A Cup of After-Christmas Tea, Anyone?

“There’s a bone-chilling dampness to the air this morning that makes me want to stay curled up in bed.  Not all my mornings are like that.  Sometimes I awaken wide-eyed at four a.m. and can’t drop back off to sleep; sometimes I  don’t get my leaden lids pried open until nine thirty, but still can’t seem to push myself into the day.

“And sometimes it takes me thirty minutes just to uncurl because the act of straightening out causes more discomfort than I care to face.  Or because I have no real reason for putting my feet on the floor. Since I gave up my driver’s license several years ago, there are fewer places to go and fewer people to see.  Longevity is a gift, but it also tends to rob us of loved ones and dear friends as the years go by.

“Once I get started, my days are both predictable and fluid.  I have a routine, but no schedule.  I may sit for an hour watching the morning news – wrapped in my robe, reading the paper, nursing a cup of instant coffee, and waiting for my achy joints to loosen up. Then perhaps a small bowl of cereal with a bit of fruit for breakfast, a cushion for the day’s first handful of pills to land on.

“I watched the squirrels cavorting outside my window this morning, the mild weather energizing them into mid-winter playfulness, but I dare not step foot out.  The doctors warn about taking a fall at my age (80-plus on my next birthday).  Perhaps once the springtime sun has had a chance to vanquish all those tricky hidden slippery patches I’ll feel confident enough to take a little walk like I used to.

“I look forward to the mail every day, even though 99 per cent of it is pleas for contributions from one group or another.  It’s a way to stay connected with the world out there, so I read every piece from top to bottom.  That fills up my morning until lunchtime, which is usually a can of soup or a peanut butter sandwich.  My appetite isn’t what it used to be.

“After lunch, I sometimes fall asleep in my chair.  It’s all those darned medications.  Sure wish we had known more about prevention when I was in my 30s; I might have been able to avoid some of the pill-taking and these side effects that knock me for a loop, yet never seem to ‘lessen over time’ like the drug brochures claim they will.

“I like to eat dinner early.  Maybe a selection from the Swanson kitchens, or one of Marie Calender’s specialty items.  Thank goodness for my microwave.  I just hope it holds up as long as I do.

“You know, it’s funny.  Not ‘funny hah-hah’ but ‘funny peculiar’:  When I was much younger there never seemed to be enough time in the day to fit in all that I wanted to do.  But now that I’ve outlived my spouse and my pets, it’s as if there’s not enough to do to fill the day.  My evenings tend to draw out, long and quiet.  Too quiet.

“November and December were such a nice change of pace.  There was Real Mail waiting for me in the box most days for a good month or so:  letters from friends near and far; group pictures of growing families – the next scene in their unfolding lives, something in-hand that I could compare with last year’s photo card.  I even had a phone call from an old school chum.  And Thanksgiving and Christmas brought friends and family together more than usual.  I had a chance to see my grandchildren and great grandchildren; to measure how they’d grown and hear about the twists and turns their lives are taking.   

“Sometimes I’m not sure what role I play at the annual gatherings, since I am no longer hosting Turkey Day or called upon to be the Official Carver of the Christmas ham.  And my hearing isn’t too reliable these days, so I don’t always feel like I’m part of the bantering.  But I truly enjoy having people around, in small enough conversational groups that I can reach their ears with a comment or catch what they are whispering into mine.

“These grey, snow-heavy clouds make for an ugly contrast to the jolly mood of the holidays, so January and February can seem pretty lackluster by comparison.  I sometimes escape into my daydreams, picturing what the hustle and bustle of everyone’s life must be like now that they are back to their usual routines.

“I have plenty of time for such excursions of imagination.  I’d love to hear it from them all first-hand a bit more often than I do, but I know how busy everyone is.  And they probably think my days are fuller than they are, that my universe is larger than it has gotten to be.  That I don’t feel as alone as I sometimes feel.

“In case you were wondering who I am, I’m your grandmother or your great aunt; your godfather or your favorite uncle; your next door neighbor or your former co-worker.  I won’t say any of this to you directly, because I’ve never been one to complain or to nag for attention.  But if you think of it, it would be really nice to see you again before the next holiday season rolls around.  With the stimulation of company, I promise I won’t nod off in my chair, and a rousing game of scrabble or cribbage would really brighten my week.

“That is, if you think of it.”

Doldrum-Defeating Strategies

I read recently that Hostess Brands, Inc. has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.  They had filed  in 2004 as well, reemerging in 2009, but then hobbled into this new year under a daunting debt of $994 million dollars owed to the Bakery and Confectionary Union Pension Fund.  

I struggle with mixed feelings about this announcement.  The mere thought of such nutritional atrocities as Ho Hos, Sno Balls, and Wonder Bread may throw the grown-up me into a figurative swoon of disgust, but air-puffed Twinkies and mass-produced twin-packs of crème-filled chocolate cupcakes also occupy a cherished segment of my memories of childhood.  The fact that my mother doled out these treats as if they required rationing coupons simply added to their mystique. 

I’ll admit it took many years and a lot of false starts before I finally weaned myself off my thusly acquired  sugar cravings via six-plus servings of fruit spaced throughout the day.  But now that I’m here, I refuse to waste calories on any processed treat – no matter how much nostalgia attaches to it.  Even homemade treats don’t hold the allure they once did, so those stacks of cookies and candy that rise ceiling-high on our sideboard throughout December usually make it safely to their intended recipients without being molested by moi. 

Do I suffer from the notorious Holiday Weight-Gain Syndrome?  Nah, not me.  I’m too busy making and packing up goodies to eat them.  My personal danger zone lies in the valley of the post-holiday slump I seem destined to slide into every January 2nd, practically like clockwork.  Suddenly I feel crumpled by tiredness.  I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning, I want to eat until I’m double-stuffed like an Oreo, and I start to feel trapped in my own living room.  Even with unusually mild winter weather ushering in this New Year, I feel vaguely derailed. 

And in a typical Minnesota gotcha’, our temperatures last week dropped from a sunny high of 55° on a Wednesday to a windchill of five two days later.  After years of dealing with such craziness, that’s not enough to produce Alice-like wonderment in me, but it is unnerving on a par with tuning in to Wheel of Fortune and seeing Vanna White wearing a pantsuit. 

And now today’s morning temp logs in at a minus-ten, with a ridiculous minus-30 as a “feels like” number.  Did I say trapped?  Cabin-bound?  Off-routine?  Unsettled and disoriented?  Cooped up in the house, I catch myself murmuring the phrase “my little tweetum pie-ums” to our snuggling chihuahua-papillon-mix pup Muñeca, until I am brought to my senses by a glimpse of JJ the cat, hovering in the corner trying to stick his paw down his throat. 

So, shake it off and look for some practical solutions, right?  “Warm up with a bowl of piping-hot, healthy soup…for a satisfying and slimming dinner,” suggests EatingWell.com.  “Our healthy soup recipes…all include chile. And studies show that capsaicin—a pungent compound in chiles—revs up the body’s metabolism and may boost fat burning,” they crow on.  Sounds like just what I need, but of course I’m compelled to come up with my own original formula for accomplishing those promised results. 

Inspired by a lovely soup cookbook I received as a Christmas gift and a quick skim-through of my computer recipe files, I come up with a Spicy Pinto Bean Soup that is guaranteed to clear your sinuses and get your motor purring.  While it simmers on the stove, I put together My Best Meatloaf Ever, and vow to never again eschew the simple pleasure of a humble, basic pan of this classic comfort food.  Staying on-theme,  I discover a recipe for Caramelized Pear Bread Pudding at the Eating Well web site, and modify it as you’ll find below, to make for a tummy-warming, spirit-lifting wrap-up to any midwinter soup supper.  I think I’m actually stoked enough to dig out the scarf and defy that dad-blasted thermometer.  But perhaps a second steaming bowl of capsaicin-charged bean soup first…

From Sunset Into Sunrise: Year’s End Thoughts About What Really Matters

We Minnesotans, like any other geographical segment, have our expectations.  One of the more generalizable of these is that, if we have to put up with over six months’ worth of winter, we can at least count on having a greeting card-worthy layer of snow blanketing the otherwise dead and dreary landscape by Christmas eve.  Not so this year.

We did see a smattering of tiny, hard crystals on two separate days leading up to the season’s climax, almost as if Nature were responding to our grumblings by tossing us a few crumbs – or flakes, as it were.  Just a teaser, it came nowhere close to covering the brown.  But in the end this minor letdown proved to be irrelevant.  As one friend wrote, “We had a wonderful Christmas at my oldest son’s house, opening presents, eating a dinner that I didn’t have to cook, and being adored by our grandchildren.  Can’t get much better than that!”  

In my own household, we started the day by joining our church family for a celebration of Christ’s humble entrance into the world, which set the tone for a relaxed approach to cooking Christmas dinner for the eight dear relatives who later gathered around our table to honor the classic tradition of a yuletide feast shared with loved ones.  We didn’t miss that silly white stuff at all, and everyone enjoyed a safer drive home that evening as a bonus. 

Such reminders to align things in proper perspective arise from time to time, whether the nudges consist of minor disappointments or major reprieves.  Case in point:  While toweling off after a shower on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I noticed a small, tender protrusion in an area that suggested I might be developing a hernia.  I was a bit surprised, but not too alarmed.  While I am leaner and fitter today than in years past, I thought, my father did develop a hernia at about my age; this might be part of his legacy to me.  

Like any self-respecting info addict, I hopped onto the internet for a quick search of reputable medical sites to confirm my self-diagnosis.  And like any self-respecting exercise addict, I made a mental note to substitute extra power-walks for Tae-Bo and weight-lifting until I determined what temporary limitations this condition might impose on me. 

So much for healing thyself.  A Monday visit to the Clinic yielded the disconcerting pronouncement that this was not a hernia, but a swollen lymph node; no less disturbing, blood tests revealed a white blood count of 2.8, when the normal range is 4.5-11.0.  The doctor ordered a follow-up CBC and differential for further analysis by a specialist. 

“So what,” I asked the cool, white-cloaked professional in front of me, “might be the possible implications of those numbers?”  He qualified his response with references to my tendency to register low white blood counts and the fact that I had no history of infections, but the terms that planted themselves in my consciousness were “pathologist” and “bone marrow involvement.” 

 

Remembering Andy Rooney and Favorite Autumn Dishes

It’s difficult, with the gift of glimmering fall days stretching well into November this year, to get seriously grumpy about all those things, large and small, that drive a person crazy if you let ‘em.  

Things like people being too lazy to push their shopping carts into the cart corral or drivers speeding across parking lots – diagonally while dialing their cell phones; like oblivious patrons using gross profanity in a jam-packed Taco Bell or screeching little girls who issue a piercing scream every twelve seconds during their entire recess period – God forbid they should ever be in actual distress and require assistance; like the business owner who can’t wait to star in his own television commercials, heedless of the wincing pain his amateur performance causes viewers.

Well; it’s not that difficult to get grumpy, I guess.  But then I have always identified in certain respects with the nation’s Curmudgeon Laureate, the late Andy Rooney, and his desire to comment on those elements of existence that drove him mad with frustration, or even those that simply rankled a bit.  I respected his admission of liberal bias and chuckled over some of his verbal dissections of life’s more trivial irritations. 

But I also worried about him.  In his eighties, Andy Rooney publicly expressed a bitterness about death that, although understandable in light of his professed atheism, was troubling in someone of his age.  I saw in him a man who clung to life on earth as one who is certain that letting loose his grasp on the rope will plunge him in dark nothingness, and it made me sad.  Remembering my own early decades of angry disdain for religion, I ached for him, helplessly.  One of the not-so-small frustrations. 

As Thanksgiving 2011 approaches, I have a stronger sense of purpose than I ever thought possible, and can name at least as many earthly delights as I can examples of the deplorable.  This sense of well-being and confidence is rooted in the firm and fertile ground of faith; I have the blessed reassurance that, if I got hit by a truck tomorrow, I would not have been cheated out of anything, but rather ushered into a glorious new realm of perfected existence – according to God’s timing, if not my own.  Such a simple concept:  ungraspable by ego-driven human logic, yet knowable by the moved heart and essential to one’s peace and the ability to cope with the bad stuff. 

Today, I can virtually hear the holiday season clambering up my front steps, and what a wealth of joy-inspiring opportunities it tows along behind it.  With special occasions opening the door for giving Special Thanks, socializing, and sharing good food and good cheer, I get more than a little bit excited over the chance to create memorable experiences for my guests and family, and to share the same with fellow foodies. 

I’ve been inspired most recently by the discovery of a wonderful recipe for Squash and Apple Casserole adapted from Amy Traverso’s The Apple Lover’s Cookbook; a general introduction to the spicy, Tex-Mex dish called Carne Guisada, constructed from several basic formulas found online; and a lovely idea incorporating two of my favorite flavors, regardless of the season, Pumpkin Gingerbread, from the award-winning recipe blog, simplyrecipes.com.

I’ve lightened and tweaked and added and subtracted to and from the above, but kudos  to the clever cooks who sparked my interest.  Now, I think I’ll immerse myself in cooking and baking, and let somebody else mutter and grouse about the many challenges to cheerfulness that lay in wait “out there.”  At least until I emerge, groundhog like, from my kitchen cave in January, ready to step back into Any Rooney’s shadow.

Three Cheers for the Irish Farmer

 A few weeks ago – eons, in the stream of consciousness that is pop culture – a previously unknown 61-year-old Irish farmer and father of four named Alan Graham made international headlines by requesting that the film crew to whom he had given permission to use his acreage take their little soft-porn production elsewhere. 

An internet search on the topic turns up lots of sensational claims:  “Topless Rihanna outrages Irish farmer,” according to omg.online.  “This story is hilarious,” to the YouTube contributor who posted about it.  “A Democratic Unionist Party councilor found his Christian values [insert smirk] challenged by the scantily-clad R&B singer who was shooting her new video on his property.” 

Reuters news service shouts, “Global pop star Rihanna was thrown out of a corn field by an angry farmer in Northern Ireland after he spotted her posing for cameras in a skimpy top,” and  Yahoo declares, “Northern Irish farmer boots scantily clad Rihanna off land.”

But stripping down to one’s bikini bottom goes beyond most definitions of “scantily clad,” and a People.com quote from the “angry farmer” sounds immanently reasonable to me:  “I have an ethos, and I felt that [Rihanna’s state of undress] was inappropriate.  I requested them to stop, and they did.  She was most gracious and we shook hands and we parted on good enough terms.”

As reported by the BBC, the landowner added, “I wish them no ill will.  Perhaps they could acquaint themselves with a greater God.”   Wow.  Principled and articulate.  No wonder there was a clash of understandings.   

On September 27, 2011, the day this story buzzed through the airwaves like a cartoon boll weevil mowing down a cotton plant, the BBC quoted a young local journalist as saying that the farmer’s actions had made her homeland “a laughing stock” in the eyes of the world.  Her inverted concept of shame is saddening.  But then, so are the related Facebook observations. 

“Heck,” chirps the junior high locker room crowd.  “Just sit back and enjoy the view.”  And the Neanderthal echo follows, “She can take off as many pieces of clothing as she likes on my land.”  But there is a thread of contrarian sentiment, as in, “Fair play, farmer.  Too many people are scared to speak up and say what they believe.”  I find myself surprised by social network comments in support of the fellow baring his scruples in response to Rihanna’s baring hers. 

I recently purchased a paperback entitled Female Chauvinist Pigs:  Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture, by Ariel Levy, which explores this general topic.  I’ll say up front that the book is not on my list of recommended reading, for a couple of reasons.  I only made it through the first 117 pages before deciding to just skim the last 100, but I could have used a Prozac and a hot, soapy shower after even that abbreviated tour of the sad universe of everyday smut the title characters inhabit. 

The Spring Break mentality evident on Girls Gone Wild videos, I learned, is only the tip of the iceberg for many of these females, some of whom who have grown up to the beat of indecent rap lyrics, paternity-testing as entertainment, and primetime airings of Victoria’s Secret models b-b-b-bouncing down the runway.  They know nothing other than the vulgar, bawdy culture into which they were born, so they have no societal standard of decency to compare it too – absent diligent parents and a close relationship with that greater God to whom Mr. Graham makes reference. 

And then there’s the fact that the author dives a bit too enthusiastically into the lewd and obscene language of her subject for my comfort.  Pass the Zest, please. 

But in wading through, a number of explanations for the dominant Facebook mind-set rise from the muck.  At the base of the New Amorality – which allows for Family Hour profanity, pole-dancing as a mainstream diversion, and pornography as an element of sex education – are some gritty misconceptions about the supposedly uncontainable urges thought to rule the males of our species. 

Fall Notes and Quotes

“Autumn is a season followed immediately by…looking forward to spring.”

Doug Larson 

That pretty much captures my beloved stepmother’s view of the season at hand, portent that it is of “winter, with its bitin’, whinin’ wind” (Roy Bean); “winter, when every mile is two” (George Herbert).  I’m  fascinated by how strongly – and diversely – we respond to the inevitable pressing on of days that delivers us from one quarterly astronomical period to the next. 

I have two cherished long-time friends, one who detests the cold and could never be lured away from her temperate Florida existence, and the other, who would dearly miss the distinct seasonal phases built into her northern Illinois locale.  I myself may rant a bit in the midst of a particularly frigid winter’s darkest, shortest day, but I am also flooded with inspiration at the sight of a bronze-leafed tree or the pristine glimmer of newly deposited snow.  

“Delicious autumn!  My very soul is wedded to it,

and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”

George Eliot a.k.a. Mary Ann Evans 

Thus far autumn’s eve is being ushered in by cold, damp winds and darkened skies – this, of course, following a 90 degree day succeeded closely by the first frost warning – but we still hope to be treated to a spell of classically mild, clear, sunny-crisp days in the weeks ahead.  As the local ducks rehearse formations for their mission of seeking eternal summer somewhere other than cruelly fickle Minnesota, neighborhood squirrels are aflutter with home-bound activity, as if to say, “You can’t fool me with this ‘Indian summer-not’ routine.”   

While I won’t go so far as the pseudonymous George Eliot, whose fervor over the movement of the sun across the celestial equator betrays her gender in a single phrase, I do find joy in the favorable jogging weather and the chameleon-like display as plain green leaves take on rich hues of goldenrod and fire-red, virtually over night.  But then a certain French philosopher says it better than I: 

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf’s a flower.”

Albert Camus 

A fleeting flower, to be sure, but glorious nonetheless – and valued all the more for its transience.  I, for one, can’t wait for the spectacle to begin. 

Throughout it all – suspense; anticipation; spine-tingling exhibitions of God’s incredible artistry; the challenge of bearing up under the harsher conditions to follow – we must, of course, keep up our strength.  As you may have noticed, the stoking of the human furnace is a mission this writer does not take lightly, warm weather or cold.  And since it’s been a while, I have a collection of enticing dishes to share with you, held together by no particular thematic thread, but poised to chase the chill from the most blustery autumn day. 

For that purpose, may I suggest Baked Chicken with Black Beans and Rice served with a simple tossed greens salad, Homemade Whole Wheat Flat Bread, and Ginger Snap Ice Cream Sandwiches or perhaps a menu of Crock Pot Pulled Beef with Dr. Pepper Barbecue Sauce served on toasted Homemade Ciabatta Buns, and along side Cole Slaw Lite, Oven Baked Sweet Potato Fries, a melon basket, and Brownie Hot Fudge Ice Cream Bombé.    

For the final note and the last quote, non-foodies may jump to the last two paragraphs.

The Day Jill Fell Down and Broke Her Crown: On the Best Laid Plans of Mowers and Munchers

At the risk of sounding like I’m channeling Rod Serling…Imagine, if you will, the following scenario:  A respectably fit “woman of a certain age” returns home from church on a beautiful Sunday morning in August.  She walks the dog, changes into work clothes, and heads outside to mow the lawn before lunch.  She makes a dozen passes over the rough back yard terrain, then stops to empty the clippings from the mower-mounted collection bag into a large, molded plastic yard waste container with its hinged lid already open to receive deposits. 

As she wheels the 90 gallon cart toward the gentle slope leading to the spot where the mower sits, something goes horribly, freakishly wrong.  Her hands resting on the hinged edge of the open bin, she nudges it forward.  Then, in a flash of lost control, the slant of the hill pulls everything off balance:  The bin is ripped out of her grasp as it falls flat on its back, splaying out the hinged lid and inserting it under her right, forward-marching foot, which pins the bin in place, bringing it to a sudden stop and hurtling her forward at whiplash speed.  Her head whacks with incredible force into the far rim of the open bin. 

The perfect storm of body weight, momentum, and gravity work together to impose lethal power on even that rounded plastic edge, as it peels a five inch swath of flesh away from the underlying skull. 

——-

So there I stood, or rather sprawled.  My reflexive instinct was to raise my hand to my head and measure the damage.  I wish I hadn’t.  To my inexperienced touch, the two ridges of flesh separated by my fall left a divot so deep that I was absolutely certain what I was feeling was a dent in the skull itself.  “Dear God, dear God, dear God,” I heard a voice ringing out from somewhere.  As it turns out, it was my own, but if ever I could aptly apply the overused expression “surreal” to personal experience, this would have been the moment.  Talk about spontaneous prayer. 

Crazy things flash though your head – no pun intended – when you are propelled by terror through the back door into your own kitchen, gushing the enormous amounts of blood that a scalp injury can produce.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I scolded myself aloud.  “Now I’ve done it,” I thought.  “A dent in my skull.  How are they gonna’ fix that?  And will I live to see them attempt the repair?”  Images of prominent people who’ve succumbed to head trauma whirled through my brain like a newsreel on hyper-speed as I simultaneously bemoaned having messed up the day’s itinerary:  tidy up the yard before toddling off to Taco Bell for our ritual summer-Sunday midday meal with my husband, whose name really is Jack, then run our weekly errands. 

I am not hysterical by nature.  This was probably as close to that state as I have ever been.  But I managed to stay collected enough to hold my hemorrhaging pate under cold running water from the kitchen tap, my poor husband not knowing whether to grab his car keys or the smelling salts.  His first sight of me had been as I stood in the middle of the tiled floor, Lady McBeth-like, my hands dripping with blood and screaming that I needed him, now.  By the time he got to my side, my heart was pounding so dramatically that I had trouble explaining what had happened.  Heck; it took me three opening paragraphs to try to put it into words here, twenty-four hours after-the-fact. 

And Jack Came Trodding Calmly After 

Once he has determined that this is not a pet-involved tragedy, level-headed spouse gathers cold wet compresses for the patient to press against the injury, and off we go in the little green Saturn, with its bad muffler announcing our urgency all the way to the emergency room entrance – a blessedly mere two-mile trip.  I have the shakes.  I look at my free hand and see no tremor, so the sensation must be entirely visceral.  “They’re going to have to shave my head,” I whine, finally convinced that I am not, in fact, going to die on the spot. 

Surely all this blood will get me to the front of the line, I tell myself as I trudge toward the swooshing automatic door, but the waiting room at Emergency is completely empty.  Aside from a testy Front Desk clerk who insists that my employed husband must actually be unemployed because, “That’s what the internet says,” everyone is wonderful.  The triage nurses are gentle, comforting, and calm.  They remove the two layers of blood-soaked washcloths and re-wrap my head with the high tech equivalent of vinegar and brown paper; reassure me that head-shaving will probably not occur, since often staples can be used to close the scalp; ask about prescription medications and if I am abused at home.  “Absolutely not,” I say; “Only by me,” I think. 

Ushered efficiently into an exam room, I haul my Jack in with me, and prepare for a lost afternoon.  After all, this is where the tedious wait usually begins in earnest.  But a nurse soon appears, asking, “How are you?”  “Dumb,” I respond.  She sweetly assures me that if anything could have been done to avoid the accident, I would have done it; that these things happen, and are not the fault of the victim.  I soak up her kind reassurance like the thirsty, quivering sponge I seem to be at the moment, but I question, in my heart, the veracity of her words.   “What if I had just…” 

On the Blessed Silence of Holding One’s Tongue

I come from a family of readers, talkers, and opinion-sharers – a heritage which goes back at least two generations on my father’s side alone.  Growing up in a household of verbally expressive types, it’s been a life-long struggle for me to learn when to keep my thoughts to myself.  There may be earlier examples, but I vividly recall the third grade trauma of being sent to the principal’s office for being the only one in a gaggle of eight-year-olds dumb enough to blurt out an explanation for how the stall door in the girl’s bathroom got pushed in the wrong direction, to the fatal detriment of its hinge mechanism.

Not favored with innate control over such outbursts of honesty, I rationalize that the incessant proffering of informed sentiments is somehow a more exotic species of rhetoric than garden-variety, cliché-ridden blusterings about “kids today” or the chronically sorry state of politics.  The truth is that being reared in the midst of lively conversationalists may train a person to be uncomfortable with interpersonal silences.  In my case, there was also the need to compete with a vociferous older brother who made himself the center of everyone’s amused attentions with outrageous practical jokes and designed-for-shock-effect proclamations.

Whatever, I somehow ended up being That Person – the pedestrian who calls out a warning to speeders racing madly through residential areas; the viewer who scolds television “reporters” spewing out views instead of news; the disagreeable sort who argues out loud with every pharmaceutical commercial that suggests the answer to any ailment is to pop a pill, never mind the two-page list of dreadful side-effects; the pursed-lip priss, hissing and sputtering as the woman in front of me at Walgreens buys ice cream, potato chips, and energy drinks at inflated drugstore prices with her food stamp card so that she can free up her own cash to purchase multiple packs of cigarettes.

In short, the boor who simply must comment on every aspect of coarse society as it passes by, as in lamenting teenage Walmart shoppers who don’t have the sense not to wear profane tee-shirts at literal eye-level to the cart-sitting toddler they gave birth to at 15. (Wonder what that little one’s first words will be.)  It’s not as if enumerating media lies and social ills does anything in itself to resolve them, but when no one else is speaking up, my ego compels me to provide some kind of narrative.

There are advantages to being mouthy, of course, as when that trait combines with moral outrage to take on a customer service injustice like a dog tackles a chunk of rawhide.  I have a grateful niece who was pressured by a local fitness club rep to sign a contract she hadn’t the experience, at 18, to fully understand.  I took that fight, via telephone, all the way to a top executive in a plush New York office building.  She got her $388.00 back.

I also got my own $10,000.00 surgery covered by taking good notes, doing solid research, standing firm, and threatening to involve local government agencies when the insurer tried to shove me through the “preexisting conditions” loophole in my policy.

But hearing myself drone on day-to-day can be wearisome.  If it wears me out, what must its effect be on those around me?  I don’t want to become the tiresome great aunt whom everybody avoids at family gatherings, although that ship may have already left the harbor.

Like screaming “Idiot!” at every lame-brained driver one encounters, breaking the constant commenting habit remains a challenge, decades after a kindly principal lifted this tearful little blabbermouth onto her lap to sort out  the details of the Reverse-Swinging Stall Door Caper.

This brings me to a book which has sat in my collection for years – nurturing, osmosis-like, dreams of a writing career that got waylaid by eight-to-five job demands and family obligations.  What does Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande, possibly have to do with being a bit too talkative?  Let me explain; I’ll try to keep it brief.

Summer’s Picks and Pans

Welcome to another edition of The Curmudgeon’s Corner, as I furrow my brow in distasteful contemplation of yet another beloved American pastime.  Today I’m talkin’ Fourth of July pyrotechnics:  firecrackers; Roman candles; aerial repeaters; Catherine wheels; flying spinners; fountains; ground spinners; parachutes.  Large-scale or small, I just don’t get fireworks.  All that noise and expense, just for the opportunity to “ooh” and “ahh” over a handful of colorful sparks cascading across the sky, and then fading away into disappointing nothingness. 

Of course, huddling in a corner of the bedroom cradling my petrified pooch as she quakes and shivers through 90 minutes of taxpayer-sponsored pre-blast whines and climactic booms does nothing to help me warm to the notion of explosives as entertainment.  Even on an Independence Day hot enough for closed windows and cranked up air conditioning, my little Papillhuahua is one terrified Pupetta by the time the overhead threat subsides. 

And it has been hot here, at least by Midwest standards.  That wasn’t the case in late June of 2009, according to my journal entry from that date:  “Tuesday, extended-family dinner night on another cool, damp ‘summer’ evening.  A simmering pot of old-fashioned beef stew calls for some giant, hot-from-the-oven whole-wheat Parmesan basil biscuits, and the contrast of a cool, crisp bowl of homemade coleslaw on the side.  Egg custard with a dusting of nutmeg provides a creamy, comforting finish to this traditional fare, while it’s kept healthful by the use of reduced fat milk.  Mmmmm,” I wrote back then.  But with temperatures in the mid-90s, I have no plans to let anything bubble for long on my stove-top or to offer up anything “hot from the oven” this first week of July, 2011. 

On Sunday I decide I can put off mowing the lawn not one day longer, in spite of temps hovering just above 100.  I do pretty well with the heat, since I’m well acclimated by daily, year-round outdoor walks, but our challenging landscape produces consternation at every turn-around.  I huff and puff my way up  45° inclines; wrestle the stubborn, bulky Toro over fifty-year-old tree roots; get mired in huge dusty divots marking the sites of trees long since departed.  Then there are curved brick garden borders to navigate and overgrown pine tree branches to dodge, both tempering my patience for the test of maneuvering around several husband-designed aqueduct projects.  

Earlier this summer we made the responsible decision to save $80.00 a month by not employing our neighbor’s eldest son for this task.  It takes me at least an hour and a half to do awkwardly what he would accomplish in less than 60 minutes, and with apparent ease – and I don’t even mess around with trimming the edges.  By the time I reach the finish line, I’m ready to walk across the street and hand him a twenty anyway, in simple awed recognition of his superior abilities in the arena of lawn care. 

Fortunately, I had my reward waiting for me inside a modest little crock pot on the counter of my blessedly air-cooled kitchen.  Just web-search any list of ingredients along with the word “recipe,” I have found,  and you will invariably come up with the inspiration for turning whatever you happen to have in your freezer and vegetable drawer into a delightful, often novel repast.  I happened to have the makings for Slow Cooker Turkey Legs with Vegetables, and had exercised the uncharacteristic foresight to stash half a dozen White Cornmeal and Chopped Corn Muffins in the freezer.  To my further amazement, I also had on hand a box of Instant Brown Rice – perfect for a day when fifty-minute side dishes aren’t an appealing proposition, or even a practical possibility.  

Finish off the meal with a scoop of frozen vanilla yogurt topped with fresh blueberries and sliced peaches, and now I’m in the mood to go “Mmmmm” again. 

The Danger of Simple Advice in a Complex World

“You think too much,” a casual acquaintance once told me.  “You don’t think enough,” seethed the self-righteous voice inside my head, begging for a public airing.  How patronizing!  And what a cliché.  Don’t worry your pretty little head, he might as well have said, tossing out a chunk of banal dialogue cut from a bad Western. 

A lot of catch phrases floating around out there are cliché and trite, and when examined, not that helpful.  So here I go, thinking too much perhaps about a few seemingly benign snippets, like an 80′s phrase which I originally liked for its reassuring cheekiness.  It’s attributed to one Robert Eliot and falls under the heading Rules for Living Life:  “Rule number one is, don’t sweat the small stuff.  Rule number two is, it’s all small stuff.” 

The heck, you say.  In my experience, life is full of monumentally huge stuff, stuff that needs to be confronted with adult courage, not sloughed off with flippancy.  Friends battling cancer; children growing up in an amoral society; parents dealing with the challenges of advanced age.  These things can be faced with grace and confidence and faith, but they hardly constitute “small stuff.”  And they call for action, not disregard. 

Then there is the simple, upbeat adage falsely attributed to Irish lore, which admonishes us to “Live well, love much, laugh often.” While encouraging on the surface, as a directive it fits the topic at hand.  At its origin in the late 1800s, such a lilting sentiment may have salved weary spirits coping with unmanageable epidemics and iffy food supplies.  But stenciled onto contemporary T-shirts, and fully embraced as a philosophy of life by some of the more shallow among us, it seems a bit less innocuous.  

What does living well mean, anyway?  Seeking material comforts?  Wringing all the pleasure out of life that you can?  Grabbing for the gusto and avoiding gritty responsibilities?  After all, we are told daily that we are so worth every imaginable indulgence. 

“Life’s a banquet, Auntie Mame says in the Broadway play, “and most poor suckers are starving to death.”  Not in the society I see.  We are becoming a nation of complacent seekers of security and pleasure, willingly exploited by ambitious Big Brother politicos.  With one-sixth of the population on food stamps and 20 per cent of able males between the ages of 24 and 50 not getting up and going to work every day, the free-lunch feast is doomed to run out of provisions sooner rather than later.  These are problems not addressable with a bumper-sticker. 

What about loving much?  Does that imply a thoughtless heaving of oneself into fawning affection toward select others, or worse yet, allowing passion to supplant unselfish concern?  Spiritual love is what is required of us – and that’s not a Hollywood-style emotive reaction to attractive, sympathetic types, but a duty to open our hearts to the less-lovable, and treat them with respect and kindness.  No celebrity taping a public service announcement from the living room of their fully-staffed multimillion-dollar penthouse can undo the sleazy messages the entertainment industry beats into young skulls 24/7, but perhaps a counter-campaign in the form of a grass-roots uprising might. 

And for heaven’s sake, do laugh as often as you can, don’t get me wrong; it’s good for the body and the mind and the spirit.  Human and animal antics provide much fodder for gaiety, so that therapeutic outlet is at our fingertips daily; we can accept with gratitude every opportunity to boost our immune systems, release tension, increase blood flow, and share joy with others.  But let’s not ever forget the sober side of life that requires our ability to muster a substantial response when necessary.  

I worry about people who make a habit of looking the other way.  The guy who consistently faces daunting topics with a shrug and a chuckle, as if he were merely a member of the audience rather than an actor; the woman who is too busy dealing with daily demands to inform herself as a voter and chooses to follow her heart and her gut instead; or the person who can’t be part of a serious discussion, but is compelled always to distract with a joke.  When people turn away from heavy issues (think political corruption, spiritual hunger, and teenage pregnancy) because they can be distressing, we lose important brain power in the struggle to make things better.  An unexamined culture becomes a cesspool, as we can see and smell all around us.  Clean-up requires arduous effort – no droll matter, to be sure. 

I remember a poster I proudly displayed on my bedroom wall when I was smack dab in the middle of floundering through my early adult years.  It was a quote from the German philosopher, Goethe:  “As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live.”  I thought it was pure brilliance.  Of course I had no idea how to go about learning to trust myself, nor did Herr Goethe offer any clues to this mystery. 

Seems to me that a girl has to know herself first, and knowing ourselves, how can we ever place trust in the utterly fallible natures we have discovered within us?  What does it even mean to trust one’s self, when passing up a chocolate éclair is nearly impossible and the urge to pocket the extra twenty the cashier mistakenly counted out, tempting.  Rationalizing truly is a skill perfected by the homo sapien psyche.  

Today the quote strikes me more as pure bunk than pure brilliance.  Trust yourself?  How about, trust your Creator?  Humankind without the laws of God, inscribed on hearts and prescribed through Scripture, is enslaved to selfish impulses and moral confusion.  That’s why civilized societies impose a system of laws and punishments to deter bad behavior. 

I wonder if I thought taking in Goethe’s words every night before I fell asleep would somehow bring  direction and understanding, and point me aright.  In reality, that poster did more to make me stumble  than to plant my feet on the straight and narrow path.  Thanks a lot, Johann Wolfgang. 

Then there is good old Dr. Seuss.  Who knew what a radical he really was, as we read his delightfully quirky rhythmic stanzas to little ones over the years?  “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind,” the rhyme-master is quoted as saying.     

Oh, did I live by that one, decade after decade of giving vent to petty impulses of thought, word and deed.  But what if, at a given moment, “who we are” is not our best self, not the person God meant for us to be?  Or, what if “what we feel” is tainted by disturbing life experiences, the effects of which we need to cleanse ourselves of, not spew out onto innocent bystanders?  And most strikingly, how do we correct our own errors in thinking if anyone who counters us “doesn’t matter”?  Growing up, for many of us, means holding our tongues, not unleashing them. 

Lighten up, I can hear that short-term visitor to my past life saying.  I am still, after all these years, ultra inquisitive and questioning and analytical.  We balance each other out, I suppose, those of us who are too much bent in my direction and those who blithely skip through a privileged existence ignoring issues of substance (can you say, “Paris Hilton”), freeing themselves up to focus on the fluff – do these pink stilettos match my Gucci bag?  Maybe that makes we extremists tolerable to the masses who fall into the “happy medium” category. 

But I tell myself that continuing to process – and over-process – everything I see and hear is palliative to the occasional  mental constipation that comes with both aging and an over abundance of information input.  Would it have been easier to be blithe in a pre-media-blitz era, when news of every tragedy,  every travesty against humanity, didn’t reach our ears and eyes within minutes of its occurrence?  I suspect citizens of bygone days simply agonized over injustices closer to home. 

I also suspect that I’ll continue to over-think things and grind issues down to their pulp as long as my mind holds out, and as a result I may be less Susie Sunshine than Thelma Thunderstorm in some people’s eyes.  But if we leave the Big Stuff to someone else to resolve, you never know just who might end up doing our thinking for us.

I like William Henry Channing’s take on things, with its emphasis on the substantial over the trivial.  Maybe I should post this one on my bedroom wall: 

To live content with small means;
To seek elegance rather than luxury,
To be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich;
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly;
To listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with an open heart;
To bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never.
In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious,
grow up through the commonplace.
This to be my symphony