I grew up in a small town. When I was in college, I used to describe it as 699 people and 1 stoplight. It is a little larger than that now– population now around 1,100 with 3 stoplights–but it is definitely still a small town.
My hometown is a pretty special place, though.
The area has dozens of lakes. Seventy-five to be exact (in the county).
Because of all these lakes, the area is very popular with weekend visitors. Many people drive several hours just to spend a couple of days “at the lake.” We lovingly call these visitors “Lakers.” They arrive in droves on Memorial Day Weekend and are there all summer until Labor Day weekend, with more on the weekends. They rent cottages or stay in hotels; they float on pontoons, ski behind power boats and fish until their hearts are content.
The big summer event happens in June, though.
Every year since 1945 during the last full week of June, the Lions Club in my hometown has hosted a Mermaid Festival. There is a carnival, elephant ears, salt water taffy, caramel corn, a beauty pageant and a cutie contest, a talent contest, and two parades with floats and marching bands.
Mom and I were in the old Rinker’s store which is now a consignment antique mall looking at the antiques. Mom saw one of the old mermaid signs that used to hang on the downtown streetlight poles during the Mermaid Festival. The signs were painted by a local artist and some people thought they were a little too risqué.
Mom started talking about how much a local feisty elderly woman hated the mermaids and actually took a shot at one that someone put out by her house (as a joke).
The elderly woman got arrested and hauled into “the hoosegow.”(Mom’s word for jail.)
I said something like she shouldn’t have a gun if she thinks it is reasonable to go around shooting at mermaids.
A lady came around the corner and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I’m over here freaking out because I thought my whole life mermaids were NOT real.”
I chuckled and assured her that she was indeed correct in her assumption that mermaids were not real — and then went on to explain we were talking about mermaid SIGNS not actual mermaids. She looked relieved and we all had a good laugh.
Mermaid image by Chip and Andy via Flickr CC license
image by Chip and Andy via Flickr CC commons license
Yesterday I drove to Chicago and back to see a friend. I drove through the usual mess of road construction and major traffic snarls. The closer I got to the Loop, the more bogged down the traffic got. As I sat (at a standstill) I glanced at the cement median. Along several cracks in the concrete, I noticed grass and wild flowers growing. Not just growing — thriving.
I considered taking a photo but I couldn’t reach my camera safely. (So I found some similar photos on Flickr. See gallery below.)
I thought about how sometimes we feel like those weeds and flowers. Hanging on by a few fragile roots, in the middle of a hot unforgiving place, with just a tiny fragment of space, little or no resources — but still finding a way to not only survive but to actually bloom.
That trite saying “bloom where you are planted” has truth. I’ve had to move more times than I have wanted. Each time, the process of leave-taking then starting over commences: the good-byes, the leave-taking, then being the outsider, mustering the bravada to carry on, and finally searching for the new “normal.”
I got my first teaching job in the summer of 1985. It was in a tiny town just east of Urbana, IL. The band room was surrounded by a tar and chip parking lot. As I prepared for the first marching band rehearsals, I was pleasantly surprised to see some lovely pink lilies pop up out of the tiny seam between the building and the pavement. My mom told me they were Resurrection Lilies. I later discovered other names for them: Magic Lilies, Surprise Lilies, Naked Ladies, lycorissquamigera, and Amaryllidaceae.
They pop up out of no where (or seem to), bloom and then whither away all in a week or so. Each year I taught there (four, to be exact), I looked forward to seeing those lilies.
Image via Flickr CC, by Shihmei Barger
Image via Flickr CC, by Shihmei Barger
Beauty finds a way. Life finds a way. Always.
Image via Flickr CC, by Mickey_Liaw
Image via Flickr CC, by A Syn.
Image via Flickr CC, by Nita Hart
Image via Flickr by Robert Nunnally, CC license
Image via Flickr CC, by Nancy Phillips
Then today, I saw this posted on a friend’s Facebook wall.
Once upon a time in a small town in Indiana, a young man named Cecil married a young woman named Violet on July 10, 1926. A little more than two years later, Violet died in the fall of 1928 of consumption (tuberculosis) at the age of 22. Her burial took place at Woodlawn Cemetery in Warren, Indiana. The grave is marked with a simple, small grey tombstone with black lettering.
On Christmas Day of 1930, Cecil married Edith. They were married for over 66 years. My mother is their first-born of four children.
I’m Cecil and Edith’s grandchild. I’ve been doing family history research for a little over a year now, though I’ve been interested in family stories and connections for much longer than that.
My mom refers to Memorial Day as Decoration Day. She isn’t alone in this tradition. My Dad’s relatives have a tradition of decorating family graves for Memorial Day. This usually happens on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend or a few days before that. Many relatives are buried in just a few cemeteries within a short driving distance. Sometimes there are several cars moving in a caravan from place to place; sometimes there are just one or two cars. Each family grave stone is cleaned. Weeds are pulled. Live flowers are planted or planters hung from hooks. Silk flowers are stuck into the ground. Photos are taken. We often end up at a local restaurant for a fun family lunch afterward.
We missed the decorating day this year, but my mom and I made the trip to Woodlawn on Saturday anyway. We had arranged to meet a couple of cousins there.
Mom and I happened to park near Violet’s grave. She is buried next to Grandpa’s brother who died of influenza at the age of 17 just a few years before Violet’s death. We have many relatives buried in that area of the cemetery.
Our cousins arrived and we stood talking for several minutes. As we chatted, I noticed a man and a woman walking from a car parked some distance away. They seemed to be making their way directly toward Violet’s grave.
Sure enough, they stopped right in front of her grave marker.
I couldn’t resist asking if they were related to Violet.
The woman looked at me intently and said, “Why are you asking?”
I replied that my grandfather had been married to Violet when she died.
The woman was flabbergasted. Her father was Violet’s brother; Violet had been her first cousin.
I pointed to my mother and said, “Cecil’s daughter is right over there.”
Mom and our cousins came over and everyone got introduced to each other. The woman, Leilani, and Mom had quite a conversation, and shared several reminiscences. They talked about Naomi who was the sole surviving person from that earlier generation. I remembered some of Leilani’s Aunts and Uncles. We had often gone with them and with my Grandparents on fishing vacations at cottages in northern Michigan.
I asked if Leilani had a photo of Violet. She said no but she would love to have one. I told her I had one and would be very happy to send it to her. Mom asked Leilani if she had any photos of her parents that she could share in return. She readily agreed. We exchanged addresses and promised to send the promised items soon.
I didn’t hear about “Grandpa’s first wife” until about 20 years. Grandpa was in the hospital and I was visiting my Grandmother at her home. She casually mentioned her concern that Grandpa might want to be buried by his first wife instead of beside her. I was shocked and speechless for a few moments. I had no idea he had been married before! My Grandparents had been happily married since 1930 and no one had EVER mentioned a previous marriage or anyone named Violet.
I quietly asked her a few questions. They were young. She was pretty. Her name was Violet. She was a Yount. She died of consumption. They didn’t have any children. She and Grandpa met a few years later and the rest, as they say, is history.
I assured Grandma that I was sure he would want to be buried next to her, not Violet.
So that is why the Yount family has always been close to Mom’s family. I thought they were just friends. The reason was much deeper — they were related by a long ago marriage that ended tragically.
I can’t help thinking — If Violet hadn’t died, my mother would not have been born and by extension, neither would I.
88 years after her death, I’m thankful Violet is remembered and her memory is honored by her family. I’m thankful for the encounter we had in the cemetery near her grave, discovering relatives in common after so many years.
I wrote this about solo/ensemble festival in a long-ago blog post:
I can write this before Saturday because I already know what the day will be like. There will be herds of young people moving up and down the halls. Girls will be dressed in their uncomfortable finery — some sporting high heels that are clearly killing their feet. Boys may have ties or tennis shoes, and sometimes both! There will be smiles, laughter, tears and frustration. There will be donuts, hot dogs and probably BBQ sandwiches. Some will perform better than they ever have (or ever will again), and some will make huge mistakes. Some who deserve twos will get ones, and some who deserve ones will get twos. Families and friends hover, chatting quietly, and move from room to room. The tension and nerves of many performers is nearly tangible. Scraps of conversations can be overheard: “I got a one/two/one star!” “That judge is crazy/easy/hard/good/bad!” “The room is running way behind.” “Where is my accompanist/instrument/music/director/reed/room?”
Image by Larry Miller, Baylor Solo and Ensemble day. Via Flickr CC license.
Image by Kate B “The Monkey Cats” via Flickr CC license. Solo and Ensemble singers.
Flash back to this past weekend: I had a conversation about this topic with another Mom while we were waiting for scores to be posted on Saturday (which was our state solo/ensemble festival this year). I said there are always the same types of people every year; some things never change. There are girls in too-high heels or no shoes at all (one walked by as I said this!), girls in too-short skirts (we saw one on the way to our cars), and people in various costumes (medieval dress, sparkly show choir outfits, bow ties and suspenders, etc.)
Nerves can be covered by a veneer of confidence that is only a millimeter thick — or not covered at all. Red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes are easy to spot in nearly every hallway. After (and sometimes even before) a performance that may or may not have been an accurate showing of the musician’s ability that inner voice that says “You completely messed that up!” or “You’ve never made that mistake before — EVER — why now?” can drown out all other coherent thoughts.
Musicians are fragile yet incredibly strong at the same time. If you’ve never had to stand up in front of a group of peers, or strangers, or experts and sing, play or perform knowing you’ll be evaluated not only against yourself but against everyone else who will perform in that room that day you can’t imagine the amount of courage and fortitude that requires.
We want to be perfect and perfection is nearly impossible to obtain. (That doesn’t stop us from trying to attain it, though!)
I think that is why we sometimes play the “Diva.” We can easily hide behind the DIVA persona . “Who gives a damn what you think? I know I’m fabulous.” But all the while We still have nagging doubts: “I missed that G#!” “I can’t believe I mixed up the verses!”
The fear that we are not good enough is always there. (At least it is for me.)
It isn’t easy to let go of the ideal “perfect” performance goal. Striving for steady progress and for excellence while appreciating and enjoying the journey are much more achievable, healthier goals.
Easier said than done. But saying it is the first step toward doing it, right?
A friend posted this article on her Facebook wall soon after I wrote this blog post. It is ON POINT so here it is:
“Oh my god, no. What are you talking about? I was terrible,” Hayes said, challenging Christine’s version of events. “I missed so many notes, I can’t freaking believe it. I never mess up there.”
Several audience members besides Christine also failed to notice Hayes’ embarrassing mistake, leading them to falsely conclude that the recital was a success and the 22-year-old pianist should be proud of his tremendous accomplishment. Most attendees were seated at a considerable distance from the stage and had at best a partial view of Hayes’ hands, while several among them lacked the musical education necessary to have formed a credible judgement of his performance.
Their glowing accounts of Hayes’ recital were directly contradicted by Hayes himself, who was the key eyewitness to the memory slip in the Schumann. Not only did Hayes have a closeup, firsthand view of his own senior recital, he had also been studying his repertoire in depth for several months and had better knowledge of the correct notes than anyone else present in the auditorium.
(Read the complete article which was posted on SubMediant on May 2, 1016.)
As I drove to choir rehearsal on Tuesday evening, I witnessed a fairly large group of young people (high school to 20s) gearing up for a fight. They were on the sidewalk and spilling out onto the road. Guys were charging toward each other, and a couple of them were pulling off their shirts.
I couldn’t decide if I should slow down or speed up. I was going to drive by about when the groups would collide. Could I find my phone to call 911? What if someone has a gun and shoots it? I could get hit by a stray bullet…
Though I had my windows up and music playing, I could their angry voices. I kept a steady speed and drove by. I looked in my rear view mirror as several people (males and females) physically put themselves between those who were intent on fighting. I admired their bravery and said a prayer of thanks for their courage.
I got a little further away and slowed down as I tried (again) to decide if I should call 911 or not . If I called, what would I say? Nothing happened; it just appeared that something was on the verge of happening. But what if the peace makers didn’t succeed?
I didn’t call. I went to choir. I wonder what happened.
Red Beans and Rice.
One of my food-related “guilty pleasures” is to have Popeye’s shrimp or chicken with a side of their tasty red beans and rice. As I hurried from my morning of teaching to an afternoon gig to accompany a group of singers for an hour long program at a senior citizen lunch, I realized I only had about 30 minutest to eat. I decided to drive through Popeye’s. Well, at least in the Milwaukee area, you need to be prepared for at least a 10 to 15 minute drive through “experience” but I figured that would still give me 15 minutes to eat.
There was only one car ahead of me and they were sitting at the ordering speaker. I took the risk. I watched the car clock tick away the minutes. I considered going to another fast food place (there were several in the near vicinity). I decided to stay. I ordered. I waited. My food appeared many minutes later. I didn’t want to sit in the that parking lot to eat so I drove away looking for a little nicer place to park.
I stopped at a library branch. I felt a little guilty because of the large warning sign: “Parking for Library Patrons ONLY. Violators will be towed.” I reasoned with myself that I AM a library patron because I borrow ebooks all the time and my library card is in the Milwaukee County Federated Library System. All of this is secondary to my upcoming drama with the red beans and rice, though.
The shrimp was hot and spicy. It was delicious. The chicken was hot and crispy, too. I saved the red beans and rice for last. I opened the container. Yes! They gave me a spork this time! (I have eaten them using the lid as a “spoon” more than once).
I was trying to open the plastic covering the spork and somehow managed to spill nearly ALL the container of beans and rice on myself. I was stunned. What on earth could I do to clean this up well enough to perform on stage with only a few napkins and only a few minutes to spare? As Dr. Seuss so famously said, “This mess is so big and so deep and so tall, we can not clean it up! There is no way at all!”
I was wearing black pants and shirt with a long red knit jacket over. The jacket had a batik -ish pattern printed on it. It was made so the serged seams were showing on the outside as part of the design. The fact that the jacket is somewhat reversible becomes an important point.
I got out of the car. I brushed off as much as I could. Birds and squirrels were going to have a treat. I used the spork. I used the napkins. Most of it came off, but there were HUGE splotches in several places.
I wondered if I could wear the jacket inside out? The decorative seams would be on the inside and the stains would most likely not show through as much that way. I only needed to find a pair of scissors to cut out the tag. It could work!
Ultimately, I wore it right side out. I did find scissors. I did cut the tag out. I did try it wrong side out. In the end it seemed best to leave it “as is.” Most of the staining was on the left side, which as it turned out would be facing away from the audience.
Moral of the story: Open your spork BEFORE you open your beans and rice.
The biggest lingering problem? A very strong fragrance of Eau de red beans and rice.
I accompany two children’s choirs. At the second rehearsal this week, during our break one of the girls told us about a lockdown at her school. She said it happened right away in the morning. There were police cars in the cemetery across the road from her school. They huddled in their lockdown positions for a very long time. She asked if any of us had been in a lockdown before and nearly everyone raised their hands (including me). She said she felt scared and began to cry. Someone asked did you find out what happened? Yes. There was a man digging his own grave and he shot himself in the head. She said she didn’t know if he died or not.
I told her I always feel the need to apologize to my students after a lockdown drill. I’m so sorry they have to go through such a scary experience. Most of the lockdown time I spend wondering if it is real or not and what I would do if someone came in shooting. Is this the day the unimaginable happens?
The school day went on as usual for the girl and her schoolmates. So many aspects of her story leave me feeling extremely sad and somewhat hopeless.
*A quick online search did not yield any shooting or homicide in the MKE area this week that matched this girl’s story. I wonder if the explanation she heard came from a teacher or a student. Sounds like an elementary school rumor, but one can’t be sure. Often real life is stranger than fiction.
*You can read about my very first lockdown experience here.
Sometimes I feel like an evangelist. I feel excited about something I’ve discovered or I have some knowledge that seems relevant to share. Whatever the reason, I find myself telling people about things they might be interested in or that might be of help to them.
Here is my current list of “really great things”:
Hamilton. The Musical.Months ago, my daughter suggested I should listen to the soundtrack.
“I think you’d really like it, Mom.”
Yeah, hmmm. I wasn’t sure.
I knew it was a hot ticket on Broadway in NYC but I also knew it had a hip-hop and/or rap vibe.
Not really my wheel-house.But earlier this week I finally asked her to put it on a memory stick for me so I could put it on my iPod.
Yes, I’m a musician, professional pianist and music teacher — but I mostly listen to music in the car not at home.
I tend to get too caught up in listening that I end up getting nothing done.
Unless it is a special genre of what I call “house cleaning music” but that fills a special purpose.
Hamilton. The Musical.
Anyway, It took me a few trips around town to listen to the whole soundtrack, but even before I finished the whole thing I was already telling pretty much every I met that I LOVED it and that they should listen to it, too. Right away! I have listened to it numerous times now and I am still hearing new things in it.
I’m so excited about it that I’m going to organize a group to go see the show when it comes to Chicago this fall. I can’t wait!
Zenni Optical. Yes, you can order excellent quality inexpensive eyeglasses online. I got three pairs for about $30 including shipping. THREE pairs. I recently bought a pair of glasses at a local eyeglass store that cost nearly $400! I honestly can’t tell the difference between the expensive pairs and the very inexpensive pairs.
Zenni has a very good website. You need your prescription from your eye doctor (with the pupillary distance if possible, but that is not essential since the website tells you how to measure it yourself). You can upload a photo of your face so that you can try the frames on YOUR photo. I found that it takes about an hour to get the photo and prescription enetered, choose your glasses and fill out the order form.
I’m kind of embarrassed to say that I’ve ordered SEVEN pairs of glasses from Zenni (so far.) I stepped on one pair and one pair is AWOL, but they cost about as much as two grande mochas so I don’t feel horrible about it.
I LOVE the cool frames. I have a pair that green multicolor, bright blue plastic, a purple polka-dotted pair, blue wire half-rims, and a pair that look Mondrian-ish. The pair that looks like wood is the AWOL pair, but I have hope they will turn up.
Seriously. Wouldn’t a nice pair of trendy, colorful, hip eyeglasses perk up your day?
Penzeys Spices. I’ve used these spices for probably two decades or more. There IS a difference in quality over the grocery store brands. These are some of my essentials: Cinnamon (I have three different kinds), Chili Powder (two kinds), Peppercorns (Special India Extra Bold), Rogan Josh (curry blend), Sweet Curry, Northwest Seasoning, Double Strength Pure Vanilla Extract, Italian Seasoning, Cocoa (two kinds), nutmeg, Chicago Steak Seasoning.
Take Vitamin D. Most people don’t get enough of this vitamin, especially in the winter months and especially up North. I take 1000 IU a day. The RDA is lower than that, but the research I’ve read seems to suggest a higher amount than the RDA. Some recommend up to 2000 IU a day. The studies that most convinced me to take the extra Vitamin D were those identifying lower cancer risk and lower incidence of colds/flu with higher levels of Vitamin D. Check some Vitamin D facts here.
Thrift Books.I have to thank my niece and my sister for this tip. If you don’t want to pay full retail, you still enjoy reading “real” books, and you don’t mind if your books are “pre-owned” — this is the site for you! You can find all sorts of books and most are $3 or less. You can get free shipping with orders over $10. They have saved over 200 million of books from going into landfills! Good stuff.
Goodwill. Favorite things to find: jewelry (gemstones and glass beaded necklaces and earrings either to wear or tear apart to make new creations), cashmere sweaters, silk scarves, original art and photography, books (cookbooks, too), CDs, leather purses, picture frames and so many useful, beautiful items over the years.
There are many more but I won’t continue to go into so much detail. I’ll leave you with brief list of past evangelistic crusades I’ve been on: A&E Pride and Prejudice (Yes, all five hours of it). Humans of New York (Facebook page) Terry Pratchett (author, Discworld series) Shutterfly (make your own books) Colossal: website devoted to photography, design, animation, painting, installation art, architecture, drawing, and street art
I’m sure I’ll think of other items to add to this list as soon as I post it.
As I am winding up this blog post, I realized suddenly that I read an article recently about having a friend who was always making connections between people and always had a recommendation to give about almost everything. I can’t find the article and I can’t remember the term for the person who doled out the advice and links. (If anyone happens to have read it or finds something similar, please let me know!) There wasn’t a negative connotation; the point was that this person was a good type of friend to have. They know a lot of people, and they have a lot of knowledge about a wide range of topics/places/people/things/ideas/etc which they share freely and without any ulterior motive or need for approval/praise. I wonder if I’m this type of friend. I hope I’m not annoying! I do tend to share things I’m excited about, though —
What are some things, recommendations, or topics you tend to get evangelistic about?
I’ve known for many months that you were going to die. That doesn’t make the news that you are gone any easier to bear.
I’m thankful I had the chance to let you know how much you meant to me before you were gone.
I wish you had not had cancer. Knowing that you suffered and shriveled makes my heart ache.
Losing you leaves me as the sole caretaker of our shared memories. We both claimed the other as “brilliant” and as the best (teacher/student) we ever had.
We only had about 4 years that overlapped in time and geography, yet your influence and spirit are with me still (more than 40 years and counting).
You were effervescent, ebullient and jaunty. I can still hear your voice and your laugh; I still see your lively eyes and joyous smile.
I didn’t know until last night when I Googled you, that you had taught in Colombia, Nicaragua and Venezuela as well as at Indiana University. That our paths crossed and that I became your student leaves me humbly grateful.
You changed my life.
Without your talent and knowledge (and patience) I would not be a musician, a pianist, an accompanist, a music teacher, a choir director.
I would not be who I am.
There are not enough words to thank you, dear Susan. There are no words to convey the sorrow; but the joy and the music and the wonderful memories will endure.
Two poems that will always remind me of you:
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
Why does the wild cherry tree
on the Hudson
So the green
of the elm is greener than
when it stands alone,
are one of those
who make others
more what they
Of those who draw them to
the extreme verge,
that is what
“The Wild Cherry Tree” from “To Hold in My Hand,” published by Sheep Meadow Press, Riverdale, N.Y.
(Excerpts below are from a letter I sent many months ago…)
There are no words to thank you for teaching me. Your daughter tells me that you think of me as your best student in all the years you taught, and I thank you for that gift. You were the BEST teacher I ever had! I would not play the way I did and do without your guidance and knowledge.
I’m so thankful that we found each other. You changed the direction of my life, whether you know it or not. Before I had you for piano, I was planning to become a beautician. By my sophomore year in high school, I had begun to think of music as my career.
I’ll never forget how I felt playing that first wonderful Rachmaninoff piece. The power, the beauty, the drama — I fell in love with it and with the piano. Then learning Fantasy Impromptu the next year was a new and completely different journey. I remember spending several weeks just working on the fingering and timing of the first page or two. I fell in love with the beauty of the phrases, with the melodies, with the emotion of the music. I felt like a door had been opened into a wonderful world that I never knew existed. I can still play Fantasie Impromptu mostly from memory even after all these years. Since learning that piece, I’ve loved Chopin’s music. Many of my future teachers continued to let me study Chopin pieces because I was good at it — AND because of the technique and training I got with you.
I think those two gorgeous pieces (and so many others you taught me) gave me so much confidence, not only musically but also personally. I realized I could do something quite well that most people couldn’t do at all and better yet, that I LOVED doing it. I played solos at school and at various community performances, and I felt proud and appreciated. YOU did that for me. I would not have had those experiences or opportunities without your expertise.
I also love the other big pieces we learned together, especially Reflets dans l’eau and the Chopin Ballade (and others). Each piece became part of my heart and soul. I can’t imagine my life without this wonderful music and without you having been in it.
Because of your influence on my life, I in turn have influenced many other lives. Some of the high school students I taught tell me that I made a difference in THEIR lives and that I was their favorite teacher. Parents tell me that students I had when I was a long term sub (for various maternity leaves) still talk about some of the fun things we did in music class many years after I taught them. That is YOUR legacy, too.
I’m sorry I haven’t called, but I am not great at expressing my feelings — especially over the phone. I asked L if she would consider reading this to you so that you will know how much you mean to me. You, your knowledge, your teaching, your expertise — your love of life and your wonderful personality — thank you for sharing part of your life with me and for making me a better person.
My husband had gone grocery shopping that afternoon with a list I had made. Unfortunately, he forgot to buy the main ingredients for two items I had planned to have for dinner that evening.
Normally, grocery shopping is my domain. But I had done nearly ALL of the Christmas shopping and gift wrapping, so he had volunteered to do this errand today.
He had gone to two stores already to get various items. I didn’t want him to have to go out into the fray again, so I tried to figure out alternatives.
One item we could easily do without. I had wanted to make that yummy spinach dip with the water chestnuts and Knorr vegetable soup mix. Yes. Nosh and nibble. It is kind of impossible to make without the soup mix. The other thing was a deli roasted chicken that was going to go into a made-from-scratch chicken pot-pie. You can’t really make a pot-pie without a chicken.
I looked in my freezer. No chicken.
I decided to run to the nearest grocery store to get one.
I got a parking spot (which is surprising since the small lot is usually packed). I got to the door and a young woman stopped me saying, “I’m sorry we’re closed. I can’t let you go in.” I looked at her blankly.
“What time did you close?” I asked.
“5,” she answered.
I looked at my blank left wrist where I usually have a watch. I thought I had left home well before 5 (and we only live a few minutes from the store).
I looked back at her and calmly asked, “Well, what time is it now?”
She said, “I don’t know but it is after that.”
I said, “I really need a chicken. Don’t they have some left in there?” (looking past her longingly into the store…)
Again, “Sorry. I can’t let you in.” Then she added helpfully, “Maybe try Pick-and-Save? I’m sure they’ll still be open.”
I wasn’t trying to be uncooperative. I had my tastebuds set on delicious home-made chicken pot-pie. My daughter had volunteered to make it for our dinner and I was really looking forward to it! Sigh.
I got back in my car. The clock read 5:02 pm. I groaned inwardly. Really? They kept me from buying a chicken because of one lousy minute?
I sighed (again) and decided to drive the 10 minutes or so to the other store.
Driving. Traffic. Stoplights.
I got to the parking lot and drove slowly by the main doors. There was a cluster of people there. I had a sinking feeling that I knew why they were there. I rolled down my window.
As I slowly drove away I said out the window to no one in particular , “I really need a chicken!”
I tried to think of where I could get a chicken (cooked or raw). I thought of our favorite Greek place. Their baked/broiled Athenian chicken is delicious, juicy and always quick to pick up. Or even better, I could get Greek food for dinner and then my daughter could make the pot-pie for Christmas dinner or the next day.
More driving. More traffic. More stop lights.
Nope. The Greek place was closed. No chicken. No carry out food.
Hey — The Boston Market back there was still open. They have cooked chickens! I pulled in hopefully. Yes. They were indeed open. I walked to the door. YES. There was as short line. The person behind the counter said to everyone, “We are out of chicken and meatloaf. No more chicken or meatloaf.” Sigh.
I turned around and went back to my car.
Hungry. Tired of traffic. Feeling frazzled.
But I was determined not to get angry.
Hey. He DID buy the ham for tomorrow. We could cut it open and carve some slices off the bottom. I also had him get swiss cheese and buns so I could make those tasty hot ham sandwiches with some leftover ham. We could have those tonight! It is fast and we have all the ingredients. We had enough carrots and fruit to round things out for a meal.
I sent a quick text. “I’m coming home. No chicken, but I have a plan.”
Sometimes you just have to go home and eat a ham sandwich, even when you really want to have chicken pot-pie.
Now I realize this whole story is a 1st world problem. I’m thankful for a refrigerator full of food, for a fully equipped kitchen to cook food in, a home to eat it in, a car to drive to the grocery and a range of very luxurious grocery stores within short driving distance of our home. All these things are blessings and I’m truly grateful for all of them.
Sometimes we have to remember to be flexible in our expectations and desires. Let it go. Anger leads to the dark side. (Hah! Couldn’t resist the Star Wars reference!) Chicken or ham. It’s all good.
For the recipes mentioned in this post, please visit my food blog: The Tromp Queen COOKS! (I’ll post them in the next few days.)
I realize this post is probably too late to be of any real help with Christmas gift shopping for this year. But maybe others, like me, wait until the very last moment to get those last few (or many) items. These ideas are also excellent ideas for gift giving for any event all year long.
37 ideas from Huff post. The social enterprises listed give back either a portion of the revenues to a cause, donate an item for an item sold, or directly invest in people by creating meaningful job opportunities.
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
As I was cruising the internet for inspiration and resources, I found this gem. It is the format for a poem: The “I Am” poem, specifically.
I Am Poem (format)
I am (two special characteristics about your personality) I wonder (something you are actually curious about) I hear (a saying that someone might say to you that encourages/discourages) I am on a journey toward (a vision for your future/challenge in your present) I want (an actual desire that you hold for yourself) I am (the first line of the poem restated)
I pretend (something you actually pretend to do) I feel (a feeling about something imaginary that is holding you back) I touch (an imaginary touch) I worry (something that really bothers you) I cry (something that makes you very sad) I am (the first line of the poem repeated)
I understand (something you know is true about yourself/context) I say (something you believe in) I dream (something you dream about for your future) I try (something you really make an effort to do/understand) I hope (something you actually hope for yourself/context) I am (the first line of the poem repeated)
I am musical and creative. I wonder about a lot of things I hear keep putting one foot in front of the other. I am on a journey toward an unknown future. I want peace. I am musical and creative.
I pretend everything is okay. I feel like I’m underwater. I touch cold space. I worry about being shot. I cry for beauty. I am musical and creative.
I understand Love.
I say aspire to inspire. I dream in color. I try to improve. I hope I can sleep. I am musical and creative.
As a teacher, one of my fundamental desires is to “Aspire to Inspire” my students. I found this list of rules (with a great little backstory*) and am sharing it so that you might possibly find truth in it as I did.
RULE ONE: Find a place you trust, and then try trusting it for a while.
RULE TWO: General duties of a student: Pull everything out of your teacher; pull everything out of your fellow students.
RULE THREE: General duties of a teacher: Pull everything out of your students.
RULE FOUR: Consider everything an experiment.
RULE FIVE: Be self-disciplined: this means finding someone wise or smart and choosing to follow them. To be disciplined is to follow in a good way. To be self-disciplined is to follow in a better way.
RULE SIX: Nothing is a mistake. There’s no win and no fail, there’s only make.
RULE SEVEN: The only rule is work. If you work it will lead to something. It’s the people who do all of the work all of the time who eventually catch on to things.
RULE EIGHT: Don’t try to create and analyze at the same time. They’re different processes.
RULE NINE: Be happy whenever you can manage it. Enjoy yourself. It’s lighter than you think.
RULE TEN: We’re breaking all the rules. Even our own rules. And how do we do that? By leaving plenty of room for X quantities.
HINTS: Always be around. Come or go to everything. Always go to classes. Read anything you can get your hands on. Look at movies carefully, often. Save everything. It might come in handy later.
*John Cage (most famous for 4’33”) was a pupil of Arnold Schoenberg (created 12-tone technique for composing music). Cage, in turn, inspired a generation of composers and artists. One so inspired was a California nun, Sister Corita Kent, who created this list of Rules in 1968 for a class project. For more information read this Open Culture article.
From earth I flow, seaward I go,
Refreshing the world on my way.
My duty done, my guerdon* won,
I rise on celestial ray.
Drink, weary traveler, in the Land,
And on thy journey fare
‘Tis sent by God’s all giving hand.
And stored by human care.
*Guerdon is an archaic word meaning reward or recompense.
I enjoy looking through Flickr photos. I peruse the “Explore” recent photos category as often as I can clicking on all my favorites so I can look at them again in the future. Many of the images are sometimes ho-hum and very predictable, but I usually see something that inspires me greatly. Recently I found a whole series of images “em ha” uploaded as Public Domain items. I’m sharing my favorites here. The wildflower photos are mine, though. (TTQ)
Do you ever see something out of the corner of your eye and think — “Oh! That would make a great photo!”
This seems to happen to me frequently. But I hardly ever do anything about it, and I regret that.
Last spring, on my drive to school I spied three red tulips that were growing in a very obscure place beneath a tangle of on/off ramps. Each day as I drove the tight right-turn of the clover leaf going under a multi-lane Interstate highway and off ramp to emerge going in my chosen direction on the Interstate I just drove under, I would see the flash of red off to my left. Each day I thought, “Bloom where you are planted. It doesn’t get any clearer than that.”
How did tulips get planted in this desolate, neglected, non-landscaped area of highway underpass undergrowth? Did someone throw a few tulips out of their car window one day and they happened to land in a protected and fertile enough spot? I plant bulbs in my flower beds nearly every fall, and each fall, many of them are eaten by squirrels (or other varmints).
Red Tulips. Images by James Petts via Flickr CC.
Red tulips. Image by cranberries via Flickr CC.
Each day, I thought “I should stop to take a picture of those tulips before they stop blooming.” Each day I would tell myself I didn’t have time and that there was no safe place to pull over and stop. Needless to say, there is no photograph because I never stopped. But the image has stayed with me.
Another image that I regret not stopping to document happened last fall near my school. I was with my college-aged son in the car going shopping for school necessaries when we was on break. It must have been Thanksgiving weekend because what we saw were people putting a large inflatable Santa sleigh (complete with reindeer) on top of a ranch style house. The funny part was that there were two legs sticking out from under the sleigh part, toes down. It looked like Santa had accidentally landed on someone and squished them flat. Who knows what that person was doing on the roof while Santa was trying to land, but that is beside the point. We discussed stopping but didn’t.
I WISH I had taken a few seconds to stop and take a quick photo. My son and I both laughed at the sight of those legs; at first we thought the legs were not real but were an intentional part of the scenario they were erecting. As we drove away I had the chorus of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” running through my head.
Just this past week I was driving on a road that goes behind the garage area of a nearby car dealership. There are always a lot of cars parked along this not-very-busy-dead-end-road; some new cars for the dealer, some cars for their repair shop; and I presume some of the cars of the dealership employees. I noticed a long black sedan type of car. Sticking out of the closed trunk was one skeleton arm and hand. It was totally creepy looking (and fake, I might add!). Again, I considered stopping but didn’t have a camera with me (not even my phone camera). Consequently — no photo.
On a trip to Indiana driving at highway speed on US 30 between Valpo and Warsaw (which must be in contention for the US most boring highway) my eye caught a beautiful scene as it flashed by in an instant. There was an old red well-used barn, a field of sunflowers in full bloom, a blue sky with puffy white clouds and the whole thing was framed in green leafy trees. You guessed it: I didn’t stop.
Remember the NYC pizza rat? Well, I had a pizza squirrel one day in my backyard. The squirrel had pretty much a whole slice of pizza and somehow managed to carry it across our backyard, up a tree trunk and then hop to the top of the fence with it. The squirrel paused then looked at me with an accusatory glare as if to say, “This is MY pizza. Keep your hands OFF!” I wondered where he had found a whole slice of pizza and how he managed to carry it while running and climbing. I wondered if eating the pizza would make the squirrel sick. I wished I had my camera so I could catch a photo (or video!) of the pizza-toting squirrel. Alas, the only image I have of this scenario is in my mind.
Am I the only one who has these photographic regrets?
Does this happen to anyone else?