The Business of Lamb Chops

To celebrate Cybershopping Monday, I lent $25 to Casinaldo Torres Moron, a sheep farmer in Peru. He will use the money to improve the quality of feed, which will allow him to produce bigger sheep and sell them more quickly. With more money flowing in faster, hopefully, Moron will increase the size of his backyard flock, put more food on his family's table and repay my loan within a year. I did my little dabble in international banking through Kiva.org. Browsing the website was a bit of brain-power overload with so much to pick from. I could have started with a favorite country, or a gender-specifc request, or a specific type of project. In the end, I clicked on the last page of project requests and there I found Moron's sheep project. Instantly I knew it was the right one for me. I have a weakness for sheep. I spent my summer between high school and college living on my grandmother's farm. My grandfather had died and things were falling apart. My family, moving to the farm, put it back together. Sadly, we arrived too late to fix the small flock of sheep. A dog pack had repeatedly gotten loose in the flock and run the animals. Some died from fright. Others from injury. By the time the dogs were gone, only five sheep remained. The tiny rag-tag flock quickly learned to follow my voice around the yard. I felt like schoolyard Mary. They, no doubt, felt like they might be fed. For them, the terrible time of dog packs was over. And like a sign of faith in a better future, one summer day, a ewe gave birth. Little Jergens joined the flock. I left for college and my parents gave the flock to a neighbor. I like to think that Jergens went on to live a pretty good life for a sheep--one filled with green pastures and protected from dogs. Though, eventually, I am sure he became lamb chops for someone--after all, he was livestock. With my business loan to Casinaldo Moron, I hope his sheep will eat a bit better on their way to being grilled into lamb chops. The Moron family and their sheep both deserve a good life. Check me out on Kiva at kiva.org/lender/florrie1756 That'll link you to any projects I fund, though right now, it's just one.

Gingerbread For A Village

Birdie asked me to bake gingerbread houses for her friends. I forgot Birdie has lots of friends. I'm baking House No. 3. By midweek, I hope to have a village ready to decorate. That's the problem with pretending to listen. Sometimes, I agree to things I have barely heard. Gingerbread houses are fine. I like Birdie's friends almost as much as I like Birdie, and that's quite a lot. I first made a gingerbread house when Birdie and Daisy were little ones. Each decorated half of a house, while eating as much candy as possible. They enjoyed decorating, they enjoyed the candy, but what they liked best happened in mid-January. We took the gingerbread house out to the backyard, placed it on the ground and the girls demolished it with hammers. The process lasted about five minutes, and we all felt very relaxed and satisfied with the results--candy and chunks of stale gingerbread flung everywhere. That's how our gingerbread house tradition began. Birdie has told me about this year's decorating party--it's Saturday. I feel certain she is planning the January demolition party. A lor of candy corn and peppermint will fly across the yard--lucky raccoons--and a bunch of teenage girls will suddenly feel more mellow-lucky parents.

Turk Head Meets Santa Claus

Turk Head

Underwear Location Clarification

Having read through yesterday's blog, I realize that at least one clarification is needed. For a variety of reasons, our Thanksgiving plans have changed. My family of four is not traveling to dine with the greater clan. Typically, we would be at my mom's house. Mom always pulls together a fantastic culinary feast. Mom never starts her meal planning with an edict to make sure the correct undergarments are worn. I, of course, am trying to avoid any possible disaster now that the stay-at-home meal is on me. Six of us will gather at the table--Big Guy, Daisy, Birdie, Big Guy's sis Candy Squared, our good friend Darling Gale, and myself, if I'm not overcome by the wine gravy fumes. Not being at Mom's house, I am google searching how to dislodge a turkey carcass. With the combined persuasive power of Candy Squared and Darling Gale, either Big Guy or Chuck the blind dog may end up dancing on the table with a tight-fitting turkey hat. I am bracing for a feast to remember, probably not one to repeat.

Wear What's Fit For The Occasion

Already the turkey wars have started. Someone in the family, I don't know which someone, got her feathers ruffled. And once one set of feathers is ruffled, everyone's feathers seem to follow. I hope the ruffling calms as this week's Thanksgiving hinges on getting along like pilgrims and Indians. Though I'm guessing the first Thanksgiving feast got a bit dicey. The pilgrims wore itchy, winter, woolen underwear. Hard to imagine sitting through a meal without scratching. While the Indians, perched on a rough hewn bench, picked up wicked splinters from not wearing enough underwear. And a celebratory feast certainly goes better with the right amount of underwear worn--undies not too tight, but sturdy enough not to pop from the expansion of the well-fed. Of course, no one in our family will show up near naked, although that must be what the pilgrims thought the Indians were doing. In fact, the pilgrims probably wasted a lot of time at the table trying not to stare. While the Indians had to sit on their hands to keep from pointing at those scratching, odd-duck foreigners--which led to more splinters for the Indians and additional worries among the pilgrims about where the Indian hands had been. Somehow, through it all, these two very different groups shared a meal, avoided feather-ruffling and walked away from the table as friends, at least for a while. I have high hopes that our Thursday feast will be equally successful. I'm telling everyone now: Wear underwear fit for the occasion.  That's my start to planning the perfect meal.

Look Deep Into My Eyes

Listening Ears

Mizzou shuts down for Thanksgiving Break and Daisy will be home tonight. We will have her for a fat week, long enough to transition her into helping with chores. I asked her to bring home some working-in-the-yard shoes. She said, "We'll see." Our plans may not be exactly on the same page. I asked Birdie to clean the once again to-be-shared bathroom before Daisy arrives. But Birdie is bleary-eyed from her midnight viewing of Harry Potter. A sparkling clean bathroom may not happen. Of course, Daisy might not notice or care. She, too, will be bleary-eyed as her entire dorm saw Harry Potter at 1 a.m. I am a bit nostalgic for those days of "listening ears." I'd tell the two tots to put on their "listening ears," and if I kept my request to less than 60 seconds and wrapped in the promise of a treat, about 75 percent of the time, they'd comply with whatever. Actually, the promise of treats still works fairly well. I will figure out some sort of reward. Daisy will find a pair of yard shoes that fits. Birdie will clean the bathroom. Big Guy will be happy. Or the worst will happen, we will disintegrate into a big fat time-out, reading books and napping. That sounds pretty good, too.

Martha, Let's Coordinate Calendars!

Today Martha Stewart is riding a horse. I know because Martha publishes her personal calendar in Martha Stewart Living. In Martha's world, November 18 is set aside for a horseback ride. That's quite a coincidence because I, also, have set aside the day for riding. I'm saddling my Toyota Sienna minivan and riding to the grocery store. We're out of bread and nearly out of milk. I feel certain Martha is heading out to complete chores, too. Even now, she probably has the dairy cow roped tight to squeeze a fresh gallon of milk. I don't know how she will do that from horseback, but with Martha, all is possible. Ditto for harvesting organically grown wheat to grind for bread. Even now, I hear her voice in my head, "No need to dismount. With proper technique and good form, an enjoyable ride can be combined with chores, leaving an abundance of time to prepare for dinner guests." Her calendar doesn't specify dinner guests, but being the matron of hospitable living, surely she and her small herd of dogs don't dine alone. Martha's dogs, by the way, are receiving new beds for Christmas in a festive shade of red that matches the holly leaf felt "ascots" tied around their necks. Fortunately, Martha provides the ascot how-to at www.marthastewart.com/ascot. I hope (or as Martha would say, aspire) to capitalize on her knowledge and whack out a sporty ascot for my dog Chuck. He might prefer a new bone to gnaw, but he'll suffer an ascot to emulate the Martha dogs. Martha already has her calendar published for December. On the 18th, she will work out and plan a birthday dinner for Kevin. If my invitation comes through, I'll adjust my plans to fit in the festivities. Those plans, tentatively, are to saddle up the minivan and get mik. My family always need milk.

Shopping for Smokes

Cigarettes and chewing tobacco are on my list to purchase on Black Friday. Along with a bunch of other stuff, these items will be shipped in care packages to our troops in Afghanistan. A military family in nearby O'Fallon, MO, has been shipping goodie boxes to troops for about four years. I visited their website, www.americanherocarepackages.com, and immediately felt that this effort is something I want to join. I like that their appeal includes tobacco products. It reminds me that wars are fought by real young men and women--a lot of whom smoke, drink beer and would love to be home driving too fast, staying out too late and not listening to mom. In a perfect world, we wouldn't have war. In a fantasy world, wars would be fought by frontlines and support teams filled with clean-cut, poster boy super heroes imprevious to bullets and IEDs. But that's not our world. If our battle-tested young, and the career soldiers who lead them, can take time for a smoke I provide, that's my little thank you. When they come back and have time to focus, I hope they'll quit the tobacco habit, as it's a nasty one. Long term, life without cigarettes lasts longer, much like life without war.

Cast Your Vote For Sunshine, Please

A sunshine-driven school is what students at Parkway North High School hope to end up with. They have applied to the Pepsi Refresh Challenge for a $250,000 grant to install solar panels at the high school and nurture their adoption at the district's other schools. Standing between the students and the cash are a bunch of other really great projects. Pepsi will fund the top two projects, based on which ones receive the most votes. Parkway North is currently in sixth place. You, me and everyone else has until the end of November to vote on which project we'd like to see funded. The good news is that we can vote every day, and we have three different ways to vote--on the Pepsi website, on facebook and by text-messaging. The voting details are listed below. They're boring and non-entertaining. But please, plow through them and consider supporting the students at Parkway North. It is not every day that students get so excited about something that sounds suspiciously close to science. And their enthusiasm is like sunshine on a rainy day.

All you need to do to vote for our $250,000.00 proposal in the Pepsi Refresh Project yourself is use any or all of the methods:

1.  Text 104078 to PEPSI (73774)   (no additional texting charges apply)
2.  VOTE using Facebook
           -Add the Pepsi Refresh Voting App
           -Go to RefreshEverything.com
           -At the bottom of the page click Sign In and select "Login with Facebook"
           -Find Install Solar Panels in Parkway School District and click VOTE
3.  Create a Pepsi username and VOTE
           -Go to RefreshEverything.com
           -Find Install Solar Panels in Parkway School District and click VOTE
           -You'll be directed to Sign In
           -On the right side, enter your email and select "No, I'm new here!" to
             create your account

Aw Chucks! It's A Prize Give-Away!

In reading through Blogging for Dummies, I learned that my blog is a failure. According to the book, a successful blog is one that attracts comments from readers. It advised me to recuscitate my blog by offering a prize giveaway to readers who comment. Unfortunately, now that I've written about the loud cat Cracker, it's probably too late to offer him as a prize. So I'm offering Chuck, the blind dog. This Stray Rescue hairy, short, pig-shaped mutt joined our family more than six years ago as an "old dog." Now he is an "older dog." Chuck specializes in sleeping (and snoring) on the couch. When he is awake, he bumps into doors, chairs, the mailbox post, laundry piles, shoes, compost piles--basically anything in front of him. He has walked off porch steps and a boat dock, and, more than once, been lost in the backyard. But Chuck never complains. He also never gives up. A few years ago, Chuck scaled the dining room table and devoured 33 homemade chocolate chip cookies. And, yes, that many cookies at one time doesn't digest smoothly. Not that Chuck cared. The Wonder Dog has taken out more than his share of Halloween candy and McDonald's leftovers. In his favor, he is comfortable enough in his neutered manhood to wear a ladybug costume at Halloween and any other time he is stuffed into it. I anticipate a flood of comments from blog readers eager to win this one-of-a-kind prize giveaway. So comment early and often. Should you be the lucky winner, don't worry about Chuck's stomach rumblings. I expect his digestive issues to clear up in time to tackle some turkey, pie or whatever else is placed just barely within his reach.

Highway Underbelly

Trolls Among Us

We're more than a vampire neighborhood. We have a troll family living among us. Trolls make good neighbors once it's realized that trolls love what is theirs--especially their lawns. Our trolls keep their lawn insanely free of leaves. They rake a lot. They also use a leaf blower to blow the neighbor's stray leaves back across the invisible lawn divide. Some of their own leaves end up in the neighbor's yard, too. But that's ok, because the neighbor will ignore them. Eventually, the leaves will blow back into the troll's yard to be pummeled with the leaf blower once again. Leaf action is good for trolls because it gives them a break from thinking about children--other people's children--turning bicycles around in their driveway. I don't know if trolls worry about black tread marks, the potential for scraped knees or the vague possibility that stray kids on bikes will somehow move into their garage. Whatever the worry, kids don't use the troll driveway more than once. Trolls also chase after dog owners whose pets offend on their lawn. On that point, I'm firmly in the trolls' corner. On the other stuff, if I worried about all of that, my head would explode. That's one thing I don't have in my neighborhood, exploding troll heads. That would be quite a clean-up.

Click To Vietnam

Like a lot of American families, in the 1960s, the t.v. remote control was alive, well and sulky in our house. At 5 p.m., Dad walked in the door. Bro, Sis or I would pry ourselves off the sofa, walk to the t.v. and click the dial. Gone would be the Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy or whatever other comedy we'd been watching. In its place, Walter Conkrite and the Vietnam War. What made my family different from some others, was that when Dad walked in the door, he was wearing his crisply starched--though now wrinkled--kakhi Army officer's uniform. He watched the news and we knew we had to be quiet. Actually, usually we'd disappear. I saw the news as boring and repetitive with its endless scenes of soldiers in military gear and its talk of foreign places like Cambodia and Saigon. It took some growing up to realize Dad's friends, and soldiers he'd trained, were "over there." And, as he watched the war unfold on t.v., he could make some educated guesses about who might not be coming back. I don't know how often Mom and Dad talked in hushed tones, behind closed doors, about the wounded, the dead and the families broken forever. And I wonder how often those conversations were about friends. That sorrow, that worry was kept private. All I knew was that Dad didn't talk much some nights. Forty years later, changing the channel no longer requires sulky kids. War isn't seen on grainy film in black and white. But good soliders--men and women--still sit in front of t.v.s worried about friends who are "over there." Some nights, they probably don't talk much.

Missing Keys, Ask The Not-Mes

Not-Me phoned home from college to say she didn't have the second set of keys to the Chrysler. A different Not-Me phoned from high school to say she hadn't touched the keys. Not-Me No. 3 grumped that the keys had better show up. And the most level-headed Not-Me checked her purse to be sure the missing keys weren't there. Next up to ask is the Not-Me dog. Chances are, he didn't eat them. If he had, by now something key-shaped would have emerged from the other end. Ouch. Certainly, the missing keys will turn up. At this point, my guess is that whichever Not-Me finds the keys will quietly slip them onto the key hook. And I hope it happens soon. Otherwise, I'll have to inquisition the Not-Me cats about the keys. They, of course, are the kings of the Not-Mes. How else to explain the grass spit-ups in the hall and the rodent halves in the garage?  

The ACLU, Luzianne & Christmas

Every family has a crazy. We have Luzianne. A recent mass email from Luzianne asked that we jump onboard a scheme to flood the American Civil Liberties Union's New York office with Christmas cards. That way, the ACLU would know to keep its paws off Christmas and also waste its precious staff time opening cards in hopes that donations were hidden inside. My guess, souls like Luzianne are the fuel that keeps the ACLU going. Under the U.S. Constitution, individuals can pretty much say what they want as long as it's not yelling fire in a crowded place. So Luzianne and anyone else can send out bizarre emails plotting to clog up the inner workings of the ACLU. It's their right, although it seems a bit bitter to use Christmas cards that way. And that got me to thinking, assuming Jesus checked his email, what would Jesus do with Luzianne's request? Being a helpful guy, he would want to help. First, he would cruise to Wal-Mart to scan the greeting card section. Along the way, he might get distracted by leftover Halloween candy and slightly dinged Sarah Palin masks. But soon, Jesus would be back on track. He'd look at the 99-cent cards and the ones that play music. In the end, I think he would settle on a simple, moderately priced Christmas card and purchase two of them. Inside the one to be addressed to Luzianne, he'd write, "Thank you for caring, but chill. Christianity and Christmas have survived a long time, with and without holiday trees, presents and tacky lawn ornaments." On the one earmarked for the ACLU, Jesus would write, "Thank you for caring about those who are especially hard to love. It's hard, but your help makes my job easier."  My guess is that Jesus might even scrape up a few dollars to tuck inside a card. I just can't decide which one.

Cracker Time

Any time I ride nine hours in the minivan, I know I'm dumber at the end of the trip than when it began--which is why I don't expect much out of Cracker. As a kitten, he traveled from Chattanooga to St. Louis, 500 miles, wedged into the engine compartment of our Toyota Sienna. We knew he was there. Each time we heard his plaintive meow, we turned up the radio. In our defense, we tried very hard, for a solid hour, including some car dismantling, to get Cracker out of the engine before the trip started. We couldn't reach him, and neither was he interested in any sort of rescue. After much thought, we figured that at least in our car, the wild thing was perched where the moving parts of the engine weren't close. If he abandoned our car for another one, he might not be so lucky. And this wasn't his first engine ride, as he was orginally found in eastern Tennessee emerging from the engine of a car with Indiana tags. Fortunately, Cracker survived his rustic Sienna perch, while the rest of us enjoyed airconditioning. When the Sienna plus Cracker arrived at our house, he hopped down from the still-warm engine, lured with a slice of turkey, a tactic that hadn't worked in Tennessee. We snatched up the furball, tossed him in the house and he disappeared under the piano. Eventually, Cracker decided to join the family. Now all of Cracker's minivan rides are in the cat carrier and only as far as the vet. On those infrequent occasions, he complains loudly and I turn up the radio. As a cat, Cracker is more vocal than smart. And, he is not the prettiest thing. Maybe that's why his journey here had to be so hard, so unexpected and so much a slice of real life.

Morning Pearls

Lazy Kitty Fight

Wheel of Fortune

I time dinner to hit the table midway through Wheel of Fortune. I figure a few minutes of puzzling over letters might stave off Alzheimer's disease. And, it saves Birdie from the undivided attention of two parents wanting to know lots of details about her day. For Birdie and I, the absolute best part of Wheel of Fortune is watching Big Guy. He shouts at the t.v. like it's a live sporting event. Contestants that don't solve puzzles fast enough are only slightly less shamed on than those that know the answer, choose to spin again, and then land on bankrupt. The true sissies really catch Big Guy's ire. They are the ones who have no money banked, but solve the puzzle without even a single spin. "Weinies" would be his word for them. While Birdie and I don't comment so much on the players, we are invested in the game. The final 10-second puzzle tends to send the three of us into a shouting match. Each of us thinks we are the smartest one, even if someone else shouts the answer more loudly. I don't know what strangers would think of the commotion if they knocked at the door. Even saving our souls would have to wait until Vanna flips the last letter.

Where's Lassie?

Negative political campaigns work better with Republican voters. At least that's my theory. There is a reason why Democrats are called "bleeding heart liberals" while Republicans aren't. Robin and Roy both threw aside civility and good taste to point fingers at each other in their quest to become Missouri's newest U.S. Senator. Roy won, by a painfully wide margin. The margin would have been narrowed an itsy bitsy bit if Robin had earned my vote. Instead, my vote for her went to a Libertarian whose name I don't remember. I figured he didn't raise enough money to have slung much mud, making my vote a "thank you" for good manners. Avoiding the Robin and Roy spat gave me time to think about what new brand of political candidate might give Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzlies a run for the vote. My idea: The Lassie Mamas. Freshly brushed and always smiling, Lassie Mamas carefully discern between real danger and made up nonsense. Neither they, nor their offspring, ever appear in raunchy videos. Lassie mamas fight for the underdog, as well as imperiled kittens and bunny rabbits. They defend the homestead from wolves and grizzly bears. They herd sheep, and can herd Congress, in the right direction. Lassie Mamas don't expect special treatment and they make sure that everyone on the farm has the right to go to the vet. And if a Lassie Mama wants to be a boy, that's OK. And if a boy wants to be a Lassie Mama, that's fine too. Both can protect the farm. Lassie Mamas listen well and bark even better. They can bite but prefer to make their point in more civilized ways. Best of all, Lassie Mamas don't discriminate. They'll save whoever needs saving from the well--be it Timmy, Robin, Roy, Barack or Chief Mama Grizzly. For Lassie Mamas, doing what needs to be done is all in a day's work.

Turkey, Birdie's Way

The gods are shining on Birdie. While my last night's skype with Mom and Sis led to a general agreement to switch from the oven to the smoker for preparing the upcoming Thanksgiving turkey, we were undecided about what to do to please Birdie. Of the family members polled, Birdie was the most adamant about a traditional oven roasted turkey. To keep her happy, Mom volunteered to boil a couple of turkey legs. Sis snickered and suggested sticking a Cornish game hen in the oven and telling Birdie the turkey shrank. Obviously, they spiked their iced tea with something. And of course, neither of them was going to tell Birdie about the smoker decision. I was hoping Big Guy would do it. Then fate intervened. A text from Sis let me know that her Better Half volunteered to do the 4 a.m. heavy lifting required to get an oven-roasted turkey finished by 1 p.m. Oven-roasted is back on the menu. Birdie has other ideas about the Thanksgiving Feast: In-the-bird stuffing, out-of-the-bird stuffing, green beans, green bean casserole, potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, pumpkin pie, pecan pie... It is a list that she adds to regularly. And that's good. The more Birdie manages to get Thanksgiving done her way, the better I'll eat.

Trick or Treat Made Better

This Halloween, the kids in my St. Louis neighborhood lost out. In the God-Belt of eastern Tennessee, a lot of communities were stirred up over the issue of which night was correct for trick-or-treating... Saturday, the 30th, or Sunday, the 31st. Those pushing for Saturday trick-or-treating reasoned it would be irresponsible to trick-or-treat on Sunday and send grumpy, sugar-stuffed children to school on Monday--and, they noted, Sunday is for Church. Those favoring Sunday trick-or-treating, including me, simply pointed to the calendar--Sunday is the 31st and that is Halloween. So while this turmoil fueled the local Tennesee t.v. newscasts, on Saturday, I returned to St. Louis, where it seems everyone trick-or-treats on the 31st. Sanity restored, I thought, until I realized how much sharper the Tennessee children, and their parents, are. Kids who trick-or-treat on the 30th can scout out which houses hand out Reeses Cups, Snickers and other good stuff. Then on the 31st, it's possible to make a return trip. After all, no one is going to refuse candy to a bejewelled princess or wobegone ghost whose parents didn't know Halloween was moved up one day. Next year, Halloween--or at least the 31st--falls on a Monday. I predict those crafty Tennessee trick-or-treaters will figure out how to doorbell ring for candy at least three nights in advance. In my neighborhood, the children probably won't be any wiser. Unless, of course, they remember to skip my house completely. This year, I handed out the weird mixed bag candy. And when that ran out, I gave peppermints that never made it onto last Christmas's gingerbread house. Next Halloween, I plan to  hand out the candy canes.