Several years ago, upon my return to full time teaching after a season of subbing, our children stepped ascended further up the chore ranks: they each received a laundry detail promotion to second in command. (Formerly, their roles had been third-or-fourth-in-line-apprenticeships at best.)
They’d been helping for a long time by then; they’d just never reached that pinnacle position: clothes sorting.
It is an art. A responsibility. A really scary task for a parent to relinquish to teenagers.
No one is perfect. We wore pink things for a long time when my dad caved to the temptation to wash a maroon sweatshirt with a white load. I had a sweater for a puggle after my brand-new-to-my-laundry husband washed my favorite wool. Me? I’ve had more goofs than can be counted: bleeding colors, ink, gum, extra pocket change. . .(Oops, that last goof is not mine—and in laundry, it’s finders keepers. Unless the money folds—then a reasonable attempt is generally made to find the owner. Unless the owner is married to me. Sorry, Honey.)
As we know, sorting the clothes usually includes checking the pockets and trying to unify the colors. Omitting one step of the separation may lead to washday mayhem.
To avert the madness—and, in this case probably, mad-ness (aka you washed my stuff wrong!)—I prepared a list. Divided into columns for clothing types and colors, wash cycle, and water temperature, this document was taped inside the cupboard door directly above the washing machine. It was there for years—I think we took it down when we sold the house. If not, I hope the new folks like it.
It worked. So well, in fact, that our first child asked for a copy to take to college. I’m not certain, but I think it was shared with others. It wasn’t all-inclusive nor was it an indicator of the way the world sorts clothing and launders. It was probably, at most, a peek at how my folks approached the reality and the trickle down effect of what I’d discovered worked for us.
Wrinkly cottons, polyester double-knits, no-iron cottons—a parade of the washable fabrics of life.
Rocks in a stream, washboards, wringer-washing machines, pants stretchers (those metal frames that creased trousers), sprinkling-freezing-ironing, automatic washers and dryers—a procession of laundry innovations designed to ease the doing of a necessary job.
And when it’s one or the other, clearly blue or yellow, it’s easy. But when it comes to delineating along the lines, to the sorting, of the mixed-up apparel of our lives: every color of purple adorned with a not-purple adornments, mostly green accompanied by vying-for-dominance orange, denim dressed up with lace trim. . .things get a little hazy. We halt and wonder what to do.
When we get down to the brass tacks, to the everyday choosing, to the right or the wrong way to do it, we’re on our own.
Somebody should come up with a list.
It was time.
The front-heavy accumulation of Christmas lights, winter survival gear, old school/teacher boxes, and stuff-in-general needed rearranging.
Badly.
When it was too cold outside, it would have been foolish to consider unstacking (which is not, according to any source I found, a word) and restacking boxes—and crazy to entertain actually opening them to see what’s inside. Now? Well, since the cold ship seems to have sailed, it seems the only obstacle to cleaning the garage was me.
I think it should be I instead of me. . .
OK.
I was the obstacle.
And, leaping over that obstacle yesterday, I tinkered around (which appropriately, according to one source, means “to make small changes in”). It was hot in there.
By the time my challenge-yourself-to-start hour was spent an hour-and-a-half later, I’d broken down five boxes whose contents I’d consolidated, generated two cartons to donate, packed three bags to the dumpster, drained my water bottle, and called my daughter to “please bring down my purse so I don’t have to climb the stairs.” Those donation boxes were leaving, pronto—before sentimentality or practicality might think to retrieve a treasure or two.
As the flush of my cheeks surpassed the pink-beneath-the-dust of my shirt, I cranked the air-conditioning in the car.
In that moment, I was grateful. Blessed to have more than I need for the day: material goods; an old, paid-for car with good air; clean water; a daughter with a willing heart, whose legs are younger than mine. . .
(If you’re wondering why she wasn’t helping in the garage: she’d just gotten home from work. . .and [shhhh] I threw out some of her stuff!)
(And while we’re taking an aside anyway: did you know macmillandictionary.com defines everyday as “very common or completely normal, and often not very interesting"?)
Even with yesterday’s everyday effort (using whichever part of the definition you prefer), the garage reminds me of a chef’s salad (you know; you eat and eat and eat. . .and there’s still more salad?). We can’t just push the piles of stuff to the back shelves and hope it goes away. (We could, but it won't.) The next time I “clean” the results may be the same: I’ll unstack, open, restack, purge—and there will still be more to do. Sometime within those bursts of making small changes, though, there will come the turning point when clutter is exchanged for order.
I can’t wait.
It’s no secret: I like cake. There is a chance it is even less of a secret now, I suppose.
Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, birthdays—as my siblings and I were growing up, all of these became occasions for cake.
Birthdays? Traditionally birthdays included the honoree’s choice of both cake flavor and frosting.
Those parent days? Well, those days usually meant: We love you. We hope you love your cake!
Translation: the folks were left to the whims of the children and their advisor, Betty Crocker.
Father’s Day meant spice cake with penuche frosting and chocolate chips spelling out “DAD” so all would know it was his day. (We’ll catch up with fathers later in June. . .)
In May:
Mother’s Day might have been the catalyst for the huge heart-shaped, pink frosted confection with little red cinnamon candies doing the “MOM” and border honors.
(Should I mention that none of us really liked the sold-in-packages-of-a-million cinnamon red hots? Note: it doesn’t take very many to spell Mom—even in all capital letters!)
(And why on earth did we edge the whole cake? That one’s easy—it was the way it was in the picture!)
With the innovation of canned frosting with little decorator tips came detailing through multi-colored swirls, green leaves, and a garden of uniform rainbow-hued flowers—after Too-big and Too-small had been scraped off with a toothpick. Lots of flowers. . .and leaves and swirls. A lopsided-layered, frosted delight. . .
One year—white cake, lemon filling, fluffy frosting topped with coconut—we might actually have made a favorite:
Maybe.
Those were the days of “Don’t come in here!” As if, by sheer willpower, we could keep anyone out of the kitchen, as if astute adults would not know something was up. As if the inviting smell of freshly baked cake coupled with the fact that Mom or Dad or both had been on the shopping trip to actually buy the ingredients wouldn’t give us away.
But we didn’t think of that, not really.
Instead, we annually conspired to pay sweet, innocent tribute to someone we loved.
Once in a while, Mom would surprise us kids with chocolate cake after school. It would still be warm when we’d burst through the door; she served it with real whipped cream.
Yum.
An indulgence to suspend our everyday schemes. . .because that’s what Moms do.
“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
Really?
It seems, in the throes of a crisis, the tough may already be gone. Then it’s up to the rest of us.
We don’t really know, do we, what internal fortitude life will require of us as the page of a new day turns. Until disaster appears, we may fear that stiff upper lips and backbones of steel may have been omitted from our blueprints.
My dad used to spout cute witticisms concerning acquired physical attributes: “When they were handing out noses, she thought they said ‘roses,’ and she said ‘I’ll take a big red one,’” or “When they were handing out brains, he thought they said ‘pains,’ and he said ‘I don’t want any.’”
His jokes were met with giggles, no matter how many times we heard them.
But joking and rhyming aside:
When they were handing out courage, did we say: “Yes, please: enough to be brave in hard times. But not so much as to lose belief in, and reliance on, the loving-hearted ability of others to help.”
When they were handing out grit, that intangible resilience in life’s uncertainties, did we say, “Yes” to the substance that stings so badly as it scours through the mess but whose polishing effects can offer an ultimate look back, a reflection of a less-than-everyday victory.
The evidence that we made it. . .
Our job was to learn. We were expected to study, and study we did. In solitary pursuit of the products, I remember pulling out the yellow stepstool on the porch, sitting aloft with my feet on the top step, and drilling—over and over. And over. It worked—sometimes I think perhaps too well, as the instant recall occasionally stops me short:
56.
Wait, is that right?
Oh, yes, it is. 8 x 7. . .56.
Final answer.
I can summon to mind a different wintry day, too, a day when I boarded Bus #13 at the high school for the morning transfer-commute to my elementary school. I searched among the booted feet in front of me and met the horrific realization that it was true: my carefully printed “times” flashcards were now manila-colored shreds on the bus floor. Dirty, soggy shreds, at that. Any hope that they had been left in my desk vanished. Perhaps no one else knew what those itty-bitty pieces of paper once were, but I did.
I should have put them in my red plaid school bag. . .or had I? Had I latched it?
Trust in what my teacher had told us at the beginning of our multiplication quest propelled me into the classroom that morning. And true to her word, without reproach, I was given an original list (or set) and a stack of blank, 3”x 6”manila paper.
Over the years, I've occasionally told the story of the flashcards, of my actions and of my teacher’s response.
I think the children have understood, at least for a season. Not every blunder requires discussion; not every miscue demands overt correction. Sometimes it’s harder, here in grown-up land; often, we easily forget (and less patiently remember) that miscalculations—our own and those of others—generally preface some future success.
This acquired doctrine, this notion that life can move fast-forward post-mistake—kids liked knowing the wisdom had come from my own third grade teacher. They could comprehend the ultimate relief in the act of quickly coming clean and owning responsibility as well as the mutual and respectful acceptance of human error.
A story of everyday basic facts. . .
Someone is mowing the lawn of our apartment complex today. The aroma of the freshly mown grass is sweet—both to my nose and my soul.
4th grade: a year of itchy wool skirts and plaid cotton. And the spring day they mowed the school’s lawn. The windows were open. I listened to the rise and fade of the motor’s roar, to the closing gaps in sound surges as the operator neared the finish. The scent of newness worked its way across the room to me. Is it a wonder I remember this and not the lessons of the day?
When I was old enough, mowing the lawn became one of my chores. I loved it. (Those were the days when a lawnmower was a lawnmower, not a lawn tractor—and ours was a riding lawnmower.) Admittedly, it was a bit scary at first, for there were those pesky gears to shift and plenty of obstacles to miss. Gradually, I became more adept at maneuvering corners and tricky tree trunks—and the occasional low, overhanging branch of an apple tree. Eventually, I’d lose myself in the job and sing—unless the wind was blowing from the wrong direction (then I’d hum). I wonder what those folks driving by on the highway thought as they spotted a teenager zipping along with her mouth wide open.
I can still see Mom’s face when she saw me see her: smack-dab in front of the mower. She’d been calling me for dinner (the noon meal on the farm. . .), and I’d been so lost in my song and the drone of the engine that I hadn’t heard her at all. We laughed about it; I think it was not long after that she asked me to sing while we did the dishes. She washed; I dried.
Our neighbor, Mrs. K., used to fret a bit as she’d watch the young-mother me mow our lawn some evenings as my husband watched our toddler-aged son. I’d assure her, each time, that I relished the job—push mower and all. After we traded our bargain-rate red mower (the one I could start) for the silver monster (the one that I couldn’t start—unless I ran it downhill as I pulled the rope), we began to train our children in the art of lawn mowing. I still took my turn, but our son had to start it. Mrs. K. was gone by then. She may have clucked a bit about a mom mowing while her son watched. . .but, in his defense, he ran a mean string-trimmer.
There was a reading shared in our church several years ago. It detailed some of the humorous futility we human beings generate through our lawn mowing and weed-eating. And it is a bit of a vicious circle: we cut grass, only to have it grow; we dig it out of some places and plant it in others.
We may not see eye-to-eye on the when-where-why-and-how of maintaining the lawns of this world. Hopefully, our purpose in tending our patch of earth reaches beyond vanity and/or keeping up with the neighbors. In, and aside from, the everyday task of manicuring the grass, what’s the big to-do? Maybe it’s this: when we take care of things, we nourish a part of ourselves.
We allow our souls to sing.
So many life lessons, so little time.
Today’s overriding thought has been this: never stand on a folding chair.
Unless you need to.
Many of us have, I imagine. With the objective of completing our task in sight, we look past the obvious danger. Often, the chair that bends is the only item available to lift us to the height of accomplishment. Rarely does climbing aboard the jointed apparatus involve an audience; if others are present, one of two things happens
How often do we venture forward even when we see the risk?
When I think about those folding chairs, I can honestly say I’ve never had one buckle beneath me when I’ve resorted to using one as a substitute stepladder. Part of the success of the solo missions, I suspect, is that I make sure to plant my feet firmly; there’s no room for timidity. When the counterweight help of another provides a trusty foundation, there is a different kind of confidence—at least someone will be there to pick me up if this bad idea goes awry.
Continually, we meet the everyday inevitable fact that things we do may succeed or fail. Some days, we need to reach, to stretch the perceived limitations of our abilities. Alone or together, we’ll see what happens.
A traffic concept for which I am newly grateful is that of wait time. This is not what it sounds like; it has nothing to do with traffic jams and/or bottlenecked commutes. For those who may not have received this life saving information, wait time is this: when oncoming traffic has a protected left-hand turn—guarded by the little green arrow—and the signal has changed to a full circle green for you naturally indicating (since the beginning of time) that it’s your turn to go. . .
DON’T.
Wait.
Because the three cars behind the one that just went through the now-red turn arrow still have their turns! (The number three is not necessarily accurate: I’ve watched as few as zero and as many as five slink guiltily through. I think the number averages out.)
At times, I find myself enacting an animated pantomime of warning to the cars in front:
I know they’ve got a red and we’ve got a green, but that fourth one’s gonna go, trust me. Wait! It’s gonna go. . .
And sure enough.
We all have lapses, seconds in which we do something we might not ordinarily do. We hurry; we rush. We can’t be late—but sometimes life makes it hard to be early.
Those of us who studied and practiced to ultimately become drivers were required to know lots of things—like how many feet to park from a fire hydrant and that the “Hill” sign was to indicate you’d be soon be going down a hill (As any up hill would be abundantly clear without a sign—at least that’s what they told me after I got that test question wrong! Have you driven in northwestern Minnesota? If not, think no hills! I rest my case.)
At the forefront of Automobile Operation 101 was the expectation of a rudimentary grasp of traffic signs and signals.
When codes that we have collectively recognized as being beneficial begin to bend and even those uncomplicated principles of red-for-stop and green-for-go start to erode, what are the consequences for everyday life?
Our son began his college studies at a large university in a major metropolitan area where the population dwarfed that of his home state (by millions). With the irresistible novelty of a big city adventure came the hustle, bustle. . .and brightness. During a trip home, his lament was simple: “I never see the stars.”
Nature’s light aside for a moment:
There seems a striking lack of darkness in the middle of the night.
The blaze from the streetlights peeks through the blinds no matter which way the wand has directed the slats to slant. From the kitchen, the microwave’s dial projects a blue phantom on a wall an entire room away; the coffeemaker’s beams fight to embellish the wall above the sink. The office (aka college child’s room) is reminiscent of a theater’s marquee, as the beacons from the telephone and computer scroll through the night. In another bedroom, the alarm clock radiates red while the drown-out-the-noise machine flickers green; it’s a veritable slumber stop-and-go.
Even the dormant TV in the living room displays its tiny blue blush. (So we can locate it in the dark? Even if we do walk up and touch it, we can’t turn it on without the remote that doesn’t glow in the dark—until we touch it.)
Darkness is a phenomenon some may never experience, those born to live and die in cities with no shortage of light bulbs. Perhaps we’ve seen the darkened map of our earth highlighted with the bright population pockets whose webs seem ever expanding, spanning to connect the continents. It’s no wonder the stars struggle in competition.
Is it that we have figured out how not to be afraid of the dark?
Wouldn’t it be better if we figured out that we don’t need to be?
Most of us welcome some twinkle in the darkness, something to show the way.
But how many will miss the everyday beauty of the dark in the middle of the night?
“It’s cold; throw on a ___.”
Sweater.
Sweatshirt.
Years ago, I tried to help our children distinguish between the two. “Knitted, like a mitten” and “Not knitted like a mitten” didn’t seem to cut it.
So now, long after they’ve reached the age of warm-clothing-self-selection, I thought I'd trip through what I might have told them regarding these clothing options.
1. Sweater
A sweater is “like a mitten” if your mittens are knitted. (Some are not. Knitted. Mittens, that is. Many are fabric-covered fiberfill. When washed, that fluff becomes a knotted ball that needs to be kneaded back into place, never to be the same. Sort of like washed sweaters. . .) Sweaters may be pullovers; they may have buttons. A sweater might have a hood and/or a zipper. They may have pompon ties depending upon the decade. They are not usually found in the sports’ apparel department.
But, back to knitted: sweaters are knitted (though more likely cast off by a machine than by Grandma). But knitted. Period.
2. Sweatshirt
A sweatshirt is not like a mitten. Sweatshirts are fabric, smooshed-together-somehow fabric. (Just not knitted!) Sweatshirts may be pullovers; they don't usually have buttons. Sweatshirts often have hoods with strings, most with half-strings (meaning that the other half is inside the casing—usually after washing. Remember that part about never to be the same?) Sweatshirts (usually with hoods) may have a zipper. They are often found in the sports’ apparel department, just not in your size or color choice.
Unlike many sweaters, most sweatshirts are machine washable and dryer safe (with the possible exception that involves the aforementioned risk of the disappearing string).
Now, just for fun, let’s add: sweat.
We usually put on a sweater or sweatshirt in anticipation of temperatures that warrant their wear—or because some authority figure in our life is cold. For many, it’s an everyday occurrence: running cold or running hot. (Even if we're not running at all.) Bottom line: when we are healthy and get too hot, we sweat. (Even if we're wearing the sweater and not the sweatshirt.)
And when we realize—if we decided to wear it and found we don't need it—that it is socially acceptable to remove it, we then discover that our sweater or sweatshirt has morphed into. . .a jacket!
Just for fun.
Miss Kay from the Romper Room television program would look through her magic mirror (supposedly focused on all the boys and girls in viewing-land) and announce: "I see (someone).“ She would list children by name. I always wondered how she saw everyone.
OK. I also wondered why she never saw me.
And I used to wait. And wait. I don’t think she ever said my first name.
It is amazing how much I learned about the program in a quick electronic search. I don’t remember most of anything chronicled online—except that name part.
About the time the TV show was popular with my peer group, many of us received ID bracelets. The particulars of their distribution are forgotten. I still have the small, chain-link bracelet in an old jewelry box (along with little pins and awards from 4-H, speech, and music—little trinkets given when someone called my name). The tiny, used-to-fit-a-six-year-old bracelet lists an address, telephone number, and (on the back) the name of a medical clinic. It also includes a name.
The everyday power of simple identification. . .
It’s an extraordinary gift, isn’t it, when someone sees us—and calls us by name?
There’s a greeting card for everything!
Perusing the racks of folded cardboard—printed with messages ranging from the genuinely sincere to the really sarcastic (and some, borderline offensive)—has led to this conclusion: if it needs to be said, there’s a card that can!
I’m nearly convinced.
To be sure, there are notes that truly represent the thoughts we want to convey. Some of those smart designs evoke tears or giggles or both. The inscriptions extend blessing or accolade or sympathy; they impart apology, regret, or the declaration of love (or genuine like). (Sometimes set to music!) Some pass on wisdom or insight; others promote courage or healing. (Still others carry the need for additional postage!)
It’s just a guess, but perhaps you, too, have found yourself lost in the quest, looking for just the right language. Knowing, once they’re out there, those words can’t be taken back. Wondering if the one who reads them will discern our objective—as we reject the impulse to add: “I picked this for you! Do you get it?”
(Or do we choose the card for ourselves?)
Whether a classroom Valentine or a more recent remembrance, hopefully we all are familiar with the delight of holding an envelope addressed in the handwriting of one who holds us in esteem. As recipients, we understand the finding, the joy of coming across something we didn’t know to look for.
Whether it’s because our everyday expressions fail or simply because it’s a special occasion, there are times when we rely on some other gifted person’s talent, on one who has captured and capitalized some of life’s universal essence. As senders, we understand the seeking, the deliberate inclusion or exclusion of the finalists—until only one card remains. The one we buy.
The one we send.
My daughter is home—and I want to spend time with her.
Perhaps one of the most dismaying attitudes I ever hear expressed is the one where parents relegate their grown children, when they seem to sincerely pass off the time they spend with them as compulsory. A dirge of duty: the love to see ‘em come, love to see ‘em go point of view.
As concerns the see ‘em come: yes, I do love to.
And as concerns the see ‘em go: no, I don’t love to.
I can sometimes appreciate this juxtaposed sentiment regarding the influx and exodus of offspring, and I have even murmured vague agreement with it. It’s my hope that what it boils down to is nothing more than our appreciation for the new routines we’ve created since they’ve moved on—and our innate tendency, as human beings, to like things the way we like them.
As my bio indicates, my husband and I are empty nesters. We became such by design and natural progression. Somehow, sometime our two kids left: with the gift and freedom of autonomy—and of their own accord.
And they return the same way.
When they leave after a visit, there comes a sweep of melancholy—that reaction that occurs when loved ones leave or when we leave them. Admittedly, it usually doesn’t last long, that loneliness. Life has a way of slipping back into familiar patterns, of healing grief through memories and everyday busyness, of simultaneously feeding and soothing the expectation of future homecomings.
And joy moves in to stay: born of the remembrance of what once was, the recognition of what is, and the anticipation of what will be.
This weekend, many in the world pause to remember a son, one to spend time with. One who left—and came back.
Of his own accord.
If they charged admission at the door, sold tickets in advance, insisted upon compensation for recollection . . .
We’d be in trouble.
My husband and I spent a good portion of this past Saturday poking around one of our favorite antique stores.
Fortunately for us, unfortunately for the vendors: we buy very little.
These stores have become an alternative to amassing too much stuff; we can vicariously enjoy all that our hearts might whimsically desire without the responsibilities of displaying and dusting.
Who knew:
Though most outings to the old-things stores find us refraining from purchasing, we did buy a Sears catalog a couple of years ago.
From the year I was born.
It is pure nostalgia; with it came a certain longing to see more clearly, to understand more effectively, the time of my commencement. That, and we like looking at the stuff.
Once upon a time, you could order a pet monkey.
Who knew?
One day, some artifact digger may snatch up a caricatured picture of a 17-year-old stranger (whose younger self used to read Whitman Novels for Girls) drawn in 1976 New Orleans or a lavender-scented batik sachet from Cousin Mary-Anne. There are things in existence today that could conceivably mean something to someone someday. The snag arrives in assessing the value, the junk and treasure conundrum.
Ultimately, I suppose, it’s a job best left to the experts, this valuation of collectibles.
And what of us with an untrained eye for antiquity? We live, like so many others before us: blind to the inestimable worth of all that we accumulate. And, if we’re very lucky, what we leave behind for others to see may be the mere glimpse of our everyday selves.
“Yeah, Mom wants to know if you want to ride ahead with me and she’ll drive your car.”
“When’s the last time Mom drove a stick?”
During a recent trip down I-94, my daughter proposed: she and her brother would hasten down the road in my little turquoise model (also called teal or blue-green, depending); my daughter-in-law and I would toddle along behind in his little black car (only called black, anywhere). Apparently my car goes faster because, though they left before us, my daughter and I had passed son-and-spouse within a half hour of the city limits. And two of us had places to be. . .
(Now, if two cars leave the station. . .Never mind.)
That little black car is a five-speed.
The last any-speed I drove was a three-speed. I guess. I’m taking my husband’s word for that because I honestly don’t remember. (It was silver.) The almost-two-decade gap in my non-automatic history must have troubled my boy a bit, but my credentials trump those of my D-in-L who owns no stick shift driving record whatsoever. And, as the prospect of promptly arriving at the destination prevailed, we pulled off at the next exit. It was, of course, an uphill climb.
The two n’er-be-lates left—which left me in the driver’s seat of good ol’ it’s-like-riding-a-bike (aka little black car). Son had given me an abbreviated review of gear shifting—and I’ll publicly tell him now what his wife has always known: I didn’t quite catch those instructions! Thankfully, my offspring had driven away before I started the car on the side of the hill, shifted into first (I think), and promptly killed the engine.
Oh, yeah. Disengage the parking brake.
Other than a few yards when we think I may have shifted into third instead of fifth, the trip was without incident. Unless you count the rest stop debacle—when rolling back onto the Interstate or revving up a tree became the viable options. . .
Later at home, merely for fun, I asked: “Just checking, fifth gear is only for really big hills, right?”
Alas, according to my male kid, I’d passed his sister somewhere doing around 75; the motor was neither smoking nor squealing. My attempt to ruffle his feathers failed. Ratted out by a smooth engine and my heavy foot.
Shifting gears. We do it every day. But are we automatics or manuals? Do we sail through the day (with the occasional need to shift into reverse), or do we rely on the whine of the engine to advise us when to switch? On the everyday highways of our everyday lives, how intentional is the pace of the journey?
There is a lone Girl Scout peanut butter cookie on the counter, carefully protected by its twisted wrapper that is still as long as the original cookie-sleeve it once encased. (Note: the box is gone; it has the nutrition facts on the side. We don’t want to know those—at least after the first read.)
It looks rather silly.
Aging as we speak, though well preserved (I’m fairly sure), that cookie serves as a reminder, a tribute, and a pain (in whatever place you reserve for such pains—I prefer the neck).
It’s a reminder: there are several in our home who enjoy cookies—if we didn’t there wouldn’t be just one left! The companion treats have been scarfed down in troupes of one or several, leaving behind that sole survivor. Ah, so many boxes, pans, packages, and bags of delectable goodies enjoyed with the exception of that single left-behind. . .there have been plenty throughout history, those solitary mementos of bygone treats.
(What, some crumbs blocked our noses and we couldn’t inhale just one more?)
It’s a tribute: a love offering to the next person who comes along hankering after something sweet. A little gift that lets a family member know: I thought of you. The trouble is that the you is never exactly identified. Therefore, everyone thinks that someone is leaving that blinking cookie for somebody else!
(Spawned by caring and unselfish people, it’s a beautiful gesture—that drives one crazy!)
It’s a pain: I’ve lost count of how many dried-up, dust-covered, not-usually-moldy remnants of something-that-used-to-be-good I’ve thrown away. Of course, the item isn’t actually thrown out until it’s been relocated numerous times.
(Did I say numerous? Yes, far more than many. Because, you know: someone might want it.)
As a family, we’ve pushed past the notion that not eating the last one of anything is in any way related to laziness. It’s nothing to do with not wanting to discard the packaging (which may tip the garbage in the direction of needing to be taken out) or with the avoidance of washing the pan (it’s called a dishwasher). Nor does there seem to be an association with the notion that only-selfish-people-eat-the-last-one (because they don’t; sometimes they’re just hungry).
(But evidently not hungry enough to eat that last cookie. Somebody? Anybody?)
In the fluff and frivolity of this cookie romp, is there something more? Maybe. In something as everyday as an itty-bitty cookie, might there be a reminder that it is enough? We have had, and continue to have, enough. Amid the abundance, do we remember to say thank you for the cookie?
What makes you laugh?
For me, last night, it was 32 ounces of spaghetti.
Correction: thin spaghetti. This means there are more strands per ounce than just plain old, regular spaghetti.
There is nothing finer than two pounds (yes, 32 ounces) of pasta pouring out the bottom of the box while you struggle with the tabbed-end labeled Open Here.
It formed a golden haystack on the kitchen floor as it most likely reminisced of the wheat fields of its youth. A tangle of largely unbroken sticks mocked me from below—less those more adventurous, which will undoubtedly mock me another day when they return from wherever in the world they are now.
I may have salvaged about 25 ounces. This random number was determined by estimating the number of pieces that I caught and tossed into the pot of boiling water plus the discarded shards I’d stepped on plus the strays I’ll retrieve and throw away the next time I move the stove plus the stuff I organized and shoved back into the box. (The floor was cleaner than usual.)
I should tell you that I just moved the stove two days ago—believe me those rogue noodles are so safe! I forget whether I moved the stove to clean behind it or if I moved the stove and then decided to clean behind it. . .not that it matters. It helps to explains why the floor is clean. . .er.
So: 32 minus the aforementioned guesswork equals. . .25 ounces.
(Avoid dropping in for spaghetti any time soon. Give it those 25 ounces or so and you should be safe.)
Laughing in this situation was all there was to do. Once upon a time, I might have been rather bothered by the untimely detour during dinner’s preparation. OK, really bothered. It’s easy to do that, to become annoyed at the things that subtract from what we think we’d rather be accomplishing in any given moment.
I made chocolate chip cookies after supper, the everyday kind; it seems the recipe’s on the back of every bag of every brand. The directions called for 12 ounces of chocolate chips. I think I used 10.
Chips or ounces?
Yes.
That’s all I’ll say. . .except: maybe the rest are under the stove.
They were everywhere this morning, having crept in overnight to rattle us: the skeletons.
Oh, those skeletons— those yet-to-be-covered monuments to our vernal equinox, unearthed at a time when those with a green thumb might start thinking about starting little starter plants in anticipation of the day when they can start tilling the soil. (Oh, I know: the starting began with the first seed catalogs and/or inviting displays of colorful packets. But the reality’s in the dirt.)
The bare bones of the many soon-to-be greenhouses. . .
Of course, there is wisdom in not erecting the whole greenhouse in haste. Maintaining outdoor plants indoors for too long isn’t good; they need room to thrive. As was pointed out today: “The crocuses haven’t come up yet; they know winter isn’t over.” The mild introduction to this spring has us understandably (though perhaps foolishly) hurrying the season.
My mother loved to garden; she had a special jacket for it. Mid-March would always see Punch-and-Grow kits lining the narrow sills of our kitchen windows. If the weather precluded planting by too far a stretch, when you drove past our home, you might have seen the transplanted seedlings stretching toward the sun. The house plans she and Dad had agreed upon even included a greenhouse room in the basement. Unfortunately, that house was never begun; there would be too few springtimes in Mom’s life.
Apparently, I did inherit some of the genetic capacity for helping things grow. Yes, my own family will have memories of backyard gardens and of vegetables that lived to make it to the table. They will also recall the occasional skeletal remains of gardens past, the spindly stick-and-twig cemeteries caused by winters that came too soon—creating not only messy springtime clean-ups but also the accompanying benefits of volunteer plants.
One year, one of our children asked about the needs of a tender, school-sown project plant. From my row in our garden, I began to explain some kid-friendly plant facts of life. I’d listed two requirements, those of sunlight and water—and had leaned back to bask in the warm smell of springtime’s earth, in the soil that’s been turned to expose its potential. In my silence, my astute child offered this third essential element for growth: “Love.”
I do love it, that memory, that innocent assertion that love is what it takes.
We complicate things sometimes—maybe by rushing or just by talking too much. I still have the gardening jacket my mom wore; through the downsizing and moving, it remains. In the everyday gardens and gardening days of our lives, there is comfort in the predictability of something as simple as the return of the greenhouses and in the promise of that which we simply call love.
We had our first picnic of 2012 tonight.
Well, it was kind of a picnic. The paper wrappers of our fast food sufficed as the tablecloth, and we sipped soda from a straw. We ate in the park and there were no bugs.
Children were riding bikes, playing ball, sliding and swinging—families enjoyed the early evening air as we all pinched ourselves into awareness: it is still WINTER!!
There was another winter picnic—long ago (more than 40 years ago, I’d estimate). A dear cousin and I conspired during a sleepover at our house to rise-and-shine early the next day, pack our breakfast in the trusty Flintstone lunchboxes, and set out for a picnic in the woods. Today, these woods are closer to where our house once stood—a phenomenon due to the increase in the trees’ collective circumference, I’m certain.
We rose with the sun and prepared what we’d planned. For that excursion of several yards, we packed two items that I recall: Rice Krispies and milk. Since I like my cereal crunchy, the two were housed separately until the moment of imminent ingestion.
We two girls chose a low, sheltered place to dine in the snow. Too bad we hadn’t consulted a thermometer—for the temp was far below zero that morning, too cold for children and picnics.
But there were no bugs!!
The instant the milk hit the cereal in the orange plastic cup of the thermos the mixture froze, creating an inedible, rock-solid mass. This fortuitous reaction most likely prevented calamity. Think here: metal spoons!
To us, a winter picnic was something to do on a regular Saturday morning—instead of watching cartoons. In the springtime of our lives on that winter morning so long ago, my cousin and I were young and silly and unafraid.
Now, with summer officially months away, I yearn for some that springtime's simplicity to squeeze out the remnants of what’s been known as this winter and to help usher in what will be known as this summer. (The desire for some ease of aging’s transitions? Perhaps.)
With so much vying for the everyday minutes of life’s everyday seasons, couldn’t there please be more time for more picnics?
For many years, our family made its home in a small community in south-central North Dakota. When we arrived in the early 80’s, and for many years to come, we had whistles.
Perhaps they were sirens.
I guess it depended upon the occasion for blasting the horn.
For years, we lived a couple of blocks from the blare; for a season, it was more like several feet. We got used to the sound. The whistle would blow promptly at noon, six, and ten p.m. and at the various and sundry times when it was either warning of weather, calling the volunteer firefighters, or being sounded simply to test the tones.
The firefighters’ warning system moved high-tech as all carry pagers now—apparently to allow quicker contact and/or to prevent whistle confusion. For the rest of us without the heads-up, came the difficulty—in a town with no stoplights and few stop signs—in knowing when to clear the way for swift-moving vehicles.
Whistle confusion didn’t stop with the beeper-implementation that silenced the fire alarm. As ever, when the severe weather siren blew, it became the summoning agent: calling folks from their homes to scan the skies. It was our experience—during the height of the worst of storms—that the cautionary wail became inaudible anyway.
As for those noon, six, and ten whistles—they outlived their usefulness. Either that or their removal from the fabric of the day was yet another intervention planned to lessen our immunity, a way to be sure we heeded the real deal. Our kids remember those timed signals; if you were playing elsewhere, you headed home when the whistle blew. (Occasionally, it was a well-timed excuse for sending other people’s children home!) They were too young for the ten o’clock whistle to bear any meaning—but, had the practice continued, it would have been a useful parenting tool later.
[At the umpteenth herald from the top of the basement stairs, our son tromped up the steps. To my, “I’ve been calling you,” he responded, “I didn’t hear you the first two times.”]
Sometimes, instead of responding, we ignore something as everyday as a whistle. There are so many sounds in this busy world to sort out. Whether we tune in to the radio or glance toward the heavens, whether we hit the trail for home or watch and wait expectantly for someone to return, on a regular day: should we tune out or heed what we hear?
What results may, in large part, depend upon our initial response.
Margaret Samuelson Unruh is Crookston (MN) born-and-raised; her life’s journey has taken her from farmer’s daughter to college student to teacher to wife-and-mom now living in North Dakota.
