And so, at my birthday celebration on Sunday, there was this……
Mylee’s a big fan of costumes. And superheroes. Nothing screams “happy birthday” more than a 5-year-old girl dressed up as Captain America. I have nothing more to say.
Have a great weekend.
Aware that I am prone to superlatives, I will nevertheless tell you that Sandra Dallas is one of my favorite authors. Part of the reason is that she lives in Denver, having graduated from one of my alma maters – the University of Denver. The main reason this is important to me is that many of her books take place in Colorado. I think it’s safe to say that most of her novels take place in the West or the Midwest, often during the 1800s. Think Willa Cather.
A Quilt for Christmas is, plain and simple, a wonderful story. Quilting is a somewhat common theme for Dallas’ novels, and while I’m not a quilter, I love the stories of pioneer women gathering together to collectively create something beautiful, sharing stories as their hands work.
While the book’s main character is Eliza Spooner, the real star of the show is the quilt she makes for her husband Will. The Spooner’s farm is in rural Kansas, and they are successful enough to eke out a satisfactory living as long as weather cooperates and they’re willing to work hard. Will has left to join the Kansas volunteers to fight with the Union in the Civil War. Eliza sends Will the quilt as a Christmas present to keep him warm as he fights in Virginia. Like many volunteers, Will doesn’t make it home, but through a circuitous route, the quilt does.
Eliza, who is a wonderful character – one of my favorite characters of all time – takes in a mother and child who have also lost their loved one in battle. The newly-formed and somewhat odd new “family” personify friendship and love and the real meaning of Christmas.
While the story takes a sad turn as Eliza learns early on about her beloved husband, A Quilt for Christmas is not a sad book. Rather, it is a joyous story, and I was sad when it ended. I learned through a bit of research that Dallas decided to make the characters in this book the grandmothers of the characters in one of her most well-known books, The Persian Pickle Club. I read that book eons ago, and am already prepared to reread it.
I heartily recommend this lovely book. It will leave you feeling good about humanity.
Yogi Bear, Here I Come
This past Monday was my 62nd birthday. Sometimes I look around a store or restaurant and try to figure out who else is about my age. I simply cannot tell, because in my mind’s eye, I still look like I did when I was 40 (which wasn’t all that great!) Aging is very funny that way. My sister Bec hit the nail on the head when she called me Monday to wish me happy birthday. “You are eligible for the senior National Parks pass now,” she said. As she knows full well, we have to find some sort of benefit to getting older each year. I now can access a $10 lifetime pass to get me into any National Park in the country. That’s about it, folks.
They Say It’s Your Birthday
Jen and I have celebrated our respective birthdays together for – well – a very long time. Maybe not always on the actual days, but at some point we cook for each other. This year we celebrated my birthday at Court’s house, and Jen cooked Beef Bourguignon and brought it with her all the way from Fort Collins. (I made her Chicken Champagne for her birthday dinner, so I guess it’s viva la France this year for the two of us.) Court and the girls made my chocolate cake with whipped cream frosting. The day was absolutely splendid, except for the Broncos losing to the Oakland Raiders. That was disappointing, but there is that National Parks pass to look forward to.
Knock, Knock
At one point when we were at Court’s house, Bill went to use the restroom. The door was locked, so he came back out and began to count heads. Oh, oh. Everyone was accounted for which meant the bathroom was empty and the door was locked. We all looked at 19-month-old Cole, who had a halo, which didn’t fool us. Papa spent the next 15 minutes using a variety of tools and eventually got the door unlocked. He had lots of help…..
Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful
Tuesday those of us who live on the front range woke up to a large amount of snow on the ground. Enough to close schools – even the Denver Public School system was closed and it takes a LOT of snow for them to close. I texted Jll in the morning and asked if Addie and Alastair would be interested in earning some money by shoveling snow. The answer came back quickly….yes, they would walk over with shovels. It was cold and the snow was heavy, but the two of them cleared our front sidewalk, the driveway and the sidewalk to our front door. It took everything I had to try and keep Bill from joining them, reminding him that they were young and probably WOULDN’T have a heart attack. He did pitch in some, but they did most of it themselves. Hot chocolate and peanut brittle made by the neighbor were their after-shoveling treats. They were dressed for the cold. At the point this picture was taken, Addie’s hair had frozen…..
Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum
Wednesday night was Addie’s band concert at Hamilton Middle School, at which Addie played clarinet. I offered Bill a pass, reminding him that this was a 7th grade band, not to be confused with the Denver Symphony Orchestra. He insisted he would go to support his eldest granddaughter. It was well worth the price of admission (which was free). It pays to anticipate the worst, because it’s so nice to be surprised. They sounded quite good. Addie, of course, was magnificent. Seeing her play the clarinet made me think about my dad. He told me once that he tried out for band in high school so that he could get out of working at the bakery after school. And look, he said, how it changed his life. Maybe it will change Addie’s life too!
Ciao.
The happiest day in Mylee’s short life thus far, according to her parents, is the day that McDonalds announced they would serve breakfast all day. What does that mean for Mylee?
PANCAKES ANY TIME OF THE DAY OR NIGHT!
Snowcones are better than pancakes on a hot summer day, even for Mylee.
Miss Mylee loves her some pancakes. (As a secret aside, McDonalds’ announcement made her grandfather pretty happy as well. Bill can pass on the pancakes, but he loves their Sausage McMuffins with Egg. Unlike Mylee, who cheerfully eats pancakes at any hour of the day, I think Bill considers the Sausage McMuffins to be primarily breakfast food; however, for him, the breakfast period lasts past 10:30, the time when McDonalds used to stop serving breakfast. I have seen him look quite sad when he tried to order the Number 2 Breakfast Combo at 10:32, only to be told it’s time for two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun.)
I like pancakes too, though not as much as Mylee. I like my pancakes in the morning. I’ve never been a huge fan of the upside down dinner — you know, breakfast for dinner. And I’m a bit fussier than Mylee. I prefer my pancakes with real maple syrup. I think my daughter-in-law Lauren agrees with me, being a life-long Vermonter. Vermont is the only place I’ve ever visited where the breakfast restaurants only serve real maple syrup with pancakes. I venture to say they go even further and serve only maple syrup from Vermont. No Oh Canada for them.
I was recently babysitting Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole for a bit after school. Like most kids, Kaiya and Mylee come home from school hungry. Kaiya fended for herself, but I asked Mylee what she would like for after-school snack. Her immediate reply? “Pancakes.”
Now, that made me laugh because I’m quite certain her mommy doesn’t walk in the door after picking them up from school and start flipping pancakes. It reminded me of the time that I was babysitting The Cousins while Dave and Jll were away on a trip. Alastair was the first one up, as usual. I asked him what he wanted for breakfast. “Banana bread,” he said without hesitation. “Well, I don’t have any banana bread,” I told him. “Then, you could make some, Nana,” he replied, undoubtedly thinking, “well, duh!” Apparently my grandkids think that when it comes to cooking, I have superpowers. Ain’t so, I’m afraid.
I very often make pancakes for breakfast, and ALWAYS do when I have grandchildren sleepovers. Some like them with chocolate chips. Others prefer to have an M&M or 2 or 3 dropped into the batter. Kaiya is a purist and wants only a smear of Nutella on hers.
Pancakes from scratch are the easiest thing in the world to make. No boxes necessary. I use the recipe out of my torn and food-stained Betty Crocker Cookbook that I’ve had for 45 years, and it never fails me. One requirement (at least for me)? A cast-iron griddle.
Pancakes, courtesy Betty Crocker Cookbook
Ingredients
1 egg
1 c. all-purpose flour
¾ c. milk
1 T. sugar
2 T. shortening, melted, or vegetable oil
3 t. baking powder
½ t. salt
Process
Beat egg with hand beater until fluffy; beat in the remaining ingredients just until smooth. For thinner pancakes, stir in additional milk. Grease heated griddle if necessary.
For each pancake, pour about 3 T batter from tip of large spoon or from pitcher onto hot griddle. Cook pancakes until puffed and dry around edges. Turn and cook other side until golden brown.
If using self-rising flour, omit baking powder and salt.
Nana’s Notes: I never use an electric mixer; I always use a whisk and mix by hand. For reasons I can’t explain, the first pancake never browns properly. It tastes fine, but is consistently less pretty than the rest. For that reason, I always start with just one pancake to get it out of its system. From then on, I cook two or three at a time. I ALWAYS use self-rising flour and therefore have no need for baking powder. That way, as long as I have self-rising flour on hand (which I always make sure I do), I can make pancakes on a whim because I almost always have the rest of the ingredients. Any leftover pancakes go into the freezer and can be heated up by putting the frozen pancakes into the microwave for one minute. Not quite as good as freshly made, but it will satisfy Mylee in a pinch.
Every one of us has said something along the lines of “He (or she) is a saint on earth.” I know a number of this kind of person, many of whom read this blog (I put that in so that each one of you can imagine I’m talking about you).
But when I think of a so-called saint on earth, I can’t help but think of my grandmother. I truly never heard her say a bad word about anyone. She was kind and generous and loved everyone. And everyone loved her back. One example of her holiness is that when she went to bed each night, she would lay on the bed with her head at the foot rather than the head of the bed. Why? She said it was so that she wouldn’t fall asleep before she finished her prayers. Once she finished, she would turn around and sleep peacefully.
In Sunday’s gospel from St. Luke, the crowds asked St. John the Baptist what they needed to do to get to heaven. St. John’s answer was simple. “Whoever has two cloaks should share with the person who has none. And whoever has food should do likewise.”
That’s really not too complicated, is it? You don’t have to have a halo or angelic wings to do what God wants you to do. It isn’t necessary to part the Red Sea. You just have to live your everyday life, but live it stupendously – be the best you can be. Be generous. Be faithful to God’s Word. Be kind to others.
My dad always told us kids this story. During the hard times when he was growing up, there were lots of people really struggling in Columbus, Nebraska. Grammie and Grandpa’s bakery was downtown, only a couple of blocks from the railroad tracks. To this day, numerous trains pass through Columbus each day. But during the Depression of the 1930s, many men who had lost their jobs, their families, their livelihood, took to riding the rails. We called them bums. Today we would call them homeless, but nobody used that word in those days. These lost souls would make their way to the bakery, where they apparently knew (or quickly learned) that they could get some bread or rolls from my grandmother at no cost. Dad used to say that as quickly as Grandpa was taking bread out of the oven in the back end of the bakery, Grammie was giving it away to poor, jobless men in the front end.
She exemplified St. John the Baptist’s command to help the poor. She lived the word of God. She was a saint on earth, and is now a saint in heaven. I hope I can see her again someday.
Almost every morning when I open up my email, Comcast greets me with some interesting headline that does just want they want it to – draws me in to read the story and hopefully support the advertisers. The other morning, the headline that drew me was The Common Texting Practice That Makes You Seem Insincere.
Wow, I thought. I am a big texter. True, I hold my phone in one hand and use my index finger to tap out the words with the other rather than using only one hand and a thumb like truly sophisticated texters. Still, the story drew me in because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing anything that made me seem insincere, something I almost never am.
Maybe it’s ending texts with TTYL, the way my granddaughter Addie almost always ends her texts. The first time she did this, I had to look it up. I’m not kidding you. I had no idea what she was telling me. (For other baby boomers not totally into the texting lingo, it means talk to you later). But she always seems sincere.
Anyway, when I found out what the practice was that screamed insincerity, you could have knocked me over with a feather. And it must be true because it came from a RESEARCH STUDY. I can’t even imagine how many people now believe me to be insincere. Because the practice is using a period at the end of a sentence.
Such as….
You: Are we still on for dinner tonight
Me: Yes, that’s fine.
Screams insincerity, doesn’t it?
The problem is that as a writer, and one who loves good grammar even if my grammar ain’t always perfect, I simply can’t write a text message without using punctuation. Just can’t. Question marks, periods, exclamation points, you name it, and I use it.
For the record, I’m not much into using shortcuts in my text messages either. Oh, I have been known to use the occasional “u” instead of “you” or “K” instead of “OK” (though typing that extra O doesn’t really seem that time consuming). I also almost always put BTW instead of writing out by the way, (which is so long I might actually throw my finger out of joint). But I’m not a bit put off when others use shortcuts, as long as I can figure out what the shortcut means.
But back to using punctuation – specifically periods – in text messages. I did my own research, i.e., I checked my most recent messages from Court (we text so often that if I didn’t see him occasionally, I would forget what his voice sounds like). His style is apparently: No period at the end of the final sentence of a text. Punctuation in all previous sentences. Hmmm. Does that mean he is somewhat insincere?
It used to be so easy when we communicated by a telephone attached to the wall with a cord and featuring a rotary dial. No one could see your face as you rolled your eyes.
Finally, does it strike anyone else as odd that good research dollars were spent by the University of Birmingham (in England, not Alabama) to fund this particular study instead of maybe trying to find out how to grow more crops to feed the poor and hungry of the world?
Priorities people! Period.
This post linked to the GRAND Social
You might recall that I recently spoke about my fond feelings for my grandmother’s aprons. You can read that post here. This past week my cousin Stephanie sent me this History of Aprons. We shared a grandmother who always wore an apron, and the story made me smile. I’m not sure who wrote it I’m afraid, so I apologize for the lack of attribution.
My grandmother in her apron.
The principal use of Grandma’s apron was to protect the dress underneath. Because she only had a few, it was easier to wash aprons than dresses and they used less material, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.
It was wonderful for drying children’s tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears.
From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.
When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids.
And when the weather was cold, grandma wrapped it around her arms.
Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot woodstove.
Nana Kris wearing an apron…..
Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.
From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls.
In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.
When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.
When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men knew it was time to come in from the fields to eat.
It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that ‘old-time apron’ that served so many purposes.
Have a wonderful weekend.
I always say when it comes to reading, I am a cheap date. Having said that, I will admit that I’ve never been a Debbie Macomber fan, nor a fan of her seemingly endless Cedar Cove series. I even gave the Hallmark-produced Cedar Cove television series a shot, and just couldn’t get engaged. It doesn’t matter, because Macomber has a deeply devoted following and doesn’t need me, thank you very much.
But hey, it’s the Christmas season, and so it’s no holds barred, right? It’s not a time to read a deeply moving dramatic novel or a terrifyingly psychotic thriller. It’s a time for light reading where everyone gets along and all problems are solved by the end of 250 pages.
And light reading definitely describes Cromber’s A Cedar Cove Christmas.
Mary Jo Wyse is unmarried, pregnant, and very close to giving birth. Without telling her three brothers (the three Wyse men; are you getting the picture?), she travels to Cedar Cove, a small community on an island near Seattle from which the baby’s father hails. There, she not only cannot find the baby’s father, but she can’t find any place to sleep for the night. She runs into the town librarian, who agrees to let her stay in the apartment she and her husband built above the barn. It should come as no surprise that Mary Jo gives birth in the barn and the three Wyse men follow a star to find their sister.
Obviously, Macromber is not very subtle when it comes to copying the Christmas nativity story. Still, A Cedar Cove Christmas is full of holiday cheer and paints a lovely picture of a town that has put on its best attire for the holidays. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with a quick, cheery read full of holiday spirit and Christmas joy.
If you’re looking for a meaningful read, you can let this one pass. But if you just want to sit down with a cup of coffee and read a book that will only take a couple of hours of your time, A Cedar Cove Christmas might be a good choice. It will put you in the holiday mood.
But Can You Dance?
We returned Tuesday from our trip to Chicago to visit Bill’s mother. Just prior to our arrival, she came down with a chest cold. Chest colds are no fun for anyone, but when you’re 98 years old, they can, of course, be particularly dangerous. Like Bill, Wilma is tough and a non-complainer, but the cold was really hard for her. Mostly she was mad that she couldn’t talk – almost no voice at all for several days. Sunday we turned on television to watch the church service that they hold in their community room, but which they televise for those who are unable to attend. She had watched the Catholic Mass at which Bill and I were in attendance, and was prepared to watch the protestant service after we got back to her apartment. She tried with all of her might to sing along with the hymns to no avail whatsoever. She was very frustrated. Finally, she turned to Bill and croaked, “Go down and tell the nurse that I can’t sing.” I shared her frustration, but I must admit that the statement seemed ripe for a punch line.
The Perfect Food
There were a few things she could get across however, and one of those things was that she was sick and tired of the food she was eating every night. “It’s crap!” she croaked one night. So despite her illness, and since the weather was somewhat mild, we took her out for pizza at her favorite place – Aurlelio’s Pizzaria. And Bill loves his mother so much that he was willing to go there instead of HIS favorite place – Fox’s Pizzaria. There is no greater love than that of a son for his mother! It was a fun night and we were glad that for one night at least she didn’t have to eat “crap.” The server was nice enough to take our picture….
We Say Christmas
Though there are probably a handful of Jewish residents at the senior facility where Wilma lives, the place is definitely decorated for Christmas, all political correctness aside. With the large Polish-, Irish-, and Italian-Catholic population of Chicago, those numbers are probably represented among Smith Crossing’s population. All I know is that when I would take my walks around the facility, nearly every unit was decorated for the Christmas holiday. Here was Wilma’s contribution….
Bag It
The day before we left for Chicago, I got motivated and began to go through the place in my closet where I keep all of my old purses. For reasons I myself can’t even understand, I have a difficult time throwing or giving away old purses. I always think I will use them again. Even when the lining is torn and the bag is dirty. I will fix the lining and clean the bag, I tell myself. The chances of that happening are about the same as the chance that I will ever ride the world’s scariest roller coaster. So I am determined to make a final perusal of the bags to make sure there isn’t a hidden $100 bill, and give them to Goodwill. If you think I’m kidding, take a look at this photo…..
Give Them 20 Years…..
Last night Bill and I attended the holiday performance of the Southmoor Elementary School Choir, of which Dagny is a proud member. Being a McLain and therefore one of the shortest in her class, she was in the front row where she was easy to watch. As far as I was concerned, there didn’t need to be anyone else singing because I never took my eyes off of her. In a mere 20 years I will be watching her on The Voice. As an added bonus, the Southmoor Band played a few short holiday numbers. Key to the trombone section was Alastair McLain, who appeared to play beautifully. Let’s face it….Glenn Miller had to start somewhere. Here is a picture of the stars of the show….
Ciao!
When I wrote this post, I was 30-some thousand feet in the air, flying from Chicago to Denver. There are only so many blog posts one can write about the horrors of airline travel and one’s personal fear of flying. The fact of the matter is that no matter how terrible this flight was for me, it didn’t even come close to how awful it was for the woman three rows back flying solo with her two kids. One was a little boy of about 3 and the other was an infant girl in the neighborhood of 11 months to a year. The little girl cried ceaselessly for the entire flight. Meanwhile, the mother started out trying to deal patiently with the little boy, who apparently doesn’t know Santa Claus is coming to town. But about halfway through she lost her patience. She transitioned from saying things like, “Jack, I know you love your sister, but you have to give her some personal space,” to saying through clenched teeth, “Jack, stop touching your sister right now or I will take away your hand-held computer and throw it out the window.” Jack, of course, knew no one would be taking away his computer any time soon because it was Mom’s only hope and the windows didn’t open. So he continued to agitate his sister. Poor Mom.
It brought to mind my first plane ride with Court when he was 11 months old. We visited my sister Bec in Alabama. He was very good flying to Birmingham. However, he was simply awful on the way back. He cried nearly the entire way, except for a brief time while dinner was served (this being back in the days of airline food). It was during this brief interlude when he reached down and picked up a fistful of mashed potatoes and threw it at the businessman sitting next to me. Despite his now potato-stained suit jacket, the man rather took it in stride and was surprisingly nice about the mishap. He must have had a number of kids at home.
On our way to Chicago a few days ago, we had a pleasant, uneventful trip. The skies were smooth and we left and arrived on time. The only oddity happened as we waited for the announcement that we could begin boarding. A young man sat down across from us in the waiting area. He nodded nervously to us, and I attributed his discomfort to the fact that his carry-on was an enormous donkey head. Not a real donkey head, ala The Godfather. Instead, it was the kind of donkey head you would put on if you were the mascot for, say, the Joliet Jackasses. I heard him tell the fellow sitting next to him that he was quite nervous it wasn’t going to meet the carry-on restrictions. I must admit, it would be disconcerting to be sitting next to a passenger with a donkey peeking out between his feet.
It must have passed muster, however, because I saw him next in baggage claim in Chicago awaiting his luggage with the donkey head jauntily sitting by his side. Seeing as I had spent the entire flight trying to think of a college whose mascot was a donkey (Boston College Burros? Duke Donkeys? MIT Mules?), I couldn’t resist asking him why he was carrying a donkey head ( and no, I didn’t say “why the long face?”). Turns out he wasn’t a mascot for a school. He was going to work at some convention being held in Chicago. A convention featuring a giant donkey. A Democrat gathering maybe?
Perhaps a fitting conclusion to this blog post is to tell you something I overheard as we were standing in line to board. One woman struck up a conversation with another — an apparent stranger. Pointing out the the early hour (we were boarding at 6 a.m.!), she apologized for her unkempt appearance. The other woman dismissed her concerns, saying, “Oh, I don’t think there’s any point in dressing up any more unless you’re looking for a husband or a job.”
I can think of other reasons, but I wasn’t going to argue at the crack of dawn and with a donkey head staring back at me.
Nana's Whimsies 