Now that my children are gone, I have decided to become a foster parent for tech savy teens. That way I will have an onsight consultant to guide me through the rapidly advancing technology that so overwhelms and baffles me.
It is pitiful when you are so far behind the times you have to send an e-mail to your daughter-in-law and ask her how to do something on the computer. That is just what I had to do when I decided to embed a photo in my blog.
I have no idea how I even got the photo to the blog. I just kept doing stuff over and over and suddenly it appeared. I was a bit uncertain I would even have any success because Kim, my daughter-in-law, began her reply with "easy". Boy, if that isn't a red flag!! "Danger! Danger Will Robinson!"
It is all Greek to me. I come from a time when a blackberry was something you picked in the summer and ate with cream and sugar. When I was in college a computer room housed only the computer -- a monstrosity of a machine three or four times larger than my dorm room -- not desks full of laptops. We had bites back then. Mosquito bites. Dog bites. A bite of food. The net was what you caught fish with and the only website we had was the one in the corner of the living room made by a pesky spider.
Whenever the neighbor's sons come over to play with Will's old Ninetendo I am in fear and dread that I will have to call him at college and ask him how to get the television back to television mode. I have a two year old cell phone for the simple reason I haven't yet learned how to use all of its functions. About the second day I had the phone Jim and I went to see a movie and I had to borrow a teen from another mother to show me how to turn it off in the theater.
Reading the instructions is generally no help to me because they are written in the vernacular of technology. If they had words and phrases like 'thingy dooley' and 'little square thing' and 'squiggly line' I might have a fighting chance of learning how to use the 'whatchamacallit'.
On our last move we bought a new condo. A new condo comes with new appliances. I have learned how to use everything. I had to. Eating is a matter of survival. I guess when your life depends on it, you can learn something new.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Good Day for Baking Cookies
Some days are just better suited for baking cookies than other days and today is one of them. The snow is gently falling, a prelude to a predicted winter storm on the way. Jim came home early and he and George (our dog) are napping on the sofa by the fireplace. The soundtrack to 'Brokeback Mountain' is playing -- country music is a great accompaniment for baking cookies. And, the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the house.
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
Traditional Dance
Today my friend, Dick McCreight, sent me an e-mail with photos he had taken on a recent mission trip to South Africa. I loved living in South Africa. The red earth seems to settle on your body and soul like a ceremonial robe passed down through the family of humankind connecting you with the very beginnings of our collective history. From the time I stepped on the continent of Africa I felt a primative sense of being home. Thinking about South Africa and seeing the people and places I loved represented in Dick's photos really tugged at my heartstrings.
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
What a Difference a Year Makes
Last year at the end of January I had been in South Alabama for a month as my father began his courageous battle with cancer. After Christmas 2006 he had exploratory surgery which confirmed he had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Armed with my mom as researcher, translator, interpreter, advocate, and mediator, he decided that doing nothing was not an option. With the assistance of my brother, Henry, who works closely with local physicians (Director of the Imaging Department -- South Baldwin Regional Medical Center -- Foley, AL), Daddy was able to confidently select a surgeon and oncologist to see him through the process.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Some Things You Just Shouldn't Mess With
At our last Dinners for 8 get together I related a story about the only time I can recall calling the police on a neighbor. They committed a heneous crime and I just couldn't let them get by with it.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
How Did You Meet?
(The following entry is a submission I made to the Morning Call -- Allentown, PA -- for their How Did You Meet? stories that are published around Valentine's Day.)
In all probability, my husband’s first date with me was the worst date he ever had. Our freshman year in college we were set up on a blind date/double date with my roommate and the guy she was dating. My roomie’s date was my husband’s big brother in a fraternity. Complicating the whole thing was the fact I had a terrible crush on my roommate’s guy and only agreed to go on the date because I knew it would mean I could be close to him for an evening (and maybe impress him enough to dump her).
Because I was taught to rise to the occasion, I managed to make it through a very long, uncomfortable evening with a person I had nothing in common with except the fact we had both played flute in the high school band. I am sure the most memorable part of the evening must have been when he walked me to my dorm and I turned, grabbed his hand and shook it, and hastily said, “GoodnightJimIhadanicetimeIhavetogotothebathroom.” and dashed up the twenty stairs to the door of my dorm.
Since we attended a very small college and had many mutual friends, we were thrown together on many occasions thereafter. We became friends and even dated. One sunny day not long before graduation we were sitting under the trees on the hillside near the college chapel when we sort of spontaneously agreed we should get married. We just celebrated our thirty-fourth anniversary, so I guess we must have found some things in common to talk about.
In all probability, my husband’s first date with me was the worst date he ever had. Our freshman year in college we were set up on a blind date/double date with my roommate and the guy she was dating. My roomie’s date was my husband’s big brother in a fraternity. Complicating the whole thing was the fact I had a terrible crush on my roommate’s guy and only agreed to go on the date because I knew it would mean I could be close to him for an evening (and maybe impress him enough to dump her).
Because I was taught to rise to the occasion, I managed to make it through a very long, uncomfortable evening with a person I had nothing in common with except the fact we had both played flute in the high school band. I am sure the most memorable part of the evening must have been when he walked me to my dorm and I turned, grabbed his hand and shook it, and hastily said, “GoodnightJimIhadanicetimeIhavetogotothebathroom.” and dashed up the twenty stairs to the door of my dorm.
Since we attended a very small college and had many mutual friends, we were thrown together on many occasions thereafter. We became friends and even dated. One sunny day not long before graduation we were sitting under the trees on the hillside near the college chapel when we sort of spontaneously agreed we should get married. We just celebrated our thirty-fourth anniversary, so I guess we must have found some things in common to talk about.
Monday, January 28, 2008
FYI
If you are interested in a Lenten Devotional for 2008, you may wish to go to www.asburylv.org starting Ash Wednesday (Feb. 6). This year's theme is "Becoming More Like Jesus" and consists of faith stories from Asbury United Methodist Church (Allentown, PA -- our church) members and staff based on the Christian attributes of Love, Forgiveness, Faithfulness, Humility, Holy Living, Obedience, and Patience/Endurance. This devotional is meant to glorify the Lord and be inspirational and meaningful to those who read it.
I know many people of great faith at Asbury as we have been long associated with them both in the past when we lived in the Lehigh Valley and recently when we returned. I was able to contribute several devotional items myself this year. As you read these devotionals I hope your life will be enriched and blessed.
I know many people of great faith at Asbury as we have been long associated with them both in the past when we lived in the Lehigh Valley and recently when we returned. I was able to contribute several devotional items myself this year. As you read these devotionals I hope your life will be enriched and blessed.
Ambrosia Recipe
Ambrosia recipe? You are, as they say, funnin' with me, aren't you Sherry? Dahlin', we are from the South and you know the best Southern foods don't have recipes. At least, they don't have precisely measured ingredients, they just look right. They taste right. They fit in Mama Nona's faceted lead glass footed compote. But, recipes...
My grandmother, Johnnie Holk (my mother's mother), always served ambrosia that consisted of fresh orange segments, shredded coconut, and halved maraschino cherries. Thanks to my father, who is willing to stand for an extended length of time and peel and segment the oranges, my mother makes it the same way. As do I.
The best oranges are the navels that the FFA or Church Men's Club or High School Chorus or some local organization takes orders for to be delivered by the case or half case around the first of December. They seem to be larger, juicer, sweeter, and more consistent in quality than the ones you get in the store.
The coconut may be the only variable in the mix because sometimes Angel Flake sweetened is used and sometimes the unsweetened frozen packages are used and sometimes freshly grated is used. The fresh or frozen may appear somewhat bland compared to the sweetened and the texture is generally much finer. It is a matter of personal taste.
My brother, Don, does not eat coconut. He says he would rather visit his sister in a house of ill repute than eat coconut. Pearls before swine.
Maraschino cherries are the same whether you buy the expensive or the cheap. Do you really want to pay a premium for the one food that least resembles the taste and color of its original form?
Southern Living has had the audacity on occasion to publish recipes for ambrosia. I have even seen recipes in the Morning Call (Allentown, PA) for ambrosia so those unfortunate enough to be living above the Mason-Dixon Line may be exposed to the finer aspects of regional Southern cuisine. The least offensive additive I have seen is fresh pineapple. The most offensive is canned fruit cocktail. I guess it is sort of like the fine curries of the world, the 'recipe' is a closely guarded secret passed down from mother to daughter from generation to generation.
But, now my family's secret is out and you know about our version of ambrosia. Thanks for asking, bless your heart.
My grandmother, Johnnie Holk (my mother's mother), always served ambrosia that consisted of fresh orange segments, shredded coconut, and halved maraschino cherries. Thanks to my father, who is willing to stand for an extended length of time and peel and segment the oranges, my mother makes it the same way. As do I.
The best oranges are the navels that the FFA or Church Men's Club or High School Chorus or some local organization takes orders for to be delivered by the case or half case around the first of December. They seem to be larger, juicer, sweeter, and more consistent in quality than the ones you get in the store.
The coconut may be the only variable in the mix because sometimes Angel Flake sweetened is used and sometimes the unsweetened frozen packages are used and sometimes freshly grated is used. The fresh or frozen may appear somewhat bland compared to the sweetened and the texture is generally much finer. It is a matter of personal taste.
My brother, Don, does not eat coconut. He says he would rather visit his sister in a house of ill repute than eat coconut. Pearls before swine.
Maraschino cherries are the same whether you buy the expensive or the cheap. Do you really want to pay a premium for the one food that least resembles the taste and color of its original form?
Southern Living has had the audacity on occasion to publish recipes for ambrosia. I have even seen recipes in the Morning Call (Allentown, PA) for ambrosia so those unfortunate enough to be living above the Mason-Dixon Line may be exposed to the finer aspects of regional Southern cuisine. The least offensive additive I have seen is fresh pineapple. The most offensive is canned fruit cocktail. I guess it is sort of like the fine curries of the world, the 'recipe' is a closely guarded secret passed down from mother to daughter from generation to generation.
But, now my family's secret is out and you know about our version of ambrosia. Thanks for asking, bless your heart.
Thirty-four Years
Jim and I just celebrated our thirty-fourth anniversary last Saturday. I still remember the year we realized we had been living with each other longer than we had lived with our parents -- round about anniversary number twenty-three, I think it was. That seemed amazing.
The past thirty-four years certainly went a lot faster than I ever imagined they would.
The only marriage advice we got from anyone when we first married was from my father. He said: Don't kiss when you're sick. We have never kissed when we were sick.
Other than that, we don't have any secrets for staying married. We have, on occasion, gone to bed mad. Every day hasn't been idyllic. There have been really good times and really bad times. We have had struggles, joys, disappointments, and everything in between. No marriage is perfect and we are no exception.
When I give advice to young couples on the threshold of making what they expect to be a lifelong commitment to one another I share my daddy's advice. I also add my own advice: A good laugh is almost always better than good sex. And you remember the good laughs a lot longer and recall them more frequently.
Jim and I used to go up every year to Mt. Mitchell, N.C., in early October to camp. We had a little one man pop tent, two sleeping bags that zipped together, and assorted camping gear left over from Jim's high school camping days with his best friend, Erik -- who is still his best friend. (Funny how much your perspective changes over the years. Camping used to be roughing it for me, but now roughing it means a hotel with no concierge.)
On our yearly pilgrimages we enjoyed driving the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopping at all the overlooks and hiking trails. Jim, being the ingenious person he is, took some old fiberglass poles that had been used to mark golf course holes (I never asked how they came into his possession, but he brought them into the marriage so I had culpable deny ability.) and cut them off to become hiking sticks. One glorious day we had parked and hiked up the Balsam Trail, one of our favorites. Jim got ahead of me on the way back and was already at the edge of the parking lot, heading toward the car, when I headed down the last little hill. There I was with a stick that looked like the canes used by blind people and wearing my customary very dark glasses. The naughty in me came out and I began wildly flinging the 'cane' from side to side, tripping and crying out, "Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me again. It isn't funny when you leave me. Please..." I don't remember if we ever had sex on any of our camping trips, but I remember how often we have laughed at the retelling of that story.
Jim is a good sport, I must say. I get some of my best comic material from being married to him. I appreciate that he is so good natured and seems to appreciate how much I entertain people with my little stories about our marriage. Last week we were enjoying the company of our Dinners for Eight group that rotates meeting at each other's homes once a month for a meal we all contribute to. I shared two of my favorite stories about Jim and me. They were told mostly at Jim's expense, but he laughed as hard as anyone else.
Story number one: About seven years ago Jim was asked to take a special assignment in Missouri. We knew there was going to be a move after that, so we decided William, our youngest, and I would stay in Pennsylvania so he didn't have to be uprooted twice within about a year's time (James was already at Georgia Tech and it didn't affect him). Jim was able to come home about once a month and Will and I went out to see him, so it worked out alright.
One of my friends asked me if I missed Jim. I assured her I was alright and keeping up with a job and an active teen helped fill the gap. She sort of blushed and said, "I mean MISS (wink - wink) Jim." To which I replied: I have the dog. She hogs the bed. Snores. Smells bad. And isn't interested in sex. So, if you think about it, it is just like having Jim here.
In all honesty, I think I might have made the last part of that story up, but I have told it so often as truth that I can't actually remember. No matter, it elicits the response I want when I tell it and I love hearing people laugh that hard.
Story number two is true: Several years ago, when we lived in Birmingham, AL, Jim and I were enjoying a peaceful evening on our secluded deck listening to the frogs in the lake we lived on and watching the fireflies blink randomly in the trees. We probably had wine or a drink and had relaxed into chatting about our day. Why Jim still thinks he can still shock me is a mystery to me, but he still tries. He got up and assumed the 'stance' at the edge of the deck railing, looked back over his shoulder, grinned, and said, "Do you think I can piss of the deck?" Without thinking I replied, "I don't see why not. You piss off everyone else."
So, maybe we do have a secret. Recognize the bad, the disappointing, the hurtful, the sad, the unfortunate things in life as part of the package. But embrace and celebrate and recall often the things that are good, funny, uplifting, happy. Let those things serve as a life ring to hang onto and give you buoyancy when the waters of life threaten to pull you under and overwhelm you.
The past thirty-four years certainly went a lot faster than I ever imagined they would.
The only marriage advice we got from anyone when we first married was from my father. He said: Don't kiss when you're sick. We have never kissed when we were sick.
Other than that, we don't have any secrets for staying married. We have, on occasion, gone to bed mad. Every day hasn't been idyllic. There have been really good times and really bad times. We have had struggles, joys, disappointments, and everything in between. No marriage is perfect and we are no exception.
When I give advice to young couples on the threshold of making what they expect to be a lifelong commitment to one another I share my daddy's advice. I also add my own advice: A good laugh is almost always better than good sex. And you remember the good laughs a lot longer and recall them more frequently.
Jim and I used to go up every year to Mt. Mitchell, N.C., in early October to camp. We had a little one man pop tent, two sleeping bags that zipped together, and assorted camping gear left over from Jim's high school camping days with his best friend, Erik -- who is still his best friend. (Funny how much your perspective changes over the years. Camping used to be roughing it for me, but now roughing it means a hotel with no concierge.)
On our yearly pilgrimages we enjoyed driving the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopping at all the overlooks and hiking trails. Jim, being the ingenious person he is, took some old fiberglass poles that had been used to mark golf course holes (I never asked how they came into his possession, but he brought them into the marriage so I had culpable deny ability.) and cut them off to become hiking sticks. One glorious day we had parked and hiked up the Balsam Trail, one of our favorites. Jim got ahead of me on the way back and was already at the edge of the parking lot, heading toward the car, when I headed down the last little hill. There I was with a stick that looked like the canes used by blind people and wearing my customary very dark glasses. The naughty in me came out and I began wildly flinging the 'cane' from side to side, tripping and crying out, "Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me again. It isn't funny when you leave me. Please..." I don't remember if we ever had sex on any of our camping trips, but I remember how often we have laughed at the retelling of that story.
Jim is a good sport, I must say. I get some of my best comic material from being married to him. I appreciate that he is so good natured and seems to appreciate how much I entertain people with my little stories about our marriage. Last week we were enjoying the company of our Dinners for Eight group that rotates meeting at each other's homes once a month for a meal we all contribute to. I shared two of my favorite stories about Jim and me. They were told mostly at Jim's expense, but he laughed as hard as anyone else.
Story number one: About seven years ago Jim was asked to take a special assignment in Missouri. We knew there was going to be a move after that, so we decided William, our youngest, and I would stay in Pennsylvania so he didn't have to be uprooted twice within about a year's time (James was already at Georgia Tech and it didn't affect him). Jim was able to come home about once a month and Will and I went out to see him, so it worked out alright.
One of my friends asked me if I missed Jim. I assured her I was alright and keeping up with a job and an active teen helped fill the gap. She sort of blushed and said, "I mean MISS (wink - wink) Jim." To which I replied: I have the dog. She hogs the bed. Snores. Smells bad. And isn't interested in sex. So, if you think about it, it is just like having Jim here.
In all honesty, I think I might have made the last part of that story up, but I have told it so often as truth that I can't actually remember. No matter, it elicits the response I want when I tell it and I love hearing people laugh that hard.
Story number two is true: Several years ago, when we lived in Birmingham, AL, Jim and I were enjoying a peaceful evening on our secluded deck listening to the frogs in the lake we lived on and watching the fireflies blink randomly in the trees. We probably had wine or a drink and had relaxed into chatting about our day. Why Jim still thinks he can still shock me is a mystery to me, but he still tries. He got up and assumed the 'stance' at the edge of the deck railing, looked back over his shoulder, grinned, and said, "Do you think I can piss of the deck?" Without thinking I replied, "I don't see why not. You piss off everyone else."
So, maybe we do have a secret. Recognize the bad, the disappointing, the hurtful, the sad, the unfortunate things in life as part of the package. But embrace and celebrate and recall often the things that are good, funny, uplifting, happy. Let those things serve as a life ring to hang onto and give you buoyancy when the waters of life threaten to pull you under and overwhelm you.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Church
I just got home from church a while ago. It was confirmation Sunday. Twenty-seven young Christians stood before the congregation and affirmed they were ready to take responsibility for growing in the faith. An entire congregation affirmed they would continue to support these young people in their growth. I love the rituals connected with my Christian faith.
Rituals are the one thing that I feel connects me to my Christian ancestors and links me to those who will come after me. Rituals also connect me to people I don't even know. Rituals are the familiar that welcomes me when I worship in a new place. Rituals are that tiny, strong thread that keeps the garment of the faith securely stitched together.
I miss the old, lengthier versions of some of of the things we do ritualistically. I especially miss the sacrament of Holy Communion in its lengthier version. I don't mind walking through a line and intincting on occasion, but there is nothing like going before the altar and kneeling and being served after the story of Christ's sacrifice has been retold through the ritualistic words that remind us just what we are about to commemorate. After the prayers. And the sung responses.
The confirmation ritual was enhanced today with each confirmand dipping his or her fingers in the baptismal font. I really liked that. I have seen Roman Catholics do that, but I understood why today. Sort of an 'Ah-ha' moment, an Epiphany, if you will, where I wished the United Methodist Church would have a font of water we could all touch as we entered for worship and prayer.
As in any family, it is the ritualistic associated with the gathering that speaks to me and comforts me. I know my family will always have ambrosia on Christmas day -- good Southern ambrosia and not that other stuff that people try to pass off as ambrosia and fill with canned fruit cocktail to avoid the long, tedious process of peeling oranges. We will have turkey and cornbread dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy and at least two kinds of cranberry and all the other traditional foods the family has always eaten on Thanksgiving Day. Name the day or the occasion and just thinking about the foods involved makes me salivate and I am disappointed if those foods are not part of the menu. It should be like that when we gather as a family in Christ. We should be so anxious for the spiritual 'food' that we can't wait to dig in to the feast.
Evolution and change are natural occurrences in this world. We have evolved and changed in the church as well. We have added praise songs. We have surrendered the King James Version of the Bible for more scholarly and easier to understand translations. We have several different styles of worship on any given Sunday. But, I do hope we will always have that thread of 'ritual' that passes through the fabric of worship from generation to generation that keeps us connected to the significant events in our faith.
Rituals are the one thing that I feel connects me to my Christian ancestors and links me to those who will come after me. Rituals also connect me to people I don't even know. Rituals are the familiar that welcomes me when I worship in a new place. Rituals are that tiny, strong thread that keeps the garment of the faith securely stitched together.
I miss the old, lengthier versions of some of of the things we do ritualistically. I especially miss the sacrament of Holy Communion in its lengthier version. I don't mind walking through a line and intincting on occasion, but there is nothing like going before the altar and kneeling and being served after the story of Christ's sacrifice has been retold through the ritualistic words that remind us just what we are about to commemorate. After the prayers. And the sung responses.
The confirmation ritual was enhanced today with each confirmand dipping his or her fingers in the baptismal font. I really liked that. I have seen Roman Catholics do that, but I understood why today. Sort of an 'Ah-ha' moment, an Epiphany, if you will, where I wished the United Methodist Church would have a font of water we could all touch as we entered for worship and prayer.
As in any family, it is the ritualistic associated with the gathering that speaks to me and comforts me. I know my family will always have ambrosia on Christmas day -- good Southern ambrosia and not that other stuff that people try to pass off as ambrosia and fill with canned fruit cocktail to avoid the long, tedious process of peeling oranges. We will have turkey and cornbread dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy and at least two kinds of cranberry and all the other traditional foods the family has always eaten on Thanksgiving Day. Name the day or the occasion and just thinking about the foods involved makes me salivate and I am disappointed if those foods are not part of the menu. It should be like that when we gather as a family in Christ. We should be so anxious for the spiritual 'food' that we can't wait to dig in to the feast.
Evolution and change are natural occurrences in this world. We have evolved and changed in the church as well. We have added praise songs. We have surrendered the King James Version of the Bible for more scholarly and easier to understand translations. We have several different styles of worship on any given Sunday. But, I do hope we will always have that thread of 'ritual' that passes through the fabric of worship from generation to generation that keeps us connected to the significant events in our faith.
Why? Why not?
Why in the world do we allow our friends and family to talk us into things like starting a blog? Do we really think what we have to say is so important that we must share it with the world?
When I was little and wanted to do something everyone else was doing my mother would respond with, "If everyone else is jumping into a pit of hungry alligators would you want to jump in too?" Makes about as much sense as, "Because I said so." Bottom line is that mom is the one in control and it wouldn't matter if she said, "Peanut butter." she was the boss and you probably wouldn't get to do what you wanted or you would have to yield to her rules.
So, I am joining the thousands -- millions? -- who are 'doing' the blog thing. At the very least it will be an outlet for my love of writing. At the best, it may even be clever, or informative, or thought provoking.
And, who says you have to have talent these days? Didn't William Hung put out a CD?
When I was little and wanted to do something everyone else was doing my mother would respond with, "If everyone else is jumping into a pit of hungry alligators would you want to jump in too?" Makes about as much sense as, "Because I said so." Bottom line is that mom is the one in control and it wouldn't matter if she said, "Peanut butter." she was the boss and you probably wouldn't get to do what you wanted or you would have to yield to her rules.
So, I am joining the thousands -- millions? -- who are 'doing' the blog thing. At the very least it will be an outlet for my love of writing. At the best, it may even be clever, or informative, or thought provoking.
And, who says you have to have talent these days? Didn't William Hung put out a CD?
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