No more tears

The Pacific Crest Trail first became known to me four years ago when my colleague Amy's husband was preparing for his summer-long hike. I remember a few startling details: his legs grew as sturdy as tree trunks, all the hikers end up with a trail name, and boxes were sent to specific destinations to help him refuel during his Mexico to Canada via foot voyage. It truly seems other-worldy, especially since one emerges renamed. Cheryl Strayed's book Wild brought me into this other world of the PCT and held me captivated from the moment she struggled inside her hotel room to simply lift her pack off the floor and failed to her final destination atop the Bridge of the Gods. Along the journey she notices that she hasn't cried at all on her trip: not when she tore the radiator pipe from the wall of the hotel room in order to hoist her and her backpack to a vertical position, not when she lost her boot, ran out of water, almost walked across a rattlesnake, or had two cents to her name. She declared to herself that with all that turmoil behind her and not a single tear shed, she certainly wasn't going to let herself cry the day she and her hiking pals could not find the Rainbow Party with their groovy music and free food celebration. She reinforced her resolve and bolstered herself saying it would not break her. And it didn't. While sitting in a ridiculously tedious meeting on a new yet oh-so-not improved computerized gradebook training, a colleague of mine had the same sentiments. She just declared this cockamamy program would not break her. The two women in drastically different worlds arrived at the same conclusion: this thing outside myself will not conquer me; I will chose what, if anything, will bring me out of myself, bring me to tears, bring me to my knees. Consider, one woman in the wilderness creating daily life from dehydrated packets of nutrients and a shelter from a taught piece of treated nylon while another woman creates her livelihood in the computer-will-solve-the-world's-problems in the two steps forward three steps back world of education, yet both are resolved not to let something insignificant make them crumble. When I was a little girl, I would sit on the bathroom counter, legs dangling, hair wet from a long bath while my mom coaxed a comb through a blonde tangle of knots. I held a bottle of "No More Tears," studying the pudgy long-haired girl on the front with silky smooth hair. My hair politely and obediently slid through the tines of the comb. I didn't scream when the comb moved through treated "No More Tears" hair. The invisible coating worked its magic, there were no tears. Maybe that is what these women possess internally. Some inner spray of No More Tears that has created a barrier to the threats, big or small, of the world. What is it that I will let bring me to tears? Tangled hair, sometimes. Education initiatives unworthy of a breath, kinda. Lack of food and shelter, most definitely. But maybe, just maybe, these troublesome irritants don't have to. Maybe I have the strength to decide what can change me. Today is a new day and I am sure I'll be handed plenty of opportunities to see if I have that invisible strength that will decide what will protect me from the wayward winds of the world. I just wish it were as easy as coating myself with a little spray, maybe it is. I'll see.

Cheering

I wedged my boot into the ridge of the hill and secured my cheering location. From my vantage point I could see the Nordic racers careening down the hill opposite me and then watch them climb and climb (and climb) right next to me. The woods lined the hill behind me providing good protection from the winter wind. I was in position to encourage our team up the hill with my positive, upbeat spirit. After all, I was standing and watching, and they were doing all the painful exertion!

It's easy to know how to cheer for some: go, good job, keep going, tempo, etc. And cheer I did. But as I stood waiting for skiers to appear and as I heard myself yelling, I started to wonder about what I was doing. Should I cheer for the racers flying down the hill or would it make them lose concentration? Should I cheer for the "other teams"? When someone falls, do I yell or stay quiet so they can concentrate on getting up? And then what about guy at the top of the hill vehemently yelling for the young girl to "get moving" when it is pretty obvious her pace will not increase if a bear wanted her for dinner. Should I cheer for him not to be cheering at all?

It is a funny concept, I think. Cheering. We cheer to win which means the silent cheer is for the other team to lose. We cheer to encourage yet sometimes it sounds like berating barrage of anger. We cheer to let the athlete know she is not alone.

What if we cheered for people all the time and not just the athlete trying to ski up a hill? If we really believe that cheering is an act of helping another person accomplish a goal, then we should be much louder in our daily lives. "Hey, great job managing your three small children and that huge cart of groceries through the piles of snow in the parking lot! You can make it! You can make it too once you get home, have to unload it all, and feed those hungry children. Great job. Keep going. Don't look back!"

Maybe it would be a bit obnoxious. Maybe a bit overdone. But I just wonder about all the energy we put into helping an athlete and if it is true that cheering helps, then what might happen to our stressed out, overburdened, financially strained society if we let one another know that we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon we'll be up that difficult climb? I just might give it a try. You?

match maker make me a match

The play "Fiddler on the Roof" centers around the Matchmaker. Hard to imagine giving one person the power to control with whom you will spend the rest of your life. It is true in many other cultures, but so foreign in our American culture. Maybe that is one reason we struggle with correlatives. Correlatives are the matchmakers. Their job is to indicate which words or ideas have a mutual relationship. If you love two things and what to express the mutual love for each, correlatives will show the love. The key is to make sure the correlative is NEXT to the idea being created to be in that relationship.
We'll start with the correlative set: not only, but also. Remember the key, put them next to the idea they are relating.

I love not only skiing but also running.

The common error is:

I not only love skiing but also running. Now our little matchmaker is relating loving to running. It's not the verb love that needs relating but the gerund skiing.

Another example:
I am in love not only with Justin Beiber and Zach Efron but also Finn from Glee. Note: Guess who I was thinking about when I wrote that sentence?

Common Error:
I am not only in love with JB and Zach but also Finn.

Who does this crazed teeny bopper love? ALL THREE! Put the correlative next to the names she loves without separating the verb from the subject. Remember, correlatives love to matchmake. Help them do their job by placing them next to the ideas they correlate.

Here is a link to a quiz-good luck!
http://www.dailywritingtips.com/a-%E2%80%9Cnot-only-but-also%E2%80%9D-quiz/

I keep forgetting the power of the one

A new game was under the Christmas tree this year-Stratego. Over the last two weeks, my flag has been captured repeatedly. My weakness is clear: I keep forgetting the power of the one. The game is pretty straightforward. Any number higher than the one it challenges wins. An eight kicks a seven off the board, a six any number lower, and so on. Except the one! The one will get taken by a two and above, but it has a particular strength. If you know the number of the opponent's piece, all the one has to do is call the right number, and it wins. It kicks any higher number off the board.

A couple days ago my "one" piece sat in front of my opponent's flag for at least 25 moves. I let it just sit there thinking it was too weak to challenge anything. It was only a one. Finally, I remembered its hidden power. I challenged the flag and won!

I keep thinking about my failure to remember the one. How often in life do I forget the hidden value of prayer? I have the chance to talk with God, the creator of the universe, my Lord, my Savior, the Alpha and the Omega. And then I just forget! Really?

Today I started my day with a prayer. I remembered the power of the One and only Father.

A Windy New Year's Reflection

A 35 mph gale is blowing from the north. The fresh snow is twirling off roofs and across yards. The house argues against the wind with protests of irritable creaks and moans. When all is still, the sound of the wind resembles the roar and crack of the surf against the shore.

I just returned from a 6 mile run in these conditions. Looking out across my backyard, I sense a foreboding that it is almost inhumane to venture out into these winter conditions. Yet, I did.

Being New Year's Day, I can't help but think about the coming adventures and challenges of 2012. I am sure a few of those challenges will seem too arduous or maybe even too painful to endure. I am going to try to remember the nature of the wind-it only blows directly and forcefully in one direction. While the opposite direction is made easier by the power of the wind. What appears as an abysmal challenge, if reversed, could be acknowledged as a source of strength.

So I found something to consider as today dawns a new year: a year of a daughter graduating, of a son becoming a high schooler, of trying new endeavors. Looking into the upcoming months from the narrow and frosted window of January 1st, no hints are seen regarding way the wind of this year is going to blow. There is a possibility of cold, hard gales as well as the softness of a spring breeze. Maybe both. But it won't be continual. If the challenge blows hard, maybe there is a new route. Or maybe there is something else beautiful and uplifting alongside the challenge. After all, the sun was shining on my run today.

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Where's the Beef?

We talked about community today and how we form friends. Sort of a crazy connection, but I was thinking about how our social interactions and bonds are sometimes created through media. About once a week at school, I hear someone say: "Ouch, Charlie!" You know exactly what I mean right.

Well, I want you to see a commercial that those of us tv viewers in the 80's had in common. A ubiquitous saying!

Sure hope I don't offend you vegans.

Letters

Sara-4 letters; Jim-3 letters; Gina-4; ; Sandy-5. Average letters in a name of a child growing up in my neighborhood in the 70's-4 letters. Sounds trivial, doesn't it. But when I went to kindergarten and practiced spelling my name, I was at a distinct disadvantage due to my name:
K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E-9 letters. I wasn't an outcast nor did I get placed in the slow-learner group due to my lengthy name; however, somehow I just felt out of place. All of those insecure feelings changed when I met a new friend in first grade. She lived close to my neighborhood, so we road the bus together to Ralph R. Reeder Elementary school. With backpacks on our laps and school lunch boxes safely stowed at our feet, we traveled the fifteen minutes across suburbia to our school. As we traveled, we spelled each other's name. It was a revelation. She, too, had 9 letters in her name: D-O-M-I-N-Q-U-E! Oh what fun we had saying our names, spelling our names, and counting the letters in our names. There was nothing trivial about the letters in our name. Those letters were the basis to our friendship.
I kept my faith and hope in Santa Clause until I was twelve years old due to Dominique. She wrote a letter that was published in the Star Tribune newspaper inquiring about the reality of Santa. Due to the editor's sort of a "Yes, Virginia" response to her letter, I could not bring myself to doubt the magic of Santa. Each December I would slip the article out from my Mother's desk and reread the newprint to be reminded of the faith required to believe in something and someone who seems contrary to fact, to possiblity, to reality. I held onto my childish desires and wishes for as long as I could. Much of this was due to a letter and someone's acknowledgment of that letter.
A letter can convey a lot. We form our names and our identities with letters. We send our love and our concerns in letters. A letter can give us a connection. Take a look at someone who seems different from you and see if you can find just one thing you have in common. You might not have to try too hard; just for starters, we all have letters that make up our names. Who knows, you might just make a new friend or maybe you'll have a part of your faith renewed.

Are you "casting on"?

English 11 is reading Death of a Salesman. Willy is bemoaning the fact that he has worked all his life to pay for the mortgage of the house only to have two people live there.   Linda, Willy's enabling wife, reminds him that life is a "casting off."  It is a brief statement that holds truth.  For teenagers and a young (sure hope I can still say young) mom like me, life is all about a casting on.  Kids need/want new clothes, shoes, electronics.    I scurry about meeting everyone's needs by casting on one more item for skiing, a new dress for a dance, the right frame for a bedroom.  For me, I work to cast on to my home to make it a comfy place to reside, to relax, to celebrate life.   It is a daily casting on.

So what about a casting off?   I talked with my neighbor across the street today as we were both getting the mail.  She is in her 60's and anxious to retire.  She is ready to retire so she can "start getting rid of all her junk."  All four cars are in in the driveway, rather than the in the three-car garage, due to all the stuff in the garage.  It is time to cast off!

If life were more about a casting on of dreams, hopes, and aspirations, perhaps there would be less to "cast off."  Perhaps.

Willy's son Biff wants to follow his dream of working on a ranch.  He finds peace while he is working with his hands.  Happy, the other son, is trapped working in a "successful" job but is lonely and malcontent.   Arthur Miller's timeless message reminds us to cast on that which can stay, that which is long-lasting, that which will feed our heart and our soul (rather than just filling the garage).

assumptions

I had to take a biology quiz yesterday; I received a six out of eight.  My daughter taught the lesson, and she guided me through the whole complicated cell reproduction process.    However, on the quiz, I made what I thought to be an educated guess at the first answer.  I immediately crossed out an answer since I assumed that definition was not possible.  I saw two terms I did not remember being applied to the lesson, so out it went.  Well, I was mistaken.  Minus one right from the get-go.

What do you know about plagiarism?  I hope you know that you cannot use another writer's words or even ideas without giving her credit.  You must cite your sources.  But what if you lived in a different country.  Do you think the same stringent rules on crediting sources holds?  The assumption is that everyone knows you have to give credit.  Futhermore, we also know that you don't have to agree with the critic.  In fact, you can cite the source and then go on to disprove the source.

Well, once again I was mistaken.  My student from a former Communist country has not learned the same lessons.  In fact, she was penalized for disagreeing with a critic in her home country.  In some cases it was better for her friends to use someone else's writing so as not to sound less intelligent.  No credit was needed.

Life is in the details.  Mistakes can be made so quickly.  I have been reminded to ask questions before I simply jump to a conclusion.  What seems obvious just might need more clarification.  That's not so hard now is it?  

The American Dream

What do you think is the American Dream?  Are you living it?  Is it freedom? Success? Wealth? Happiness?  Who can reach the American Dream?  The hardworking? The educated?  New immigrants?  

Jonas, from Ethiopia, is a custodian who fastidiously attends to Room 304b.  Often, we have conversations about acquiring the English language; his family in Ethiopia; and his schooling.  Yesterday's discussion centered on children.  He is convinced that American freedom is in jeopardy since white Christian Americans tend only to have two children while minorities, such as Hispanics and Muslims tend to have more than two children.  I steered the conversation toward education.  For it must be that the freedoms and rights of our country rest in our education system rather than in the mercy of various cultures.  We are the great melting pot.  We are the most diverse country in the world.  If we begin to fear other cultures and other religions, than we are bound to be a separate nation.  A nation pleading for isolation of others such as Northern Ireland or Israel.  

My faith in our country rests in education.  The American Dream can easily be shattered if it only means monetary wealth.  Whatever trouble Tiger Woods might be in, money is not going to solve his problems.  If the American Dream is only success it can easily crumble.  Any business owner or financial planner can attest to the crashing economy making success as fragile as china plate resting cockeyed on a shelf while a bull brushes past.  The American Dream must connect the people of our land to history, to literature, to science, to understanding of others.  The constant hope is that we continue to build an understanding of what it means to be a member of humanity; an understanding that fear can lead to hatred which can lead to war which leads to death and breeds the cycle again.  Freedom must be accompanied with the education of all and the desire to eradicate fear of those who are different.

My faith also rests in God.  A God of forgiveness and grace.  A God who taught us to pray: "Thy kingdom come."  This kingdom of God can not be one of fear and hatred.  How then can we love our neighbor if we do not know our neighbor?  Education is a starting place, and living in the world and with God's people is a way to make education a journey rather than only a destination.  

Tomorrow, I'll tell Jonas a bit more about The Great Gatsby.  A man whose dream was ultimately shattered.  Maybe there is something more he and I can teach each other about this American Dream.  The dream that spans across mighty oceans and continents that allows one man from an African nation to receive an education and to be free from oppression.  In the end, I think I have found my definition of the American dream by knowing a man from Africa who works as a custodian in order to go to school in a country where he is free to dream.  I guess he is wondering who will keep this dream alive for the next generation.

Shoes on my feet

Last week as I was walking into school, I must have felt something unusual as I walked.  I can only assume this is the reason that I looked down at my feet to see that I was wearing two different shoes.  Now before you jump to any wild conclusions about my lack of sanity, I must explain.  The shoes were both brown and both made by Dansko, the same shoe company.  I had the giggles that made my hike up the 35 stairs that take me from the parking lot up to the second floor and then up again to the third floor even harder than usual.  The giggles turned into downright hysterics leaving my mascara running down my cheeks.  

I vowed I would keep my mistake a secret.  That was until I remembered another funny shoe story.  Last Christmas I was at a party with friends from school.  One of the women had to leave early to take tickets for the basketball game.  We said our goodbyes and off she went.  I mingled for quite a while longer and then it was time for me to head for home.  I went to put on my black Danskos and immediately knew something was amiss.  One shoe felt like mine, but it was quite obvious the other shoe was, oh let's just say, too small for my size 9 1/2 foot.  Could it be?  Yep, the friend that left for the basketball game was in such a hurry that she didn't notice she was wearing size 6 on one foot and 9 1/2 on the other foot.  I hobbled into the game, swapped shoes, and then I headed for home.  I knew she was one person who would appreciate my mismatched shoes.  She did!

One more shoe story.  I have hated my big feet ever since I was about six years old.  My most vivid memory is shoe shopping at Kinney's Shoes.  I chose a really cute pair of tennis shoes.  There were three eyelets for the laces.  I excitedly waited for the clerk to bring out my size.  I sat swinging my legs on the little stool in anticipation.  When he brought out the shoes in my size, I argued with him, for these were NOT the shoes I had chosen.  I marched over to the counter to retrieve the sample shoe I wanted.  I counted the eyelets for him to ensure he understood.  In the end, I left the store in tears without a pair of shoes.  

I never wanted anyone to notice my big feet.  Comments about my big feet used to leave me in tears: "Wow, I never knew you had such huge feet!"  Or "I thought you would be taller with such big feet."  But fretting over my feet never made them smaller nor did it make me feel better.  But laughing at myself certainly made me feel lighter, happier, and unabashed.  It's good to grow up!  

Sol Invitcus

Recently, I found out that the celebration of Christ's birth was moved to December 25 to transform a previous pagan worship of the sun, Sol Invitcus.  So rather than worshiping the light of sun, Christians could worship Christ as the Light of the World.  My first question is what were the pagans doing worshipping the sun during the darkest part of the year?  To me, if you want to worship the sun, you do it anywhere in let's say, June, July, or August.  So that part I simply don't get.  My second question is what do the powers that be (Romans? Catholics?) think about the worshipping pagans now?  So they (Romans) thought that by plunking in the grand celebration of Christ's birth the pagans would suddenly stop worshipping something other than the creator.  No dice.  Nope, ain't happening.  

Trust me, I might be prone to worship the sun if it were shining more than four hours a day (in addition to my worship of Christ the King, of course!).  Sun light is a pretty essential factor.  Just ask your doctor to check your Vitamin D level and you'll discover the necessity of sunlight.  But instead of the natural light of the sky, blinking white, pink, red, green and now neon blue lights litter my neighbors' yards in hopes to do what?  Draw attention to the birth of the Saviour?  Or, shed some colorful light on a really dark night since the sun has just up and left the sky?  I'm not sure.  The lights covering trees and trimming houses are a comfort on a dark night.  They are beautiful when they shimmer and glitter.  But that is because it is so very dark outside, so very dark when we are all still awake and trying to go about our productive lives. 

I guess the attempt by the State of Rome to eliminate a pagan holiday by replacing it with the most holy of days has kind of mussed it all up.  For it seems to me, we still have a pagan holiday, but it is smothering the birth of a Savoir.  Maybe Christ's birth should be celebrated on the real day of his birth.   December is dark and cold.  It is a month to be mindful of the need for light, for pure essential light.   I just wish Christ got all the attention on His day.

English Teacher Comments

Dennis Anderson wrote an article for the Star Tribune about his English professor from the University of Minnesota-Morris. He writes: "An irony of great teaching is that it's a rare gift students don't appreciate until too much time has passed to acknowledge it graciously." Perhaps this is true. Perhaps it is true for far too many professions whereby we forget to thank someone for a job well done in order to help, serve, or encourage.

This weekend Sam was devastated that his English teacher wrote comments to help him improve his writing. He needed to add details that would help the reader see the scene. In addition, he needed organization. Of course, this brought him to tears since he felt he had worked on it--he had changed a few words. The piece he has now is witty and fun. After the tears were gone and the energy was renewed, he filled two pages with details about Thanksgiving and our crazy storytelling family. In fact, he even admitted this draft is much better than the older one. But he did not thank his English teacher for encouraging him to make his story better. Maybe he will...someday.

On Friday at the school play, I saw a former student who is now attending St. Thomas University. She was beaming when she told me she received 100% on her first paper in college. She went on to say how appalled she is at other student's writing. Being in this new environment has given her a new appreciation for her high school, maybe even for her English teacher.

My dilemma is clear. The way I "encourage" a student could potentially bring tears on a Saturday afternoon. Hopefully, there are more alums proud of their writing and thankful for the teachers who helped by correcting and directing.

Balloon Boy would soar in Fahrenheit 451

My freshmen students began reading Fahrenheit 451 last week.  It was a grand start with a lively discussion about books.  Memories were shared and stories unfolded as storybook after storybook was recounted with vivid details.   There was minimal prodding from me to get the answer I was looking for: reading is essential to who we are.  Really, fourteen-year-olds readily volunteered that answer.  Bradbury would be so proud--or would he?

I have been, just like you I'm sure, watching the story--the drama--now the fable of the Colorado boy unfold as he was once was thought to be floating to the land of Oz but who was really napping in the attic.  The "put me on tv" dad found a way to get himself on tv, that's for sure.  No one can doubt his ingenuity.  Except for the fact that that UFO looking device resembled the Jiffy Pop popcorn container more than it did a legitmate flying device.  Buy anyway, that's not the point.  Is there a point?  Yep.  He knows what our culture wants.  Drama. Entertainment. On TV.  

So, would Bradbury be proud?  I guess there is a conflicting message.  On the one hand, we (at least my students) claim they love reading.  On the other hand, we love the sensational story that comes from lands far away and floats across our living rooms to bring us something to wonder about, to question, to be entertained by.  

For me, my lessons in room 304b have now been all the more fortified.  And so for tomorrow twenty five more pages of reading are due.  We march on to discover what Bradbury knew over fifty years ago.  Our culture is threatened by the insatiable need to be entertained; however, if my students are right, we can satiate that need with books just as well as screens and fast action.  If you think I'm a Pollyanna, well you are right.  And if you don't know who Pollyanna is, well you have some reading to do! 

God will be with you...

I visited the World Vision "Step into Africa" exhibit yesterday.  I placed the earphones on my ears and a rhythmic, soothing voice hummed Emmanuel's story into my ears.  The journey began in a small hut made to look like the home he shared with his mother and brother before his mother died from Aids and before the hut collapsed from heavy rains.  It wasn't too long until tears were streaming down my cheeks.  How can a 9-year-old boy become the parent?  How do two children survive in a banana plantation?  What is my responsibilty to this epidemic, this global crisis?  I continued on Emmanuel's journey discovering that World Vision found him and his brother, provided them real shelter, and are helping the boys pursue their dreams of becoming doctors.  At the end of my journey, the soothing voice announced Emmanuel's diagnosis: HIV negative--AMEN!  

In response to the stories, people wrote and posted prayers and thoughts in the chapel.  Many pleaded earnestly to know how to help; to be broken in order to do what matters; and yet, far too many comments seemed too trite, too canned--"God will be with you" or "God will answer your prayers" or even "Hang in there."  Really?   

There is none of Emmanuel's story that I can begin to imagine for me or for my children.  The loss of both parents? The scorn of extended family and community?  The loss of all earthly possessions?  The loss of a house?   What is my response?  If we declare "God will answer your prayers" and do not respond by action, how then can God work?  If I give only words, do I give anything? 

I hope we do more than say "you'll get through it" when what might be needed is an extended hand to walk through those dark valleys and the chance to help someone feel the love of God.  

A new kitchen sends me to the wilderness

Eight weeks have been spent designing, gutting, building.  Tomorrow we leave it all behind for rocks, dirt, water, sky, and trees.  The BWCA!  Perhaps this is the modern age way of finding balance.  Would I need to cook over a fire if I didn't just install a stove that one needs a computer tech degree to operate?  Will I appreciate the new stainless steel behemoths all the more upon my return after cooking in the dirt, washing in the lake, eating on the rock?  Is this what drives me to want to be without toilet, sink, fridge, counter? Is it only the desire to appreciate what I have?

Maybe what drives me more is the desire to be centered.  I believe I will know more about myself from having to rely on myself.  I will look across the still waters to find a loon caring for her babe and be brought back to something at the core of me.  I will stare up at the northern lights dancing and cavorting in the cloudless sky and allow myself to imagine.  I will watch my children create games with sticks, dirt, and bark and will find a place of peace inside.

Then I will return to the comfort and the race of this life I have designed and built but with a renewed sense of who I am, with a reminder of the joy of imagining, and the security of peace.

Off to find that mosquito repellent.

Carl Dreads Going to Work-Do I care?

I guess it really is the proverbial love-hate relationship.  I enjoy, maybe love is too strong of a word, seeing pictures and getting small morsels of a person's life.  Here is a brief list of the fun:  Paula is waiting for carnitas; Leah is counting the days until a trip to Wisconsin Dells; and Maddie scored 100% on the Taylor Swift contest.  I might not know this information about my family were it not for facebook, so finding about tidbits about someone's whereabouts, travels, interests keeps me logging in and finding out the latest "wall postings."

However, do I need/want/desire or should I know that Carl dreads going to work today; Blair is not sleeping well; the Swanson's eat too much cereal?  (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)  C'mon, where else in living history was one able to access the not-so-vital inner-workings of another's life?  Or when was it necessary to share with the world what is a common, everyday truth: all would rather the weekend one day longer; sleep is elusive (I write this at 2:15 am); and if it is in the pantry, refrigerator, or on the counter, a child will eat it.  These are well-documented, hard and fast facts.  What is compelling us to tell one another about the mundane?  What is compelling me to keep reading it?

I walk my poochie three times a day: up the sidewalk, down the sidewalk, and around the block.  On these daily, habitual walks, I see two neighbors on a regular basis, but I do not speak more than a hello to them.  Everyday, three times a day, I am walking, circling, pounding pavement and no one is outside!  Not only that, but there is rarely a chit chat.  Of course, it is far too hasty a claim to say people are all logged into facebook checking someone's status or filling in their "What's on your mind?" box.  No, that is not my claim.  But maybe all these mundane comments would have more of a filter if front porches that were made for sitting is where people sat.

For now, I will keep on with this new electronic craze.  Don't be fooled; I have found the down arrow that allows me to "hide" those with the banal, hackneyed, tiresome comments.  

A Jar of Pickles

Here is how I remember it:
We are sitting at the dining room table: mother is at the head with Ross directly across from her. Grandpa Willard is to the right of my brother with Grandma Clara next to him. I sit to the left of Ross with Liz to the right of mother. It is my 10th birthday. The conversation has been lively, the food hot and good, and the anticipation for my presents growing with each passing minute. Grandpa and Grandma are extra excited about giving me my gift. They exchange glances and giggles. I am thrilled to see what is inside the extra big and extra heavy package.

Finally, happy birthday is sung, candles are extinguished, and dishes are cleared. My gifts are laid before me. I know which gift I will open first. With great zeal, I tear into the package. All eyes watch me as I rip into the paper, then the box, and behold my gift. The laughter ripples around the table. Grandpa and Grandma are delighted by their surprise. And immediately, as I raise the gift from the box, I burst into tears.

Yesterday, I visit my 97-year-old grandma at the care center. She is dressed in her navy skirt, pink sweater, blue pearls, and pink-as-a-petal lipstick. She is darling. She greets me from her wheelchair-all smiles, yet searching for who I am. After introductions, she grasps again that I am her granddaughter. We look through new photos; I share stories of my kids; and I ask questions. Mother is also with us. She has with her the two poems Grandma memorized in 8th grade. If my math is correct, the year was 1925 when she committed the two-page poems to memory. I create a lesson plan in my head for next year's 9th graders; they will have a gift to give their grandchildren. I have with me some recipes and she looks over the rice pudding recipe written in her gentle scrawl. I see a few memories percolating in her mind. Memories too percolate in my mind and I ask her if she remembers her bread and butter pickles. "How did you cut those cucumbers so thin?" I ask. She doesn't know. "Did you have to soak them in vinegar?" I ask hoping to jog something in her memory. She doesn't recall. Soon this part of our conversation is over; she is hoping she has some roast beef made for me to take home to my husband. She knows that Grandpa, who sadly has not been with us for 19 years, would love some roast beef and mashed potatoes. It is a bitter sweet moment.

Last week, I bought "State Fair" quality bread and butter pickles at the grocery store. I was more than disappointed. They are cut too thick for my liking, they are not sweet enough, they do not resemble Grandma's homemade kind.

The birthday gift I received for my 10th birthday-the biggest monster jar of Grandma's bread and butter pickles you have ever seen. Oh how I wish I could erase my tearful response. Oh how I wish I could taste Grandma's pickles again and could hear Grandpa's laughter. Oh how I wish that when we were young we could appreciate the love, beauty, and generosity of what we are given. Grandma doesn't remember how to make her pickles and I never learned. And anything store bought is never the same.