Friday, November 26, 2010

Full of Effort: Non- Martha Stewart Style



"Make it look effortless." Kathleen said as she pulled the rolls, shaped like bunnies, from the oven.


(Kathleen's Kitchen)

We'd been working together on an Easter Feast. Wiping the sweat from my brow I logged the Martha Stewart advice away for another time.

Weeks later, I toiled in the same kitchen making a surprise picnic for a friend.

He came over and we ate at the round table I'd set up in the picturesque back yard.



I'd placed cute tableware on the pink and white checked table cloth. Homemade lemonade sat in the clear pitcher, lemons bobbing along with the ice.


(looking toward the garden room Grenn put in while I lived with him and Kathleen)

It was summer.




The whole meal took A LOT of effort. But I tried to play it cool until he left. After bringing in the food I went downstairs, climbed into the shower and let the hot water soothe my aching muscles.

Once my hair was drenched and the tears mixed in with the water, I turned the shower head so I could lay down in the small cubicle, put my feet up, and let gravity relieve the swelling that had pooled in my legs and feet. (A side effect of prednisone.)

Thank goodness yesterday's meal didn't have prednisone as a side dish. I woke up, showered, and readied myself for the day. Then I rolled up my sleeves to get to work.

As you can see, we have a lot to be thankful for here:



(All the effort that went into growing our Prize Pumpkin', can't fit into a single post. But doesn't it radiate the TRUE Thanksgiving spirit the Pilgrims felt when the Indians showed up and shared a meal with them?)

Fortunately, my mother was training the baby of the family, all 6 feet of her, how to cook. When I heard her ask: "what is this" and my mom explain to her that it was the neck of the turkey simmering in the pot on the stove to help moisten and flavor the gravy followed by gagging noise- I had to grab the cam.


(Yup, my parents saved all the tall genes for the last child who wanted nothing to do with sports.)

So to the strains of Abby's holiday CD, I got the mop out, filled a bucket with hot water/cleaner, and took to the galley:



and the dust.

I shined the toilets for the company we were expecting. Pulling out my finest towels with Great Grandma Smith's tatting so as to put on the "airs" of a Martha Stewart holiday.






But I wasn't about to make the mistake of acting like it was nothing.

Heck, if ya do that here, your kin is lible to think: "You 'ain done nuttin'". If you go around looking like you just stepped out of a salon after getting up at 3 am to get the Turkey ready, they will think it hopped in there and stuffed itself.

Besides, I can't pull off insider trading and serve prison time as effortlessly as Martha.


(The Danish inspired re-modeling is so lovely, Kathleen! Thanks for letting me take pictures of what I love about your house!)


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

WHAM !



There is nothing like being blindsided by the opposite sex. When this time of year rolls around, I get the jitters.

To top it off, every Christmas we get to listen to George Michael and the rest of WHAM, remind us about it in their song: 'Last Christmas'.

One minute we are wearing bright, colored clothing from:



-located at our own, brand new Grand Teton Mall, and suddenly the trendy store isn't able to keep up in this rural town, is replaced by Jay Jacobs, and George Michael is NOT Bringing Sexy Back to us Girls.

Thankfully, we could at least try to keep up with European fashion but getting over the latter would be A LOT harder. I am not speaking for other women, just those of us from rural Idaho.

While cautiously navigating holiday traffic, the synthesized bells coming over the radio are a traditional reminder of being jilted, by Michael, all those years ago.

I had to pull up the "Official Video" for 'Last Christmas' to see how in the world he pulled the wool over my eyes. ( Idaho never got those videos or I never watched them, til recently. Those short, shorts in Jitter Bug were a dead give away.)

In the Christmas video, the girl (wearing the same permed, bell cut I religiously wore through Jr. High and the first two weeks of HS) he'd given his heart to 'last year', was now prancing around in the snow, looking happy as punch in her Kool-Aid coat with the other guy from WHAM.

Michael, in fashionable revenge, brings a new girl 'this year', to Saas Fee, Switzerland for the annual cozy cabin Christmas break. Poor George finds his fellow feather-haired band member wearing the diamond floral broach he'd given bell girl the previous Christmas.



Did she give Rigley the broach the very next day or did Mike really give it to him in the first place and pretended to give Belle his heart?

Dear Michael,

It's bitter-sweet to hear your voice melt over the air waves when the weather is freezing, my breath is forming clouds in the car; raw, Idaho wind blasting the car off the highway, and to top it off, Christmas is on its way.

All those memories of you, in your videos.... leading me and countless other ignorant/naive girls to believe you were singin' to "us". ?

It's pure torture.

(Nothing like having my Sophomore haircut canonized in the year book year at all.)

How'd I let you fool me in those short, shorts beggin' to be woke up, when you'd already left?


(Your hair looks hot jet black even though you've gone grey. We still like you, either way.)

Christmas is already tough with out this melodic reminder to listen to as I shop, drive to work or pine for love without having to add the fact you opted "out".

Was it the hair, G?



P.S. You always wear hot shades/glasses. Where do you get them? Write Back Soon!

Forgivingly,

Shovels and Self Sufficiency


(Harriman Park- Great for Cross Country Skiing)

Dear Grenn,

Hello! How are you? In Idaho we are excperiencing blizzard conditions! The clouds finally let down and dumped snow on us. As I watch the wind whip up the snow on the lawns, shake it down from the trees like an airport check, and see my neighbors little red snow blowers exit their garages, I can't help but think of you.

Remember shoveling together? How you didn't break down and buy a snowblower or install a sprinkling system until after all the "kids" left the house?

One Half of Grenn's drive..


the other half.


Kids these days are soft because we don't require the manual shovel to dig out of snow storms like this.

Padre has had this week off from work so I surprised him the other day by getting up early to work. I was outside shoveling the drive so when they pulled the car out, it wouldn't pack down the snow.

Through the raging storm I looked up to see him standing by the garage door so I unfogged my glasses to talk to him. He was in his flip flops. The guilt had gotten to him, he offered up the snow blower.

I guffawed.

Why would I need the snow blower??

"I didn't want to have to give this instruction this early in the morning" he hollered over the howling wind.

Unable to lip read due to the glasses I just shook my head and put my gloves up in the air.

He opened the garage, pulled the snowblower out using a 70 point turn to avoid hitting the car and garage door opener eye.

Leaning in to hear his instruction I pulled out the choke, yanked the cord and the grumbling machine came alive.

He didn't see me roll my eyes as I reluctantly used his wimpifying machine.

I took off carving a straight line toward the road and when I turned he was waving his arms like a castaway.

"Now what," I muttered heading back up to him with the snow blowing back in my face.

He said something about the choke, I tried to peel his cold fingers from around my neck and sputtered snow as he pushed one of the contractions buttons in.

Taking off my glasses, he blurred like the white storm around us. His instruction was totally lost in translation. If he wanted me to use the snowblower that bad- I would do it. But I don't think he realizes that he is creating more of the social ills that surround us.



If he wants to create self sufficiency, he needs to not teach us about using a snow blower. Unfortunately, he has already passed on the useless information to J and now it will be difficult for me to undo the damage.

Don't you agree?

Well, I hope you have a great Thanksgiving!!!

Love,

Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Telephone- Social Glue



When I went to play at a friend's house as a little girl, I was astounded to see that they had only a single phone for each floor. If I needed to call home, I had to walk upstairs to the kitchen and phone home.

At home, we had phones in every room.

EVERY ROOM



One of my long distance friends was under the misconception that because of this fact, we were rich. Which gave me a good laugh but I played it up and went along with the misconception until I had the telephone bill came. I had to write her to break the news and add that Padre was having me cough up paper route money to pay for it.

She pen-paled back: "I thought you guys didn't have to pay for long distance."

Either did I.

Or at least I thought Padre got some sort of huge discount.

I think that by putting all those phones in our rooms, that sort of mistake was bound to happen. I mean the ease at which conversations could now happen compared to what happened in the old days...



If padre wanted us to be aware of the cost of communication, he should've installed a pay phones

Handing over my route money after I'd wriggled it outta the hands of customers, was a dear lesson.

*The Post Register had a really efficient way of paying the paper carriers. After we collected the money from the customers and paid the newspaper, we could keep whatever was left over! By tearing out a little coupon we kept track of who paid and who didn't. Those coupons showed us who hadn't paid for a good 3 months. We could go ahead and call the Circulation Dept. Who was the same lady who called us when we were late with the paper, to complain that the customer was late making payments and were making our lives a livin' pain. This complianing went in cirles, hence the name: Circulation Desk.



Either way, they got their money and we still walked the streets late at night and caught customers who had dodged us, begged them to pay at least a month or so to make it easier to catch up and that's how we learned the system.

It was like Christmas when they finally paid and we kids had the illusion that delivering papers wasn't so bad if you could almost make a hundred bucks a month!)


Speaking of circulation; A good 'ol rotary in the garage in case you are out working in the garden and Padre needs to get ahold of ya. The grandkids think this is real fun to play with.




In The Telephone Book by H.M. Beottinger it reads: "..the clever assemblage of bits of wood and metal was a novel form of 'social glue'..." (Bell, Watson, Vail and American Life 1876- 1976. Riverwood Publishers Limited Croton-on-Hudson, New York. 1977.)

If they thought telephones were sticky after Bell and Watson had tinkered for weeks with vibrating wire coils, they'd be appaled at the cementing effect of wireless phones today.

Once I balked at the swiftness of my youngest sister typing 300 texts per minute.
Now, I am considering a gun holster for my phone and propose they make the cell phone in the shape of a gun for quicker draws. (I better get on patenting that idea like Alexander did with the telegraph if I don't want to go through litigation, etc.)

With all the phones in Padre's home, you'd think we'd be more connected.



Just as sleep will come over me the distinguished qu-shh, walkie talkie sound will break into a dream and Padre is able to tell me that the bath matt was left on the floor and really hit the point home with a long lecture.

But usually the phone plays talk radio and it isn't until we leave the house that we can talk-- and thank goodness we can text. So as to not have to actually pick up the phone and talk to eachother unless it is really desperate.

The other day I made the critical decision to stay home rather than team up with Padre on errands. It wasn't long until my gun went off. The jelling 'doot' sound of connectedness that only a text can bring.

I knew it was him. hesitating, I clicked the button that opened my virtual envelope.

"what kind of lotion did you want, again."

I opened my cell phone and pecked out: "Vaseline brand." Going to great lengths to describe the bottle, color, shape and ounces.

Shut the chintzy phone and went back to 'work'.

The phone agitated as a call came through.

Interrupting the laid back jingle, I pushed the send button.

"Yes, sir?"

"Now, you want Vaseline? Like in a tub? We have that at home, ya know."

"Yes, I know. I need the lotion. The pump bottle made by the same company."

Padre talked with me and described everything on the shelf. I could picture him, with his ear piece on, the people around him wondering if he was talking to them or to himself -It happens around here all the time.

After locating the lotion I needed he began to describe other lotions on the shelf. Suffering from even drier hands than mine, he started to read the descriptions of various lotions.

"awwwww, Dad, you're killing me." I moaned while typing.

Chuckling he let me get off the phone with him.

A twinge of guilt did wash over me as I recalled the deep canyons in his fingers that never healed, especially when he was working on telephone lines from a cherry picker in the snow.

Using his Neutrogena lotion on the tips of my fingers where the winter is bringing skin splitting conditions and lowering his office chair made me regret not letting him rattle on while he did the shopping.

One day, Care, commented on how close I was with my Dad. I felt bad for her not bein' able to text her Dad, so I said: "He's a 'phone guy'.



The whole phenomenom of technology bringing the world closer together was displayed by the next generation when the grandkids were all over to the house.

"It's quiet down there." I said to my brother, The Torment.

Legs casually crossed he stops talking, presses his laced fingers to his lips and both of us listened for movement.

"Yeah, we better go check." he said referring to the critters downs stairs.

Softly scooting my chair back, I headed toward the stairs in my socks. Stealth-like I slip down the steps until I am closer to the murmur of children's voices coming from the family room.

Harmless chatter. From the third step I peered around the wall and saw two of Padres grandkids on the floor. My niece has one of Padre's old phones to her ear, the cord coiled around a finger and a couple feet away J is another touch-tone phone.



I listen a while as they have a real conversation. It is so real it doesn't seem like pretend!

"What did you do today?" my son asks his cousin.

In a grown up voice and with remarkable ettiquette she replied. I listened for a few more mintues smiling to myself that they could have had that same nice conversation with each other, but the phone somehow helped.

Finally, I startled them with:

"What ya guys doin'?? "



"Oh, we're playin' phone." J informed me and jabbed the buttons with a forefinger to call his cousin back.

Satisfied they weren't tearing up the basement, I bounded back up the stairs two at a time and reported to my brother that all was well and we continued our conversation at the dinner table with the rest of the fam.



This cookie jar resembled the Mountain Bell logo and for years I thought it was from the company for working for them. It took some history classes and reading the inscription, to see what bell it represented.

However, the history of communication has enthralled me since a young age!



A trip to the library prompted me to get books about Helen Keller to have Jaden read I will show him the book Padre has about Alexander Graham Bell; that he was enfluenced by the deaf, that he and his Scottish father's fine tuned ears made them elocution experts and I'll spin that story like a crude coil and teach him how lucky we are to adhere ourselves to the world around us.

Then we'll watch My Fair Lady.

He wl h8 me. LOL

I wonder if Helen would have a good laugh today if Annie signed a description of us glued to our cell phones, mute, pecking out our messages with our hands as well trying desparetly to communicate with eachother!


Risk and Coca Cola's Celebration Mix



Had I not been a stock broker, I don't think I would care much for magazines, newspapers and articles that talk about investing. So the latest mag in the teacher's lounge from Fast Company Inc. caught my eye during a planning period.

I decided to read about Coke Inc. taking a long term investment on a young man who'd had quite a story. His name was K'naan.



If I recall correctly he grew up in Somalia. He recalled kicking a soccer around with his buddies on a routine basis in the streets.

As the wars that occured in the north slowly made their way down to his city he and his buddies used a grenade once to kick around. knowing they were playing with fire, they still did it. The pin came out of course and he threw it, blowing up a building.

One day, as trucks grumbled down a dirt road next to the spot he and his two friends played, one of the boys ran up to the trucks. Yelling and throwing rocks at the them. A truck turned slowly and turned its machine gun on the boys, hitting them all.

K'naan, the skinny, was the only one to survive and escape to America with his mom.

I haven't listened to more than his Flag Wavin song, but as I washed dishes the other day to his Celebration Mix that Coke had him sing during the World Cup, I couldn't but help and wave mine. (gloves I broke down and bought.)



Watching the children play the game



with K'naan's drums and poetic lyrics in the background, made dish washing and kitchen duties less tedious today.



Stomping cans in time with the beat, had to restrain myself from kickin them around like a soccer ball.



In the article the company dicussed the huge "risk" they were taking in investing in this young man. No doubt the fact he'd into some trouble after coming to the states, and wasn't well known, it would be quite devastating if they didn't get it right.

An amazing story along with talent, not duplicated, and steely confidence only honed by persecution and adversity sells itself, I say!

His story was one of a kind along with his music.

The young man's confidence in himself may come off as cocky, but as I read about his complete belief in himself and his work, viewed his video, I couldn't help but agree and think I needed to risk more and invest in some greater confidence in myself.

Coke may have thought they were taking a Risk, but they had played their hand right and hit the nail on the head by betting on a kid who'd done it every day.

Wave Your Flag!!!!!!!!!!

Friday, November 19, 2010

Victory Gardens


While the boys were at war, Rosies at home were making airplanes, recycling pop cans, wearing shorter skirts and growing their own food in VICTORY GARDENS.

Initially, I did not think those two words: victory and garden, should be used in the same sentence. Anyone who wants to learn about being self sufficient from planting a garden, will learn some serious war strategies along with survival skills and if the weather is good, make a few meals with the produce grown with your bare hands from your garden. if it doesn't destroy your confidence first.


(Lone Stalk; the strongest of the 7, pulled ahead of the rest as the Indian Summer teased them into believing they'd grow to frutition.)

"Victory" used along side Garden during WWII was most likely to give the Rosie's an illussion of hope during a time when there was rashioned material to make a pretty dress.



My skeptic mind about Victory in a futile garden changed this morning when I saw a little boy kiss the cafeteria floor.

Partly my fault, I take the blame. I had created an atmosphere where the children did think they were in an ocean. This illussion was perpetuated by me having them pre-tend to be different fish after a game of Octopus. An effort to creat calm for the teachers turned out to be realistic. They went from Starfish



(Kathleen's bathroom. My mentors in gardening were Grenn and Kathleen.)

to rocks in the bottom of a fish tank in the Dentist's office, to one on the bottom of the ocean.

I told them to imagine what creatures were crawling on the bottom of the cold, dark ocean floor. Morphing back to humans they had to swim up for air, then face huge waves while trying to reach the shore.


(Grenn in his trunks before he was one serious, self sufficient individual.)

Swimming to the beach they would tell me what was on the bottom of the ocean floor. So when the boy kissed the floor, I thought maybe the whole lesson had backfired.

Padre will really squirm when I tell him this story later today. (He inspects plates before he eats off them, I can't wait!)

Like the victory garden, the game I played with the kids was beneficial. Both bolstered their imaginations, boosted immune systems through vigorous exercise and
made them really grateful to make it through with their lives intact. Grateful to be on "dry", free land.

When growing your "victory" garden, Soldier, try to remember that it isn't the one battle that really determines who wins the war.



I had to put this advice into practice, just yesterday, with my garden. Shaking the lawn mower bag over the tilled soil, I emptied shredded leaves from the yard.

About the millionth time I have wrestled the black Toro bag


(slave offspring learning on neighbor's easy mower- that's right, we start brainwashing them early here, too, Terrorists!!!!!)

from the Titanic mower this fall.

The forecast was for snow and I imagined if I got outside early, mowed the last of the leaves and then had the heavy snow fall on it, it would be tucked in for the winter, composting and softening up that soil. -Essentially taking out a whole country's worth of Al Qaida in one victorious gardening blow.

Instead, here in Idaho, the wind blew before it decided to snow.


(those stalks of corn holding out til the end!)

Which really blows because all of the leaves still clinging onto the tree branches like a tooth in a kid's mouth, now were on my perfect lawn. And the shredded ones that I'd poured onto the garden, raked evenly into the little ditches Padre made with his tiller are now somewhere on the other side of the world.

Hopefully Haiti. Compost would really help them.

With my brutal gardening training, I didn't let this get me down.



I got up real early today and raked the leaves on the lawn, stuffed them into a garbage bag as the sound of the dump truck moaned around the corner.

TAKE THAT TALIBAN!

After satisfying moments like that- Eye of the Tiger playing in the recesses of your mind- beating nature at its worst, confidence in your ability really grows.

I know that MY garden would make the darkest terrorist shiver in his/her shoes- in their suicide bomber apparrel. So I guess it is okay for them to have referred to gardens as Victory Gardens.

You don't want to mess with this!


(Enjoying one of the fruits of my labor. Lone Stalks cob.)

Laying the strongest stalk to rest. Which is what will happen if you mess with Victory Gardeners and who they support!



R.I.P

Stay tuned for more training ideas on how to help build self sufficiency in your self and your little corn cobs.

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