Thank You, Betty Macdonald

It is February--without a doubt, my least favorite month of the year. And, although this year I was bound and determined that I would busy myself and just give it and the calendar an occasional passing glance, I found that one can only polish the appliances and wash the light bulbs so many times before a little distraction sets in--even the glorious gift of time to write wasn't enticing me to stay at the keyboard as often as I normally would like.

One afternoon as I was dusting the bookshelf in my basement office, I came across an old book that my mom had given me long ago, Betty Macdonald's Onions in the Stew.  I'm not sure if it was given to my mom from my Grandma Lois, if it was a flea market find or a Bingo prize, but I had let it season on the shelf for a good while. And now the time seemed ripe to give it a read. I had, the week earlier, started to read The Sound and the Fury, that light-hearted little ditty by Faulkner. I waded molasses-slow through the first few pages, only to declare that  I was at an age where I didn't  have to read  what didn't appeal to me, no matter how classic...this one was tossed in the bag to head to Goodwill for the next poor book-loving sap. So, I poured a cup of coffee and sat down in my comfy chair to give Betty's book a try.

A tear-wiping, rib-aching half hour later,  I reluctantly sat the book down to get supper started. When a spare moment popped up, I went back to the book. I haven't laughed this hard for a long, long time. I haven't been this entertained by an author for even longer than that.

 Betty Macdonald has a way of telling a story that makes writing look easy (although those of us who struggle in the attempt know how diligently she worked). Sadly, she only lived to be fifty years old; according to Wikipedia, she died of cancer at this young age.  Yet, within that short span of time, she wrote some great stuff--including the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle series and The Egg and I, which inspired the Ma and Pa Kettle movie series (again, from Wikipedia).

 Of course, she writes earnestly and hilariously about herself, her family, and her neighbors, so it netted her some trouble along the way with the occasional law suit and hurt feelings (brutal honesty can be rough--and once again, a nod to Wikipedia for my vast knowledge of this lady's life).

 Political correctness or not, I say a very large thank you to Betty Macdonald for allowing me, on a day like today when February is still looming, the appliances are already shiny, and the freezing rain has now turned into massive snow flakes outside my door,  to ignore it all and escape to Vashon Island and all its over-grown, malfunctioning, and generally hilarious environs.

 

The lightbulb washing can wait.

Garden Seed Catalogs--It's a Giddy Time!

The garden seed catalogs have arrived! For those of us who love to plant, nurture, grow, and harvest the seeds found in those catalogs, it's a giddy time indeed!

Looking through a seed catalog now is akin to my perusing the pages of a Sears Christmas catalog as a child. Just as the Christmas catalog got more dog-eared as Christmas drew nearer, the gardening season calendar can be measured by the more and more ragged pages of the numerous seed catalogs that accompany me throughout my day. Page after colorful page of luscious lettuces, cherry-red radishes, tantalizing tomatoes, and herbs of every imaginable aroma and taste. Gardens of flowers, from delicate snow drops to towering sunflowers grace those pages of gardening bliss.

The snow may fall, the chilling winds may blow and the icicles may extend off our gutters to dizzying lengths, but there's a warm, cozy little garden being planted on the planning board at my desk--I can almost smell the fragrance.  

Resolution Revolution

Made those resolutions for 2015? Me either.

 Well, I guess that's not completely accurate. I'm acting on a resolution I made to myself back earlier this summer. It actually takes on more of the form of a resolution revolution. While push mowing grass at my sister's -in-law home back in August, I had some time all to myself to nothing much more than think. And, as I was pondering over our eventual return to our home and lifestyle, it occurred to me that I no longer wanted to be a jack of all trades/master of few. No, I made a resolution at that moment to decrease my ambitions to a nice, neat little grouping.  Like one of my favorite authors once said, "Simplify, simplify, simplify".

Becoming less ambitious...it's a thrilling experience.

For years, my ambitions were, well, just way too ambitious. I always joked that when anyone asked me what I liked, I could simply answer, "Yes." It was exhausting. I liked too many things and wanted to learn too many things. My days pretty much became endless scenarios of  "mile wide/inch deep" experiences. Literally being away from my sources of hobbies/learning/experiences this summer truly helped me  refocus on what really matters to me. More inch wide/mile deep--true passions in life.

Writing, for example--so writing gets much more attention these days. Every day, as a matter of fact. 

Come spring, gardening  gets much more of my attention. In the meantime, the seed catalogs are getting pretty dog-eared.

Photography--a connection of the two passions.

And, so, on this  dawn of a fresh new year, my revolution has begun. No massive list of goals; no list at all. Just a joy that comes with each word I pen, each plant I nurture, each photo I capture.

Viva la revolution! 

Being Gifted

The other evening, we had a wonderful event in our little town. We lit up a Christmas tree.

Now, to many of you, that would seem about as nondescript as it gets. We lit up a Christmas tree...big deal. Many cities have hundreds of beautiful Christmas trees lining the streets, adorning  the entrances to buildings, and standing in stately manors.

But that's not where we live.

In our tiny little town, we have no statues, no high-rise buildings, no collection of city streets. Just a pretty little area on the curve coming into town that recognizes the veterans and the founder of our local Ruritan club, along with three flag poles of varying height, in accordance with the flag they proudly support each day. So, having a tree on the monument is kind of a big deal to us.

We feel pretty gifted around here.

After the lighting  of the tree, we went down the street to the Methodist church to the Fellowship Hall to have fellowship with our friends and neighbors, enjoying hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies provided by the ladies of the church. After this, we all went upstairs to the sanctuary which was beautifully adorned with a mass of red poinsettias, red ribbons, bright white lights, and, at the center, a lovely nativity.

And then the singing began. Parishioner after parishioner came forward and offered gifts of song. Heads nodded, feet tapped, and joy lifted to the rafters.  I think it's safe to say that the beautiful verses of "Silent Night"  sang by the congregation as the benediction could be heard well beyond the doors of the church. We all left with smiles; the Advent season had begun.

This is certainly the season of gifts and gifting. It occurred to me on the way home last night, with the music still gently playing  in my mind, that we are small town for sure...but oh, the gifts we receive each and every day in this small little spot in the world.  We know one another, we like one another, we care for one another.

We are pretty gifted around here.  

Tender Mercies

This has been a trying couple of weeks. The most devastating thing parents can hear is that their child is seriously ill. I don't know of any time in life where I have felt more helpless. After nearly two years of roadblocks, frustrations, endless blank stares from physicians and surly comments from ER personnel, we are swiftly closing in on a diagnosis after the symptoms of liver failure have appeared.

And now, I truly thank God for tender mercies.

Ever since he started this roller coaster ride of ultrasounds, MRIs, multiple paracentesis lab visits, liver biopsy, ophthalmological exams and blood tests after blood tests, Kurt has been wrapped in the tender mercies of kind people. People who are gentle, people who are highly skilled, people who treat him as the wonderful kid he is. They remember him, they remember his name, they smile and they visit during procedures.

That makes these helpless parents feel helped.

Those tender mercies have been extended to us as well. And for that we are very thankful. I'm called by these good people telling me where to show up with him, which door to enter, where to leave the car, who to talk to...in short, I don't have to think about these things. They just happen. Grateful is an understatement. It allows me to spend my time with my kiddo talking about this stuff, but also allowing him to get as far away from this stuff as possible...we have time to talk about computers, programs, Pokemon, and silly everyday stuff that our shared sense of humor enjoys.

So, we pray for and give thanks for continued tender mercies. They remind us that we are indeed in God's loving hands. 

I Owe You an Apology, February...

As I was slipping along on our road yesterday in route to the highway, the thought occurred to me...I've been badly mistaken now for a number of years. Time to come clean and publicly make my confession.

I owe the month of February an apology.

For years, I have told anyone within ear-shot that my least favorite month of the year is February. It seems if anything goes wrong, awry, or just plain wonky, it's in February.

I'm wrong...it's January that is to blame. It's been sitting there, quietly and smugly, allowing its neighbor on the calendar to take the hit of my frustrations.

Yes, January, you are the culprit here. High with good spirits left over from the holidays, I tend to drift right along--at least through the first half of January--with my good will toward men, things, and everything else. And then, after one too many icy or snowy days, my mood of good will starts to crumble a bit. Constantly changing schedules due to weather, precautions left and right for fear of frozen pipes or drains (and so many in the house--where did these all come from?), dressing in layer after layer of clothing in order to fortify oneself for the dreaded outdoors--this is what life becomes in January. Even though each day gains us a bit more daylight, the days are rare that afford us the chance to actually be outside and enjoy it.

So, by February, I'm just pretty much tired of the whole "winter wonderland" deal. And then I start disliking February. The whole, short little month. I've bad-mouthed this little month for years.

Time for me to come clean and make my formal apology...so, February, I apologize. This year I will put blame where it goes--on this bitterly cold month of January.

Just one thing, February...I'll be on guard...you can be back on the bad list quickly if you dump that white stuff and ice on us a little too much.

Girly Shopping

My dad, when he wasn't feeling so well  in his later years, would tell my mom to go "girly shopping" in order to give herself some "her" time from taking vigilant care of him. That term then extended itself over time to when I would take her somewhere on occasion for the same reason. Dad would tell us to be sure and do some "girly shopping".  Now I notice my brother, from time to time, telling my mom the same thing. And, on the rare occasion that I look at a myriad of stores  for something specific to wear, I think to myself that I, too, am doing some "girly shopping".

 With that in mind, when you go "girly shopping" these days, ladies, do you find the selection a little...weird? I grew up with a lot of homemade clothes from a mom that was a pretty darned good seamstress. This meant I grew up looking at things like seam construction, straight-set darts, even hems, etc. Looking at "store bought" clothes today, it's pretty evident that craftsmanship in these areas has become secondary in clothing construction. And many of the materials? I've more than once heard my mom (as well as myself) use the term "rag bag" to describe the condition.  Add to this the actual designs of the clothing and a perfect storm is created. Many styles tend to look like maternity tops to this 50+ girly shopper--maternity tops with heavily plunging necklines. In other words...weird. Tailoring is a term that is sadly lost on present generations in this current massed-produced clothing market.

Now for a little 50+  year-old lamenting. Believe it or not youngsters, clothing used to fit nicely on people. Waistlines on pants were flattering, seams were straight, materials didn't fade with one washing, shoulder seams on shirts had central, well-fitting locations. Clothes didn't need to be constantly adjusted and re-adjusted while being worn--they just stayed put where they needed to be.  They were, for the most part, flattering to many sizes and shapes.

 We live in a society that seems to have tossed out any notion of quality. "Close enough" has become the norm. Even extravagantly-priced clothing doesn't insure that it is well made. "Designer" has become a generic term.

 When I get really desperate, I head back to the sewing machine and my old patterns. And, for awhile, I allow myself to get lost in carefully tailored seams, darts, tucks, and hemlines. The enjoyment of pressing in a dart to make it lay smoothly; the satisfaction of seeing a neatly done piece come to life on the dress form--and, granted, I'm far from a superior seamstress. But it's still fun. And my imagination can coax those seams to look a bit better.  I get re-fortified to once again brave the mess that is called "fashion".

 Mom is right...there's a big difference between "fashion" and "style". We girly shoppers know that. Yet my hope keeps hoping that someday it will all turn around and girly shopping will once again hold its traditional spot in my mom and my outings.  In the meantime, girly shopping has become more panning for gold. And, once in a great while, a little glimmer appears.

Have a fine day.