement, a foot popped out of a boot and with flailing arms boy plopped into mud. 

With a look of resignation, the fifteen year old grandson waded into the muck and plucked the two boys out.  Gingerly setting them on the ground we surveyed the disaster.  I'm not sure their own mother would have recognized them.  We gathered them up, dumped them in the cart and hauled them to the barn.  Once there we literally turned the water hose on them until the worst of the mud was washed off. 

Finally, cleaner and with a cookie or two to refresh them, they mumbled thanks for the rescue.  I just looked at them and shook my head.  "Thank your brother", I said with a grimace, "I wouldn't have waded into that mess for you.  I would have left you there!"

With a shocked look they glanced from me to their brother and back.  You could see them wondering if grandma really would have left them stuck in the mud. 

Trust me--I would have!  I'm a girl.  I like kittens.

The Pie Man

Every community has it's own characters--some just take a little more getting used to than others.

Our daughter had been living in her new home in Iowa about a year when she met one of the more exotic characters of the area.

She was at home one day when the dog announced the arrival of a truck in the drive.  Having been raised with the open door hospitality of a rural area, she hurried to the door to see who her visitor was.  With something close to awe she watched her visitor climb out of the truck, her startled gaze taking in the details from his size 14 work boots, to the enormous girth, clad in denim bib overalls and red flannel shirt.  Topping it all was a long, bushy beard and a head full of wild hair with a seed corn "gimmy" hat perched on top.  Piercing eyes looked out like a wolverine from a bush.  Suddenly he shouted, "Who the HELL are YOU!"

Hanging on to the threads of her hospitality she responded with her husband's name.  This met with no sign of recognition so she tried her universally known and liked father-in-law.  Her visitor's head popped up and he roared, "That goddammed son-of-a-BITCH!"  Totally flustered now, she just looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.  With no more ado, he marched to the back of the truck and demanded, "Well, what kind do you want?"  "K-kind?" she stammered.  He looked at her with a pitying look and said, "Yeah.  Apple, blackberry, pecan, peach--what kind?"  Now more confused than ever, she walked to the back of the truck to be  met with the sight of neatly, lined up coolers.  "PIES!" he roared, as though she was just a little simple and hard of hearing,"WHAT KIND OF PIES DO YOU WANT?"

Now beginning to become unraveled completely, she pointed to the first two coolers and ordered a pecan and apple pie.  In short order a check was written and her visitor roared out of the drive with a shout through the window, "Tell that GODDAMMED SON-of-a-BITCH I said HELLO!!"

Her husband arrived home that night to the welcome display of homemade pies on the counter.  Pleased at his industrious wife he beamed at her happily, only to have her ramble on about how they probably weren't even safe to eat but she was scared not to buy them.  Shortly the story came out.  Her husband started out sympathetic, then chuckling, soon he was laughing out loud.  Between bouts of laughter he explained that she had just met Perry, the local character.

It seems the immense man had once worked for the vet who had lived in their house previously and was a great help since he could reportedly stop a cow with one blow to the head (an enormous feat since a cow's head is about the consistency of an anvil).  He had done various jobs, but was now disabled and supplemented his income by making and selling pies to the area residents.  In spite of his demeanor and looks, he was an excellent baker and his rounds were much anticipated.

The pies proved to be delicious and Perry became a welcome visitor--although he was always a little overwhelming.

A Keeper Married to a Keeper

There are people in this world who keep things and there are people that throw things away.  As luck would have it, hubby and I are both keepers.  We should have realized that this could become a problem when, with our first home, we kept welcoming kindly donations until we had five couches.  Since we only had four rooms we already had a challenge.  The challenge is that "keepers" can't say no and have a great reluctance to give anything up.  (We actually managed to keep three of the couches.)

Although medical science has not proved me correct, I maintain that it is a genetic predisposition that makes a keeper. It's a gene we inherit.  We can't help ourselves.  Some people can ruthlessly clean out a cabinet or closet and throw away anything they aren't actually using, all without a twinge.  A keeper will make five piles, 1) keep-I'm using this right now,2) keep-I might use it someday, 3) keep-I can probably make something else out of it, 4) keep-the kids might use it and 5) throw it out.  I guarantee the fifth pile won't have a thing in it. 

I have blamed it on the generation of depression era parents that raised us.  They didn't live in a disposable society and made everything last and last.  Some of that is true.  I can't break hubby of wanting to save all his office shirts that are beginning to wear out for farm shirts.  Then he wears one farm shirt at a time until it falls to pieces.  At this rate he won't run out of farm shirts until he is 146 years old. That problem I blame on his parents, who were frugal and keepers. However, my parents were a mixed marriage of a keeper and a thrower.  My dad was a grand "keeper" but my mom was a ruthless "thrower".  I obviously inherited the keeper gene.

Another problem of keepers is that they like "things".  They tend to enjoy having various objects and collecting more.  Add to that a strong Swiss trend toward thriftiness and you have the beginnings of our dilemma.

As elderly relatives died off, we were often offered choice tidbits from their belongings.  Sometimes there were treasures and sometimes surprises. Treasures, like the Jackson Press from Aunt Gertrude or surprises like the "unique" collection of nutcrackers from Uncle Jack.  All are tucked neatly away for future use.  Then you have the fact that part of hubby's job involves holding estate and/or farm auctions.  There have been too many opportunities to get a bargain or just make an "opening" bid that remained yours.  Of these some were treasurers, like the lovely crocheted bedspread stuffed down in a box of old linens that I impulsively bid on.  Some surprises, like the opening bid hubby made on a collection of farm "stuff" that never got a second bid.  The stuff contained over 700 feet of garden hoses.  We watered everywhere on the farm for years with those hoses.

The problem is that the surprises and treasures are beginning to run us off the farm.  Every nook and cranny is filled with our finds.  The basement, closets, attic, out-buildings, barns, and now even the garage are beginning to look like an advertisement for the show "American Pickers".  Our daughter looked at me the other day with a plea in her voice, "Please, Please!  Do something about all of this before ......... "  I could see she was wondering what would happen when we  discovered  that you really "can't take it with you". Then she and her brother will be left to deal with all the treasures and surprises.

It should be interesting---he inherited the  "keeper" gene, she got the "thrower" gene from her grandmother!

Kindness in a Time of Tragedy

As people across the United States remember the horrible events that happened eleven years ago today, I find that I also have memories of the great kindnesses of people during that time. 

Hubby and I had just finished a cruise to Alaska when the unbelievable news of the attack on the twin towers was broadcast over the ship's televisions.  Within hours we arrived in Vancouver, Canada, to discover that the world had changed.  Our cruise ship was greeted with a police escort and bomb sniffing dogs.  Those of us who had reservations in Vancouver lined up silently to leave the ship.  Each person was checked and screened as we moved through the dock area.  We quickly went to our motel room and turned on the news to discover we were now stranded in a foreign country with our boarders closed to us.

After several hours of news we decided that we needed to get out of the room and move around a little.  Unsure of what to expect, we wandered the streets of beautiful Vancouver.  Everywhere we went, we were greeted with outpourings of sympathy.  Clerks in shops, upon recognizing our accents, would grasp our hands with a warm squeeze.  Other shoppers would stop and offer their condolences and friendship.  Strangers were moved to give us hugs.  Offers of assistance came from unlikely quarters, from the cabbie who showed us a beautiful park where we could have tranquility and quiet, to the waitress who was willing to track down a place for us to stay if we were stranded.  (Many were stranded.  With five or six cruise ships dumping thousands of passengers and airlines unable to leave, those without prior reservations were without rooms.)  We were comforted by the show of support and empathy from the entire city.

The outpouring of concern and love wasn't just evident in Canada, but also across the United States.  Our son was living in rural Kansas at the time of the attack.  The immediate grounding of all the flights across America finally put into effect Eisenhower's grand plan for the interstate highways.  When the interstate highway system was first envisioned, President Eisenhower, ever a military strategist, demanded that spots would be planned that would accommodate emergency landing of airplanes.  If needed, these roadways could become landing strips for our military all across America.  In rural Kansas, with no airports near when the call to land all planes came, a passenger plane was forced to land on one of the roadways.  Stranded, literally miles from nowhere, the passengers exited the plane.

Surrounded by corn fields as far as the eye could see, on a road that stretched out to the horizon, the passengers were surprised to see a line of cars approaching them.  The little community closest to the landing site was arriving to help.  They ferried the stranded travelers to the local high school where they were soon settled into the gymnasium.  With no restaurant to cater to them, the local "hot casserole" brigade went into action.  Soon women began arriving with hot food, drinks, and comfort.  With no Walmart to run to, they also showed up with anything they could grab to make their unexpected guests comfortable.  Pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, newspapers, magazines, books, radios and even televisions appeared in the gym.

For nearly two days this community fed, comforted, entertained and housed the stranded travelers.  When the buses arrived to take the passengers the 2 1/2 hours back to Wichita, the townspeople were there to send them off with hugs and snacks for the long trip.   Strangers had become friends. 

I love the old saying "every cloud has a silver lining".  Over the years of my life I have seen that even the most tragic of circumstances can have moments of great joy and love.  On this day, let us remember those moments, too.

Aaauugg!! Chiggers

I was rudely yanked back to my childhood when I woke up the other morning with a galloping case of chiggers.  Scratching and muttering I inspected the 8 or 9 red whelps that were itching like crazy.  Chiggers are something that you just learn to live with in the south.  Actually, they are found just about all over the world, except in the very arid, dry areas.  The little buggers thrive in the moist, hot climate in the Southeastern states.  I usually am careful to use a healthy squirt of bug spray when I work in the yard, but never thought about it when we strolled around after the week-end of rain.  Bad decision.

As kids, we seemed to be constantly scratching from mosquitoes or chiggers.  Chiggers, which are actually the larval stage of  a harvest mite, are tiny, almost microscopic little red bugs that cluster on leaves of plants waiting to jump on the food wagon as it passes by.  They will attack about anything with skin, people, dogs, cats, birds, and even turtles.  They then spit out an enzyme that dissolves the skin and they suck that up as their food.  The itching comes from the body's allergic reaction to the spit. 

Back in the old days, when we were kids, our parents were sure that the itching was caused by the insect burrowing into our skin.  To kill the insect they would smother it by painting the spot with nail polish.  If we were lucky, it would be the clear polish kept to stop runners in our mother's stockings, otherwise, we would be liberally painted with the red they kept for their nails.  We would be treated and re-enter the world looking a lot like a red-spotted dog.  It didn't help.  We still itched like crazy.

Years ago I worked with a girl from an urban area.  She thought living in the rural reaches of Kentucky was a never ending carnival.  She and her husband had spent a sunny week-end boating and were on their way home.  They took a break on the way and discovered a large patch of blackberry brambles growing along the edge of the road.  The berries were lush and ripe and in no time Jodi was picking blackberries, filling every container they could scrape up.  The more she picked the more she wanted and had soon waded deep into the brambles.  Flushed, with thoughts of blackberry pie, they rushed home. 

By the next morning she had learned that chiggers love to live in the blackberry bushes.  The itching intensified as did the number of whelps.  In desperation she went to the doctor to get some relief.  The nurse told her to get undressed and put on the hospital gown and she would bring in the doctor.  I guess Jodi missed the twinkle in her eye and the tremor in her lips.  The doctor came in and asked her to show him the spots.  She opened the gown and the doctor burst out laughing.  Trying to control his mirth, he agreed that she did indeed have a terrible case of chiggers.  With a chuckle, he asked if she had enjoyed her swim.  She frowned, "how did you know we were swimming?"

You see, chiggers jump on board then travel until they find something that stops them.  It can be a bend in the elbow or knee, or more likely a strap, waistband, elastic or any constricting clothing.  When they are stopped they chow down. 

Jodi had a perfect bikini outlined in chigger bites.

Marrying Well

All Southern girls are taught from an early age that the most important thing in life is to marry well.  It was often said that girls in the South went to college to earn their M.R.S. degree.  You could say that I have fulfilled my ancestors expectations...I married well.  My hubby is a good provider, successful businessman and farmer, and we live a comfortable, good life.  In short, I have lived the Southern girl's dream.

The truth of the matter is that marriage is a crap shoot.  It's really just a roll of the dice as to whether the good looking guy you have your eye on will turn out to be a man to last a lifetime with or not.  There aren't any guarantees that you'll end up with a happy life of wedded bliss and wealth, or just misery and hard times.  Most likely, your life will be a blend of both.  It's how you manage those times and what you do with your life that determine if you "married well". 

After forty-four years I can attest that nothing about staying married is simple.  There are always times when you really wish you could just chuck it and start over.  Like the miserable time early in our marriage when I had suffered the miscarriage of our first child.  I was despondent and frustrated that hubby couldn't seem to appreciate my heartbreak.  I was too young to realize that no man can appreciate the feeling of bonding that every woman feels the moment she realizes she is carrying a child.  He was bound up in working full time and farming at night and just couldn't figure out why I didn't just get on with my life. 

Everything came to a head when we quarreled once again, over what I have no idea, and I just decided that I didn't want to do this any more. He slammed out of the house to go feed the cattle and I threw myself on the bed to cry some more.  In frustration I decided I would go where someone appreciated my pain...I would go home.  So I packed a bag, threw it in the truck and took off for the 2 1/2 hour trip to my dad's.  (I don't remember making the conscious decision, but taking hubby's new truck probably hurt him more than my leaving!)  I drove with a feeling of righteous indignation imagining how angry and supportive my family would be over my shabby treatment.

I pulled into the driveway and carried my bag into the door.  My dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned, "What have you done to Bob now?" he exclaimed.  Realizing that I wasn't going to get the welcome I expected, I muttered, "Well, I've come home."  "That's a fine thing to do!  Go call him right now and tell him you'll be back tomorrow!" 

I decided right then and there that whatever the problems, I'd solve them in my own house.  If I've got to live with an angry man I'd sure rather it was my husband not my father.   After all, after a fight with your hubby, you can always make up!!

The Redhead and the Gentleman

Hubby and I recently celebrated forty-four years of marriage.  It has set me to thinking about some of the long married couples in our family.  Probably the least likely, long-term marriage was my maternal grandparents.  They stayed married because neither one of them would give in enough to split up.  An unlikely couple, they cared deeply for each other, they just didn't get along that well. 

My grandfather was one of five boys raised by a woman who took to her bed with "poor health" when the youngest was just entering school. From that point on the boys arrived home from school to do the housework and cooking.  All five boys did homework, chores, cooking, and cleaning under the direction of a limp hand from the couch.  They all grew up to be exceptional, gentle men who took their role of caretaker very seriously.  In an age when men took no part in child rearing or housework my grandfather was a caring man always ready to lend a helping hand.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was a petite, fiery red-head.  She was headstrong, impetuous, energetic, and thought nothing of tackling any project.   She loved a challenge and was audacious enough to try anything.  My favorite picture of her is one taken with one foot propped up on a dining room chair, dressed in knee pants, suspenders and a flat cap.  She had wanted to see what a pool room was like so talked some male friends into taking her to one dressed as a boy. 

I can see that the attraction would be immediate.  To my grandfather this red-headed bundle of energy must have seemed as exotic as a jungle bird.  She not only embraced life she flew at it with a fury.  The exact opposite of the ailing woman he had been raised by.  To my grandmother, the steady, handsome man with the quiet dark eyes was the image of every girl's dream.  She was just barely sixteen when they married. 

Opposites do attract, but they make strange room-mates.  Their marriage was full of frustrations and confusions.  He loved his peaceful yard and ordered household.  She loved excitement and change.  Supremely capable, she would tackle any project.  The couch was boring, upholster it.  The bedroom dull, paint it.  The curtains drab, make new ones.  He never knew when he left for work what he could expect when he came home.  Murder or compromise was inevitable.  They chose compromise.

She could do anything to the house, but she couldn't touch his chair or side table.  She could stay up with friends as long as she wanted, but he would go to bed.  He wanted lunch at 12:05, followed by the news at 12:30, returning to work at 12:55.  The rest of the day was hers.  The meticulous yard was his domain, but he allowed flowers on one end of the space set aside for his tomato plants.  His side was ordered and regimented, hers was a riot of color, overflowing the borders.

Their marriage bumped along in it's own erratic way for 48 years.  It may not have been picture perfect but it certainly wasn't dull.  They would butt heads and yell, then reach a compromise that would let the ship keep sailing along.  When my grandfather died of a ruptured aorta, the fiery little red-head found that life was incredibly dull without the steady, quiet man to tease and torment.  The flame flickered on for a few more years, but soon died out without the breeze of dissension to keep it alive.

As my grandfather said, "Splitting up is impossible. That woman is just too damn bull headed to ever admit she was wrong about anything!"

Things Learned at 100 Degrees

This July proved to be the hottest on record for Kentucky.  We had ten (plus) days that the temperature soared to over a hundred degrees.  However, as we suffered along in the heat, we learned a few things.

Rain smells delicious even when it's on your neighbor's field.

Rainbows can happen without a drop of rain hitting the ground.

If you hang clothes out on the line at 100 degrees they will dry before the next load is finished washing.  Dryers will take a lot longer!

Air conditioned cab tractors take a load of stress off of farm wives.
     Over the years I have treated a lot of sunburns from cutting hay in the heat, not to mention the worry of whether they will get heat stoke from riding around with no cover.  Countless times I have stood in the hayfield with a cooler of water or lemonade, making them stop and take a break.  Each summer I would stock the tractors with bottles of sunscreen, so there were no excuses not to use it.  Yep, these fancy air conditioned cab tractors cost a lot, but they are worth it from my standpoint.  (Plus, the grandkids can ride safely in their "buddy seat")

Kids just don't feel the heat like us old people.  They will run and play when we are wilted down.

There still isn't anything more fun than playing with an umbrella during a summer shower.

Grass will manage to green up before the raindrops dry on the blades.

The bugs in the garden didn't like the heat any more than we did.  I had cucumbers and squash longer than I can ever remember.  The striped cucumber beetle that spreads the fungus that wilts all the vines didn't make his appearance until way late.  Smart bug.  Of course, the bees and butterflies that help to pollinate the beans weren't as active either, so the bean crop is lighter.

A water hose can't be beat for entertainment on a hot summer afternoon.

Everything is relevant, 90 degrees can actually sound cool.

Daylight Savings Time has eliminated the summer evening activities that we knew. 
    Back in the day, work ended at dusk, but that was still a couple of hours before bedtime.  So on hot evenings folks would sit on the porch, catch up on the day, snap a bean or two, watch the kids catch lightning bugs, or referee a game of hide and seek or kick the can.  With daylight saving time, dusk comes at bedtime, if not after.   Most kids don't even see lightning bugs because they are already in the house getting ready for bed when they come out.  Games of hide and seek and kick the can, are best played after dark, but most kids can't stay up that late to play.  The adults tend to work until dark, then we are exhausted and just fall into bed.  I hate daylight savings time, even though it is the savior of the part-time farmer.  Hubby can get home at 5 pm and manage to get in five hours on the farm every night.  It helps him get his work done, but it sure makes a tired hubby.

It's been a long, hot summer--and certainly educational.

The Fishing Hole

Spending time with grandparents creates memories that will last a lifetime.  Unfortunately, sometimes you wish they wouldn't last quite so long.

The grandsons have discovered the lure of the creek.  There is something about the cool, shady running water that draws kids like a magnet.  Our little creek, which sometimes dries up in drought times, has run happily all summer thanks to a big lake that was built upstream.  The lake, which is large and beautiful, leaks, which keeps a steady flow of water trickling into the creek bed.    Our son has helped this along, since the neighbor has allowed him to open the dam a little when he needs to water tobacco.  Thank you good neighbor!  Along with the water has come a steady trickle of fish, some big enough to catch.

They have been setting a minnow trap for some time to put fish in our little pond behind the barn.  Now, they have added the excitement of fishing to their trips to check the minnow trap.  One hot day, they talked their grandfather into accompanying them on their trip.  The three boys and hubby set off happily with fishing rods over their shoulders.  (Think Opie and Andy here times three)

First order of business was to check the minnow trap and rebait it with some bread pilfered from my kitchen.  The minnows were transferred to a minnow bucket and placed in the shallows for later.  Thank goodness, no snakes had joined the minnows this time.  Then they decided on which spot they would use for their fishing.  A good shady hole was found and they begin to get their poles ready. 

Now anyone who has ever fished with a four year old and a six year old, knows that the only fishing done will be by them.  Your job as supervising adult is to bait hooks, remove fish (hopefully), untangle lines, and keep the little ones from hooking you or each other.   Believe me it's a full time job.  Which is why I volunteered to stay at the house and the fourteen old removed himself up the creek.

Hubby had things pretty much under control when the six year old hooked a branch in a wild cast.  With a sigh of resignation, hubby began to tug on the line hoping to loosen the hook.  He walked his way and that up and down the bank trying to dislodge the tangled line. No luck.  He decided that he could work it loose if he changed the angle of attack, so he stepped onto a rock just out from the creek bank.  It was working...just one more little tug.  The rock shifted and the inevitable happened.  Hubby went ass over teakettle into the creek.  Naturally, the boys thought it was hysterically funny.  Hubby didn't.  I suspect their vocabulary grew with a few more words that will cause their teachers to write notes home.

Dignity injured but otherwise unhurt, hubby declared the fishing trip ended.  When they arrived at the back porch hubby looked a lot like I'm used to seeing the boys, muddy from head to toe and water squishing out of his shoes.  He started for the house, but I was ready for him.  "Not on your life, bud."  I laughed.  "You get to change outside just like the little boys do."  Looking down at his muddy clothes he shook his head and started stripping. 

Boy, it's a good thing we live in the country!

Raising Kids

This morning I read an article on "helicopter parents".  That is, parents that hover over and around their children, solving every problem, providing every reminder, supplying accolades and criticism, well into adulthood.  It reminded me that with the job of parenting there are no text books, strict rules, or perfect answers.  We all do the best we can and pray that somehow we manage to raise children that aren't too warped.  We certainly didn't do everything perfectly (especially in our kids eyes) but one thing we did do was enjoy the process and have fun.

We tried to prepare our children for the fact that when they left home they would be on their own.  We didn't have cell phones for constant texting and calling, but they knew that we would always answer the land line if they called.  This being said, there were lots in our family that thought I would probably go to college with my daughter.  We were close with both our children, but my son, being more like me, was also more likely to butt heads with me.  He also knew all the right buttons to push to make me go ballistic, and delighted in watching the show.   My daughter, being more like my husband, knew exactly how to get what she wanted by being extra nice, by the age of two.

As she grew older, she developed a charming personality, quick laugh, wicked sense of humor and was direct to a fault.  She became my favorite shopping companion because she was the only one who would walk off and leave me in a sea of purses examining every pocket, zipper, size and color for the "perfect one".  Knowing, full well, that at the end of my wallowing, I would probably talk myself out of buying one.  She also understood my compulsion to try on twenty things to find one that "fit".  (She on the other hand buys by style because they all fit perfectly!)

After her wreck, I became the one who sat with her through hours of daytime television--a true test of motherly devotion--while she healed and regained her independence.  When she returned to college that fall, hubby was pretty sure I would sleep by her bed, like a faithful dog.  Not me--I knew she would kick me out like a smelly old hound. 

The problem with raising independent children is that they want to be independent!  That doesn't mean that they don't want your approval, love, support and cheers, but they want to live life on their own.  It isn't an easy process but it is rewarding.  All we can do as parents is stand back and be ready to encourage and console.  The good news is that, as I've told my kids, "When you are 75 and I'm 99, I will still be your mom and can tell you what I think you should do!"  Maybe they'll listen then.

The Old Yellow Tom

Sometimes in spite of yourself you find an attachment growing with the most unlikely animals.

Several months ago we discovered an addition to the barn cats.  It wasn't hard to spot since all my cats are black and white.  We would notice a flash of orange flitter through the rafters or see a whiskered face peeking out of a pile of buckets.  I wasn't too impressed since I figured it would be a female cat that would promptly produce a litter of kittens.  I long since had decided that the cost of spaying and neutering cats was less than feeding litter after litter of kittens.  My barn cats now consist of four neutered toms, which suits me fine.  Hubby just shrugged and put out a little more cat food.

Soon the oldest grandson had gotten into the mix.  He began a campaign to entice the animal out and tame it.  He would patiently wait by the feed pan until the cat would begin to creep closer and closer.  Soon the cat became accustomed to the boy and would wait until the other cats had finished and slither into the feed room.  After a while he would come out from behind the feed sacks and approach the cat food.  It wasn't long after that he announced that I didn't have to worry about kittens since this was a "gen-u-wine" tom cat! 

His battle worn appearance indicated that the old tom had obviously survived his share of barn confrontations.  I wondered if there would be fights between my docile old toms and this newcomer.  I didn't have to worry.  They didn't like him but they did give him lots of space.  A wary sort of truce was declared between him and the rest of the residents. 

Little by little the old yellow tom became a fixture in the barn.  After a while he quit sprinting away when anyone approached, instead he would just slide out of reach.  With unbelievable patience the grandson cultivated a friendship with the battle scared old cat.  Before long he could slowly reach out a hand and scratch him gently between the ears.  His efforts were rewarded with a rusty grumble that he slowly realized was a purr of contentment.  There the friendship stopped.  Any move to come closer resulted in the old tom removing himself out of reach.

One day the grandson came galloping up from the barn with the news that the old tom was hurt.  "Come quick, we've got to do something!"  I followed him back to the barn and surveyed the problem.  The old cat was certainly chewed up.  It looked like something had grabbed him across the back and he had escaped but with a substantial wound.  The problem was, how do you catch him and stuff him in a crate to take to the vet.  Then who is going to stick their hand in the crate to get him out.  He wasn't that hurt!  I shook my head and told my grandson that it was up to nature now.  He would either get better or not, but there wasn't much we could do about it.  Privately, I thought my cat problem would be solved in a few days.

Against all odds the old tom didn't die.  His wounds looked nasty and he got thinner and thinner but he just kept hanging around.  After a week or so we noticed that he had a toe that was swollen but he seemed to walk o.k.  Time passed and his back would heal up, then break open again.  His toe got bigger and bigger.  He got thinner and thinner.  Still the old guy just kept on living.

Sometime during this he decided to move to the back porch with the cat we call the "yard cat" since he prefers the yard and porch to the barn.  The two old cats would lay around on the porch and wait for the dog to be fed.  At that point they would snack on his food until he finally would woof them back to their lounging spots.  Weeks passed and his condition seemed to improve but little.  He's still thin and scrawny looking, his toe is still enormous, but his ability to endure is awe inspiring. 

What has changed has been our attitude toward him.  What started as an attitude of "maybe he'll just die" has slowly become "maybe he won't!"  I've even started to try to pet him, which he tolerates for about 2 seconds then he moves away.   His defiance of all the odds has brought about a grudging admiration of his grit.  Ugly or not, I guess he's now our cat.