Stories Are For Eternity

Quirky food traditions…

I’m sure you had some of these in your family. My mom always wanted to put her best foot forward, so there were set procedures in place for holiday foods, table setting etc. More on that in a moment.

Early on, my mom packed my lunch for school. I was never surprised by my sandwiches though some other kids were. For some reason my mom would go through a cream cheese phase from time to time. Neither my brother nor I were fussy eaters so she had some fun.

Cream cheese and jelly was a nice break from traditional pb&j though I enjoyed pb&j especially if it contained grape jelly. Cream cheese and olives was another favorite. I can remember watching my mom spoon a little of the olive brine over the cream cheese to soften it up a bit. The most unusual cream cheese sandwich offering was when she mixed chopped walnuts with the cream cheese, then sprinkled a little cinnamon-sugar mix on top.

I’ve always been the type of eater who likes odd combinations. On the subject of cream cheese, blobs of cream cheese would appear in our soup when we were kids. We had this set of small plastic trays that fit a sandwich and had an area for a bowl or glass. My mom would often use that spot to place one of the white petal-shaped bowls she used to serve soup (Campbell’s mostly). Any of the following soups could be served with a tablespoon of cream cheese floating in it: tomato, pea, squash. As it melted, the soup became a little creamier and savory tasting. Happy memories.

Back to other traditions…when we were an intact family of four, Thanksgiving usually included my father’s parents. The extra leaf would be added to the dining room table and the crinkling of plastic indicated the good tablecloth was being unpackaged from its trip to the dry cleaner.

My most important job prior to holiday dinners was to polish the silver. Forks were the most difficult to do because of the tines. We used salad, dinner, and dessert forks. Lots of forks. Lots of polishing. Lots of grumbling.

I set the table with care. Thanks to our World Book Encyclopedia, I’d looked up how to set the table properly. I was five. What was my problem? Nothing. I loved to read the encyclopedia. I knew where certain dishes went, blah, blah, blah. Add to it that I was a left-handed kid in a right-handed world and had to visualize it in the opposite way in my head. The electric knife rested at my father’s seat for when he carved the turkey. Dessert plates and forks were stacked neatly along with fresh spoons for coffee.

I enjoyed those traditions, no matter how much I complained about polishing the silver. I trot out the china and silver on occasion. Polishing the silver is still a despised chore. But I like tradition and history and the warmth of the memories.

“Love when you can/Cry when you have to/Be who you must/That’s a part of the plan…” Dan Fogelberg

Lotus bowls, we called them petal bowls. A 60 s fixture.

I’m craving a cream cheese and olive sandwich.

We didn’t have room on the table for #’s 2 &3.

My previous beer-drinking life…

I often chuckle as I pass beverage centers or the beer aisle in the grocery store. My thought, “now that I’m long ago of age, I don’t drink anymore.” Seems that’s the way of things.

Beer was my drink of choice from the time I was far too young to be thinking about it. I drank my fair share of yucky beer during high school: Pabst, Schaefer, Utica Club, Rheingold, whatever was in a dad’s stash. Those were the days when you split two cans amongst 5 or 6 peers…or so I’m told…:::wink:::.

By senior year of high school, where due to my November birthday, I remained 17 years of age, my tastes had upgraded to Michelob and Molson Golden. As I matured, I grew to appreciate better tasting beer. And I made sure to try many varieties. I discovered weissbier, a heavily wheat-influenced beer. And I discovered dark beer which I enjoyed on occasion. I will admit that I’m not a huge fan of ale or pale ale, all the rage lately, but once in a great while, an icy Smithwick’s goes down a treat.

I’m much more of a Pilsner or lager fan. But now that I seldom imbibe, what difference does it make? My twenties, which coincided with the decade of the 1980s, was a beer-soaked mess of a decade. Early in that decade, my mental health issues were diagnosed. I continued self-medicating until I woke up one morning in the late summer of 1987 and resolved to stop. And I did.

Alcohol never impacted my ability to attend school or work. My tolerance was pretty high and I wasn’t one to have horrible hangovers. I didn’t consume alcohol on a daily basis. But when I did, I consumed a great deal. I liked it and it liked me.

Instead of binge-drinking, I became a binge-eater I’m afraid. I gained a tremendous amount of weight and have struggled with it since. Most of the reason I don’t imbibe is that I don’t need to nor do I really want to. I was never a wine drinker as it made my face feel on fire and gave me a terrible headache. I did enjoy bourbon and scotch on occasion, and drambuie. Can we say Rusty Nail?

I liked my drinks ice cold. I mean, ice cold. A trip to the drive-in meant bringing a can of my favorite beer at the time, a mini keg of Dinkel Acker. I shared but not a lot. I miss the beer-drinking life at times but not enough to revisit it. I’ve got enough problems, haha.

A nice lager I’ve tried within the last several years is brewed by Innis & Gunn, a Scottish-based brewery. If you say the name fast it sounds like “innocent gun” which appeals to the mystery writer in me. So, when, and if, you tip a cold one, smile and think of me!

A nice can of beer and made a great lamp base when empty!

Imprecise terminology…

It’s imprecise. While tangible, it’s slightly out of reach. I’m talking about measurements for cooking. In my mind, people have a feel for cooking/baking or they don’t. Those who don’t dutifully follow recipes to the letter. They don’t “feel” the food. I dare say they eat to live.

I fall into the category of being able to feel the food. As I’m cooking, I can create taste sensations through thought and then create them in the cooking. I do measure when I use recipes but a teaspoon may become a pinch, a 1/4 teaspoon may become a dash…do you follow me? Inclusion of imprecise terminology really confuses the dutiful recipe followers.

I brought some homemade butternut squash soup to school one day for lunch when I was still teaching. One of my colleagues was fascinated by it and wanted to know the recipe. I shrugged and said I didn’t follow a recipe, I just put it together. The colleague wanted to know how I knew what to put in it. I said I’d roasted a butternut squash on a cookie sheet in the oven along with some quartered onions. Then I threw those in a stock pot along with some chicken broth and seasonings and pulverized everything with an immersion blender.

Oh my. The questions rained down upon me and my soup became cold. I tried to explain that I don’t make the soup the same each time. I wanted it savory this time so only included sage and thyme along with salt and pepper. What do you mean by savory? How could it be sweet? Well, I would have roasted some apples along with the squash.

Apples? What kind of apples? How many? I told her I’d use whatever I had on hand. And I’d add some cinnamon, maybe nutmeg, maybe a little brown sugar, honey or maple syrup. Yeah, but how much? A pinch here and there, a splash of anything liquid. It’s important to taste as you go along.

But what if you ruin it? It usually can be saved with the addition of some other ingredients. I thought her head would explode at this thought. I’ve been cooking/baking since I was a kid. I have a feel for it though I’m no gourmet cook nor am I a foodie. I just like flavor.

By this time I’d heated the soup once again and rummaged through the nasty faculty room fridge until I found a specific item which I started adding to my soup. “What are you doing now,” she exclaimed. I told her I wanted some Worcestershire in it. Why? I could only shrug. It was not the time to tell her I was craving an umami flavor.

Why Spokane?

I own a framed copy of the above poem. It doesn’t look like that version but the sentiment is the same. I’ve known I was adopted since I was old enough to understand. There wasn’t much information, barely enough to fuel an active imagination.

By the time I hit 50, I’d weathered several odd illnesses. Though I enjoyed the bliss of ignorance, there was part of me that wished I knew what might be in store for me. I’ve never been able to answer the family history portion of any medical office paperwork. Actually, that’s a good thing.

Research is something I enjoy. And thus it began almost 15 years ago. I was able to discover my ancestry. I’ve met quite a few cousins from my maternal side as they live in New England which is close to where I live.

The paternal line of my biological family was challenging to discover, for a few reasons I won’t discuss now. Suffice it to say they are based in an opposite direction from New England. My love of the film North by Northwest inspired me to want to try the sleeper car train experience. Many of my cousins live in the Spokane area. I’m retired and have time. I’m en route.

There will be more…

Please don’t assume I’m dissatisfied with my upbringing. Far from it. I was adopted by people who wanted a child. I was afforded many opportunities. But I was always curious if there were people out there who were like me.

How does that work?

I possess endless curiosity, always have. I think that’s part of why I’m a voracious reader. Some people are conversationalists and satisfy their curiosity in that manner. There are those of us who are very shy and that presents a challenge.

I’ve learned over the years to “play nice” with others. Thanks to my mother’s efforts, I have good manners and know how to conduct myself according to situations. But, due to inherent shyness, it can be very uncomfortable and awkward for me to converse with people I’ve just met, however interesting they may be.

Engaging in small talk has always been difficult for me. My curiosity often spurs me to want to converse with people but I never seem able to connect. So, how does that work? There are people I find interesting but when I try to initiate further conversation they don’t appear to be interested.

My sense of humor is as rampant as my curiosity. There are times when I’m just plain goofy. It’s just the way I am. But I feel it may detract from people wanting to engage with me. Sometimes when folks find out I taught high school English, they seem startled. It makes me wonder at what kind of vibe I may be giving off but I’m not going to change the essence of my being in order to change another’s perception of me.

So when that voice in your head says, “wow, that’s interesting. How could I speak with that person again?,” how might I make that happen? Many of my previous efforts have failed, thus causing me to be reluctant to try again. Anyone else experience this?

“All that is, was, and will be/Universe much too big to see/Time and space never ending/Disturbing thoughts, questions pending/Limitations of human understanding”. “Through the Never”. Metallica

“You’re so all-knowing”…

I will never understand people’s motives, thoughts, words, and actions. Never. Ever. I realize there is no rule that says we have to understand. But when folks lash out (due to their insecurities?) it makes no sense to me. Do they enjoy creating a conflict? Do they need attention? Do they comprehend the hurt they create? Do they care?

Some may be asking, “ what difference does it make?” Or, why should I care? First of all, I don’t enjoy having lies told; when I’m misunderstood and wish to explain the misunderstanding, I don’t like being shut down and not allowed to give my explanation; nor do I appreciate that I must be wrong regardless of what I have to say; I feel deeply and do not wish to be hurt.

Here’s the deal. Every living and breathing person is entitled to his or her opinion. I do not have to agree with yours nor do you have to agree with mine. But I will allow you to express yourself. I’m not one to cut and run. However, I don’t like to argue with others who aren’t willing to listen in return. I’ve learned, in the last several years, to listen. Then it may be my choice to further engage in the conversation or skip over it.

It’s now easy to block communication from people. There are levels of disengagement on social media. You can mute people or block them entirely. Does this mean I have never blocked someone on social media? Of course not. I will block an individual I feel is nasty, cruel, spreading disinformation and/or lies., etc.

Hey, it’s easy to jump to conclusions. It’s far less easy to listen to an explanation of why an assumption may be incorrect. And to persist in pushing the incorrect assumption despite having been given the explanation of the reality of the situation, that’s just childish. It may be followed by a diatribe of why the person is correct, why you’re wrong, and then, bada bing, the person blocks you from further communication. Period.

I left the third grade behind fifty-some years ago and I quit cooties for infinity back in 1968. The blockage of communication allows the blocked person to make, perhaps, his/her own incorrect/correct conclusions. But it smacks of something more. You may reach your own incorrect/correct conclusions on this one. Rest assured, you will never know for sure because you are no longer allowed to communicate and find out. Ain’t life grand?

N.B.—“you probably think this [rant] is about you.” Doubtful. But maybe.

Joyful noise…

I am a Jimmy Buffet devotee. Though I was never hard-core like some of his fans, I did have some parrot earrings and at least one cheeseburger pin. I attended three different concerts and was thoroughly entertained. Being a parrot head is a culture unto its own.

I first became aware of Jimmy when I was in college and received one of his albums as a gift. The title of the album “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean” promised verbal hijinks. The album also contained a fan favorite called “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.” It ranked right up there with Todd Hobin’s “I Hate You (a love song).” And there was Fleetwood Mac’s “Second Hand News,” the “lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff” song. All better than the disco offered in the late 70s. Dare I forget “Baba O’Riley” or “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”?

It was not long before I appreciated the genius of Buffet’s lyrics: “Where it all ends I can’t fathom my friends/If I knew I might toss out my anchor/So I cruise along always searching’ for songs/Not a lawyer a thief or a banker.” This verse from “Son of a Son of a Sailor” reminds me of where I find my motivation for writing. It’s through life experiences, observations, books, conversations.

The playful song “Fins” also carries a cautionary message. “But now, she lives down by the ocean/She’s taking care to look for sharks/They hang out in the local bars/And they feed right after dark.” As with many of his songs, there is a huge audience participation component in the chorus of “Fins” that allows for concertgoers to imitate a shark’s fin with outstretched arms and point the fin to the left or the right. Just watch out for the feeding frenzy.

His breakthrough hit “Margaritaville” contains such a variety of misheard lyrics that it’s funny to listen to a crowd sing along. There are common misheard lyrics like “I put on my flip flops/Stepped on a pop tart/ Cut my heel half through to the bone.” Uh, really? How is a pop tart able to cut your heel? The correct words are “I blew out my flip flop/Stepped on a pop top/Cut my heel had to cruise on back home.” But todays young people may not know the experience of blowing out a flip flop nor the meaning of a pop top.

Buffet was quite a writer. His book of short stories “Tales from Margaritaville” is well worth the read. The stories are as entertaining and meaningful as his songs. It’s worth the chance of a laugh.

There are loads of quirky and not so well known songs that are great as well. Some are “The Wino and I Know,” “The Great Filling Station Holdup,” “We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About,” and my personal favorite, “If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me.” Though “The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful” is a close runner up.

There’ve been so many laughs and so many tears surrounding Buffet’s music in my lifetime, I could fill a bathtub. His songs were guaranteed to make me smile though some were cause for sadness and reflection. I have to think lyrics from “He Went to Paris” were prescient when the war veteran in the song says “‘Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic/But I’ve had a good life all the way.’”

Thank you, Jimmy, for sharing yourself with all of us. RIP

Summer? What summer?

Summer always ends too quickly for my liking. In this northeastern part of the US, we spend several months yearning for summer and it comes and goes without a second glance. Summer is fickle. It might be cool, rainy, harsh, drought-inducing, humid, pleasant, breezy. Time is running out on this summer. The only good that comes of that is football season.

I admit that summer has always been my favorite season. I love to be in the water and summer is when I have most access to pools, lakes, and the ocean. Swimming indoors in a pool is my least favorite water activity due to the chlorine that dries my skin and clogs my nostrils.

This summer season flew by at an alarming rate. I’ve not availed myself enough of the wonderful local summer produce, utilized the local pool as much, lingered on my lovely patio, and it’s mostly for one reason. In large part the weather has been uncooperative but my efforts were focused on finishing the book I’ve written.

And I did it! It’s a non-fiction piece that caters to a specific audience but it’s my creation. It took quite a few years to compile and the journey was well worth it. I’m not a fan of unanswered questions so when I was writing an article for our local historical association and an important question (to me) popped up, I needed to find an answer.

The basic premise is how a highly-regarded school district evolved in less than twenty years from a basic one-room schoolhouse. There was little factual information on paper so I had to dig for it. I found enough to answer the question for my own satisfaction. Though there is still wiggle room for speculation.

I’ve read hundreds of articles in local newspapers. If you’ve never read articles from one hundred years ago, I encourage you to do so. They are beautifully written and full of information. So many of them are available online, there is no excuse not to check them out. Newspapers were THE method of informing the masses.

While I felt I knew the basics of the answer to my question, I learned so much more. I spoke with dozens of folks who conveyed information to me that, in turn, required validation. That process allowed me to learn an ever-increasing amount of information which did include some startling bits which revealed the ugly side of human nature. One hates to think of that happening in one’s community but reality is harsh.

At any rate, my work is now able to go to an editor in a few weeks, and then on to publication. It’s such a great feeling to know I’ve accomplished this goal, not only for myself but for others who may enjoy reading the book. It also leaves me free to pursue the fiction writing that has been my dream for a long time.

This summer has been meaningful to me. Though I’ve missed some of its bounties it has allowed me to achieve a major personal goal. Cheers to summer!

It’s almost done…

It’s true, I’ve written a book. After far too long, all that remains is to type the bibliography. Then, around Labor Day, it all goes to an editor. Then there will be corrections and revisions. Hopefully, before the holidays it will be published.

This is a non-fiction book and meant for a specific audience. But it’s the culmination of thousands of hours of research and reading old newspaper articles. Hundreds of hours of personal interviews were conducted. I laughed, I cried, I smiled, I rolled my eyes. It was a wonderful and, at times, frustrating experience.

I will never write non-fiction again 😉

This chapter can be closed. It allows for the next chapter to open, namely my desire to write mysteries. But I have a few other ideas on the horizon as well, including the launch of a new blog platform within the next month or so. Among other things, it will feature some of my original poetry.

I wrote a damn book. Will wonders never cease?

Relics

“Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.” Emily Brontë.

Back in the 1980s, one of my three jobs entailed working weekends at a horse stable. It was hard, but mindless, work and always satisfying. My love of horses is lifelong and I appreciated the ability to be around them. In those days I carried a small buck knife, the kind where the blade folds into the handle. At the stable it was useful for many things including cutting the strings on bales of hay, opening bags of feed, cutting up apples for horses, and many other useful tasks.

Little did I know it would come in handy for other reasons. My full-time job back then was working in a bank in the downtown area of a city. The cost of parking was outrageous so many of us parked quite a distance away requiring a 20-30 minute walk. This was not a nice area to walk. Standing at a stop light waiting to cross the street one morning, a local man next to me (who had been following me) pulled out a sizable knife and started cleaning his fingernails while eyeing my purse. So, I pulled out my much smaller knife and started cutting up an apple. I looked at the guy and said, “handy things to have no matter the size.” He ceased following me at that point.

Fast forward a few decades. When I was teaching, a very slim box cutter resided in my desk drawer. It was mostly useful for opening boxes, cutting paper and trim for bulletin boards, etc. But it was calming to know it was there, especially after the Columbine massacre. I’m certain I was the only one who knew of its existence. It sits in the desk of my home office now that I’m retired.

Cleaning out a drawer the other day, I found a few small penknives. These were the early precursor to multi-tools but many just had one small blade. It seemed to be customary for men to have one in a pocket throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries. My paternal grandfather, first-generation American born in 1896, always carried one and it never failed to fascinate me. When I cleaned out my father’s apartment after he died, I found several of them. They were mostly my grandfather’s and showed they were well used. Looking at them and handling them always brings a smile to my face. My Papa wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy but his stories were interesting.

Today I drove my almost 95 year old mom to an appointment. Returning her to the assisted living facility I noticed she had a bit of a white hair growing out of her chin. Yes, ewwww, but it’s part of our future I’m afraid. I produced a small set of tweezers from my pocketbook and got rid of the offending hair. My mother was enthralled by my tiny Victorinox “multi-tool” and wanted to see the gadgets. It’s small so it didn’t take long and she was mesmerized by the toothpick, the tweezers, and the scissors. Hard to think such a small object has saved the day so many times.

I do have a larger multi-tool that stays at home. Though it could be a good weapon merely by being in my purse if I swung it to thwart a bad guy. The tool has some heft and could make someone see stars if it clanged them on the head. Don’t think that possibility doesn’t cheer me.

It’s one reason I’m loathe to get rid of some stuff. Just handling it brings back memories, mostly fond. I’m a person who feels memories are very important regardless if they’re good, bad, or ugly. They are part of one’s own being. I think many of us kept a small box or container of some sort with our “prized” possessions. We could look through it and remember. I’m always reminded of a song from my youth when I think about this. Jim Croce had such a way with words and we lost him all too soon. “If I could make days last forever/if words could make wishes come true/I’d save every day like a treasure…”. “Time in a Bottle”