KALEIDOSCOPE

‘Another long line,’ Julie thought as she approached the checkout line at Walmart.  Five – six – seven people stood ahead of her.  The recession had forced most businesses to cut jobs, if not completely shut down.

Julie breathed a heavy sigh and shifted the parcels in her arms.  The slender lady standing in front of Julie turned around, her arms loaded, and smiled at Julie.  ‘What was that for,’ Julie wondered.  She checked her watch.  “I’m going to be late,” Julie said under her breath as she shifted the items around to get a better hold of them.

The lady turned around once more.  “I wish they’d open more check out lanes,” she said to Julie.  “I hate having to wait so long.”

‘Is she serious?  Doesn’t she read the papers or listen to the news?  We’re lucky that Walmart is still open.’  Strangers who struck up conversations with her as if they had been long time friends made her uncomfortable.  “They’ve cut back,” Julie told the woman sarcastically.  “All the stores have been cutting back because of the recession.”

“Oh, I know, dearie.”  She spoke to Julie the way a grandmother talks to her grandchild.  “Unfortunately, I’m going to be late to pick up my daughter.  When she and her husband both got laid off, they sold off everything of value to pay off their bills.  When unemployment finally ran out, they agreed to move in with me.”

The check out line moved one customer at a time.  As the woman continued, Julie noticed something familiar in her eyes. Was it that sense of being there for your children no matter what? 

Although the woman’s features spoke of a beauty once nourished and well cared for, the stress of the time had painted occasional gray hairs amidst the auburn one and had etched lines into a once smooth face.  Her voice, however, still emitted the calm and caring warmth it always had.

“I wish this line could move a little faster.  With it so cold, I don’t want Karen to have to wait too long.”

“So, your daughter found another job, then?”  Julie found herself asking.

“Oh, no,” the woman said, “she’s volunteering at the homeless shelter.  She says it’s the least she can do for others who aren’t as fortunate as she is.”

Julie opened her mouth to speak, but the woman turned to the clerk at the register and began writing a check for her purchase.  As the woman picked up her bags, she turned to Julie once more.  “It was nice chatting with you.  Have a good day.”

“You, too.”  And with that the woman walked out of Walmart and out of Julie’s life.

People walk in and out of your life, Julie believed, for a purpose.  As she checked out, Julie made some mental notes for the holiday season: donate groceries to the shelter, donate last year’s coats to “Koats for Kids,” and purchase some toys for the “Toys for Tots” collection.  She decided to contact the food pantry and see if she could help serve Thanksgiving dinner.  She was suddenly grateful for everything she had.

Bugs!  From the tiniest of the crawling critters, the sugar ant, to the creepiest of them, the cicada, bugs seemingly annoy my home.  Thank goodness that I only have to deal with the northern Midwestern size bugs and not those found in the southern states, and the poisonous ones make me grateful that ours just, for the most part, creep me out.

I am not, mind you, one of the women who cannot exterminate their own bugs.  I have not screamed at the sight of a spider; however, when they drop unexpectedly from the ceiling on a long silken thread, I might yelp in shock.  I would rather capture my bugs and set them free, most bugs not harming much of anything and being an important link in the food chain.

As bug control goes, I attack on two levels: Orkin sprays regularly and I have several Osage spheres on plates in my basement.

The Osage-orange, or “hedge apple”, is a curious fruit.  Spherical, when first picked, it resembles a hard green brain.  As the apple ages, it shrivels and turns a deep brown.  The tree itself is named after the Osage Indian tribe that lived near the trees, and for the orange smell the fruit gives off.  Although there is little scientific research to support the idea that the Osage will repel bugs, I still hold by the folklore that says they do.

In 2001, my oldest son graduated from high school and choose a college in Missouri that was a 4 - 5 hour drive away from home.  Even though he had lived with his father for nearly two years, I had been the one who helped him with his scholarship audition and visits to the college.

My husband and I along with my ex-husband and his wife moved him into the dorm that August.  We looked like a caravan traveling along the highway: my son in his car, my ex in an SUV, and my hubby and I in an second SUV.  Missouri was hot and humid that August, and we were drenched in sweat by the time we were done transfering everything from the vehicles to the third floor.  At the end of the day, the college had a ceremony of transition and transformation for the students as they said good-bye to their parents and crossed the threshhold of the main campus building.

During his freshman year, however, he called home and came home more than I expected.  When he returned from school for vacations, my house was once again home.  The summer after his freshman year, he decided that he would rather live with me than his dad.  (He never really gave a clear explanation for that.)  Between his sophomore and junior year, however, he decided to stay in Missouri, go to summer school, and rent an apartment with his friends.   It was time for me to realize that he was growing up quicker than I wanted him to, but I supported his decision.  He spent the next two summers in Missouri as well….. until …..

The bar where he was working went out of business and his good friend and he decided, on the encouragement from a third friend, to move to Vegas and work on construction of steel framed buildings.  After several trips to my house, most of his important possessions were safely stored in my basement.  His car and his buddy’s car were packed as the three of them (My son’s new girlfriend was traveling with them) took off to theWest.  They made it as far as Kansas before they stopped.

In Kansas, they decided to stop at his buddy’s dad’s house and pitch in at the junk yard to make some extra cash.  All was going well until their Vegas connection called.  He had gotten homesick and was back in Illinois.  The job connection and the place to stay was all of a sudden gone, and they were in Kansas.  It was at that point that I got a call.  “Hi, Mom, I’ve decided to come back to Illinois.  Can my girlfriend and I come and live with you till we find jobs and an apartment?  It will only be two or three months.”

Two to three months turned into two and a half years.  Although I was glad my son felt comfortable enough to ask if he could live at “home” for a while, it was extremely difficult.  Trying to back off of parental rules for a 23 year old was difficult, as it was also difficult for him to live in the same space as his mother.  (We won’t even go into the girlfriend.)

This past week, however, he has moved in with a friend he has had since high school.  I somehow hope that it was as hard for him to move on his own as it was for me to see him go; however, I wish him all the best.

As I looked around my basement this week, I realized I had packratitis.  I inherited this condition from my parents and grandparents, and I have passed it on to my children.  This condition is characterized by the unnecessary urge to save things.  My basement is the saving archive.

My 80 year old mother has given me the motivation to begin tackling my packkratitis.  She has decided that, rather than leaving her four story disaster to me, we should together clean out every nook and cranny in the house.  Since she can’t part with things, I have to be the one to determine what needs to be saved, sold, or trashed.

Let’s begin in her basement.  My father died nearly 20 years ago, but she still has his shop hardware cabinets full of the hardware he collected: screws, washers, nuts, and bolts.  She wants my hubby and me to go through this and see if there is anything we want.  If not, she is going to give the “stuff” to a neighbor.  I pity that poor person because much of the “stuff” belongs in the trash.  In another area of the basement, she still has all her teaching supplies; she has been retired for better than 20 years.  She is shipping that stuff to a cousin who she says is “thrilled” to get it.  Don’t get me wrong; her house is neat, and the collections of “stuff” would not be noticed by any random guest.  It’s just that she has saved numerous things with the idea that they will become valuable or collector’s items one day.  I have yet to find anything that is of true value, and I have taken numerous trips to Borders book store to peruse the collector and antique volumes only to find that the “thing” might be worth $2.00.

It has gotten me thinking, though, about the “stuff” my children and I have saved in hopes that it too would command a high price.  Never fear, none of the items has even gotten as far as the original price we paid for it.

As for the rest of the stuff, I am throwing out pictures drawn by the 2 - 4 year old child, the penmanship poems from school, the math papers and spelling papers, but I am saving the pictures and the “I’m proud of that” original projects that each of my adult children remember.

For years, my mother has been attending open houses for friends and relatives who achieve milestone birthdays.  When my mother turned 78, she was adamant about what she wanted and didn’t want in regard to her 80th birthday.

No one was to put her on display at an open house for her birthday.  No one!  As the only child, it was fairly easy to acquiesce to her wishes.  I did feel, however, that something had to be done.  Rather than an open house, I had thought about a big surprise party at one of the local parks in the shelter.  I began my planning in early April, her birthday falling in August.  I identified specific people who I thought my mother would like to see in attendance - including her God-daughter, Lisa, who came to town every August.

With the guest list begun, I needed to decide whether it should be the weekend before or the weekend after her birthday.  This is where the process of throwing a surprise party gets difficult.  My 79 year old mother travels extensively since her companion of 18 years died a year ago.  She had been his care-giver through two years of dimentia (a form of Alzheimer’s) and had never felt comfortable leaving him alone or having someone else come into the house to watch him.  By mid-May, she was organizing her plans for travel; Canada was on her list for August, but she couldn’t decide whether to leave before her birthday or after.  Before her birthday would put a surprise party early August, and I was going to be in Missouri with my husband visiting his sister.  After her birthday would not work for several people who I thought should be at her party.  I, however, had to wait for her decision before I could continue my plans.

Her final decision was to leave the day after her birthday, but she decided so late that pulling together a major surprise party where people would actually attend would not be possible.

So? Plan B.

I must say I think she liked Plan B better than  a big surprise party.  This plan had two steps to it.  First, call from our vacation to Missouri and make sure Lisa had gotten to town.  Finding out no one had planned any extended family get-together, I had Mom arrange a breakfast for the four of us (my mother, Lisa, Lisa’s sister, and me) at a favorite Swedish restaurant.  (We all love Swedish pancakes.)

Step two was a little more devious.  In fact, my youngest son (23) was shocked to learn just how sneaky his mother actually was.  (He was around to hear the phone conversations.)  I arranged to take over fellowship time after church the Sunday before her birthday.  I was so grateful that all involved kept the secret.

Of course, even this was not easy.  Saturday evening when my Mom called, she began listing the possible things she might do on Sunday, but thankfully she added that it would be after church.  (I don’t think bakeries look kindly on the return, or non-pickup, of a full sheet cake.)

My mother’s first surprise was my “late” appearance at church; I rarely, if ever, go.  She thought my appearance was the “best birthday present” I could have ever given her.  It wasn’t until the end of the service when I grabbed my camera that she realized something more was up.  The paster asked for the congregation to sing “Happy Birthday” to her, and then I asked everyone to join us in the basement for birthday cake.

I made her day.  She keeps saying that she can’t believe what I did for her.  Wait till her actually birthday when she gets her real present: the hot air balloon ride she has always wanted.  (She’s going to have to accept a certificate, though, because her travels seem to have her booked.)

My garden is producing zucchini at an unbelievable rate.  At one point, I thought I had green counters rather than yellow.  It’s time for zucchini bread, zucchini brownies, and zucchini whatever.

In my haste to get the first loaf of zucchini bread made, I inadvertently mismeasured some of the ingredients.  Thankfully, the loaf tasted fabulous.

In trying to figure out what I left out, I found that I had made a healthier loaf of bread, and one that was better for my husband who is a diabetic.

Here’s the new recipe.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

*Use “Pam” to grease and then flour one large loaf pan (or depending on the large size 2) or four mini loaf pans.

*Grate and drain 2 cups of zucchini

*Mix the following dry ingredients together and set aside.

1 cup unbleached all purpose flour

1 cup whole wheat flour

3 teaspoons cinnamon

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

*In a mixing bowl, beat the following together.

3 eggs

1 cup white sugar

1 cup natural applesauce

2 teaspoons vanilla

*Stir the zucchini into the wet ingredients till well mixed.  Then, stir in the dry ingredients.

*Pour into the prepared loaf pan(s) and bake.

**Large loaves at least 1 hour.

**Mini loaves 40 minutes - 60 minutes

For parents, kids, and teachers alike, the countdown to the first day of school is on.

For parents, it focuses on checking to see if those clothes from last spring still fit, or does the school uniform still fit or even be found, or is a grand shopping spree around the corner.  If your kids are like mine, we had the need for new clothes; my boys seemed to grow as if I put the Miracle Grow on them rather than the plants in my garden.  Every fall, the jeans looked like what they called “flood waters” pants.  If we bought them longer than necessary, they complained about having to roll them up.  Then, the never ending list of school supplies that the teacher, school, or school district deem necessary needs to be purchased, names written on the items, and the items put together in the backpack to get them to school for the first day.  I feel sorry for the parents with school supplies; at least my kids had few choices.  It seems to me that Crayola has a plot to make a parent pull every strand of hair out trying to appease the child about what pack of markers he can get.  Then, that task of writing the child’s name on each crayon, marker, and even marker cap drove me nuts.

For kids, it becomes an impatient not for classes, but to see friends that haven’t been seen for the whole summer, or even the next door neighbor.

For teachers it is a whole different countdown.   I spend the last few days of summer vacation deep cleaning my house and working with the beginning harvest of the garden.  Why?  Well, once the school year starts, I don’t have the time that I would like to get everything done.  I teach high school English and creative writing and most evenings are spent reading for class or grading.  I finish up the novels that have been started, and begin to look at planning what I will be teaching.  Yes, I’ve been teaching for better than 20 years, but I rarely do the same thing two times in a row; it gets too boring for me.

I also start looking at gathering school supplies and checking out the wardrobe.  I doubt the administration would look too favorably at me if I wore my cut off jean shorts and a t-shirt.  My concern, though, is not did I grow, but did I gain weight.

I numbered my days on my calendar today.  I have 22 days left of freedom till the routine of the school year attacks me again.

Ok.  Yesterday, I harvested at least nine “green bags” of romain lettuce.  It was getting to the point where I either had to harvest it or it would go to seed and be no good.  So we decided to create our own version of a “special Italian” salad he has where he works.

For each salad, place the following in  a bowl -

romain lettuce torn up

one cooked Italian sausage cut into disks

one hard boiled egg cut up

half a medium tomato cut in bite size pieces

some cucumber slices

2 or 3 slices of Genoa salami and pepperoni cut up

some shredded mozzeralla cheeze

a couple of pepperocini cut up

sliced black olives

croutons

cover this with a mixture of equal parts of Italian dressing and Ranch dressing

Then, either toss the mixture together or put a top on the bowl and shake the salad to mix.

Unlike the last few years, the weeds are not overtaking my garden this year, and the vegetable plants are growing “like weeds.”  Pardon the pun.  This year, when the gardening season drew close, my hubby and I decided that this garden would grow vegetables and not weeds.

The land on which my house sits used to be, as many of our yards were, farm land.  It is a hard, clay based soil that held onto the weeds like cement.  If I wished to conquer the weeds, I needed to water the garden, and then proceed to work in the mud.  The excessive watering also formed a breeding ground for mosquitos.

This year, however, I was determined to be a successful gardener.  Two years ago, we created raised garden beds approximately 8 feet by 16 feet (I think.) and filled them with top soil.  This was a frustrating mistake.  I finally convinced my hubby that we needed to add something to the gardens: To each garden we added 4 bags of hummus compost and 4 bags of mushroom compost (Gotta love that smell.) and a large bag of peat.  This combination we mixed in the wheelbarrow and then tilled into the garden.  After planting, I covered the beds with cocoa hulls and lightly watered.  After the initial watering, the resin in cocoa hulls is supposed to  form a weed barrier.

It worked.  Granted, I have my share of weeds to pull that the birds have transfered with their feet and beaks, but it is no where near what it used to be, and to top that off, the weeds are easy to pull.  I have already harvested enough green beans for two dinners and at least 16 zucchini squash.  The watermelons are the size of large marbles already, and I think I will have more than enough tomatoes, beets, lettuce, and peas.

I’m finally a happy and successful gardener.  Eat your heart out, Dad.

FISH 2 / ME 0   Yup! That’s the fishing score.  The fish have stolen my bait, teased me by playing with the hook, and today swam around where I could actually see them, but did any bite the bait on my hook?  NOOOOO!  On the other hand, hubby, my fishing partner, has caught fish on both of the excursions.

It all began last week after I got home from teaching summer school.  My hubby had planned to go fishing while I was at work, but it had been raining, and he decided that it would be more enjoyable to wait and have me go with.   So, it was a date.

What I hadn’t realized was how quickly the fishing trip would relax me and get my mind focused.  Usually, I have a million and one things running through my head.  In fact, I had figured that this would be the case so I pocketed a few pieces of paper and a pen to jot down anything that came to me as I was fishing.  As the evening wound up, the papers were still in my pocket, unmarked.  Five hours had passed and I hadn’t once thought of grading papers, the dishes, the laundry, the vacuuming, or any other mundane tasks that needed to be completed.  I had let go and played with the fishes.

At the end of the evening, my hubby suggested that we go fishing again this week.  This morning was dreary and rain threatened on the horizon; in fact, it was raining when I left the school building.  I called hubby from my Jeep to ask if there was anything I needed to pick up and was duly reminded that we had a fishing date this afternoon.  I needed to hurry up and get home.

So, off we went fishing again.  Once again, he caught fish and I didn’t.  Somehow, I think that the fish know that I really don’t care if they swallow my hook; it’s enough that I am feeding them and I have escaped my stresses.