Recovering...

...from this ridiculous day!!

I got up and (a little bragging here) rode my exercise bike for the 16th day in a row for 13 minutes. Go me. Then, showered, dressed and made my lunch. I had to make a quick stop at the store to pick up some teeny cupcakes for my special lunch with two students, and a 3-pack of tissues because there are NONE anywhere at school, including the supply room. It's been a very snotty three months in fourth grade.

I arrived at school and (YES!!) snagged the last parking space in the front lot. As I entered the front door, I realized that the actor's troupe was already there, setting up their scenery and props for the assembly we'd booked for today. Yay! They were really terrific too! So, no worrying about that part of my day (I was in charge of the assembly) as I headed into the office to pick up whatever was in my box. The secretary looked dolefully at me and explained, "The art teacher is out. You'll have to sell your prep."  Good news: a little extra money. Bad news: I get no planning period today and...what will I do with my class? Hmm...

I rushed down to my classroom, turned on all the electronic devices I love to have available for my use, snatched up my papers and zipped up to the copy room. I whipped out my needed papers for the three periods, and dropping off that little stack on my desk, put on my sunglasses and marched upstairs to stand my morning playground duty. I watch wall-ball and keep it from turning into free-for-all-ball. (You realize, of course, that many boys only put up with the learning part of school because of recess?)

The bell rang, and it was line-up, say the pledge and go downstairs time, all too soon. I got to have a stand-off with a little student who MUST say "up" if I indicate "down"---I lost. That round...we went around again later. It's every day, every hour.

We took attendance and headed straight down to our assembly. It was great!! The other 4th grade teachers went off to take their students to P.E. and Music. We voted to stay and watch the assembly again with the younger kids! It was delightful all over again. We left and held 1st period. I walked everyone out to recess, went to the bathroom, stopped back in my room to check school email and went out to pick up my Lunch Buddies. Back to the room, we ate lunch, chatted, served cupcakes. Dashed out and picked up the rest of the kids after their lunch. Switched groups and taught 2nd period and 3rd period.

Next, we stacked all the chairs, and headed out the door with the bell. I helped my co-worker direct traffic so students could cross the street safely and headed back into the classroom.  Where I served granola bars to 15 students who joined my co-worker and I for after-school tutoring. However, today, instead of staying the 75 minutes to help her, I had to attend a teacher's union building representatives' meeting. She had enlisted another teacher to help her tonight with the small groups we created to focus on essential literacy skills. I'll be there on Wednesday, though. And, of course, this group is comprised of many of the people who stretch our patience all day. It's why they need the extra help...inner motivation and impulse control is not their strength.

After the union meeting, I went grocery shopping and finally pulled into my driveway 11 and a half hours after I'd left this morning. (And, just so you entrepreneurs know...I don't need help taking the bags to the car. I'd like someone who'll come home with me and put it all away.)

Yes, that is a fairly typical day. Except for the "selling my prep" part. Usually, I do get a 50 minute planning period during the day. Plus, I didn't tell you about all the little dramas---band-aids applied, cough drops dispensed, pencils sharpened, quarrels stopped, pesky little people motivated by The Look. On a "normal" day, it's not really all that different.

But! I still love my job. We just really really need Spring Break to arrive. Soon.

Spring

It's here. I hope it is also happening where you are. Spring, I mean. Just now, I went outside to add some carrot peelings, kale stems, and onion ends to my composter, after preparing dinner. The air was so soft and pleasant. There was a faint glow in the sky over the western mountains still, although the sun had set some time ago. A few stars were starting to appear. My neighbor's tall palm tree that towers over the corner of our common wall was stirring slightly in the evening breeze.

Today, I reveled in the fabulous morning weather while I stood on the playground, checking off the names of students as they arrived.  Several of my fellow teachers and I were at school for a couple of hours for "CRT Camp." This is an event we hold on a couple of Saturdays this time of year in anticipation of our high-stakes yearly tests. We invite the entire grade level, and usually get about 1/3 of our students to come. We spent the morning rotating to our different classrooms, focusing on test taking tips, and squeezing in a few little extra points of curriculum. Plus, in between each 40 minute session, the students get to take a lap around the interior hall of the school! (The real reason they come...)  We almost didn't want to go inside because the day was so fantastic! Clear skies, puffy clouds, a small breeze accompanying the brilliant sunshine. Sigh. I love this time of year.

But, even when the temperature start to climb, and summer takes over, I will still love living here. I'll just be loving it from the swimming pool.

Sisters

I read an on-line conversation recently that discussed the tendency of American couples to limit their families to two children. I grew up in a unique culture in the west, where a "quiver full" of children was the norm, and many of my peers came from homes like mine, with six, seven or eight brothers and sisters. Some of the people commenting were also raised in the 50's and 60's but in Catholic homes, where they, too, were surrounded by a crowd of siblings. The point of the article is lost to my brain right now, but I do remember thinking as I read it how much I enjoy, as an adult, having sisters.

When I was a child, I never even considered that having five sisters was unusual. Most children only know their own reality, so whatever exists in their lives is "normal" "regular"--the way life just is. It doesn't seem unusual until you gain a little maturity and can observe other people's families. More and more, I associate with families that have a sister and a brother and that is all.

I know that for a long time, this has been the ideal. People get married, then they have a child and a couple of years later, another child. Many are thrilled to get one of each: a son and a daughter. I know that when CoolGuy and I had our first two children, his coworkers were of that mind set that, now, we had it all: a son and a daughter. We had another daughter just sixteen months later, and there was a lot of good-natured kidding about "don't you know what causes that...". Then, we had two more kids --on purpose, just like the first three. Truly freakish behavior in the 70's and 80's among some of our peers. But, I'm so glad that we had multiple children, and I'm even more happy that I have siblings: plural.

I just enjoy knowing that there are several people in the world who have known me---all of me--for a really long time. Maybe part of it results from our nomadic married life. It's nice to have people in my life to whom I don't have to explain everything. We can communicate in shorthand. I also like having people in the world who accept me just as I am--they know my shortcomings; they don't care. I've just always been one of those people to whom they offer unconditional love, and still offer it. Families have codes and ours is no different. It's relaxing to be part of the in-group on those limited occasions when we gather. 

I also know that my sisters and I will always treat each other like --- well --- sisters. I know that I can just go to their houses, even if they are not home, and sleep over, or get a meal or whatever, and that is just fine. It goes both ways. When we were younger, and raising our children, if someone's child needed a surrogate mother for a few days--no problem---there was always one available. I sent off three missionaries via the auntie-connection. My college student children got invited to dinners and parties because those mothers were their mothers when needed. One of our family weddings is a mass gathering.

Mostly, though, I'd be lonely if I only had one other sibling. I really like being part of group. We were always referred to as the "------ Girls" and, even though it meant that some people didn't bother to distinguish me from my sisters by name, I was/am proud to be identified as part of that group. I appreciate their loyalty and their love. And we have two brothers, too---it all goes the same for them. Love all you guys!

 

Two of these are cousins and the final baby sister isn't in this photo,
but we were quite a group of girls.

Happy Birthday Daddy

Today is the 91st anniversary of my dad's birth. In a few more days, I'll be the same age he was when he died. It's been a whole lifetime for one of my sons since my dad passed away--literally. We went up to Wyoming to Daddy's funeral, and when I got back home to California, I went to the prenatal clinic and had confirmed why I'd been so tired the whole visit. Not that a major family passage like losing your father isn't a good enough reason. Our last child came to earth to live the same year my father left his earthly journey to go back to heaven. I know they knew one another, and I know that my dad delivered his wonderful spirit to us. So, it's easy to associate their lives together, even though they didn't cross paths here.

It's intriguing to realize, now that I'm the parent of adults, how little it matters to your mother-brain that your children no longer need you like they did when they were infants or little children. In  your parent brain, these people are still your "babies" and you haven't slacked off at all in the fierceness of your protective instinct. When it was the last week of my dad's life---and we all knew it--we talked on the phone. I was nine hundred miles away, but it was really important to him that I knew that he loved me deeply. He repeated that over and over. It was the only thing that he really needed me to know, actually. I did know it, of course; he was my dad. But, I realize that it was something I just assumed because he was my dad. But, at that point, when there was nothing left in his life but pain and death, it was all he could talk about to each of us. He never wanted us to forget.

It's been an interesting 30 years since he left us. He didn't really leave. Oh, his body died, relieving him of the burden that he'd carried for many years. We had the funeral, and we left that husk under the lilac tree, on the hill overlooking the place where he was born and lived, all but a few years of his life. We haven't been able to see him, or laugh with him, or watch him enjoy our children. But, his influence on us continued unchecked. He wasn't a well-educated person, but he urged all his children to get  as much education as we could, and there are a lot of college graduates who claim him as grandpa. He wasn't especially comfortable at church all of his life, but he lived the gospel of Jesus Christ as defined in the scriptures: doing good for others, caring for the poor and helpless, loving his neighbors. He's even occasionally "visited" us for special reasons. Each of us sisters can tell you of a very sacred event when we "heard" his voice, or felt his spirit, or knew he was watching over or caring for us. 

So on this occasion of remembering him for his birthday, I'd like to just remind myself that his example of fatherly love has been influential on how I show my parental love. His example of being a good person has been an incentive for me to live the Gospel of Jesus Christ as well as I can. See, just because someone isn't around in person anymore, doesn't limit their influence on those whom he loved and who loved him. I know I'll probably get to sit down and account for myself with him some day. I want to give a good report. He was always proud of me, and I want to always be worthy of that pride.

 

He is the little blondie on the lap of his grandfather, front row right. His parents are on the far left. The blonde girl on Dad's lap is his sister Margie.

 

 

I don't know how old he is in this photo, but his hair was still blonde.

 

 

This is a close-up from a school class photo. He is probably in 5th or 6th grade.

 

 

 

This is 1965 or 66--the one year we all lived together in the same house. The littlest sister was born in the summer before the oldest sister was a senior in high school.

 

 

This is the not-yet-sick grandpa playing with our oldest son in their living room, 1977.

 

 

This is May, 1982 in San Diego. Daddy had just given the name blessing for that baby at church.

 



 

This is the fall of 1982, when our youngest brother came home from his mission. In just six months, he'd lost a lot more weight and was much weaker. He lived about 15 more months. 

I Loved Them, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

This morning, I got a call from my sister. She would have been 16 when the Beatles made their debut on the Ed Sullivan Show. I would have been almost 11. She asked if I remembered coming out to the barn fifty years ago and telling her that it was time to come in and watch. No... I didn't remember that. She would have been helping to milk the cows on a cold winter night, and it was my job to go fetch her.

I remembered watching them, however. I guess that my mom knew she really wanted to see it, so apparently I was sent out to call my sister in when it got close to the time they'd appear. Everyone had heard about The Beatles being booked for the show that night. But, milking simply didn't stand still for things like Ed Sullivan. I'm surprised I wasn't out helping, too. But, maybe it was my turn to stay in. Or maybe Daddy was there to do it. It was a Sunday night, in the middle of February; he wouldn't have been doing much else except milking. Maybe both of my older sisters came in. I can't remember anyone in the living room but me, Mother and the sister who called me today.

She went on, asking if I remembered watching it. Oh yes. She laughed that she probably went along with Mother's opinion: they were so scruffy looking--what was the big deal anyway? She's a huge fan now--she credits her middle son with her conversion. But I remember going upstairs to my newly-created "room" (it was basically a corridor between the stair case and the big girls' room) and laying on the bed and thinking, "Wow. I really liked them!"

I was startled by all the screaming girls in the audience. I'm not sure I've ever screamed like that, for any reason, in my entire life. But, I could understand the enthusiasm that those screams represented. Their music was so good. They were cute! It's really silly now to think how I felt when I was 11, seeing them for the first time. It may very well have been the first time I heard them, too. I didn't listen to the kind of radio where they'd have been played when I was 11. I wasn't in charge of what got listened to at our house.

I remember buying my first Beatles album when I was in high school, though. It was "Let It Be" because that was the year I would have had any money at all to spend on something like that. They were as good as their reputation declared them to have been. When I got to college, one of my roommates had actually seen them perform in Los Angeles when she was in junior high. That was pretty awesome. By the time I was old enough, hip enough and had the money, they weren't a group anymore.

But, they did define music when I was starting into that time of life when everything is so intense and emotional. They were really good and I do remember knowing that the very first time I saw them play.

 

They appeared for three weeks in a row on Ed Sullivan in February. This video shows all three appearances.

Looking for the Warm

I know, I know...I didn't even wear a jacket outside today to direct traffic after school. But, it wasn't pleasant out there. It was---chilly. GASP! But, I live in a climate where we don't get chilly that much. And some of us don't like it when it happens, either.

Now, some complain about my complaining. They've lived here their whole lives.  They're tired of the hot weather that is a feature of summer in the desert. They LIKE winter here. They don't want to have it warm up. I've wondered why they don't move to another climate zone.  But maybe they have a job here, and family ties and --- there are lots of reasons to never move away from where you were born and raised.

 I, for one, do not complain about the summers here. I know it is going to get up over 100 degrees every single day (sometime waaaay over.) I know it is not going to cool off to less than 95 degrees at night. However, I just go swimming a lot. I stay indoors when it is scorching at noon. I plan ahead so that I can sometimes escape by heading north to the cooler climes of a higher altitude.

But, winter should be over now, down here in the Mojave. Bring on 70 degrees! We're ready! Most of my year is spent with very moderate temperatures. Most of my year never requires me to think about the weather. I like living that way. I'm ready for it again in 2014.

What Does This Mean?

First, let me say that I was astounded to realize that I haven't written anything for a couple of weeks. I think of stuff, then I get home from school, or whatever, and forget to go write it down. But, I'll try to say something on a more regular basis.

My question refers to a realization I've had about my clothing lately, and I'm suspicious of the implications. See these pants:

 

They are from L.L. Bean and have become my new uniform. They are knit, but they are sturdy and don't look like sweat pants. They are slightly flared (boot cut) and fit snugly around my hips and thighs. Although the waist is elastic, it is a wide band, and isn't gathered at all. The waistband just sits comfortably on my body, without coming up under my armpits. (I have a short torso, with long legs.) They don't bag or sag or have thin, revealing fabric. In short, they are absolutely perfect!  So....I have a pair in dark green, black, brown, navy and gray. And I wear them every day of the week to school. They look very dressy with any top--a nice jacket, a sweater, a filmy blouse, a casual blouse. I can also wear them to yoga with a T-shirt. It's like dressing in pajamas and no one knows it.

 

They look good with my teensy shoe wardrobe. (There are no "cute" orthopedic shoes.) So, I can look professional, not wear jeans, and yet---be so comfortable that I FEEL LIKE I'M WEARING PJ'S!!

 

So....does this mean that I have--finally--become an official Old Lady??

Getting to Know You

We had a very interesting and amusing Relief Society meeting this week. We have a new set of women who have been called to be the leaders, so they wanted to introduce themselves to us, and then have us get to know one another a little better. It was clever and very well done. First we took a little quiz about their lives and likes. Then we had the chance to sit and chat with other sisters in our ward.

We were instructed to sit at one of the tables set up in the room, which had each of us across from another woman. Then, a deck of index cards was placed, face-down, between us partners. At the sound of the timer, we picked up the top card, read the questions and took turns answering, so that we could learn some interesting facts about our lives. One card was all about music: Do we play an instrument? What kind of music do you like to listen to? What is a favorite song? Etc. One card was about where we'd lived, traveled and where we'd like to go. Another topic was about school: Did we like it? Would we go back to finish a degree? What was our best/worst subject? After just a minute, the timer would ding again, so that each team only answered the questions on one card. At the "ding" one side of the table would move right to the next chair, with a new partner, for the next card and question.

Here's one I read that I decided to share in this post. "What was your first job?" The first job, for which I got money, was babysitting for various neighbors. I'd go and put their kids to bed, and then do some homework or watch T.V. while they were out on the town, often dancing at one of the bars that had a band, and when they'd get home at 11:00 or closer to midnight, I'd collect my 50 cents and get driven home. But...my very first job--meaning responsibility--that I remember was watching my little brother.

Actually, I had a partner in this endeavor--my sister, Patricia, who was fifteen months younger. Our brother would have been about six or seven months old. He didn't crawl yet, but he could sit up. So he was tucked into the red wagon, with a blanket around him for extra support. He was probably wearing little overalls with suspenders. He was a rather big baby. I think he weighed nearly 11 pounds when he was born. So we weren't expected --- perhaps forbidden-- to try to pick him up and carry him. After all, we--the "babysitters"-- were only four and five years old ourselves! So, brother sat in the wagon and we were to watch him and keep him entertained. The wagon was parked near the fence that was about 30 feet from the open barn door. Between us and that door stood about a dozen cows, lazily flipping a fly now and then with their tails, chewing their cuds, as they waited their turn inside the red barn. That's where our mother was. She and our two older sisters, nine and ten years old, were milking the twelve cows that were standing in the stalls, munching their tasty rolled barley ration. Our dad was up in the fields either harrowing, or drilling, or --most likely on a beautiful June evening like that--irrigating the alfalfa, armed with a shovel and canvas dams, dressed in his hip-high waders and his straw hat.

Our mother milked the cows every evening in the summer, so that my dad could do all the multitude of jobs that really never ended. Our big sisters were almost old enough to handle the whole chore on their own, and I know that by the next summer, with my mom queasy with another baby on the way, they took over from her. Mother had grown up milking her father's cows, so she was an experienced hand at this farming business. It really takes everyone in the family to make it a success. Also, she wasn't exactly a sissy. She spent plenty of time in a tractor seat, herself, from harrowing to running the buck rake before my dad owned a baler. In the fall, she would drive the grain truck, taking loads from the combine in the field down to either the feed store or to one of the granaries by the barn to be stored for winter use.

So, when it was milking time, everyone was expected to step up and do their job. My job, as the bigger sister, was to supervise my little sister and my little brother. I'm pretty confident that we needed watched almost as much as he did! But, I remember floating lilac leaves on the little stream of irrigation water that floated across the barnyard to the pasture. I remember having the kitties frolicking near us, batting at the little bugs that would fly up from the grass along the fence line. If there were lambs in the pasture, they would crowd near the wire, hoping we had their bottles of milk. It was warm and wildflowers were blooming. I don't think the milking took more than an hour. I don't even know if the herd was up to two dozen cows by then--probably. We had old-fashioned milkers that got carried from cow to cow. A few cows were fussy, and had to milked by hand into a bucket, but a nine or ten year old girl could do that. We all had our chores and we all did them and afterwards, went inside for supper and bed. When you are farm girls, you learn early how to just get to work and get it done. It was excellent training for my grown-up life.  

 

This is the brother, when he was just a few weeks old. I'm the sister in the blue dress. By summer, he could sit up and you can tell that we two on the front row would have been excellent babysitters. The two sisters on the back row were very responsible cow milkers at that point, too.



Cat Life

I read today a comment that said, "If the NSA is archiving all of our Facebook postings, then you're saying that about 30% of our national security information is cat pictures?"  Well, here's another contribution to the cat database....

I've talked before of the magnificent KitKat. She rules the house. One of her most favorite sleeping surfaces is our bed cover. It is a patchwork quilt made from corduroy. If I get into bed and only place the sheet over my body, because I'm a little too warm, then she will stand beside me and stare impatiently until I pull the quilt over my legs so that she can cuddle on the corduroy. On the days when I wash the sheets, and the corduroy is piled randomly in the center of the bed, she is beside herself with unrest. It simply is the best nap surface, ever.  Here's an example of her devotion to this quilt.

So, it was with extra irritation a couple of nights ago that I walked into my room to find that she'd chosen a new place to sleep. I'd placed a pile of clothing from the dryer on the bed, intending to fold them after I'd put dinner on to cook. But, I found the KitKat sound asleep, curled up comfortably on my black knit pants. NOT on the two pair of jeans; NOT on the denim shirts; NOT on the vast expanse of the Special Corduroy Quilt. Oh, no! That would be too obvious! She chose the small bit of black knit pant leg that was exposed. It was the one object on the bed that would most vividly display the cat hair she was shedding as fast as she could in the limited time she had to nap there. Sigh. Cat life---so incomprehensible.

Birthday! Birthday! Birthday!

It's birthday time again! Here's a little retrospective of  years gone by.

 

 Such a funny book! It's called "Miami Mice" about some Florida rodent detectives. 1988

 

 

Hiking in the canyon above the Pacific Ocean along Highway 1. 1992

 

 Thoughtful? Exhausted? We'd just had five kids born in eight years, and he wasn't a sit back and watch kind of dad...1985

 

Monterey, California...such a nice place 1991

 

Baby boy and daddy  1984

 

 

Santa Barbara weekend get-away 1990

 

Admiring the artist Cristo's work along I-5 in California 1991

 

Daddy and Sweetie-Pie 1981

 

 

Grandpa! 2005

Navy Achievement Medal 1980

 

Biker Grandpa! 2013

 

Horsey-ride Grandpa 2007

Off They Go

My whole married life, I've lived by a military air base. In California it was always a Naval Air station (or two). In Maryland, we had a Naval Air Station and then, about 30 miles up the road from my school was Andrews Air Force Base. Some days, while at recess duty on the playground, I could see Air Force One up in the sky on its final approach. Cool. Even in our brief time in Idaho, CoolGuy worked at an Air Force Base. Here, in Las Vegas, our home and my school are only a few miles from a large Air Force base that also happens to home to the United States Air Force Thunderbirds. In fact, one of my student's father is their videographer.

Living near air bases means there is usually the noise from planes and helicopters. But, I've just become accustomed to it as the background sound of life. Once, in California, the U.S. Navy Blue Angels air team was performing at the base where CoolGuy worked. They put on two shows that weekend, but we didn't drive over to the base and struggle through the traffic. We just went into our backyard and laid on the trampoline and watched! Of course, we couldn't see the entire show, but they flew over our house regularly in their turn-arounds and you could count the rivets on the wings.

Today, as we do each Friday, the entire student body met upstairs on our playground for flag ceremony. Each class gets a turn to present it. Students march up the center aisle carrying the U.S. flag and our Nevada state flag, place them into the holders, and then we all remove our hats, and join together for the Pledge of Allegiance. Just as we finished reciting it today, as we all still stood at attention following "...with liberty and justice for all" the six jets from the Thunderbirds team swooped up and over the air field to the north of our school. They had their smokers on, leaving a white trail, and they soared straight up in the sky. One jet peeled off to the west, while the other five turned north and then, we couldn't see them anymore. It was awesome! How many other elementary schools get the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds flying team to provide the perfect accent for their flag ceremony?

Ringing in the New Year

Or, rather riding in the New Year. It was 65 degrees, and beautifully sunny this afternoon when CoolGuy and I set off into the desert for the Because-We-Can motorcycle ride. Seriously, the air felt warm on my face and we tooled along the road that goes east up through a gap between two mountains and leads out into the Lake Mead Recreation Area. It is always so desert-y stark out there. It doesn't really matter what time of year it is--it will never be green out there. A few hardy pieces of vegetation poke up out of the hard packed alkaline soil, but the scenery is dominated by rock.

So have a great day and a great year. We hope to able to ride out to the desert again, 365 days from now and take another photo. Hopefully, it will be on the motorcycle, and not wheelchairs.

2013...2014

 

It's New Year's Eve in Las Vegas!! Whoooo!!

 

And when all the action that you see in that photo is happening at midnight, I'll be up on my roof with CoolGuy watching it. And then, we'll climb down and go to bed. Because we are Major Partiers!! Dude!! Well, not since about 1982...The last time we actually went out on New Year's Eve. We used to go to a command party at the base, or to one of his co-worker's homes, and we danced and laughed and drank lemonade. But that year, as I went out to pick up the babysitter, something broke on our truck, and, although CoolGuy could fix it, right then was not a good time. So we just stayed home that night. And it turned out to be a great new tradition.

As the kids grew older, there was a lot of fun to be had there at home. We don't drink, and --for sure now---I'm not much of a dancer. And at your own home, you don't have to worry about drunk drivers or other troubles. So, after we got a T.V. again, we started having movie night, and at midnight, the kids would go outside and bang pots and pans and wave sparklers around and we'd holler in the New Year. Most of the places we've lived have had plenty of people willing to shoot off their semi-legal fireworks all around the neighborhood. Now, we just climb the ladder to our roof, and enjoy our panoramic view of Sin City and all the various fireworks that light up the sky.

Here are some of the favorite New Year's Eve movies over the years:

• It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
• The Great Escape
• Some Like It Hot
• Casablanca

These were memorable to the kids because they'd never seen nor heard of them. Plus, they had famous people from our youth in them (Marilyn Monroe, Steve McQueen, Phil Silvers). And, two of them are black and white. These are also movies that all ages can enjoy. It was interesting how three of them also are set in historic contexts, so they gave our children some cultural literacy, too. But...mainly we watched them because they were such great entertainment!

So, this year, with no children around, we're still going to watch a movie, and then climb up on the roof and enjoy the fireworks. We had an amazing 2013---two college graduates, three summer trips to Wyoming, and a wedding! Here's hoping that 2014 will be a memorable year, too--also for good reasons. It is a landmark year for one thing: 40 years of the CoolGuy and EarthSignMama collaboration. That's worth a WHOOOOO!! isn't it?

Celebration Time

Today is the day! The Last Day of Darkness! December 21st, the winter solstice, is a date I anticipate eagerly each year. It means that the dark times are finally moving on and we will experience the gradual increase of daylight. By February we will start to notice that the sun is slipping behind the mountains a little later each day. When I leave the school at the end of the day, there will still be a little light in the western sky. Joy will fill my heart.

I've never enjoyed winter. It isn't hard to know that It wasn't all that fun to trudge around in the snow and the cold. Some days could be beautiful with the sun gleaming off the brilliant white snow, the stunning blueness of the sky arching over the mountains. I didn't dislike winter when I was a child. I had no particular opinion of it. It was what it was. Winter was a normal part of my life. I reveled in the mini-thaw that always came along in February, melting the snowpack off the highways, leaving the sidewalks bare and easy to traverse. Of course, March usually came in with a lion-like roaring blizzard, and we often had snow storms right through April, too. But, that is life in the higher elevations of the Rocky Mountains. Summer was more pleasant than winter, but winter was just the way it was every year.

Then...I lived in Southern California for twenty years. So, I'm ruined. I'm a certified weather sissy. I do not ever again want to live in an environment that makes me walk or drive on snowy, icy roads or sidewalks. I like to see the bare ground, or---even better--flowers and shrubs and grass and trees that are green year round!

So, this time of year, I laugh with CoolGuy about how we should light a big bonfire in the yard, and paint our faces and dance around with antler crowns and amulets and cheer for the end of darkness. But probably, we'll just soak in the hot tub and tomorrow I'll go to church and play the organ for the celebration of Christmas. I know...the old Christians just incorporated all those ancient customs into a new reason to have a ritual joy-filled event in the dead of winter. But, doesn't it really make sense to take a pagan celebration of the return of light by replacing it with a Celebration of the Light of the World---He who conquered the ultimate darkness--death? Sure it does! So join in the joy and have a great day tomorrow as we begin our seasonal journey to the days of light.

 

Some day I'd like to go to Stonehenge and join these devotees in their celebration.



I'm Glad I Was Invited

Yesterday, the ward mission leader left a message on my cell phone. He apologized for the late notice, but asked if I'd be able to come to the church on Thursday at 6:00 P.M. to play for a baptism. I called back and said I'd be happy to be there. I just assumed that this was for the missionaries. They are quite busy in our ward, I've played for five or six baptisms this year. It was quite a different event than I expected, however.

When I arrived at the church and walked into the foyer, I recognized the older lady sitting on the sofa, but I hadn't seen the fellow who was reclining beside her. His feet were on her lap and his head resting on a pillow with an oxygen tube in his nostril. His wheelchair was off to one side. Several other people from my ward were chatting with them. So I just went right into the font room and sat down at the piano.

The ward mission leader came over to greet and thank me, again. That was when I looked in the program to see what songs I'd need to play. The baptism was for an eight year girl---not the adult convert I'd expected. The very frail, elderly man in the foyer was her grandfather, who is dying from cancer. His son is the father of the young girl and is in the Air Force, stationed in Minot, North Dakota. His parents live in our ward, but the father has been ill for as long as we have been a ward (a little over two years) and has never been able to come to church. But that is why I recognized the woman--occasionally she can attend.

Son had come home from Minot to baptize his daughter, and---I presume---to be with his dying father. Apparently, the daughters and the mother of the children live here in town with her parents. There are a few questions that I'd like to someday get answered: are the parents divorced? Why do the kids and wife live here, if not? How did they both get such an amicable set of in-laws if they are divorced? The two sets of grandparents were pleasant and warm with one another. On and on....

Here's how it went: We were going to just hold our meeting in the usual way, when our bishop (who was presiding since it is the grandparents' ward) said, "Let's just move it all out there by grandpa." So, we picked up our chairs, the full-time elders rolled the piano, and we took the meeting to the foyer so that grandpa wouldn't have to sit in his wheelchair, but could continue to recline on the sofa. We sang, we prayed, we listened to a very nice talk by the mother's side grandma. Then, they gently lifted Grandpa into his wheelchair and we all went back into the font room. With each grandfather poised as witnesses, Dad and his little daughter entered the water and performed the ordinance. Then, they moved Grandpa back to the sofa, we all sat quietly in our foyer meeting place and listened to a couple of testimonies. Dad and daughter returned.

Then, daughter sat in a chair right next to the sofa. Grandpa leaned up with support from Grandma, and joined the other grandfather, dad and a couple of men from our ward and all put their hands on the sweet little girl's head. The father pronounced the confirmation and blessing. When the prayer was finished, Grandpa sagged back into the sofa, and his little sweetheart gave him a tight hug. She hugged all the grandparents and both parents and then sat down by Dad, who by now was wiping tears from his eyes. Me too.

I don't know much about this family. But it was evident that this is likely the last of these precious events that Grandpa is going to attend. Son will have to return to the base in North Dakota, at some point. Life will go on. But I'm so glad that I had to opportunity to be a witness to this very precious hour they all spent together tonight.

What Great Cooks Do

Here's what was prominently featured in the grocery store where I went for a few things tonight:

 

If you look closely, you'll see that it is a display with large bags of whole dried chilies, piles of cleaned corn husks, big cooking pots, and just behind the corn husks are bags of masa. Because....tamale time!

I've lived most of my adult life in communities where making tamales was a critical part of the Christmas preparation. I've even been the blessed recipient of some of these tamales. It just isn't Christmas without tamales. And believe me---it is no small thing to make them! It requires hours of work and many hands. And love and devotion to your family, because it wouldn't be the holidays without this traditional food.

Which is why I am writing this tonight. Today is our mother's birthday. She would have been 86 years old. I'm pretty sure that she wouldn't have been actually still cooking all of the bounty that came out of her kitchen when I was living there at home, but I imagine she may have been directing others in the "right" way to prepare these foods that we all associate with Christmas and our mother's kitchen.

We didn't make tamales in that kitchen, but we did make hand-dipped chocolates. She made a variety of fondant centers---cherry, mint, maple, orange, lemon, vanilla. She would also wrap some of it around a Brazil nut and then all of the centers were dipped in chocolate that was gently melted in the top of the double boiler. When she used up all the centers, she'd pour raw Spanish peanuts into the remaining melted chocolate, stir it around until they were all coated, and scoop little heaps of them onto the waxed-paper covered cookie sheets. These trays of bounty were then carefully carried into her room where they were lined up on top of the chest deep freezer that stood along the wall. [There wasn't any other place to put that behemoth.] Our house didn't have the greatest heating/insulation and so that corner of the house was cool enough to allow the chocolates to set up.

Another big production was lemon meringue pies. These weren't  specific to Christmas, but were regularly served for dessert, usually on a Sunday. Now, as an adult, I've become quite skilled at baking lemon meringue pie, and I still marvel that she whipped out two of them on those Sundays. It's not like she had extra time. There were many small children to dress, feed and whisk out the door by 9:50 so we'd have time to drive past an elderly lady's house and pick her up, and yet arrive on time for Sunday School. She'd get up with the milking crew on Sunday, bath and wash her hair, set it in brush rollers, and then make the pie crusts. They'd be put in the oven and she'd brown the beef roast or the huge chicken that would then be set to roast while we were at church. [This was back in the days of one hour Sunday School, and then you went home and came back in the evening for Sacrament meeting.] After the pie shells cooked, she would kneel on the floor in front of the open oven door and let the warm air flow over her hair to dry it in the curlers. Then, the roasting pan lid went on, and on the other front burner, she made the lemon filling. As the filling cooled slightly in the sink, she'd beat the egg whites into meringue, dribbling in the sugar just soooo, in order to dissolve it completely. The warm filling was poured into the cooked pie shells, the meringue quickly swirled over it--ensuring that it was smoothed right over to touch the pie crust so there'd be no gaps---and a sprinkle of coconut flicked over the egg-white peaks. Back into the oven for 15 minutes to brown the meringue, and after the pies were set to cool on counter top trivets, she shut off the oven, but again...leaned down to dry her hair a bit more in the still warm air.  By the time we finished Sunday School, the roasted entrée was finished, the pies cooled enough for dessert and we'd feast.

I could go on and on: scratch Angel Food cake for every single birthday.  Fruit cake at Christmas (and it was delicious -- I don't know why fruitcake has such a nasty reputation). We ate cherry pie for Washington's birthday and three birthday cakes within a ten day period in February. She made outrageous fresh strawberry pie in the summer. She cooked ridiculously delicious fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. I don't even make fried chicken because I don't want to be disappointed. Homemade root beer, cinnamon rolls, fudge, and ---twice a week---six loaves of bread. I'm drooling now.

Ask any grandchild and they'll tell you of all the amazing feasts they ate at her table. And the interesting part to me is that many of their favorite culinary memories of Grandma are foods that she didn't even cook when I was child living there. The menu differences between we older four girls, and the younger four children are even startling. But....that's what good cooks do: they change it up. She was a kitchen adventurer. She looked for new ideas as well as using the old standards. I thought of the joyful memories that will be made this year by the Latino mothers and aunties and grandmas as they unite over the tamale ceremony this next week or two, and I remember the joy my family experienced all because our mother was a GREAT COOK.

 

Here's my dad with one of those Angel Food cakes on his 50th birthday.

 

That's my mom (in the blue shirt) with her two sisters. She was the best cook, they all agreed.



Two of My Friends

Throughout my teen years, I knew that winter meant I would have cracked and bleeding cuticles. I always assumed this occurred because of the two hours every morning, and two hours every evening, that I spent milking cows. My hands were usually wet or cold, or wet and cold, from washing udders and carrying the milking machines around. Out in the barn, (in the olden days) it was impossible to wear gloves because your hands were wet so often. The whole process involved lots of washing, rinsing, etc. Anyway, the ultimate result was chapped hands. I used lots of lotion, carried it around in my purse and had it by my bedside. Actually, in an attempt to keep my hands from being a total disaster all winter, I became very faithful at applying the udder cream to the cows that my dad encouraged us to use. By "greasing" the cows, I was also slathering it on my own hands and it helped to protect my skin from the ravages of the job.

However, after I moved away from the farm, I found, to my dismay, that my hands would still get dry and cracked and my cuticles would peel and bleed anytime the weather got cold and dry. Blah! I spent years rubbing Vaseline on my hands and sleeping in gloves, or over-lotioning. Then...I met the best friend that cracked cuticles ever had:

 

This blurry photo may not show you the title clearly: Burt's Bees Lemon Butter Cuticle Cream. It smells lovely (unlike Bag Balm) and really, really works! When I use this faithfully -- i.e. night and morning--- it really keeps my pathetic fingernails from having raggedy cuticles. There isn't any cracking, peeling or bleeding. I only wish I'd found it sooner. But when I went online to look up the history, it seems that Burt's Bee cosmetic products have only been widely distributed since the early 2000's.

I've used another product of theirs longer than the cuticle cream:

This is Burt's Bees Res-Q Ointment. It is a first aid cream that has one of my favorite healing herbs as an ingredient: comfrey. When I had a serious injury to my hand in 1980, my mom made some poultices from comfrey leaves she'd been given by a friend and the wound healed up very quickly. I've used comfrey leaves in poultices for a variety of injuries and bruising on myself and some friends with excellent results. So I was quite pleased to find an ointment with comfrey.

Anyway, I just wanted to introduce you to two of my "friends" and recommend them to you. We'll be buddies for many years to come or until I move to the tropics where there is never cold, dry weather. But...I'll probably still manage to hurt myself, so I'll keep Res-Q in stock.

Feliz Navidad

Well, this is .... well ... I'll just let it speak for itself. Here's a still photo. Then, definitely, play the video.

 

This is a little friend I borrowed from the music teacher at my school. He has a musical message for you at this festive time of year.

 

Preparing for the Freeze

Well, it didn't snow--much to the great disappointment of my students. But it has been mighty cold here. Yeh, yeh...I know. We're sissies here in the desert. It barely made it into the 20s. And in the state of my birth and childhood it was in the  MINUS 20s. I know. But, I don't live there anymore and there is a very good reason for that. I don't like to be cold. I didn't like it then, either. But I didn't realize that there were options. Actually, when I was a child, there wasn't an option. But, as an adult, I've discovered the regions of our country where one doesn't have to shovel snow or cow manure, and I plan to reside in one or the other of them for the foreseeable future.

Here's how we prepared for the coming frost:  First I harvested the remaining tomatoes.

 

After the blast furnace of August, I let my tomato plants just sit there in my garden and they begin to recover and, by early October, I can usually pick another small batch of the lovely red orbs. These were the remaining green ones that had formed in the balmy November days we enjoyed. But I knew that temperatures below freezing would wipe out the plants, so these can ripen on my counter.

Next: CoolGuy helped me bring in all the potted plants that line the patio. They didn't all fit in this corner. There are ten here, and two more on the other side of the room.

 

I always plant geraniums and pansies in the fall, and they thrive all winter in the [usually] mild temperatures. But, frost would kill them, too. And the ice doesn't do a thing for my succulents. After a few more days, it will be safe to put it all back out there. I'm glad we brought them in, however, because all the other yard plants are now showing the signs of the frost: dead leaves, curled up blackened flowers. We'll have a big yard trimming "party" in January.

 

This morning, there was a thin sheet of ice across the swimming pool. Usually, we leave the pump running all night to keep it circulating. But we didn't even go to the hot tub last night because there was a brisk breeze rushing that cold air across the yard. It just didn't seem like a very inviting idea.

 

But, the wind has stilled, the thermometer isn't supposed to be dropping below the freezing mark tonight and by Sunday----60 degrees is back!  So, we're going out to the tub tonight. Sigh. Survived another "winter" and we're ready for .... well, it's not quite Spring, but at least it isn't Wyoming in December.

Excuse Me???

 

 

Do you see that little snowflake icon on Saturday????  That is just SO WRONG. I'll be expecting a correction right away, Weather Gods. This is the Mojave Desert and we only want our snow falling on the mountain tops, where we can gaze on its beauty while walking around on our dry, bare ground in our shirt sleeves. Okay, okay, I'm willing to wear a sweater, even. BUT NO SNOW.