Saturday Smile: Beach Bums

All of my grandkids enjoy the water. Well, Mylee might be a bit more like her nana in being a bit reserved about swimming. Still, she’s learning and I’m happy about that.

Addie, Alastair, Dagny, and Maggie Faith are big, BIG fans of swimming. I accompanied them to Disneyland five or six years ago (Maggie was still in a stroller). While they certainly enjoyed Magic Kingdom, they probably enjoyed the swimming pool at the hotel as much, if not more. They are happy to just swim and swim and swim.

Almost every year around Christmas, they, along with Jll’s sister Julie and her mom, spend a week or so in Mexico. They rent a house, and always have such fun. It makes me happy that they enjoy their time there so much.

This year they went to Cabo San Lucas,  and here are a couple of photos that make me smile….

The ladies of the group pose beautifully for a picture. Jll's mom Lynne, her sister Julie, and Jll herself are the grown ups. Addie, Dagny and Magnolia complete the group.

The ladies of the group pose beautifully for a picture. Jll’s mom Lynne, her sister Julie, and Jll herself are the grown ups. Addie, Dagny and Magnolia complete the group.

McLains on the beach

And here we have McLains at the Beach!

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

Gift Giving Follow Up
I began writing this blog in August of 2013. Since that time, except for a few exceptions (mostly hospital visits, a few vacations), I have posted every day but Sundays. That’s well over 700 posts. My hits (the number of people who read my blog each day) have ever so slooooooowly increased, but even now they are only about 60 on a good day. That’s okay because I write for the enjoyment of it, though I would love my numbers to increase. Up until this past Monday, the most hits I’d ever gotten in one day was 129, and that was the blog post about our whale watching adventure while visiting Vermont. Monday’s post about Jo Lynn and her gift to her friend of a kidney has received – at the time of this writing – 462 hits. And that doesn’t count the ones that came in through my home page. Not only did the numbers flabbergast me, but the number of countries from which people accessed my blog was astounding. Again, at the time of this writing, that post got hits from Canada, Norway, Germany, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, Hungary, Thailand, Denmark, the Netherlands, Brazil, Malaysia, Ireland, Indonesia, and of course the United States.  Oh, and one last thing. I was contacted by the public relations department of the National Kidney Foundation asking for Jo Lynn’s contact information to do a follow up story. Jo Lynn said she has been overwhelmed with the good will she has received, and hopes that the result will be more people being willing to donate.

Ahoy Matey!
Rain Ditch 2
The past few days have been sunny, but we haven’t had great weather since we arrived in Arizona. I’m not complaining, as there is snow and very cold weather back in Denver. But the temperature has mostly been in the 50s during the day and down in the 30s at night. The past few days have been warmer, in the neighborhood of 62 or 63. During the chillier days, there was also quite a bit of rain. We have never been here during the monsoon season and this rain was apparently nothing like that. Still, it rained pretty steadily for a couple of days. Because the ground is made mostly of clay and so is very hard, the water doesn’t drain easily. That’s why in low-lying areas, there are signs saying not Rain ditchto venture forth if there is water on the road. Because water doesn’t drain, there are designed low-lying ditches all over the city for water to sit while it slowly seeps into the soil. We have a couple of them in our neighborhood, as do most neighborhoods. Kids will play in the short-lived ponds, though I’m certain they’re not supposed to. But kids are kids.

It’s Not Rocket Science
One of my go-to treats to make for my grandkids is rice krispie treats. I must admit, I love them myself. Even my mother, who didn’t bake a lot because she was was married to a baker, would make rice krispie treats. I think every mother made them in the 1950s. My grandson Alastair has told me mine were the best, and that always made me laugh. Because, let’s face it, there really isn’t much to the recipe. I always figured it’s because I use extra butter and a bit of vanilla. But I recently came across a recipe on Pinterest for what was purported to be the best EVER Rice Krispie Treats. The recipe came from a blog called South Your Mouth. I pinned the recipe, and subsequently made them. They were the best EVER Rice Krispie Treats for sure. The trick? Two bags of mini marshmallows instead of one, a stick of butter instead of half a stick, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. What’s more, you hold back two cups of the marshmallows until the rest are all melted, and then add them just before mixing with the rice krispies, resulting in pockets of melty marshmallowy goodness. Here’s a link to her recipe.

rice krispie treats

Top 40
When I work in the kitchen, I like to play music. I have finally put away my Christmas music, so while I was preparing the rice krispie treats yesterday, I turned on my iPod and selected one of my playlists. Every song that came up was one I LOVED. I could sing along and, in fact, did. It finally occurred to me that the reason I was enjoying each and every song was that the playlist I chose was called My Favorite Songs. Duh. One of the first songs to play was Louie Armstrong’s Mack the Knife. That song gets me singing and dancing like no other. A bit later, Mack the Knife again began playing, but this time it was Michael Buble’s version. I love Michael Buble, but really, I couldn’t listen to it at the same sitting as listening to Louie Armstrong’s version. There’s simply no comparison. I can’t listen to Louie Armstrong without remembering that I accidentally broke my dad’s Louie Armstrong album featuring Mack the Knife when I was a small girl. I dropped it and it broke in half. Isn’t it funny that I remember that? I also remember that I was afraid I’d get in trouble, but didn’t. I’m sure that was one of Dad’s grit-you-teeth-and-smile moments that all parents have.

Ciao.

No, You Hang Up First

friends-the-one-with-ross-new-girlfriend-hang-up-already-clipWhile googling something totally unrelated recently, I came across a clip from an old Friends episode that made me laugh. It was an early episode (you can tell by Jennifer Aniston’s hair style) after Ross and Rachel had broken up and Ross was on the telephone with a new girlfriend. Their telephone conversation was over but each was reluctant to be the first to hang up and they were being silly. “You hang up first,” Ross says. Pause. “No, you first,” he continues, giggling. It goes back and forth for a bit. At one point they agree to hang up at the same time, but of course neither one does. Finally Rachel, who is sitting next to Ross the entire time, has had enough. She grabs the phone and hits disconnect.

The reason I found that clip so amusing is that I find myself in that situation on a regular basis. Oh, not on the telephone. You surely know that no one talks on the telephone these days. I run into the problem when texting.

Of course, you might recall that I recently discovered that the fact that I was putting periods at the ends of my sentences when texting was offending people and I didn’t even know it. So I’m trying to be more careful about my texting etiquette.

But the problem is, how can I be sure the party with whom I’m texting knows that I received their message unless I respond? And then how can they be sure I know they know I know they received their message unless they respond back. And so it goes. It can potentially have no end.

It leads to conversations like this:

Me: What time do you want to meet?
You: Let’s say 11:30 at Village Inn. (There’s a period because it’s only with Baby Boomers that the problem exists and Baby Boomers use punctuation.)
Me: Okay, that sounds good.
You: We’ll see you at 11:30 then.
Me: Yep. See you then.
You: Ok. I’m looking forward to it.
Me: Okey dokey.
You: You betcha.

And so on.

When texting with Court, the whole issue of who ends the texts rarely comes up. Our conversations are more like this…

Me: Can you have lunch today?
Court: Yes (no punctuation)
Me: Oh good. Let’s meet at Chili’s at noon.
Nothing

Me (in my mind): Hello, hello, is anyone there?

He has received my message and plans to meet me there as I indicated. He simply doesn’t feel compelled to confirm that because he assumes technology worked. It’s always a surprise to me when he’s there as planned, though by now it shouldn’t be.

By the way, those words (Hello, is anyone there?) are exactly the words my 7-year-old granddaughter Kaiya wrote when she was trying to text me recently; I didn’t answer her initial message because I was not near my iPad. Perhaps she’s going to be a chip off the ol’ grandmother block.

I’ve discovered that I have a similar issue when leaving a voice message. I am not one who likes to talk on the telephone. So it is a mystery to me why I consistently leave messages that are way too long and full of ridiculously unnecessary information.

For example: Hi Sharon. My name is Kris. I saw your ad on Craig’s List for a Kitchenaid Mixer. I’m interested in purchasing one. I only live in Arizona in the winter and I have one in Denver where I live most of the time. But since I only live here four months out of the year, I decided it would be stupid to buy a brand new Kitchenaid, especially if I can find one that is in good condition. I’m not worried about buying used because Kitchenaid mixers are made so well that they last forever. I know someone who uses their grandmother’s old Kitchenaid. It seems silly to spend a bunch of money on something that is probably in perfectly good condition. So could you please give me a call as soon as you get this message. If I don’t answer my phone, it’s probably because I’m at the gym. I don’t take my phone with me to the gym because I’m always afraid it will get stolen or I will forget to pick it up and take it with me when I go. Lordy, getting old isn’t for wimps, is it? Of course, you probably don’t know because you’re probably only in you early 30s. I hope I hear from you soon. And, by the way, I hope the Kitchenaid you’re selling isn’t pink because pink isn’t in my color wheel. Have a great day.

I’ll tell you what isn’t for wimps – being a Baby Boomer!

I Baptize Thee…..

The Baptism of Christ by Andrea del Verrocchio and Leonardo da Vinci.

The Baptism of Christ by Andrea del Verrocchio and Leonardo da Vinci.

I don’t remember my baptism. Back in 1953, the Catholic Church taught that infants who died unbaptized didn’t go to heaven, but instead went to someplace it called Limbo. As nice as heaven but without the joy of seeing God, the nuns told us. And they could play this game where you tried to go backwards under a bamboo stick while steel drums and guitars were playing reggae music.

Oh, I’m just kidding about the last part. Newborns can’t even walk, much less dance.

Anyhoo, because of this belief, which (thankfully) is no longer part of Catholic dogma, babies were baptized as soon as possible – hopefully within days – maybe even hours — of being born. So undoubtedly most cradle Catholic baby boomers don’t remember their baptisms.

Bill was brought up Baptist, and so he was 12 or 13 when he was baptized. He explained to me that the Baptist church teaches that a person should be old enough to make the decision to be baptized, and so it is generally when they are a pre-teenager.  He was fully submerged rather than having holy water trickled on his head. Wow. When my son Court was baptized at age 1 month, he was inconsolable over that trickle of water. Of course, he was inconsolable for about the first four months of his life.

But I digress….

In Sunday’s Gospel from St. Luke, Jesus is baptized. I’ve always wondered why Jesus was baptized seeings as he had no sins, original or otherwise. I don’t have the answer, of course, but have believed that it was sort of God’s introduction of his Son – our Savior – to the world. After all, after St. John the Baptist baptized Jesus, God spoke from heaven and said, “This is my beloved Son.” So perhaps this was a sign that Jesus was human, but that he was going to fill us with the word of God because Baptism makes us one with God.

Not all of my grandchildren are baptized. This fact ranks among the top things in my life that hurt my heart. After the birth of one of my grandchildren, I met with our pastor.

“My heart is broken,” I told him, “and I don’t know what to do.”

His advice was stellar and I took it to heart, and continue to do so. “Do nothing but love your grandchildren and model your love for God to them,” he said. “They will one day make their own decision, and it will be the right one.” And he assured me that the Catholic Church no longer taught or believed in the notion of Limbo.

While the Catholic Church teaches that the sacrament of Baptism does, indeed, free us from sin, that’s not why I wish all of my grandkids were baptized. Kids don’t sin. They just are kids. However, I just think that Baptism brings us into relationship with God in a formal way, with friends and family in witness. It provides the opportunity for God to say, “This is my beloved (son or daughter). In you I am well pleased.”

Jesus’ baptism brought him into the community of the world. Baptism brings us into the community of the church. That fact seems important to me.

Random Act of Senseless Kindness

It appears I’m somewhat obsessed with the notion of gift-giving these days. Take my recent blog post about Epiphany when it seemed all I could think about was that gold, frankincense and myrrh were odd gifts. Then there was the blog post in which I talked about the horrors of shopping at the mall right before Christmas and the glories of internet shopping. I offered my readers pictures of my grandkids opening their gifts. About the only thing I haven’t done is show you a copy of my credit card bill.

Oh, or donate a kidney.

Because, friends, while I have been focusing on material gifts, I recently met someone who truly knows the meaning of giving a gift of love.

Her name is Jo Lynn, and she’s mostly like you and me. She is a busy wife and mother with a full-time job. She has a life filled with housework and bosses and grocery shopping and school events. In addition to these normal activities, she also is an amateur athlete who does CrossFit and runs ultramarathons. Okay, maybe that’s not like you and me. But you get my point.

But one day Jo Lynn was looking at Facebook and came across a surprising post from one of her Facebook (and real-life) friends. Could you save my life? I need a kidney, the post said, or my kidneys will soon fail completely.

Jo Lynn was aware that her friend Mary was in kidney failure and had been for some time. Mary’s father and grandmother had died of kidney failure. Mary herself was at a point where she spent every single solitary night hooked to a dialysis machine that was keeping her alive. Imagine that. She hadn’t had a dream for three years because the dialysis machine prevented her from any REM sleep.

Mary was reluctant to take the step of reaching out to her Facebook community, but her husband insisted on it. Family members were unable to donate because their blood types were wrong. Mary’s blood type was O, and the list for kidney donors with that particular blood type was in the neighborhood of six years long. Mary was unsure if she had that much time. Facebook was one way of reaching a large number of people, her husband told her.

What grabbed Jo Lynn’s attention was that Mary had type O blood. That meant that Mary could only receive a kidney from someone with type O blood. Guess who has type O blood? Yep. Jo Lynn.

Right then and there, Jo Lynn began to form a plan. After talking to her husband (who not only didn’t think she was insane, but actually was sad that his own blood type prevented him consideration), she began taking the steps necessary to donate one of her kidneys to her friend.

And let me tell you, there were very, very, very many steps. You can only imagine. Test after test after test after test. Physical tests. Counseling with a social worker. Blood draws. CT scans. Jo Lynn didn’t even tell her friend that she was undergoing these tests for some time because she didn’t want to get her hopes up only to have them shot down because of some medical anomaly that would prevent her from being able to donate her kidney.

The tests went on for literally months. Jo Lynn saw the Facebook posting in March of 2015. The surgery took place on December 23, (coincidentally 61 years to the day of the first successful kidney transplant in Boston), at a hospital in Scottsdale, AZ. It just happened to be the hospital in which Jo Lynn was born.

Did you ever hesitate, I asked her. Was there ever a time when you thought maybe you had bitten off more than you could (or wished to) chew? Did you have second thoughts?

Not once, Jo Lynn told me. None of the family members could donate. She had the right blood type. “How could I sit back and do nothing?” she said.

How, indeed.

Jo Lynn and Kris

Kris and Jo Lynn. The person on the left DIDN’T donate a kidney.

Because I simply can’t leave well enough alone, I asked her if she was spiritual. She admitted to not being a church-goer. But she would also not reject the notion that God played – and continues to play – a part in this whole affair. After all, about the time that Mary learned she had bum kidneys, Jo Lynn – far, far away in Colorado – decided to begin eating a healthy diet and exercising. Almost like she was preparing her body for what was to come.

The next four to six months are critical in Mary’s life. If her body is going to reject Jo Lynn’s kidney, the next few months will tell. She will be on anti-rejection medication for the rest of her life. That is a small price to pay for getting her life back. She has even begun to have dreams again. Probably both awake and asleep.

As for Jo Lynn, her life will have to change very little, surprisingly enough. We can live perfectly well with one healthy kidney. The doctor’s only order? No contact sports.

Rats. So Jo Lynn will have to give up her dreams of being the first woman NFL player or a professional boxer.

And I’m going to have to reassess my ideas of giving gifts. I likely will never have the opportunity of donating a kidney, and am not sure I would even have the chops to do it if the opportunity presented itself. But Jo Lynn’s experience makes me very aware of what it means to love one another.

Nana’s Notes: The blog title comes from a song with the same title written by Gary Baker, Frank Myers, and Jerry Allan Williams; performed by South Sixty Five. Jo Lynn is a friend of my sister Jen, who I thank for arranging this meeting. It was a wonderful experience.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Guest Post: Lengua; It’s What’s for Dinner

Our son Court recently embarked upon a culinary adventure. He documents his experience here….

By Court Zierk
image
The tongue is a fascinating organ.  It is simultaneously the most flexible and most sensitive muscle in our entire body, it is the only muscle that works without any support from our skeletal system and it is also solely responsible for our ability to taste, which is the reason you can differentiate between sour, sweet, bitter, salty and umami. You should really thank your 10,000 taste buds sometime.

As fascinating as it is, it is also strange and somewhat off-putting. When it comes right down to it, the tongue really has few attractive qualities. There is a reason that Hannibal Lector doesn’t usually serve tongue to his dinner guests. It isn’t the most appetizing thing to think about, let alone eat. Even mass-murders have their limits you know.

But, apparently I don’t.

Recently, I have been challenging myself to push the boundaries outside of what I consider to be customary. You see, I am an admitted creature of habit, and I rarely venture outside of my long-established norms. I eat the same thing for breakfast everyday, I drink San Pellegrino like it’s going out of style and I could eat pizza for dinner everyday if it wasn’t frowned upon as a sole staple of sustenance.

But, this Christmas break, I spent much of my time cooking fairly extravagant meals for my family, something I absolutely love to do when I have time at my disposal. On a whim, I decided to replicate, or attempt to replicate, a meal I saw recently on Bizarre Foods, which by definition isn’t typically a wise move.

Andrew Zimmern, host of Bizarre Foods, was in Mexico City and, among other varieties, devoured a cow-tongue taco that he absolutely raved about. Having recently seen a recipe for a tongue taco on Allrecipes.com, I decided this was going to be my project for the day.

So I set out on the town with my trusty sidekick (Kaiya) by my side, on a hunt for cow tongue. Knowing that they sell every organ, appendage and extremity of just about every animal in existence at the Asian market, I of course made that my first stop. After some rummaging through various animal organs, I finally ignored my overpowering male instincts, and asked a store-worker for help.

It turns out cow tongue was so popular that particular week that the Asian store was completely sold out.  “Wow, this must truly be as divine as Andrew made it out to be on television,” I confidently told myself.

My next stop was a small carniceria about two blocks down the road. Luckily, they had a plethora of tongue for me to choose from, and I chose the largest, and most disgustingly opulent one they had.

cow tongueKaiya and I then headed home, and I embarked upon a carnal dismembering like no other as I removed the outer, extremely tongue-y exterior, before placing the gigantic organ into my slow cooker. At one point, my steel-stomached and far more culinary adventurous wife even remarked about how disgusting it looked.

With the tongue in the slow cooker, along with a cornucopia of onions, garlic and other spices surely intended to mask the potent iron taste that accompanies most organ meat, I sat back and let the crock-pot do its work.cow tongue in crockpot

Ten hours later, it was time to eat.

My first observation was that the meat remained extremely tough even after simmering on low heat for nearly half of a day, and certainly couldn’t be shredded as suggested by the recipe.

Instead I cut it into half-inch cubes, and wearily put one of the cubes into my cautiously optimistic mouth. Much to my dismay, the texture was much like you would expect a tongue to be, and was very difficult for me to get past. To make matters worse, the meat had almost no flavor.

So while I struggled to cope with the consistency of an animal’s tongue in my mouth, there wasn’t even the redeeming outburst of flavor I had so hoped for.

cow tongue tacosIn an attempt to flavor up the meat, my wife Alyx searched through every spice we had in the pantry, utilizing what seemed like an endless variety of masking agents. In the end, we ended choking down moderately flavored meat that bore an uncanny resemblance to the consistency of a tongue, because well, it was tongue.

All in all, while I’m glad I attempted to make a unique and somewhat exotic dish, and I will continue to broaden my horizons over the course of this year, I would consider it a unanimous failure.

The moral of the story is to never emulate a dish from a TV show whose sole purpose is to make the viewer uncomfortable while watching them consume said dish. I’m guessing it rarely works out well.

Alyx takes her first bite of the tacos de lengua.

Alyx takes her first bite of the tacos de lengua.

Nana’s Notes: I can’t tell you how excited I was that he undertook this challenge. Tacos de lengua are actually quite popular around the Phoenix area, but I have never gotten brave enough to try one, though my brother says they’re good. Mostly I applaud Court’s willingness to challenge his food boundaries. And my guess is that while Kaiya was his sidekick, she didn’t give them a try. Can’t blame her for that one.

 

Tying Knots

grammie knitWhen I was a little girl, my grandmother knitted and/or crocheted all of the time. When she sat, she almost always had a piece of some kind of work in her hands. Her needles clicked as she madly knitted, faster than I’ve ever seen anyone knit. Crocheting was quieter, but she could produce an afghan in short order. One of the best gifts you could give my grandmother was yarn.

As she got older, she knitted less and crocheted more. I think that was because her eyesight started failing. I suspect it was easier to see crochet stitches than knitting stitches. Ultimately she had glaucoma, and I lived far away from her in her final days so I don’t know how she dealt with being unable to do handiwork. I would guess it made her sad.

My grandmother was generally a gifted artist when it came to crocheting and knitting. I have baby things in my cedar chest that I never took out when Court was born. While the knitting was beautiful, she was always a bit off on the sizing. So by time a child could fit into the booties she made, they were able to walk. And the sweater sleeves were always a bit long. Still, I’ve never been able to throw them away. I imagine they will be the first things to go when our poor children have to clean out our house after we’re gone. (That’s my final joke; we’re going to make them clean out our things!)

But I recall things my grandmother made me that were, well, not spectacular. Or at least I didn’t think so. She made what she called bed socks. Bed socks were basically adult-sized booties. They were too slippery to wear for slippers and too hot to wear to bed, so they generally went in the bottom of my drawer.

She also made all of us at one point or another a granny vest – a crocheted vest made out of granny squares. Please Grammie, don’t hate me from heaven above, but I detested the vests and never wore them. I clearly remember Jen wearing the vests, so Grammie will embrace her when we all meet again. Here is what it looked like, at least sort of……

images

Not awful, but when she began making them, I was entering junior high and wanted nothing more than to look fashionable. The vests, I believed, were not fashionable. I still believe that.

placematNow that I have opened up my Nanas Whimsies Shop on Etsy, I am madly crocheting all of the time. I work on afghans. I make dish cloths. I crochet place mats and grocery bags and baskets and coffee cup cozies. I recently solved a problem my sister had with her microwave handle getting too hot when she used her gas stove……

handle cover

Ta da.

My fear, however, is that I am going to become so engrossed in my crochet projects that I will begin producing things like these pajamas……

crochet pajamas

Or a wedding dress such as this…..

crochet wedding dress

Or, heaven forbid, this….

crochet_pants

When you see Bill wearing crocheted shorts, please begin planning the intervention. I will crochet the chair covers on which we’ll sit.

Fire the Underbutler

Housons 2015

Bill, Bec, Jen and I enjoyed our annual New Year’s Eve LUNCH at Houston’s in Scottsdale. We were sound asleep at midnight.

The first Monday after New Year’s Day is always a combination of a letdown and a great relief. I’m sure many of you are like me, that is, beginning somewhere around Thanksgiving you enjoy an extravaganza of eating, drinking, shopping, and partying that is like no other time of the year. I swear that since December 24, I have eaten every iteration of beef imaginable. My colon is going to seize.

Like many others, I woke up yesterday morning determined to start anew. I went to Walmart fixing to purchase nothing but healthy items so that I could cook wonderful and nutritious meals for Bill and me.  I, of course, was not the only one who had decided to stock up their larder after the holidays, particularly here in the Valley of the Sun with the return of the winter visitors. I’m pretty sure I say this every year: Do my larder stocking during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Someday I will actually remember this.

Nevertheless, things went pretty well Walmart-wise, until I tried to pay for my groceries. As you are all probably aware, stores everywhere are in the process of changing their credit card machines over to ones that accept the new chipped credit cards, which mine is. Many more stores are ready to go here in Arizona than they are in Denver. In Denver the only store I have found ready to go is my little neighborhood liquor store, which is owned by a friendly husband and wife who apparently are smarter than King Soopers when it comes to installing the new technology.

Anyhoo, after the cashier rang up all of my groceries, she gave me the total. Once I got over the shock of how much she said I owe, I stuck my card into the card reader and it proceeded to tell me my chip was damaged. Now, that was a possibility of course. However, minutes before, the chip had NOT been damaged at Target. But, things happen and perhaps it had gotten damaged while riding in the car in my purse in the front seat. You never know. The cashier, however, told me that her particular Walmart store had been having technical troubles the past couple of days with their little credit card machines. (Perhaps they should contact my Denver liquor store owners.) She kept trying, and the people behind me in line kept getting more and more impatient. As for me, I kept telling her, “Never mind, I have another card I can use.”

Finally, she reluctantly agreed to let me use my second credit card. However, you guessed it. It, too, wouldn’t go through. “We’re having lots of trouble with our little machines,” she told me once again. By this time the line behind me was becoming just short of belligerent. A riot was about to ensue. The seniors were revving up their electric carts.

“I have one last option,” I told her. (Golf clapping from the masses behind me.) “I have a debit card.”

Well, I’m happy to tell you that my debit card worked and a riot was forestalled. Remember the olden days when we used, uh, cash? Something that mostly doesn’t exist in my wallet.

This, by the way, was not a problem faced by Lord and Lady Grantham Sunday night in the Season 6 premiere of Downton Abbey. Financial issues, yes. A possible need to fire the underbutler was the greatest crisis Robert and Cora are facing following the season premiere. There is a promise of much greater drama, however. I won’t say any more at this time as I’m not wont to be a spoiler. (See, sitting down and watching one episode makes me say things like “not wont.”) The only thing I will say is, oh Anna. You’re beginning to get on my very last nerve.

With her bad luck, her credit card wouldn’t go through at Walmart either. Although it would undoubtedly be Mrs. Patmore who would be sent to stock up the larder. And she would actually call it a larder, as well. Oh no! I’m starting to speak in Downton Abbeyese.  I may have to speak to Bill about firing the underbutler. Oh, wait. He is the underbutler.

Gift of the Magi

imagesProbably my least favorite Christmas carol is We Three Kings. It’s such a dreary tune. If it shows up when I’m listening to Christmas music on my iPod, I hit the next button. But I can’t entirely avoid listening to the carol because we sing it every single year on the second Sunday after Christmas, somewhere in the neighborhood of January 6 – Epiphany Sunday. And inevitably, the choir and congregation sing it like a funeral dirge (sort of how we all sing Happy Birthday). But I sing along. For one thing, it’s the only carol for which I can sing harmony (a feat that is undoubtedly deeply appreciated by the person standing next to me).

Whenever I think about the three kings (who likely weren’t kings at all, but were more likely to have been scientists), I am always stopped dead in my tracks by the whole gold, frankincense and myrrh thing. The homilist always patiently explains the symbolism of the three gifts. I just always think that Mary, who was undoubtedly a gracious recipient on Baby Jesus’ behalf, probably inwardly rolled her eyes and thought, “Really, couldn’t they have just brought us some diapers?”

The significance of the so-called three kings is that they were foreigners. Perhaps Babylonians. But probably not Jewish.  The point St. Matthew (the only Gospel-writer who talks about the Magi) was making, or at least I think so, is that Jesus was born not just for the Jews, but for everyone. It was an important enough event to be recognized by Jews and non-Jews alike.

I always find that interesting. Imagine you are Jewish and you and your ancestors have been treated like dirt for literally hundreds of years. The only thing that got you through it was that the Torah told you that someday a savior would come and take care of things. Make everything right. In fact, Isaiah said, “Rise up in splendor, JERUSALEM.” He didn’t say “Rise up in splendor, Every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

So it’s no surprise that in St. Matthew’s account, he said that when King Herod heard about this baby being born, “he was greatly troubled, and all Jerusalem with him.”

But it seems significant to me that these three wise men came bearing gifts. We are all familiar with gift giving. In fact, we have thought about little else in the past few months, what with Christmas and all. We all spent astounding amounts of money on buying each other this and that. I would assume most of the gift exchanging was done with love and a generosity of spirit. We give gifts to show how much we care about others. The Magi brought gifts to show how much they cared that Christ the Savior is born.

I think it’s important to remind myself that gifts don’t necessarily have to be something on which I spend money. I can give the gift of time – visiting someone in the hospital or who lives alone, give a mom and dad a date night by babysitting their children, invite a lonely friend to dinner.

Or if all else fails, there’s always gold, frankincense and myrrh. Myrrh?

Saturday Smile: Twoferone

The other day Jen, who is here until Monday, came in the door with her grandson, 5-year-old Austin. As always, Austin was cheerful. But he was especially cheerful for two reasons: 1. He got to spend some hours at his Grammie’s house, which always delights him; and 2. She had stopped at McDonalds and got him a Happy Meal. I would like to say number 1 was his main reason for being cheerful, but, well, 2…….

Anyway, I noticed he not one, but two, beverages. He had a Sprite (always a treat) but he also had a strawberry smoothie. I asked Jen why he had two beverages. “Well, she said, the Sprite came with the Happy Meal, but he always persuades me of his dire need for a smoothie any time we go.”

Far be it from me to get between a man and his Happy Meal, but at one point, there was this……

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After a few sips, he wrinkled his nose and said, “It tastes like Root Beer.”

There is A&W’s secret recipe. Who knew?

Have a great weekend.