Someone To Feed Them

I saw this load of Missouri hay on its way somewhere to feed someone's creatures. That led me to thinking about just which someone fed everyone and every creature that arrived to see Baby Jesus. I'm pretty sure that someone was Mary, being the only woman in the barn. And I wonder how she did it. The wisemen from afar brought valuable gifts. But being kings, they most likely expected others would take on the honor of feeding them. Shepherds may have been hunters and foragers, but I don't think they scurried to pack a lunch in the limited amount of time borrowed from their flocks. And there's the visiting animals to consider. They needed hay and fresh water. Perhaps the innkeeper made out like a bandit and did everything, for everyone, for a tidy profit. But I like to think that somehow Mary handled it. She kept busy making rock soup for a crowd of strangers and forking hay for their livestock. In between, she held her baby tight. Having seen him honored by kings and adored by shepherds and angels both, she must have worried if somehow God made a mistake in picking an inexperienced teenager to be his mother. Then a new visitor would enter the stable, or a donkey would slurp the bottom of a water trough, and Mary would lay her sleeping Jesus in the manger, to go and do for others.

I See The Arch!

I have heard that the St. Louis Arch is the Gateway to the West. That might be true for those passing through town desperate to get to Colorado, California or perhaps even just to Kansas. But for my family, the Arch is our signal that we are almost home. Eight mind-numbing hours after leaving Chattanooga, TN, suddenly a scream splits the monotonous hum of tires hitting the highway--"I see the Arch!" It happens somewhere near the exit that marks the last Illinois McDonald's along I-64. The scream is invariably followed by at least one declaration from someone else that he or she saw the Arch first, but were too polite to say anything. Yea, right. Polite after a full day of riding together--not our family. Eventually, closer to the Mississippi River, the screams settle. On a lucky day, we cruise across the Poplar Street Bridge without a traffic snarl. We admire the magnificent Arch close-up and also the brick house that is Busch Stadium. Then, we zip pass the St. Louis Zoo, the Science Center and the Galleria. Quicker than it seems possible, we are home again--glad that our Arch is our welcome mat and not a marker to somewhere else.

Christmas Goodbye

My good and faithful blind dog Chuck died Christmas Day. He woke up hurting. I knew that his hurt, at 17, was final and it was mine to heal. First, we took a walk through the Tennesee snow. Chuck ate some snow, sniffed a few spots other dogs had marked and, for a moment, I thought it would be a good day. Then he quivered with a sudden bout of pain. And I knew again what my heart already knew--Chuck needed me to do for him. We wrapped Chuck in a quilt for his journey. I held him tight as we drove to the vet. There, in a tiny room, Chuck fell asleep, then slipped away with his head cradled in my hand, surrounded by Big Guy, Daisy and Birdie. We drove back to Grandma's house through softly falling snow. And I thought, now Chuck can finally see the snowflakes.

Four Wisemen And A Fifth

Loading the minivan and trekking to Grandma's for Christmas used to put me in shepherd mode. I would squeeze mystery packages into the back, herd Birdie and Daisy into their carseats and Big Guy would check the tire pressure one more time. Some years, the flock didn't even ask where we were going; they had no vote on our lunch stop and offered no helpful driving hints. Now we are four wisemen and a fifth. The fifth being the blind, gassy dog Chuck.Travel involves checking four calendars to be sure we are set to depart; the Christmas packages are much closer to gold than playdough; and there's near constant negotiating over air temperature, singing vs. sleeping and if one wiseman's foot is trespassing into another wiseman's territory. With four wisemen, "following yonder star" gets old, fast. Especially with the gas. While I suspect the only truly happy wiseman was the one on the lead camel, Chuck's silent but deadly approach affects each wiseman equally. We groan. We roll down the windows. Three out of four wisemen glare at the blissfully sleeping offender. When the air clears and the windows are rolled up, we wisely agree: Where our hearts are is where we'll find our Christmas, so yes, we'll endure just about anything to make our visit to Grandma. And next car trip, the dog rides on the roof.

Gonna Need The Stretch Pants

Big Guy learned an important lesson. Don't treat the family to Crown Candy Kitchen and expect them to be anything but worthless for the remainder of the day. While Birdie skipped out on this new family tradition, the rest of us scarfed BLTs and milkshakes. It's going to take at least 48 hours to bring our blood levels anywhere close to not dripping with oil. During that time, should we be attacked by a grizzly bear, we'll know we deserved it as our every pore exudes a bacon fragrance. Our adventure was totally worth it, although next time I may ask the waitress to hold the lettuce and tomato--and perhaps the bread, too. I'm forward-thinking to how I might be able to squeeze in a piece of Crown Candy chocolate. I'm also going to invest in some substantial "wouldn't be caught dead in" stretch pants. I'll save them just for my trips to Crown Candy Kitchen, and maybe the Donut Palace. In fact, I'll buy some extra pairs of pants to sell out of the trunk. Chances are, other clientele of these establishments will wish they'd thought harder about their wardrobe.

Bacon! Fa! La! La!

Tomorrow marks the start of a new Christmas tradition. As soon as Birdie finishes final exams, we will drive to Crown Candy Kitchen to order BLTs for lunch. We haven't done this before, but as the plan involves bacon, in our family that pretty much has all the earmarks of a Fa! La! La! tradition. Bacon rules in our home. On Saturday mornings, Big Guy--the chief lover of bacon--fries an entire pound of it in the cast iron skillet. About half a pound reaches the table, and Big Guy still wants his share of it. Bacon is the only food that could break the five-second rule. A theoretical half-slice of bacon could lay on the kitchen floor for a week. Big Guy would sandpaper off whatever debris might have collected, fry it, and probably not share. Big Guy really likes his bacon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when he departs for his heavenly future, his ashes will be rolled in bacon, deep fried and then spread over a field of lettuce, with tomato slices scattered. The only problem will be our daughters. I'm not sure they will allocate precious bacon to their dear dad's remains. Thankfully, that's a problem they--and Big Guy--have years to work out. I really like chocolate. So, tomorrow, after the rest of the family passes out from too many BLTs, I will search out some sort of chocolate. And eventually, when I go to my "great reward" I'm thinking about some sort of ash-laiden chocolate dip...or, no wait, I really like Autumn's caramel apples. Should I pass at the right time of the year, that would be a trick or treat for someone. Fa! La! La!

This Day Will Come Again

Santa Dear

Dear Santa, 

Yes, my Christmas wish list is starting to fill out. Yes, I've been good enough to get everything on it. But, seriously, this letter isn't about me, it's about you. Why waste your time with the Barney crowd? Why ask naughty or nice? With preschoolers, you know the answer is both. And no matter how many times tykes promise to be good, within 48 hours they will revert to crayoning walls, biting the cat and peeing in carseats. All those gifts elves are assembling, while it keeps the pointy hat and shoe crowd employed, the Barney bunch wants cardboard boxes as forts, palaces and boats. That's the discouraging part. The good news: Teenagers need you, or at least their parents do. Ask teens the naughty or nice question. Immediately, they say nice. Then the fun starts. As the "sees you when you're sleeping, knows when you're awake" guy, you can nail them on TP'ing lawns, "reserving" really cute shirts on clearance by hiding them under store mattress displays, and leaving the car gas tank lower than empty. Those charming teens will stick to their nice stance, but longterm they may think harder before sneaking into "R" rated movies. Would you want Santa watching you watch the naughty screen? No, it won't keep them out of "R" movies, especially if they are 17, but it might make those movies less fun. But, back to you nailing them on naughty or nice. After the eye-rolling over whatever lecture you choose to give, teens will present their wish list. It's going to be long, expensive and require batteries, chargers, gasoline and hair straightening gizmos elves have never seen. But you can handle it. I heard you have A Team elves, while Keebler got the B Team. Or maybe that's Outsourced. I'm rambling. But think about it. Do right by the teens and grateful parents will gladly fill your stocking, sneak Jack Daniels into your Christmas Eve egg nog and give you first dibs on the really big boxes.

Christmas Mall Howler

Snowy December Christmas shopping is not for the faint-hearted. Neither is it for three-year-olds, I think, especially after standing in the Sears store listening to one howl. Not one that belongs to me. Not one even within eyesight. Just one angry pint-sized human expressing herself from many aisles away. Hearing her, my first thought is that I need a nap. A child crying always triggers my nap response. But I shrug off my desire to hide among the neatly made bedding displays. Birdie is along and wouldn't tolerate me napping in stores. I hope Howler and her mom are heading home. In about 14 years, they will be back for a much better Christmas mall trip. They will shop from a coordinated list, find bargains and share a snack from the food court. They will laugh at each other and at the other shoppers--the really crazy ones. Then they'll make fun of ridiculous store displays and get distracted shopping for themselves. At the perfume counters, they will smell all the smells. They'll want a pretzel, or a mocha latte, or an ice cream cone, but then remember how their jeans fit--or don't fit--and settle for a free hot cider sample from their favorite store. Howler, and Howler's mom, will suddenly both realize their feet hurt, which signals time to go home and claim some me-time. If you're lucky, that's how Christmas mall trips always end, with me-time. Unless of course Howler is a boy. Then I don't know what happens in 14 years. But in about 25 years, I know what happens. Howler will once again be howling through the mall, but this time he'll be carrying packages for someone whose feet never seem to hurt.

Zuckerberg Tribute

Sorry Chilean miners. You had my vote for Time magazine's Person of the Year. I planned to celebrate by turning out the lights in the basement and taking a nap--the closest tribute I could come up with that vaguely compared to being stuck in a mine shaft. Unfortunately, you didn't win. Mark Zuckerberg did. So I dropped my plans for a convenient, cozy nap in favor of updating my Facebook profile to the newer, more friendly format. Quickly figured out the Zuckerberg-led machine isn't as fun-loving as I hoped. While Facebook let me list my birth year as 1908, it wouldn't permit me to list the Sienna minivan as my hometown. I don't claim a hometown, but it seems that people who do, usually end up moving somewhere more exciting--and I pretty much feel that way about the minivan. Also, Facebook wouldn't let me list my alternate languages--Momspeak, Toneofvoice and MenacingGlares. But despite those drawbacks, I completed my Zuckerberg tribute. Imagine if the Tattler of State Secrets had won Time magazine's honor. I would have felt compelled to tell some family secrets like where the teeth are buried, where the teeth are that aren't buried, what really happened to the frying pan full of shrimp and why one birthday cake sported a ditch filled with frosting.

Shoe Nation

I notice shoes. Not shoes on feet, but ones without feet. People can't hang on to their shoes. I found this shoe nestled in gravel at Creve Coeur Lake. If I were going to the lake, this isn't a shoe I'd wear, so maybe that's how it ended up forgotten. Usually, if I find a shoe near water, it's a broken flip-flop. Then of course, it's not really a shoe as much as it is litter. Other shoes that get lost frequently are baby shoes. That's because babies are sneaky. Give a tot a stroller ride, and while you think the little one is napping, she is actually wiggling her toes free. Yes, Birdie and Daisy, you could be the "she" I'm referring to. And I know why moms don't retrieve the lost baby shoe, they're tired...make that exhausted...and a day with just one lost shoe is still a pretty good one. Teenage boys seem to lose a lot of sneakers. Drive a street long enough and you'll find a huge, battered sneaker midroad. I like to think the squirrels use these boats for cover as they make their suicidal streaks across the street. Although, on second thought, I don't think even a squirrel's nose could tolerate a teen's sneaker. I've spotted a few nice men's dress shoes. I guess the owners settle for barefoot day at the office. The most intriguing shoes I've seen are the beaten up remnants left docked in the Arizona desert like mini-Mayflowers. Illegal immigrants pile their worn out shoes on top of faded clothing. They switch into new clothing and fresh shoes brought with them as they cross the border. They change their look, and their shoes, to blend into life as they hope to begin to know it. I wonder how their shoe stories turn out. Do they settle in to enjoy the luxury of losing sneakers, tossing flip flops and replacing baby shoes? Or, do they end up back where they started, saving up for another pair of shoes to make another break for the good life?

While Birdie Slept

Jewish Foods Week

In a brave and naive nod to Hanukkah, I proclaimed the last eight days or so to be "Jewish Foods Week." I envisioned tying on an apron and preparing lovely homecooked meals. I ended up blundering through a few recipes in the kitchen, grabbing things from the kosher aisle at the grocery store and shopping five different stores for He'Brew Beer. I fried latkes, cooked matzo ball soup and baked knishes. I bought pastries including cinnamon babkas, poppyseed hamantashen and freshly fried donuts. I wisely avoided the gefilte fish. I learned how to make a Menorah martini. And, I finally found the He'Brew beer. Tonight, we'll dine on brisket with beer or menorah martinis or both. Next week, maybe I'll eat the ears off the chocolate Easter bunny languishing in the freezer.

Love Is Blind, Deaf Too

Quite a few colleges boast of coed bathrooms in dormitories. While their students vote on sharing, it's still a stupid idea. Being around someone who farts and flosses at the same time, and finding it charming, used to be one test of true love. With everyone sharing space, how will anyone know which farter, toe-nail clipper or toothpaste spitter they are truly attracted to? I predict a lot of lust mistakes in the making. Colleges should figure out how to have separate bathrooms on the same dormitory floor for men and women. Knowing too much about what is done in the shower, at the sink, in the toilet  or at the urinal should be saved for marriage or at least for living together. Loose hair in the sink, empty toilet paper rolls and strange body noises are cute only to those who are in love. Love ya, Big Guy.

Cat Squabble

Fancy Less Trash

Fancy Free's birthday request to have friends and family pick up a bag of trash in her honor has given me more trouble than I thought. I'm all for my niece's really cool idea to spruce up Mother Earth, except I can't decide where I want to go to pick up my trash. While I know any bag of trash is one less bundle of cigarette butts, plastic bottles and food wrappers, I want my collection to be extra special. I don't want to pick up street trash. Do-gooders already claim a lot of streets through signage, although some streets seem a lot cleaner than others. And a quick look at local parks reveals that they are in pretty good shape. Now I'm thinking about the creek that runs close to my house. It is invisible to most of the neighborhood, but I suspect the ducks, deer and raccoons consider the creek to be an eyesore of a watering hole. So, let me carve my resolve in stone, or at least into my blog. I will pick up creek trash, in the spring, when it is warm. I will re-introduce myself to the wildlife nosing through rubbish for their morning drink. I might even spring for an orange zippered jumpsuit so they will know I'm there to pick up after people. Fancy Free, your birthday present will be late, but it is definitely in the works.

Crazy Complete

Fifteen pounds of flour, four bottles of corn syrup and three boxes of margarine; three bags of brown sugar, nine pounds of powdered sugar and 24 powdered egg whites; cinnamon, nutmeg and cream of tartar; Skittles, candy corn, Twizzlers and M&Ms; gum drops, Smarties and caramels; Red Hots, Lifesavers, jelly beans and sprinkles; pretzel sticks, shredded cereal and peppermint candy; candy canes, ribbon, glue and a hammer; eight motivated teenagers, one enthusiastic dog, a scattering of cat hair, two Menorah martinis and one Big Guy. 

Fast Food Fast

Don't You Sass Me

Sass happens, especially with two young daughters in the house. Like good moms everywhere, I tried to solve the sassiness. I ignored it. Gently, I redirected it. I sent sassers to their rooms. I sent sassers to time-out chairs. And sassers skipped play dates. I even sassed back, and no, that wasn't helpful. None of my sass solutions satisfied until I discovered the piano. Commanding the sasser to "go practice piano" hit the spot. The sasser could not glare at me; neither could the sasser whine and play at the same time. And the sound of plunking keys meant no sneaking away. Eventually the sass settled. Now I'm stuck with daughters who play the piano. And they have their revenge, which I'm sure is sweet. They practice the same few notes over and over; then they practice some more. They say, it's to get it right. But I think it may be sass at its finest.

Randall

There are bigger worries than getting the perfect photo. But in my junior year at the University of Georgia, for one quarter, that's what I worried about most. As a perfectionist, I lived in misery trying to take decent black-and-white photos for my journalism class. I would shoot pictures, but not know if they turned out well until I printed them in the darkroom. And, there were no do-overs. My friend Randall saw me through my misery and listened to my whines. One night, I needed a photo of streetlights. Randall grabbed the camera, snapped a photo and told me to quit worrying. I felt better. Randall didn't take other photos for me. And I survived the class. I lost touch with Randall after college, only to find him again in his obituary. In December, 18 years ago, Randall died of AIDS. In college, I chose not to guess his secret. Thirty years ago, college wasn't such an enlightened and liberating place; and AIDS was a bad joke about Rock Hudson and some other movie star. Technology and thinking have progressed. I like cameras the way they are now--with instant notice of how photos turn out. AIDS is not an ignorant joke. And, I hope, good people like Randall no longer feel compelled to live secret lives with private worries. Randall was funny, hard-working, endlessly patient and really tall. He suffered through my worries, while I never knew about his. I don't think about Randall often. But each December, I wish my long-ago friend was still here.

Another Catsup Wednesday

It's Catsup Wednesday.
The fun donut shape Scotch tape dispenser: It talks directly to my brain, "You're a fool for buying me." I quickly lost the end of the tape inside the plastic donut. It is totally useless although perhaps slightly more tasty than a Twilight chocolate bar.
Thanksgiving: Candy Squared and Darling Gale got distracted by a Martha Stewart magazine on their way to encouraging Big Guy to dance with the turkey carcass. Chuck, the blind dog, settled for scarfing giblets. Don't know what's sadder--CS and DG ending the T-Day feast with Martha or Chuck not sharing the giblets with Daisy and Birdie.
Martha: Two thumbs up for her "holiday ascot." If Chuck could see himself, he'd know he is doggone handsome. Cracker, the yappy cat, caught his ascot in his teeth, rendering him speechless for a few moments. Maybe Martha deserves three thumbs up for that one.
Again Martha: If you're caught in the grocery checkout line, check out Martha's calendar near the front of the magazine. In the December issue, for the 26th, she lists: Kwanzaa begins, launder linens.  Earth to Martha, just doesn't sound right.
Black Friday: Didn't get my tobacco for the troops bought as Daisy and Birdie both nixed the notion. Now that they're back in school, I will make my purchases.
Gingerbread Village: Five houses down. About five to go.
Missing Keys: The chief of the Not-Me's found his keys right where he left them. 'Nuff said.
Turk Head: Really good elementary school projects live long lives; bad ones never die.
Mom: With her shoulder repaired, she went to Sis's house for Thanksgiving, and, by all reports, had a very good time. She should have come to my house. Candy Squared and Darling Gale would have shared the Martha mag; the giblets would have been in the gravy--for Daisy and Birdie to pick out and hide in napkins; and chances are, the swear-like-a-sailor Sweet Potato Pie would have earned a different name.
Write Fright, Revisited: Now that I've got writing firmly in fun mode, the family lives on hot dogs, in buns and in casseroles. And they love it, at least as much as endless turkey leftovers.