November 23, 2015
That Was a Day to Remember (or Perhaps Forget?)

Well it's here again:  that day when folks (most of them) have a holiday break from the real world and gather together to observe and carry on traditions as old as time.  Perhaps it's a good thing that the calendar directs us to stop, look and listen, for it forces us to reflect for at least a day upon what we should be thinking about every other day of the year.

The debate has heated in recent years as to whether the commercialism should ease off or halt for at least a moment, allowing for those in the service industry to gobble down a bite or two of mashed potatoes and dressing before attending to the doting public.  Whatever you choose to embrace, try to remember that there are blessings beyond belief everywhere you turn.  And take a moment this Thanksgiving to say a heartfelt "thanks" for all that we have been given.

Of course the holiday is steeped in tradition and it is the time to reflect on those times gone by and those with which we have shared so much.  Being raised in a family of numerous aunts and uncles  and dozens of cousins, those gatherings remain dear and near to my heart.  But sometimes it's the stories told that are most cherished.  

Like the story of the time my father brought his lovely intended (my mother) to his family's Thanksgiving for the very first time.  They were achingly young and in love and Dad, eager to share the wonderful woman who would one day become my mother, with his entire family, invited her to his family's Thanksgiving dinner.

A Hudson feast was one of remarkable proportions with nothing spared.  The family may have lived frugally 364 days of the year, but on Thanksgiving, all the stops were pulled out.  Mind you, this was a family that loved a feast and knew how to put it away.  Mom, raised a farm girl and no stranger to the rough and tumble, had nevertheless a gentile air about her and was determined to present the very finest impression imaginable to the family of her true love.

And so she braved with a smile on her face meeting the brothers and the uncles and mother and father that first Thanksgiving they were together.  According to legend, all seemed to be going rather well through the meal with plenty of chatter and chewing. And then dessert was served.  The traditional pumpkin pie was brought on board  and and passed around the table. (Traditionally, the pieces of pie were distributed from one to the other around the table until all had been served).  

Following closely behind was something new to a Hudson Thanksgiving dinner:  canned Ready Whip.  In his defense, it was a new fangled device and I'm sure my grandfather didn't really know quite how to operate it.  Needless to say, just as he attempted to slather the stuff onto his slice of pie, something went awry and mom was left with a generous coating of white sticky whipped cream all over her lovely new angora sweater.  

I'm not quite sure what happened from there - for some reason no one has quite elaborated on that all these years. I don't think it was a case of censorship but rather something the whole family just chose to forget.  But I'm sure the desserts were all enjoyed and  finished and dishes gathered and washed.  And mom and dad went on to marry and enjoy more than 65 years of wedded bliss together (and counting).  But hearkening back to that very first encounter, one wonders just what she was thinking about when she said "yes" to dad's proposal.

Other Thanksgivings will forever be immortalized in my memory, such as the year that we planned on joining the family, a state away, and were thwarted by a last minute Minnesota blizzard.  The hamburger in the freezer came in handy that time when mom made her delicious Thanksgiving meatloaf.  I don't remember what we did with the 75 place setting/nut cups that mom had painstakingly constructed for the holiday gathering.

Or the year I waited patiently for son #1 to arrive.  He was due on Thanksgiving day but chose to hold off a week before making his appearance.  And there was the time that I hosted my family and friends for the feast at my house.  It was a true joy to cook for my loved ones and I hope I get the chance to do that again one of these days.  

When we were kids and the family was not traveling to the join the rest of the family's gathering, we most generally had a guest or two, or three at our Thanksgiving feasts.  In fact, there is not one recollection when we didn't have several special "guests" at our table for the holiday. One year it was a Greek college school mate of my sister's.  Another year, a young couple who couldn't get home to their family's celebration.  Yet another, dear friends who served as substitute grandparents to us kids. They were all family to us and together we gave thanks and shared a meal. 

There was always room for just one more at our table and that is a philosophy I heartily embrace.   I may not have it all but I can share what I have. And though my folks have never served canned Ready Whip at their table since that fateful day, I myself keep a can in the refrigerator at all times just in case the need arises for a little levity now and then.

November 16, 2015
Variety is the Spice of Life

I rearranged the furniture in my house the other day.  I tore into the project on Friday night and woke to a full blown disaster area that was once the living room on Saturday morning.  I reasoned my way through the mire, reminding myself that after all, it’d been probably a good 15 years since I’d moved anything around. It was high time for a shake-up.

In the wake of my fervent decorating were stacks of nick-knacks in boxes, framed photographs piled high, and books.  Books everywhere.  You see, perhaps the most challenging part of the project wasn’t just where to position the couch and coffee table. Or where to hang the art prints.  It was of course, where to locate my cherished collection of books.

And so I pondered.  But that doesn’t get you far, really.  In my past experience, you just have to move stuff until it feels right.  It’s something like a jigsaw puzzle:  the picture isn’t clear until you fit all of the pieces into perfect place.

So I tried putting the couch against the front windows.  I lived with that situation for a day until I agreed with myself that it just didn’t feel quite right.  And though the thought of maneuvering that beast again wasn’t something I was keen to do, I went to tugging the behemoth monster inch, by inch, across the room to the other wall. There it sat in its new home. Waiting for the next move I might make. Again I slept on it.  Or rather, fell into bed in sheer exhaustion.  There I tossed and turned, I’m sure unable to shut off the brain functions that tugged with just what I should do with the furniture placement.

The plan was to tote my big book shelf and stand it in the dining room where it would be filled with all manner of books to digest as I’m dining by candlelight.  Plan C sounded good in theory. And besides, I’d run out of wall space on which to put the bookshelf.

In the meantime I’d emptied every one of my three bookshelves and piled staggeringly high towers of books off to the side.  It was all I could do not to give in to the willpower to sit and read the day away – some of those books that I haven’t read yet vow to read one day.

Once the cabinets were back into their new spot I started loading books once again.  Moving books is nothing new for me – I was a librarian for almost a quarter of a century and it’s what we do.  But it’s not an easy task and I reasoned that even though I don’t work out as often as I should I still know how to do some serious weight lifting when I have to.

 

An hour later and no less than 8 finger nails sacrificed, the bookshelves were full and looking smart as ever.  I sat down, arms limp from the exertion, and slowly, began to shake my head.  In a true feng shui realization, I told myself that it just wasn’t right and I knew I could not live with what I had done.  And so, it was time to take the books out.

Again. 

Then tote all 100 pound of the big oak bookshelf across the room to where I just knew it would “work”.  You guessed it, the darned thing ended up exactly where it had started three days ago.  I guess it was just the right thing to do. 

It wasn’t until I was almost done tasking that I remembered my moving me – and so I called them into practice.  No, I didn’t hire a bunch of strong arms (though now that I think of it, that might not have been such a bad idea).  I brought out my plastic disks, the “moving men” and placed the furniture atop and voile’, I was moving furniture with one hand tied behind my back.  Well, almost. 

And so now I have a “new” living room and dining room configuration.  And it feels so keen to walk in and see my handiwork, almost like walking into a new living space. 

When we were kids, our mother used to delight in rearranging our furniture with the changing of the seasons.  This time of year, with winter on the prowl, she’d place the couch against the window, I guess in an effort to block out the cold, howling winds.  We’d arrive home from school to a brand new home – she’d work her magic on the furniture placement once again.

I guess I come by my need for change naturally, and determinedly.  I’m pretty sure mom had no help whatsoever in toting our couch across the room – sheer will power and I’m so glad I inherited that from her.  I’m not planning on moving much of anything for a while now.  At least I don’t think…..but I really should get to work organizing those book shelves….alphabetically or by Dewey Decimal, that is the question.

The next time I decide to move things around, I think I’ll have a few friends over and see if I can appeal to their good nature to help me out in my weak desperation.  Either that or I might just have to find a few good, strong bodybuilders to lend a hand.

November 9, 2015
Life is Made of Little Stitches

It's cold and dark in the evenings now and I guess the time has arrived for diversionary tactics for those of us who live here on the prairie.  We're on the cusp of brittle air and frostbitten toes.  Winter.  Even though we're not quite there the time has come for me to go in search of the more-than-one unfinished knitting project that I somehow always manage to pile up en masse.  (Along with the far too large yarn stash....)

Knitting is my comfort food and it has oh so many benefits.

Before I can resume knitting that unfinished one-armed sweater I must first figure out where I left off several months ago when spring was promising its arrival with warmer temperatures and outdoor adventures.  I know that I certainly am not alone in the unfinished projects dilemma.  Even my mother, a master knitter, left a few loose ends in her knitting projects. I am happy to say that she endowed upon me her knitting supplies a few years ago.  In the boxes were her vast collection of knitting needles, the cherished knitting book that my father bought for her while they honeymooned in Chicago, and a couple knitting projects that are 3/4 complete.  

 

Those of you needle crafters surely know what I'm talking about here. For us, heaven must be a place where we have taken the final stitch on every single one of those unfinished projects.

I've been a knitter since the age of 10 or 11 when my mother finally gave in to my begging her to teach me. And so she did.  My grandmother had something to do with it too.  Both ladies were avid knitters who could whip up just about any sort of project in a jiffy.

Growing up, we all had an abundance of beautiful, warm winter wear that was knitted with every shade of love imaginable. I don't think we truly appreciated those wonderful hand knit scarves and mittens and hats until our friends started begging for some of their own.  And mom was happy to oblige them.  I think knitting was therapy for her.  I know it is for me.  And a gift hand knitted has yards of love woven into it.  

Knitting is actually a mechanical, hypnotic process.  It's not clear whether it is the constant ticking of one needle against its twin or the slip of the yarn through your fingers as you work it into the pattern, however I do know that it's easy to lose 2 or 3 hours of time lost in a knitting spree.  Once begun it's hard to quit.  "Just one more row....", "I'll stop when I get to the end....", "Oops, I dropped a stitch three rows back...." Never quit before correcting a mistake, Mom preached.  

The only thing worse than having to end one's knitting session reversing your work and tearing out stitches.  Much like turning back the clock, it gets you nowhere.  but you learn, and when you once again put the needles into forward motion, it's so much better. 

Besides its therapeutic abilities, knitting can also teach a few life's lessons, I suppose:

Start with a single strand - and a plan.  Follow the directions and soon you are on a path that leads to the finish. Persevere and don't give up.  Be proud of your accomplishment.  Every one of the stitches you have made yourself.  Some are not quite perfect, yet they are joined by those that are.  But together they complete a beautiful, completed  fabric.

October 26, 2015
Death of a Building

The clinic that I used to go to as a child when sick or needing medical attention was razed this week.  I watched it come down.  It's not easy to see a building die, and judging by the many onlookers and seeing the expressions on their faces, it was evident that I wasn't alone in my thinking.

As difficult as this may be to see, much like a car crash or building ablaze, you just can't seem to look away.  And so I, along with the other watchers, stood by as a witness while the big machine gnawed at and teased away portions of this once vital structure. 

As the massive teeth of the machine eviscerated the building, ripping entrails of foundation and water pipes and electrical wiring and insulation with each bite, the dying structure was rent apart, I could sense at one point that it had finally given in to the inevitable.  It reminded me of the forlorn carrion in the road being slowly consumed by winged creatures. It would die and others survive.

How many lives began and ended there in that building, I wondered as I watched in reverent silence. How many folks had made it their life's duty working there every day for years on end - jobs spent in dedication caring for those in need? Doctors, nurses and volunteers, office workers, technicians, and housekeepers.   How many of those are now gone, as the building soon would be.

  

Now memories are all that will remain.

As I watched, in time the machine pivoted its arm to the main entrance, a brick half-moon shaped area where the name of the clinic once proudly spread across the front. Now there were letters forlornly missing, so it was difficult to even identify the old building.  I braced myself as the machine opened its teeth as widely as possible. Here was the last remaining wall standing in its unique glory.   But the brick wall was no match for the power of this machine that nudged the brick with force.  As parts of it came down, I watched the windows across the top shudder, and I was a bit shocked to discover that it elicited the same reaction from me.  I felt, in a way, a physical revulsion blow through my being.  

I almost cried.

I realize of course that this was only a building.  It consisted of bricks and walls rooms and hallways. So why let it hold such significance, and why the reaction when it was destroyed?  It’s because it was so much more.  The bricks and mortar, the glass and metal, it all made up the whole of this building, so familiar to me and many others. In many ways it was a landmark.  And now it is no longer.

The landscape will be forever changed, a piece of history gone.  Will there be something more to fill its space, I wonder.  Will new life sprout from the ground where the old once stood?  Could this, might this be the birth of a new memory for someone?  

Possibly.  Or most likely, the void will be filled with parked cars as far as the eye can see.  Who knows.

October 19, 2015
Looking Back Can Give a Clearer View Ahead

It seems like the more you know, the less you truly know...or maybe the more things change the more they stay the same.  Either way you look at it, don't forget to look back now and then.  You might just be surprised by what's back there (and learn a little something along the way!) 

Looking back at this day in history, how many of these memorable happenings do you recall? Were you there and if so, do you remember the moment that you learned the news?   What will be the momentous occasions that generations to come from now will hold as truly unforgettable?

On this day in:

-1947: The notorious Hollywood Red Scare kicked into high gear.  Chaired by Congressman Parnell Thomas, the subsequent hearings focused on identifying political subversives among Hollywood actors and actresses, writers and directors.  The "Hollywood Ten", as this first group of men were known, resisted, complaining that the hearings held were illegal and violated 1st Amendment Rights. they were sentenced to one year in jail, a fine that was later upheld by the Supreme Court.

-1774: Congress created the Continental Association that launched a complete ban on all trade between America and Great Britain of goods, wares or merchandise.

-1990: Three members of the rap group, 2 Live Crew, were acquitted of obscenity charges. The three had faced a year in prison each for performing their songs, which were considered to be obscene.

1944: Two liquid gas tanks exploded in Cleveland, Ohio, killing 130 people there.

2011: Moammar Gadhafi, the longest serving leader in Africa and the Arab world, was captured and killed by rebel forces. The eccentric 69-year old dictator was accused of numerous human rights crimes.

1977: Three members of the southern rock band, Lynrd Skynrd, died in a plane crash on a flight from Greenville, South Carolina to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Band members Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines all died that day. The plane had originally been chartered by the band Aerosmith, who, because of concerns over the flight crew, passed it up.

1803:  The United States senate ratified the Louisiana Purchase, a treaty with France, that allowed the U.S. to effectively double its size.

1818:  The United States and Britain established the 49th parallel as the boundary between Canada and the United States.

1968: Jacqueline Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis.

1964:  Herbert Hoover, the 31st president of the United States, died in New York at the age of 90.

October 12, 2015
Ol' Joe Knew What He Was Doing

I don't know why, but when my two sisters reported that they were making "sloppy Joes" for my father's 88th birthday party I couldn't stop giggling.  You see, I hadn't heard that term for years, I'm pretty sure.  And of course, that led my colorful mind to conjure up images of a food-encrusted, aproned short order chef covered in splattered in stains calling out his orders in military fashion.

"That's a real sloppy guy," I said to myself.  Joe must certainly have been an epic slob to have a sandwich coined after him, I mused. I wonder if he ever realized the significance of his slothfulness.  

Actually the delicious concoction that my sisters created was the same that I'd always been taught to refer to as "BBQ sandwiches" but it was the same delicious comfort food that I knew and loved.  It in fact was the one and only dish that I as a youngster, request ever year when my birthday rolled around and I was given exclusive dictatorial ruling over the family's menu for that one glorious day.  That and of course a pink cake.  That was necessary.

As we pondered the complexities of the sloppy Joe terminology, we dug into the vaults and discovered that indeed the term derived from a short order chef from Sioux City who devised a loose meat sandwich that quickly caught on among his customers.  Since the man was generally a slob, the term soon stuck.  

Since then a plethora of terms to describe the distinctive  sandwich have evolved and depending on the geological location, there are many names for the same dish.  Loose meat, taverns, bbq's, sloppy Joes, and even the Manwiches all refer to the same delectable  dish made with ground beef, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, onions and mustard.  

I'm sure there are slight variations on the dish from time to time, yet still it remains such a yummy comfort food. I do recall that the Thursday offering of BBQ sandwiches at our school lunchroom was one of three meals that I would readily accept (the others being fried chicken and chili), and eat in entirety.  That pretty much says it all, I imagine. 

Call it what you will but to me, a rose by any other name would smell a sweet, to borrow from my favorite scribner.  It doesn't really matter what you call it,  I will always adore my bbq-loose meat-sloppy Joes.  

October 5, 2015
She's Not Afraid to Talk to Machines

My mom has had some pretty interesting conversations with computers.  It's not the usual talk-to-your-inanimate-desktop-machine variety that we all have had occasion to do in rapt frustration.  These are real, "live" voices continually badgering her on the telephone.  Mom seems to have a penchant for attracting the rude, exotic and unusual animated phone callers.  

Not one to impolitely dismiss someone without cause, she has been known to endure a lengthy, slick pitch before cutting them off with a curt hang up. Other times she will strike up an interchange with the voice on the other end of the line in hopes of achieving a satisfying resolution to the situation.

And you've got to know just how that's going to end.

The other day when their television service froze in midair, she dialed up the helpline of their cable company in hopes of finding a solution to the situation.  "She hung up on me three times!" Mom uttered in disgust, describing the rudeness of the operator on the line.   Apparently Ms. Computer could not factor exactly what mom was telling it - her grievances did not fit the usual 4 to 5 menu choices given.

Desperately, mom began frustratedly punching buttons in random fashion in hopes of discovering a resolution.  And eventually she found one in the form of a real, living voice on the line.  

This young man, she said, was very helpful and fixed the dilemma of the stuck T.V.  Most likely, the hero-man speculated, the rude operator was the recent hire from the competitor's side.  I contend she was a sour-puss computer that got up on the wrong side of the bed and wasn't in a benevolent mood.  Maybe it was even a Monday.

Mom is the kind of woman who isn't afraid to voice her opinion. So when a favorite product is somehow altered or discontinued, or even substandard,  she has the urge to tell someone. And she doesn't mess around, but goes straight to the top every time.  Often her dialing to complain serves more than one purpose:  the frustration that she feels tends to dissipate somewhat after voicing her disappointment, and sometimes the company even sends her gifts meant to appease her sore soul in the form of coupons or free product certificates.  Whether this makes up for the switch in packaging from a trusted and tried form or the switch to some inane new fangled version it's hard to say.

You have to give my mom credit though.  She has jumped right into the space age rather gracefully.  She has taken to the computer and social media like a pro.  She emails her children and grandchildren and enjoys  receiving their letters.  She even places online orders for merchandise.  Yes, mom is a completely modern, albeit traditional woman.

At first there were a few gaffs, though.  One morning she picked up the phone to discover a voice telling her that her department store order had arrived and was ready for pickup.  "It sure is a nice day, isn't it," Mom said pleasantly.  Then she went on to continue the conversation with the smooth-voiced messenger, only to find that it was a computer, incapable of sensing pleasant or not. 

Eventually she learned to detect such tomfoolery and avoid the pesky telemarketers altogether.  Caller I.D. became a favorite tool of hers. She used it to detect when someone they dubbed "Charlotte" continually phoned them at the same time every day.  Likely some entity bent on preying on folks their age to sell them worthless services, this woman stood no chance with my mother though.  Eventually Charlotte gave up, or more likely placed their number at the bottom of the call cache, and the phone calls discontinued.

Score one for mom.

In the game of telecommunications I'm not sure if one can ever win, but it doesn't hurt to try.  And if you can't win, then at least strike up a conversation with the offender.  Just think, you'll probably be saving some other person from receiving a pesky mechanical call.

September 28, 2015
Some Changes Take Eons, Others a Split Second

Went trekking this past weekend to the (not so) hidden wonderland of the Blue Mount State Park.  Being there traversing the vast topography led me to ponder thoughts far and wide and most definitely days gone by.  The centuries old stones, some as large as buildings, and the ancient oak trees, many have been living longer than most of us have walked this earth, are testament to the fact that we are but a fleeting drop of rain on a windshield.

Sure, we all may get caught up in the intricacies of life, but it so important to take a breath, and a real close look at things now and then.  

Like the bright red tiny little bug I found climbing on the rock that served as a makeshift picnic table in the middle of the park that day.  Had I not looked closely I'd missed seeing it and probably squashed it when I perched there.  It was remarkable and I honestly can say that I have never seen such a brightly-hued little insect.  

High up on a rocky perch was a pair of pigeons who put on quite a show. Oblivious to the humans below, they danced in little circles around each other and brought to mind those costumed square dancers who take turns circling one another.  It was quite remarkable.  

Those rocky ledges, through the years, continuously change in their appearance, with large chunks breaking off and falling to the floor of the quarry.  Colorful red veins of iron deposits that run horizontally through the pink rock provide jigsaw-like hints as to how it all may have fit together at one time.  

At any moment things can change in that park, yet at the same time they never do.  (Except for that big tree branch that fell just inches from where I had just walked - that was a change I'm glad I was far enough away to witness.)

It took millions of years for this landscape to form and the big picture is somewhat hard  to fathom.  As the glacier inched painstakingly slowly over the land, the sand and gravel it trailed etched scratches into the rocks.  Those marks can be seen all over the trails.  And in its wake, the landscape was sculpted and molded into what we see today.

If you have not visited the park before, I recommend that you do so.  It's worth the short drive and the moment that you spy the blue-hued mounds in the distance, you will understand why.  Whether you hike the top of the prairie land and see the wondrous array of wildflowers and rock croppings, (and occasional snake sunning itself on the trail), see the mighty birds gliding on the winds overhead, or espy the park's herd of bison, you will indeed be delighted.  

And do duck into one of the many trails that will lead you on a rocky descent into the depths of the mighty quarry.  You will get quite a workout in the climb back up, but will not be disappointed.  

September 21, 2015
Evening Wear is Evolving

I was reading something interesting the other day.  I do that a lot and sometimes I forget just where I have acquired some sort of tidbit because I read so many different things.  But this particular article's topic was ladies' sleepwear.  Naturally I perked up when I started in to read.  You see, I like my sleepwear and I own a wide and varied collection of t.

The writer wasn't aiming her words at folks such as me in her essay however.  Instead she was discussing those who, for some reason, gravitate to wearing their husband's  ratty, oversized t-shirts, or their teenage kid's discarded and outgrown clothing, or even their own past-prime nightwear.  But what caught my eye and astounded me was the mention of those who prefer to sleep in their street clothes. That's right, they just move from day to night wearing the very same attire that they slipped into in the morning hours.  The essayist went on to describe the many comfy skirts and pant that she gravitates to merely for the ease of falling into bed at the end of a long day with no need for changing into sleepwear.  

To each their own I guess.  

I can safely say that I don't think I have ever intentionally done such a thing.  After all, 8 daylight hours is more than enough time to wear ones clothes before shedding them for a favorite sleeping gown or comfy pajamas.  Is this becoming an alarming trend, I asked myself as I read feverishly on down the page of the magazine.Should I be concerned? Will women's lingerie go the way of dinosaurs and Edsels? And should I be purchasing some soft jersey skirts with elastic banded waists?

There was a trend several years back where folks would wear puffy lounge pants for daily attire.  Zubaz were popular with their wild animal prints and other geometric configurations.  These pants would easily go from boardroom to bedroom, that's for sure.  But who wants to walk around all day long in their jammies? I never understood that trend.

I guess I come by the love of pretty nightwear naturally.  My  mother always had a beautiful gown and matching robe to wear to bed.  You see, my father saw that most every special occasion - birthday, anniversary and Christmas - was marked with a new negligee for my mother.  The ladies at the local department store knew just what he was after when they saw him walk in the door. I guess his reputation preceded him.  

One memorial Valentine's Day, dad gifted mom the most beautiful fiery red lacy, frilly nightgown and matching robe.  Actually it was rather radical move for a married man with 4 children to bestow something of that caliber on one's wife.  But he did.  And as she was holding it up, lovingly admiring it, our little brother piped up in a little voice, "Mommy, is that what you're going to be wearing when I wake you up in the middle of the night for a glass of water?!"  Yes it was indeed.

The story doesn't end there.  Dad continued to favor beautiful women's lingerie for our mother through the years even after we all grew up and left their home.  One day, while shopping in their local department store together, Dad was dutifully waiting on mom as she tried something or other on in the dressing room.  As he strolled between the display racks, tightly jammed into the aisles, he managed to accidentally pick up a piece of "wandering lingerie" along the way.  The loop of his belt snagged the plastic hanger of an itty bitty, teensy weensy size 10 red bikini sleepwear set and it adhered itself lovingly to his side.

Mom, who was used to these things happening on a regular basis, looked the other way and feigned innocence. Caught red handed, Dad knew he must return that garment to its proper rack, but given the vast array of filmy negligees on display in the store, he was at a loss which way to turn.  Pleading for assistance from his better half, just brought the reply,"Well don't you remember where you picked it up?"

"To tell the truth," dad admitted, "by that time I didn't even recall which state I was in let alone which rack of filmy garments was minus one of its filmiest numbers."  There are times when it's just better to cut bait and run.  And that's just what he did. 

But not before, I'm pretty certain, he had fully scoped out the women's lingerie department in search of mom's next Mother's Day gift. I can tell you one thing for certain, that though it wasn't a size 10 itty bitt, teensy weensy red bikini sleepwear set, it most likely was something every bit as pretty as that.  

My motto is this:  there are so very many pretty pieces of nightwear to choose, and so few hours in which to wear them.  Now why would you ever want to sleep in your clothes? Sadly, I guess I'll never know the answer to that question. 

September 14, 2015
Anticipation Makes for Life's Thrills

My car had a rather important milestone this weekend. I guess you could say that I was involved in that turning point as well.  After all, we two have been through a whole lot of living these past few years, and a happening like this is just too important not to take notice.

I had been anticipating with mixed emotions, that moment.  Trepidation, of course, much like when you greet yet one more birthday, ticking off yet another year of life's experience.  Pride, that we've both endured countless obstacles and survived, earning the right to brag a bit.  Sorrow, for the loss of youth that is oh so fleeting yet at the same time ignorant and inexperienced.

It was a moment in time, indeed.  Much like the time spent waiting for that special day to arrive.  Like counting the hours until Christmas or the wee hours New Year's eve.  It's the anticipation that means so much after all.  As I drove down the road that night, I was aware of the approaching moment yet somehow let my mind wander....almost past that important point - the apex - the main event.  I happened to glance down at the dash board and it read 199,998.  

It was then that I realized that fast approaching was a moment that would never again be.  Like the first fledgling steps of your child, or his first utterance of understandable communication, ("Da-daaaa"), or the date 11-12-13.  There's just no mistaking the fact that it's a significant point in time. And you can never get that time back again.  Ever.

By the time that I noticed the odometer reading, I figured I better pull over and think about things a bit.  Contemplate the meaning of it all in that few seconds that I had left.  And so I did.  But, like anything worth waiting for, it seemed like the fractions of the miles it would take to inch that number into a new era took forever.  But then awaiting the stroke the new year can seem to take forever too.  

Of course I had to record that moment in time on my camera.  Like anything else, just like those first beautiful smiles of your baby, I felt the obligation.  And so I sat on the side of the road snapping photographs of my odometer reading just as it inched into a new era.  It reminded me a bit of the frenzied welcoming of the year 2,000.  We all faced that moment with a sense of fear and anticipation. What was to come, how odd it would be to pronounce the new millennium's name, and would the sky still be hanging above when we awoke on January 1 of that new year? 

We survived that time.  And I'm happy to report that (so far) my car is still running fine even at its advanced age.  I have much respect for her and we will continue to take good care of one another.  After all, there's a whole lot of miles of road between the two of us.  And plenty of milestones as well.

September 7, 2015
Play Could be Dangerous Work Sometimes

The other day while traversing the country side I noticed, tucked behind an old abandoned school building, a rusty child's metal jungle gym.  I couldn't help but imagine all those little tots once upon a time climbing up and clamoring on and hanging from..........and falling off of that jungle gym on that school  playground.  I could almost hear the thud and the cries of pain and fear that followed that fall as I was driving past.

Equipment like that has in recent years been condemned to the scrap metal piles of merely abandoned in a quiet school yard in favor of much better, newly improved, kid-safe plastic playground attractions.

And most likely for good reason.  Those playgrounds of old did boast some rather scary, treacherous features. But they were also lots of fun to us kids.

What of those metal slides that towered so high overhead.  Once one finally garnered the courage to tackle one of those, you found there were tiny little slippery pegs to climb to the top. Once (if) you made it that far without missing a rung and backsliding, the ride downward could be fraught with danger such as toppling over the thin edge of ripping your shorts or worse, you skin, to shreds on the sharp metal along the route.

Yes, there were countless perils on the playground when we were kids.  Take the ever-popular tether ball game.  It sported a pole and a ball that was attached to a rope.  The object of this delightful game was to be the first to swack that ball repeatedly until the rope was completely would around the pole.

I recall one time being in the wrong place at the right time when the ball had been thwacked by the strongest boy in the sixth grade.  It hit me right in the back of the head.  (Lesson:  never turn your back on a tether ball).  Such a dangerous game! Are they still allowed on school playgrounds?

Merry-go-rounds.  Whoever dubbed them this sure had the wrong idea.  I found nothing jolly or even close to frivolous about these.  Usually a spin on the merry-go-round found me with an iron grip on the handle cowering on the floor.  I was a nervous, dizzy wreck when it finally came to a speed slowly enough to allow me to jump off and stagger away.  

I will admit that I love the swing sets.  I loved to swing really high and in fact haven't outgrown that delight. Somehow I always felt like I could fly when I rode the swing set and though there were usually butterflies involved in the tummy, it was still quite the thrill. I hope they still let kids swing on swing sets.

Playground equipment has vastly evolved over the  years.  And why is that?  Do we know now more that they did way back then when those indestructible pieces of equipment were installed in the parks and school playgrounds? Who was responsible for banning them and condemning them to desertion and oxidization?

The other day I watched two young tow-haired sisters enjoying one of those new-fangled play gyms in a city park. The older girl, probably 7 or 8 years in age, traversed the entirety of the set-up with ease, scooching across the monkey bars, shimmying down the pole, and inching up the climbing wall with ease.

Close behind her was little sister, a few years younger, who clearly displayed some trepidation yet determination in following her sister's lead. As I watched, I was delighted to see big sis encouraging and assisting her sibling in completing the tasks.  It warmed my heart. It also was a relief to me that neither girl fell off or was maimed in their play.  

I guess the new playground equipment can't be all that bad.  Even though it IS made of plastic. You have to wonder where it will end up some day when it's deemed inappropriate for play.

August 31, 2015
Handwriting Isn't What it Used to Be

The other day I decided to set pen to paper and write my collegiate son a note.  Recalling how exciting it was to receive anything but a credit card application or sales flier in the mailbox when one is firs away from home, I figured it might be a nice gesture.

Then I remembered a sad fact that halted me like an empty inkwell:  my kids cannot decipher my handwriting.  Never could and never will.

I don't know why this is so but it just is.  There are times when even I can't read what I've scribbled on the page. Perhaps it is the fact that in the third grade my teacher, Miss Strom, once gave ma an "unsatisfactory" grade in handwriting.  That was a devastating moment for me and how I recovered I am not quite certain.  I will say that is the one and only "U" I have ever received on a report card. 

Back then, my mom used to tell of the school days when the "Palmer Method of Handwriting" was taught to school kids.  Being the visual, artistic person that I am, I think I would have taken to that method rather readily. Handwriting exercises were performed daily in an effort to promote the precise, rightly-tilted letters and nicely formed characters.  Mom told us that those exercises consisted of drawing connected circles across one's tablet.  (She does admit that she wasn't always the best at those and used to go back and fill in some of her o's along the way).  

At any rate, the Palmer method of penmanship produced some pretty perfected handwriting in its day. One could even boast that it did so in an artistic fashion,

When we were students in elementary school the classrooms were lined with cards depicting the proper formation of cursive letters, and great care was taken to mimic the lovely script.  By the third grade, cursive writing was required of us with little exception to that rule.  

Yet a few years later, many students developed their own style of handwriting.  There were those whose defiance of the curriculum, leaned their letters far to the left.  Some wrote in a straight up style, forgoing the gentle, rightward lean.  And then there was me.

I think I tried just about every style there was yet I just didn't seem to be able to develop my own unique style.  I guess that "unsatisfactory" grade could have had something to do with my handwriting self esteem. But I actually blame it on heredity.  My dad's handwriting could send a chill to you if you had to actually understand what he had written.  My mom admits to breaking out in a cold sweat whenever she was given the task of transcribing anything that dad had written.

As a reporter, poor hand writing can be a challenge, a stumbling block so to speak.  It's one thing to  have the ability to scribble quickly a few words heard.  but it's completely another to understand what  you've written.  These days I can blame the injury to my right hand as a factor in my shoddy handwriting.  Try as I may it seems I am unable to avoid the curse of the "sloppy cursive writer", so I guess I had better stick to printing, or better yet typing my letter to my son these days.  

But I may just pen a special letter to Dad and see if he can translate what I've written. I'll bet he will have no trouble whatsoever.

August 24, 2015
Comfort Food Makes for Warm Memories

Looking back you'll have to agree that Slayton has had its share of fine eateries through the years. Some have reputations that far succeed the life of the establishment, still others have long been forgotten.  If you listen carefully, you may even be able to hear the clank of dishes, or detect the unmistakable greasy aroma of a well seasoned griddle, and wonder where the years have gone.

One of my favorites pots to frequent when I worked in the downtown area during the 80s was the Mint Cafe.  Located within the heart of the town's Broadway Avenue, the Mint was owned by Al and Arlys Husfeldt who worked loving and laboriously in their "mom and pop" diner.  One thing is for sure, Al knew how to cook and Arlys knew the meaning of great service.Their little diner was always bustling and filled with lunch crowds.

Closing my eyes I can still see Al behind the counter, tucked into the tiny kitchen, while Arlys cheerfully waited tables, visiting with each of the cafe's customers along the way.  I can tell you that my favorite thing on their menu there was a hamburger, grilled to perfection in that old fashioned manner not found all that often today.Just sitting in the Mint brought to mind the sort of diner in which Sheriff Andy Taylor might have dined with his sidekick Barney Fife.  

After the lunch rush had subsided and the coffee hour edged its way in, one could hear the unmistakable "thunk" and "tinkle" that mean Al was trowing dice with a few of the regulars. That also meant that quite frequently a round of coffee was on the house when Lady Luck wasn't treating Al so kindly.

Another favorite spot in fairly recent history was the Shady Drive Inn restaurant on the corner of Maple Avenue and HIghway 30.  What brought that to mind was the recent passing of Mary Anne Conway, who along with her husband Ron, owned and operated Ronnie's Dairy Creme on that very spot in the late seventies.Both restaurants were quite popular and iconic to the locals.

Though I didn't have the chance to visit Ronnie's, I recall many a Saturday lunch at the Shady Drive Inn with Deana Swenson at the helm.  It was there that I tasted my first "beef commercial" and fell instantly in love with the dish, which is actually a regional favorite in these parts.  

We all know that on the same site as Ronnie's and the Shady, sits a fine restaurant known as the Grain Exchange that has garnered the roots set by both drive in restaurants and grow up there. 

How wonderful when one eatery dies, that another is born to take its place.  That's what happened with the ever popular Royal Supper club, which was dining at its finest several decades ago in the seventies. That supper club has evolved through the years, at times experiencing growing pains yet surviving and thriving today. From the Royal, it became Chelsey's, then the Royal Loon and today, City Limits.

But what of the many restaurants and eateries that were a part of this town through the years and no longer exist. Surely you have your favorite of your own to tout.  There s a good chance that when you close your eyes to remember, you can almost see the crispy hash browns or the chicken fried steak, or the warm, aromatic apple pie Ala mode that you used to order at one of these diners. It's true that many of these wonderful spots live on vividly in our memories.Perhaps because the sense of smell and taste are such powerful ones.

In my case, it is the vision of aproned Al, master short order cook, or Ronnie in his distinctive paper diner cap, or cook Janet Reinsma calling out from the kitchen with an order to be picked up and delivered to a hungry customer.  Yes, those are the stuff of my dreams, vivid memories for me and they share file space in my mind along with oh so many more memories such as they.

August 17, 2015
You Do What You Have To Do

Number two son has flown the nest.  It's inevitable, yet when it actually happens it can hit you like an elephant sitting squarely on your chest.  You try to pretend that everything is fine, but for some reason, you just can't breathe.  And your vision is somehow blurred more often than usual.  You find yourself lost in a reverie of 19 years of life's files more often, thinking back to those days long ago.  Where did they go and how did that little one get to be a man so soon?

It's all natural, it's all good, and it's just life.  We all move on in one way or another, but that doesn't change the fact that the transition can be definitely bittersweet.

Days, merely days, ago I was walking with that youngster to his first day of kindergarten. Or so it seems I guess.  Eager for school, excited about learning, and always ready to go, he loved those school days.  And whether we will admit it, those first-day-of-schools are most often hardest on Mom. Giving your youngster over to the capable care of his teacher isn't an easy thing to do.  But we do it and walk away, blurred vision nonetheless, and don't look back.  

I've experienced that over and over again.  After the first few times, you just know when to walk on, brush it off.  When your child hits the ground with a sickening "thud", there's something in you that just wants to run and mother him and to take away the pain.  Another part of you says to bite your tongue, don a smile and tell him that he's alright. "Get back up", you tell him, "you'll be just fine."   It's frightening. You learn to bury that fear pretty quickly when you become a mother.  How else can your child learn the tough lessons in life if he never experiences pain? The pain is yours alone.

Your child, as he grows, develops into an independent, thinking individual. That, at times, can be heartbreaking and joyful at the same time. (I'm thinking the "terrible twos" or the "frightful fives" or the TEEN years).   But you know that you have done your job right when your child becomes a confident, caring, responsible young adult.  And you let go. And he flies.

He might not want to hold your hand anymore and you might not be needed on the first day of school  like you once were, but you'll be there for him anyway.  And when he hands you his loved-to-rags baby blanket and asks you to fix it for him, well then life's just the way it should be.  You know that you have done something right along the way.