Poptropidox

(I believe this has been my longest lapse since starting Life in A-Town. I guess it’s the holiday preparations that have consumed my usual post time. I don’t feel I have anything significant to say today, either. But I’ll blog. And possibly bore.)

I mentioned last post that Pearl has recently become a die-hard fan of Backyardigans. Her obsession persists. While Ben enjoys a good episode of backyard fun (oh-so-ironic, since the kids are actually glued to their chairs staring at the boob tube), his real passion these days is for an online video game called Poptropica. He is intent—intent!—on winning more islands. I am not sure what this means, but it concerns me, his level of determination to spend as much “quality time” as possible with a character named “Big Nate.”

About 3 weeks ago, we deemed it necessary to limit the kids’ computer time to 45 minutes per day. This restriction pains Ben, truly. It’s almost alarming (bordering on amusing) to see him writhe in protest when his Poptropica time is up.

“OK, Ben, it’s been 45 minutes. Time to get off the computer and play something else.” (This after a 10-minute warning and a 5-minute warning.)

“It hasn’t been 45 minutes!” snarls normally mild-mannered Ben. “It’s only been, like, 45 seconds!”

An ugly altercation ensues, ending with the computer off, Ben sent to his room, and parents shaking their heads at their son’s turn of character. Is ours the only 5-year-old showing signs of early gaming addiction?

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One other noteworthy obsurdity before I go wrap some more gifts:

Will and I took a rare trip to the McDonald’s drive-thru the other day. We were coming home from Ben’s “Gingerbread Man” kindergarten play, so maybe we were feeling a bit nostalgic for the fries of our youth. We decided to stop for some fish sandwiches (because ordering fish seems semi-respectable, even if the Fillet-o-Fish is anything but).

We pulled up to the walkie-talkie thingy, prepared with our selections, when the pleasant young female voice said, “Hello and welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try a Big Mac Snack Wrap today?” I practically guffawed in her electronic ear. A Big Mac Snack Wrap? It’s the most oxymoronic notion I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Then again, so is ordering quasi-healthy fish sandwiches with eggnog milkshakes to wash them down. Which we did. It’s a world gone mad.

Some Slices of Life

Pearl has become a Backyardigans junkie. It’s animated operetta…kind of “High School Musical” for the preschool set. I love my daughter, but her taste in music is getting on my last nerve. Is this how parents of the ’90s felt about Barney? (“Barney is far worse,” says Will from the other room.)

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Speaking of Will, his grocery-buying habits continue to amaze me. This is a guy who, as I have blogged on one or two occasions, personally spikes our nation’s sugar stats by purchasing cereals such as Reese’s Puffs and Cap’n Crunch, also routinely grabbing super-sweet yogurt products (YoCrunch, YoSnack—Yo, High-Fructose Corn Syrup), and rarely coming home without a jumbo package of Strawberry Twizzlers. And yet two days ago I opened the refrigerator to find a package of organic alfalfa sprouts. I LOL’d!

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Vi performed in her school’s “Winter Holiday Concert” last night. She sang a solo with the chorus in a song called, “Christmas Through the Eyes of a Child.” She also played with the band as part of a 2-girl trombone section that really rocked the house, especially in the upbeat opener, “Jingles on the Housetop.”

The vocal solo, in particular, was the cause of much anxiety in the days leading up to the performance. Yesterday morning, careful coaxing was required to deliver my dear daughter to the Middle School for rehearsal. Then, further coaxing was required to prevent said daughter from vomiting in the nurse’s office and retreating to the safety of our Home-Sweet-Home. To see my poised girl standing at the microphone, 10 hours later, singing sweetly of the season in front of approximately 800 people, was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. It was, in a way, a Susan Boyle moment—a moment when she faced the dragon of doubt and vanquished its fire with the beauty of music.

Thanks to my Moms group, especially, for praying Vi through the day and through the concert. (As one who has actually puked before many-a-big moment, I don’t take anxiety lightly.) And thanks to the music teachers for giving kids—and parents—these kinds of opportunities. Aside from Vi’s solo song, of course, my favorite piece in the concert was “Beautiful December” by Amy F. Bernon (link leads to a grownup rendition, not the A-Town 5^th grade chorus). Enjoy!

A-Charmed Friend

I got to show my friend Holly around A-Town last night, and I think she was thoroughly charmed. We picked this night to get our families together because, it so happened, there was an A-Town Christmas Festival going on the same evening. We’d have our supper and then take the kids to see Santa, sing carols, make Christmas crafts, and so on. That was the plan. And it worked! (Don’t you love it when plans work?)

The John and Holly family arrived a little late because I had failed to emphasize how truly “forever” it takes to get here from either of the major metropolitan areas to our east or west (at least that’s what first-time visitors often tell us: “I felt like I was driving forever!”). But that was OK. Kids eat fast (if they eat at all), and the grownups had about a half-hour to chat over Gypsy Stew before we hustled up the block to witness the Christmas tree lighting and join in the caroling. We were in view of the Courthouse lawn when the lights went on. We weren’t there, but we didn’t completely miss it, either. Good enough. (And, as it turned out, the lights malfunctioned a couple times during the caroling, so we got to see the tree “re-lit”…and relit again.)

“Fa-la-la-la-la!” Holly and I were enthusiastic carolers. Where we were standing, we felt like the only ones singing. Undeterred, we joined our voices and crooned with gusto. Holly is a really good singer who can harmonize without any written music in front of her. I was impressed.

As a bonus, Santa Claus showed up on an A-Town Fire Department ATV right where we caroled. The kids were duly duped and dazzled, and they earnestly offered their requests to the man in red. When I told Holly that the jolly old guy was the M-A-Y-O-R, she Awww’d with appropriate small-town sentimentality. (I was later corrected by Will, who knows everything-about-everything about local politics. Santa was a Village Trustee who had recently served as the interim M-A-Y-O-R—details, details…still sweet.)

The bonus of Santa coming to us was that we could head straight back to the house. “Baby, it was cold outside.” We sent Vi and pal to the Fire Hall with the pack of merry-makers and returned to the Waters residence for cake, cookies and coffee. Then, after about 45 minutes had passed, Holly and I went to retrieve the girls, which allowed me to show my friend a bit more of A-Town, sans little ones. We strolled by our church, the local pizza place, the Fire Hall (where Vi and friend had waited the full 45 minutes in line for balloon weiner dogs), and ended up at the Main Street coffee shop, one of my favorite spots on the globe. Along the way, we discovered my dad out walking. He joined us on the trek to the coffee shop, where a community band was playing a concert of holiday tunes. Enchanting.

We listened for a bit, then made our way back home, by way of the downtown craft co-op/variety store, where Holly found an oh-so-charming picture frame she simply had to have. And even though the proffered discount of the day was 15 percent and not the 50 that Holly’s optimistic ears had heard, she purchased it anyhow, because it really was delightful.

Back at the homestead, Holly announced to John that they were moving to A-Town. I second that Christmas wish!

A doozy of a day, from serious to silly

I awoke shortly before 3:30 a.m. to sound of sirens outside. They were close. I got up to investigate. Will could not be stirred. (Which one of us is the journalist here, huh?) I donned my sneaks (as is my habit preceding adventures), shrugged on Will’s trench coat, and tiptoed outside. What a ruckus! So much for stealth. There were at least a half-dozen fire companies up the street, aiming their hoses at a house on the corner, billowing smoke so thick I had to raise Will’s coat collar to cover my mouth so I could breathe comfortably.

It was a sad scene, though not fraught with fatalities. The most recent occupants had moved out several months ago because the house was deemed unsafe by local authorities. I am sure neither the owners, nor the code enforcement officials, had any idea how unsafe (assuming the fire started spontaneously). I feel for those folks. Even though their house had “issues”—and, well, they themselves also seemed to have issues (but who of us doesn’t?)—it was their home, I know they were making efforts to move back in, and now they can’t. After 3-4 hours of steady dousing, the fire finally gave way, leaving a charred shell of their former dwelling place.

May God be with them, comfort them, and give them hope, especially as the season of “cheer” commences…..

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Amazingly, the kids slept through the commotion. They didn’t wake up until around 7:30, when they went about their routine preparations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened so nearby. They showered, they dressed, and they poured themselves bowls of General Mills cereal before plopping in front of the TV to watch PBS Kids. A Curious George promo aired, a rollicking “Fun, Fun, Fun” campy tune that left my young peanut gallery arguing between munches:

Vi, age 10: “Man, that was corny!”

Ben, age 5 ½: “No, it wasn’t—it was cheesy.”

Vi: “No, it was corny.”

Ben: “It was cheesy!”

Vi: “Ben, you don’t even know what cheesy means.”

Ben: “Yes, I do!”

Vi: “Believe me, there’s a difference between ‘corny’ and ‘cheesy.’ You’re just too young to understand.”

(‘Fun, fun, fun!’ My children can fight about anything.)

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In addition to the constant whir of firetrucks and other emergency vehicles managing the situation outside on our block, the day was punctuated by Buzz Lightyear laser blasts, emitting intermittently from the Patriotic Buzz (sporting a red-white-and-blue-striped space suit) recently rediscovered in the attic. Buzz, who currently occupies a spot on our dining room window seat, obviously needs new batteries, but I had a few other things going on, so I told him to “Buzz off.”

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Among the many demands of this Monday (my day off from work, although it’s debatable which place I feel more relaxed): Reading to Pearl, who has developed a voracious appetite for books. I am glad for this fact, except when she insists on instant reading sessions, regardless of my current activity. (I shall refrain from going into details, but there are just some times when I can’t conveniently drop everything and read Little Bear.) Today, however, I read several books to Pearl, including Little Bear, Amelia Bedelia, and Green Eggs and Ham. Tell me this: Have you ever noticed the furry antagonist’s “butt crack,” as plainly portrayed on page 17 of Dr. Seuss’ classic children’s tale? Pearl astutely observed it aloud to me.

“…something new every day.”

Evening Comeback

Tonight my sliver of A-Town could be called “Black Saturday.” The early darkness of late fall is seriously hampering my holiday spirits. In previous years, I can’t recall feeling quite so time-confused as I have lately. On at least half of the last dozen days, I have thought it must be close to 9 pm. Then, to my bewilderment, the clock reads 6:12. It’s not that I feel more physically fatigued than usual. It’s more psychological, like an internal timer that says, “Go to bed,” but then gets hoodwinked by reality. I posted my sentiments recently on Facebook:

Nov. 21, 5:00 pm: “I shall refrain from whining about the 5 o’clock darkness.”

Nov. 21, 7:04pm: “OK, not whining but 7 feels like 11. I’m just saying.”

To which my wise-acre brother-in-law replied: “Did you just move to the area?”

He’s right to tease me. I should be accustomed to the gloomy autumn eves by now, having lived in these parts nearly 35 years.

And as I wrote, the light broke through. A knock at the door. My dear dad, out for his second constitutional of the day. Out walking in weather—chilly, drizzly, did I mention dark?—which makes most folks recoil. Four weeks and four days after having his heart rewired. I’m gonna quit complaining now.

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“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”—2 Peter 2:9 (NIV)

Image: A walk in Sydney

Do you think I would lose FB friends if I posted this?

Grace battles gluttony year-round and therefore feels awkwardly ambivalent about Thanksgiving, a day focused on a feast…oh, and football. Grace also admits an aversion to American gridiron for a variety of reasons, namely the sexism, commercialism and violence embodied in the sport. True confessions.

Basement Utterances

I feel the inclination to blog but also a definite reticence to share what’s really going on in my life. It’s the reason I put off starting a blog in the first place. I knew these questions would plague me: How much should I divulge? What is safe to reveal? What is better left unsaid? It’s aggravating. In many ways I’d rather “let it all hang out” and “let the chips fall where they may.” But it’s not just self-protection that motivates me to withhold information and insights into my life. It’s my family, my employer, my colleagues, my friends and my fellow parishioners I’m also shielding from my boisterous tendencies. Caution is a virtue.

Having said all that, let me tell you something seriously personal: I talk to myself. Oh, we all do, all the time, I know. But I say things out loud, and I tend to get into patterns of issuing the same self-admonishments over periods of several weeks or months. (Amateur psychiatrists: Kindly refrain from diagnoses.) A few years ago, whenever I found myself alone with my thoughts (a scenario too typically reserved for the basement and the two piles of laundry in our household—the dirty pile and the clean pile), I found myself muttering the question, “Are you sure?”

Now, if self analysis is akin to dream interpretation, this was an easy one. I was in my 20s, a new mother, working full-time and going to grad school, frequently overwhelmed and generally underwhelmed with wisdom, knowledge and experience. I felt downright insecure, and my self-talk reflected that fact. At the height of my “Are you sure?” phase, I was also spiraling toward clinical depression. When a good friend prompted me to seek treatment (God bless her), my doubts about myself diminished. My confidence returned…at least to a reasonable level. I could function, and fairly well. Praise Be.

Lately—for maybe the past month—I’ve been saying “I’m sorry” to thin air. What does it mean? Have I sinned some terrible sin? I don’t think so. I mean, maybe. But nothing really jumps out at me. There are my usual Whack-a-Mole temptations of gluttony, laziness and pride. I try to avoid those jerks. I wrestle against the “powers and principalities.” God knows I want to land in the lot of the righteous. No, I think I’m saying “sorry,” not for anything I’ve done wrong but for everything I haven’t done right…or simply haven’t done. I’m expressing regret for my absolute inadequacy to be a superhuman being. There’s so much good I want to do in my little world—my family, my church, my town, my “sphere.” And I know that all of my efforts, while well-intended and multitudinous, are enormously insufficient. It’s never enough. I am not enough.

Before you go feeling sorry for me, or chastising me, or—worst—cajoling me, I think you should know that I think my “sorry” problem is OK. I believe in a God who is bigger than me and my problems, plus bigger everybody else and their problems. By “bigger,” I mean more powerful, more loving, more magnanimous, and more magnificent even than we can possibly imagine. The God of my salvation proffers hope, healing and miraculous provisions for this life and the next. I believe.

So this unnecessary apologizing is just another phase—something I need to work out of my spirit’s system, perhaps. Something that will lead me to realize, more profoundly and completely than ever before, how much I need the grace of the Lord in my life. Don’t we all?

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I don’t think you can ever be too detailed in your prayers, too specific, too minute…We are not dealing on the front line with grand general truths and cosmic metaphysics, but with daily bread and ingrown toenails and forgiving the rude behavior of an old friend.—Eugene Peterson, The Wisdom of Each Other

Image from www.educationforthesoul.com.

Tuesday Tidbits (Tues. seems to be my day for ‘tidbits’)

A Facebook status update I’m not brave enough to post: “Grace is blown away by how blatantly sweets bloat her belly!” I have not gained any weight in the past month of cookie consumption. However, I caught a glimpse of my profile at the gym yesterday and I swear I looked pregnant! I came home and investigated by exposing my mirror to my gut. It’s positively protruding in a way it wasn’t before this recent bout of baking, and I am absolutely not “in the family way.” Let this be a lesson to me (please, please, please).

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A few weeks ago I bought a new coffeemaker—a “spare”—from the bargain bin at Walmart. Enter Murphy’s Law: Our regular coffee pot shattered into smithereens about 3 days later. So it worked out. However, I noticed right away that the new machine made the coffee considerably hotter than the previous one. Now, I like my coffee hot—I’m not like Will, who typically waits ’til the coffee is lukewarm before consuming it. But this brew about torched my tonsils! Then I read, recently, that really hot drinks help kills germs that like to lurk in our oral cavities—you know, cold germs, flu germs, whatever might ail you in this germ factory called Planet Earth. So I’m drinking more coffee, and feeling quite justified.

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Ben’s new boots arrived yesterday, and they are fantastic! Everything we’d hoped and dreamed. Only bummer is: Ben has gym today and tomorrow, so he has to wear his sneaks. But Thursday, watch out! This kid’ll be stylin’.

Thai Yum!

A yummy new recipe from Wendy, an A-Town High classmate from the time before the Internet (good thing I hadn't hidden her or else I wouldn't have heard about this one).....

Slow-Cooker Thai Peanut Chicken

2 lbs chicken
¾ cup hot chunky-style salsa (I use mild and 1 cup)
¼ cup peanut butter (I do ½ cup)
2 Tbsp lime juice
1 Tbsp soy sauce
1 Tsp grated gingerroot (I use ¼ Tsp ground ginger if I don’t have fresh)
¼ cup chopped peanuts
2 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro (I omit if I don’t have it)

Place chicken in slow cooker. In a small bowl, combine all remaining ingredients except peanuts and cilantro; mix well. Pour over chicken.
Cover; cook on low setting for 8-9 hours or high 4-4 ½ hours.
Remove chicken and pull chicken. Put back in and stir in with sauce. Sprinkle with peanuts and cilantro. Serve over brown rice.

Photo from the University of Washington website

How FAT is too FAT? Every Facebooker’s Dilemma

I started to crack at around 700. I knew this day would come: The day I could no longer bear the virtual weight of keeping up with all the people I have come to know and “befriend” on the social networking site known as “Facebook.” Also sometimes called “Crackbook.” I used to think that nickname was an attempt to joke about how addictive the online community can be. But now I realize that “Crack” refers to the level at which a person can no longer manage her many contacts. I reached my saturation point sometime in the last month. I say “sometime,” because I’m not one of those FB participants who closely monitors her FAT (Friend Accumulation Tally). My husband is a numbers person. He knows his FAT, and he periodically informs me of mine—and not without a fair amount of teasing. He says things like, “Getting a little out of control, don’t ’cha think?” Pretty mean husband, right? But it’s true. Up until this week, my FAT had gotten away from me, and it was starting to affect my psyche. So I’m taking action and trimming down.

Now, one of my dilemmas about Facebook FAT is that I don’t want to offend anyone or burn any bridges to perfectly nice people with whom I don’t mind being associated, but whose day-to-day musings about life (which may or may not be interesting or funny or even true) I don’t really care to know. Some fellow Facebookers negate Friend-ships with zero qualms. If they couldn’t give two hoots about what Fred or Freda Q. is doing on a daily basis, they simply click “Remove from Friends.” Dilemma dissolved.

This week, I began opting for the Friendlier “process of elimination”: The Hide button. It’s not elimination, exactly—not entirely. It’s just elimination from constant line-of-sight. Kind of like de-cluttering at home. In the same spirit as putting infrequently used items on the highest shelves in the darkest cupboards. Yes, you can still access them when you want to, but you won’t want to more than once or twice a year.

It seems terrible to talk of people like this! It’s not that I don’t care about the people themselves, really! It’s just that I possess limited space in my psyche to track other people’s goings-on. And the crux of the Facebook FAT problem is: If I don’t Hide some people, I end up missing the stuff my “peeps” have to say. You know—my “peeps”: the people I’m closest to, emotionally and geographically. It’s a matter of mathematical probability. Of my 700+ FB Friends, I’d guess about one-third (233.3) post status updates at steady-but-unpredictable intervals throughout the day. Some post multiple times daily, some only once or twice a week. Say my 233.3 post-ers offer an average of 3 updates per week, totaling 700, which works out to 100 per day. How frequently would I have to check FB Status Updates in order to read all of them—or even a majority? All these numbers are making my head spin—and so do the number of updates!!!

You can see why I simply had to start Hiding some of them. So I have begun a new game: Hide or Keep? Close friends and family—obviously, Keep. People I see face-to-face on a weekly basis…or at least monthly: Keep. People I have not seen in 18 years or more, who I may not see ever again? Well, that depends. How often do they update, and what are their updates like? Dull, wordy, frequent? Hide. Witty, insightful, twice a week? Keep.

Lest I become too wordy myself, I will end with my best example of a “Keeper,” Andy M. Andy is an acquaintance from college, whom I have not seen in several years. I also knew his wife during college. I genuinely liked them both, but we were not close pals, nor have we stayed in touch, except through Facebook. Andy posts status updates 3-4 times a week. The truth is, I barely know the guy. But Andy keeps things interesting, and thus qualifies as a “Keeper.” I close this post with several recent examples, culminating with his Chai recipe, posted on Wednesday of this week.

Andy M. is grilling in the dark.

(posted on an unusually warm November day, after the time change—thus dark by dinnertime)

Andy M. just threw out a Windows 95 3.5' floppy boot disk.

(hahaha—I’m sure I still have ones even older than that in my attic—good for you, Andy)

Andy M. Good idea: peanut M&M's. Bad idea: brazil nut M&M's.

(hmmm…I’m not sure about this one, but it made me ponder the possibility—a brain teaser, if you will)

Andy M. just figured out why Jay Leno stands on that weird “10.”

(do tell, Andy, do tell)

Andy M. is backing away from the screen. The internet will still be here tomorrow...

(So, so true, and I need to follow suit—Andy M. is a keeper!)

Andy M.’s Chai

(with Andy M.’s attribution to a Julie P. I don’t know at all…or do I? 6 degrees, you know)

2 tea bags, 1 t. cinnamon, 1/2 t. ginger, 1/4 t. allspice: Place stuff in filter and brew with 1 c. water in coffeemaker.

Combine 1 c. milk, 2 T. packed brown sugar, 2 T. French vanilla (or other flavor) liquid coffee creamer and warm in saucepan over medium heat.

Remove from heat and add brewed Chai to saucepan. Serves 2.

Das Boots

Here we go again with the boots! In late August, I bought Ben a set of his fave footwear to start the school year, replacing the last ones that fell apart after about 5 months of near-constant wear. The new pair, sporting black faux leather with fancy stitching in the form of an eagle on the front of each, was snazzy, but chintzy. They looked very, very worn after only about a week. A mere 2 months later, these kicks are shot! We had to duct-tape them liberally so Ben wouldn’t be trip-or-treating over floppy-soled shoes in his Halloween cowboy get-up.

Now that life has somewhat settled down since Dad’s surgery, I went about the business of buying Ben his 5^th pair of preferred Western wear. Enter: eBay! Even though the last 2 pairs came from the online auction with less-than-long-lasting results, I felt savvier this time around. Genuine Leather Only. Preferably New. Reasonable Shipping. Those were my main criteria, which were met. I had to “hover” for a few days to find the right pair, in the right size, at the right price. But because I believed, I achieved!

Now comes the hard part: Waiting for the little buggers to march through the mail. Truly, it’s the little things.

Eureka!

Here's that photo I mentioned several weeks ago (or was it months? my sense of time is somewhat warped these days)--the one with my grandmother and her gray hair. It's not quite so silver as I recalled, though gray is definitely evident. My dad's siblings are decidedly recognizable, and (LOL) so is Dad's scowl--and who can blame him, having to wear that ridiculous white shorts-suit on a perfectly perfect, sunny summer's day?

Run, pray, bake, buy books—it’s how I cope. (Here—have a heart-healthy cookie.)

When crisis hits, how do you cope? During the past two weeks, I have discovered: Some people pop pills, some people sleep in...I bake, and I buy books. In the 10 days since my father’s unexpected heart surgery, I can’t seem to get enough of cookies and Amazon. Cookies for anybody who might need them (this should exclude me, but it doesn’t) and books for Dad. Memoirs, cookbooks, physiological textbooks—written words of various kinds that might help make sense of this mystery: How did my dad, Mr. Runner Man of A-Town for almost the past 3 decades, end up in this spot? Sitting in his mocha brown La-Z-Boy recliner, in his black-and-red checkered fleece robe, recovering from bypass surgery. It’s incredible.

The actual morning of Dad’s operation, I ran and I prayed. I wasn’t authorized to run. My $#@%! pelvis is still misaligned 8 ½ months after I slipped on the ice and wounded my stubborn psoas muscle. But I couldn’t help but run that day. In my family, running is a form of prayer, so I ran. And after I ran, I prayed some more. I climbed the sandstone steps on the side of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church and entered through the ornate door that an angel opens every morning at 6. I knelt, I cried, I implored and I waited—waited for that sense that the Spirit of God had heard me, was with me, was with my dad, and was “on the job.” Then I went home and waited some more. Around 11:15, I got the call: Dad was out, Dad was stable, Dad was gonna be OK.

But “gonna be OK” takes time, I’m realizing. I’m learning that recovery from heart surgery is as much about the head as the heart—if not moreso. And it’s not just the patient’s heart, but also the hearts of the people whose hearts beat with the patient’s, loving the patient, encouraging the patient, being patient with the patient…sometimes being patient for the patient.

Of the hundreds of races you’ve run, Dad, I am rooting for you in this one far more than ever. And I’m not alone. A crowd has gathered. This may be a marathon with hills, but you’re no fool. You’ve done your hill-work homework, and hill-work is speed-work in disguise. Speedy recovery…or however long it takes. You are indescribably worthwhile.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:1-3, NIV)

Writer's Block

Is my writing a form of self-indulgence, or is it my purpose in life—my so-called “calling”?

If it is my calling, is it something I supposed to focus on doing, to the exclusion of other things (if so, which things)? Or is it something I am supposed to cram in the nooks and crannies of my “regular” life?

If it is not my calling, why do I enjoy it so much? Yes, enjoy—therein, find joy?

If it is my calling, then how am I supposed to feed myself and my family while I pursue it? Or am I simply supposed to eat less?

And/Or Both?

http://www.calvin.edu/academic/engl/festival/

A Heart to Give

Since I introduced the concept of alternative holiday shopping in yesterday’s post, I am suggesting 3 more potential places to consider for giving gifts of goodness:

International Child Care Ministries is somewhat like Food for the Poor, but perhaps more personal, in that its primary mission is pairing sponsors with individual children in need. Our family has been sponsoring a boy in Burundi for several years. I know the director of this organization personally and can vouch for her Christ-like character and compassion.

Children of Zion Village in Namibia is a place of refuge, education and family for kids whose families have dissipated due to HIV and AIDS. My dear friend Jessica Breitenbach-Mubuyaeta left her life as a middle-class American and moved to COZV to care for these dear ones. As it turned out, she met her beloved while working alongside him at the orphanage. These newlyweds are among the most pure-hearted, real-deal purveyors of God’s grace in the world. If you’re looking for a way to spread more love this Christmas, sponsor them.

Care Net Center of Greater Orleans deals day-in and day-out with clients facing unplanned pregnancies, sexually transmitted infections, and other outcomes of intimacy outside the security and sanctity of monogamous marriage. I am very well acquainted with this agency and believe, most ardently, that the Spirit is present and active in this place. Such significant decisions and miraculous moments necessitate the support of people who love Life.

Yes, I am posting this a little after 8. I promise to postpone my “online on-time” to 8 a.m. tomorrow.

Lastly, my dad continues to recover from surgery. Dear A-Town readers who pray: Please keep it up!

Blah-Blah-Blog, Interrupted

I had started a new blog post Sunday evening but quit because of my new self-imposed computer curfew (more below). Then the phone rang, and both my computer curfew and my blogging urge blew away like crinkled leaves in an autumn gust. Dad was in the ER with shortness of breath and other signs of cardiac distress. My own heart lurched as I learned, 3 long hours later, that Dad needed bypass surgery. I took comfort in the fact that he was in stable condition, resting comfortably in a highly reputable hospital. Nevertheless, the past 3 days have felt more like 3 weeks as we have “watched and waited,” hoped and prayed, reminisced and worried that this precious person might leave us too soon. He hasn’t. He came through surgery like the strong, quarter-century-plus runner that he is. “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!” Speedy recovery, Dad- Dad- Daddy-o!

Back to my mundane blogging bits:

Computer Curfew (written before the crisis—hopefully the tranquility will resume this eve)

A few days ago, I started a new “program” (I know, I know—another one) in which I am restricting my computer hours to 7 a.m. – 7 p.m. This is something I have felt convicted to try in the past but haven’t done it because an array of excuses came to my aid. This time, I decided to go for it. In 3 days’ time, it has transformed the atmosphere of our evenings, especially. Without blogging and Facebook to distract me from the kids’ needs, I am reading to them more, getting them to bed earlier, and freed from the temptation to log on “just because.” That’s the beauty of boundaries, I think. They paralyze whatever amoebic habit threatens to take over one’s life. (Now if only I could stick to my “cookie curfew”… How does that go? “I think I can, I think I can…”—especially if I quit baking!)

Christmas Catalog Comparison (or maybe make that “No Comparison”)

Another part of my triune Pre-Advent Lent observance involves postponing my Christmas shopping until the week after Thanksgiving. I know this is some (or most?) people’s normal practice, but I prefer to shop ahead of Season. I have debated with myself, over the years, about whether early shopping costs more or less money, stress, etc. But I haven’t been able to stop myself. I just feel compelled to buy and wrap gifts—for all kinds of occasions, but especially for the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” However, the holidays will not be the ‘most wonderful time’ if we can’t pay our mortgage thereafter, and these days money is tighter than I ever remember. So this year I am giving myself the treasures of time and space to honestly assess our financial situation so that I can give—or not give—with integrity.

Having made this decision, I am almost immediately recycling the array of gift catalogs that began blowing (some barreling) into our mailbox along with autumn equinox. A few days ago, however, I was taken with one of them, Food for the Poor. The online version does not do justice to the print version of the catalog. The photographs and descriptions of needy people who can be helped with the price of a dozen dollars or more are compelling and convicting. I compared that catalog to another—one of my favorites, actually: Wireless, which features lots of fun, quirky stuff. But can we afford fun and quirky when kids are starving? This ridiculous “Hungry Alien Sculpture” struck me as exceedingly ironic. For $69.95, you can buy a zany metal figurine to collect dust in your kitchen, or, for about half that cost, you can feed a child for a full year. Hmmmmm….. I’m a patron of the arts, but not of mass-produced kitsch.

It’s almost 7, and my time is up…or maybe I should say my time is “un”—time to unplug, unwind and understand the blessing of another evening with Dad alive and well, and 3 of his grandkids nestled snug in their beds, with visions of fed children, content, in their heads.

Pre-Advent Lent starts tomorrow 10/21

I started a new blog tonight: http://palforpals.blogspot.com/. I'm good at starting things.

Babies and Beef Cubes

First, it was the “Autumn Dream Stew” (which, by the way, no A-Town reader identified as the namesake of my first French horn NYSSMA solo, practiced for 3 days and executed for a perfect score in 1985…I’m not bragging. That experience set me up for a regrettable pattern of procrastination, from which I am still recovering).

Next, there was the “Braised Cheddar Beef Cubes,” a recipe from my friend Holly’s blog. I tried it out for a church potluck a couple weeks ago. To be fair to my fellow parishioners, I posted a sign beside my food offering: “Braised Beef Concoction (in crockpot), served over pasta (in pot)—made by ‘Grace,’ who rarely cooks and who really doesn’t know what ‘braised’ means.” It was a huge hit! Consumed quickly, with several complaints from people who did NOT get to partake. I didn’t feel I could call the dish by its original name because I had only a small square of cheddar to shred over the finished product, plus I made a few other modifications.

That seems to be the key to keep me cooking: Modifications. Adaptations. Flexibility. Part of my problem with recipes, historically, was that I haven’t had all the requisite ingredients, nor the necessary time to shop for them, so I simply didn’t do it. But now I am discovering that if I make do with what I have on hand, I can come up with some passable meals that are healthier and more economical than past non-efforts (e.g., soup from a can, pre-prepared frozen foods, take-out meals, or bowls of cold cereal with milk).

I’m on a roll! I invited more friends over for dinner the other night and pulled out my copy of Lickety-Split Meals For Health-Conscious People on the Go! by Zonya Foco. This was a purchase I made 3 or 4 years ago, totally snagged by the promo on the back of the book: “Make Your Good Intentions Come True!” Well, it’s taken me awhile, but it’s happening. I made the “Gypsy Stew” and the “Broccoli Salad with Dried Cherries.” My most noteworthy modifications were substituting cherry-flavored cranberries for the cherries in the salad (cranberries were about half the price of cherries where I shopped); and I confess that I added a smidge extra cayenne pepper powder to the stew recipe. I was hoping to help my friend A., whose baby is due any day. Alas, the pepper failed to induce labor.

I thought the stew was delicious, my best effort in recent history. I will definitely make it again soon, but probably not for my next formal cooking opportunity: Making dinner for another family we know who just welcomed a baby girl yesterday. I know from experience that breast milk and spicy foods should not mix! Perhaps I should attempt my friend Leena’s old standby, “Cream of Mushroom Roast.” (Hey, Leena—you out there? Where can I find that recipe, huh? I promise NOT to take it on any buses, trains or double strollers!)

RPO: Really Powerful Opiate

They had me at “Hello.”

I had the happy circumstance of occupying my sister’s empty seat at the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra concert last Saturday. She and my brother-in-law are regular attendees, but for this particular program, my sister got to be on stage, performing with the Rochester Oratorio Society, along with our mom and dad and about 135 other singers.

It.Was.Glorious. I can’t recall the last time I heard a professional orchestra, live. (2002, maybe?) However long it had been, it had been too long. This happened to be the opening weekend of the recently renovated Eastman Theatre, now named Kodak Hall in homage to the company that forked over the $10 million to get the hall looking and sounding so heavenly. I’m no sophisticate. I can’t tell you whether it sounded more or less “blended” or “balanced,” “dark,” “bright,” “muddy” or “optimum.” People who hear and understand well enough to articulate such terms are beyond me, intellectually. It’s the same with connoisseurs of fine wine and high-quality coffee. I know if I like it; I know if I don’t. I think I have good taste, but don’t ask me to talk about it.

Was I impressed with the new Kodak Hall? Sure, yeah, I suppose so. But how about that orchestra?! You should have heard the magic they made!! Incredible!! I could barely believe my luck. I felt tempted to pinch myself several times throughout the concert, to ensure I hadn’t passed over into Glory. I was that good.

The first piece, Geo, composed by Douglas Lowry expressly for the occasion of the theatre’s re-opening, began with a French horn fanfare that stirred my muse from its 7-year slumber. “Hello!” I am a French horn player—not often anymore, but it’s my instrument. And hearing the horn in orchestral works is a little like flipping through a family album and pausing on particularly flattering photos of oneself. “Oh, look—there I am. I look good, don’t I? I have put on a few pounds since that picture was taken. Perhaps I should go for a jog today.” That’s how I feel when I hear the French horns. They are familiar and beloved, and I listen with a more critical yet eager ear than I possess for any other member of the group.

Geo’s five movements were as diverse and delightful as anything I’ve ever heard. It was haunting and humorous, quirky and lush. I loved it! In fact, Geo’s kaleidoscopic qualities reminded me of one of my 5 favorite possessions on God’s green earth, the crazy quilt my mother made around 1972. It hung in the extra-large doorway between the two living spaces in my childhood home. It served as a temporary wall during the Bible club classes my mother hosted at our house. I have such fond memories of the old ladies who came with their flannelgraph boards and their fascinating accounts of the Ancient of Days at work in ancient days. Like the crazy quilt, each segment of Geo could have made an attractive, serviceable “blanket” in its own right. But together, what a flavorful feast for the ears!

The second half of the program featured Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I knew this was a famous work, and I knew it would be a rare and important opportunity for me to be edified by it. I knew that the famous tune to “Ode to Joy” was part of the Ninth, but other than that, I couldn’t “name any tunes.” Furthermore, my unsophisticated self suspected I’d hear an entirely different opening line. I expected to hear: “Dum-Dum-Dum Duuuuummmmm, Dum-Dum-Dum Duuuuummmmm…” When the actual Ninth Symphony began and I barely recognized it, the realization popped over my head like an invisible cartoon conversation bubble: “Ohhhh, no, no, no—that’s Beethoven’s Fifth. (Whew—glad nobody else can see how simple I really am.)”

Having recently read Steve Lopez’s heart-rending story The Soloist, about Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, a Julliard-trained musician afflicted with schizophrenia, I thought of Mr. Ayers and his utter adoration of the composer whose miraculous music I was witnessing this night. I remembered how Mr. Ayers, a man whose illness had rendered him homeless, defensive and disorganized to the nth degree, sat with Mr. Lopez of the LA Times awaiting an LAPO concert and lamenting that “Serenade in D major, Op. 8, Piano Trio No. 3 in C minor, Op. I, No. 3, and String Quartet No. 5 in A major, Op. 18, No. 5, are not among Beethoven’s more celebrated works, nor will we see the entire orchestra in its full complement.” Mr. Ayers’ reflections rendered me more aware of the privilege I was experiencing.

By the second movement of the Ninth Symphony, I felt like I was visiting an old friend I simply hadn’t recognized at first. By the third movement, I felt that all was right with the world. By the end, I became a believer all over again.

I thought of Mr. Ayers in Disney Hall, experiencing freedom from his garbled wits for the few moments the music flooded his beautiful mind. I thought of how some people would rather be at Disney Land than anywhere else in the world. I thought of how gleeful and grateful I felt to be right there, right then, in that glorious realm of the RPO in Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre in Rochester, New York.

I left the concert in the same spirit poet Sonia Gernes describes her parents on the cusp of 50+ years of marriage: “…they strode from the church, believing in sunshine—the prairie ringing for them, the October trees all aflame with praise…” (“Golden,” from What You Hear in the Dark, University of Notre Dame Press, 2006)

With earnest appreciation for the Divine gift of classical music and the human beings who follow the high calling of embodying the beauty that is art—Amen.

Image from the Muppets’ “Ode To Joy,” available for your viewing and listening pleasure at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A.

Writing Pains, Back Porch Volunteers and Poor Persons' Pizza

“A room without books is like a body without a soul.”—Cicero

“A world without music is like a world without oxygen.”—Andre Tanneberger

“A week without blogging is, like, a week when I made serious progress on my other writing project!”—Grace Waters

Only so much creative energy to go around, you know? I’ve been concentrating on my other writing project, a book that may or may not ever be published but that keeps begging to be written. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m writing. As I wrote to my friend Leena on Facebook the other day: “The book-writing thing is totally: ‘How do you eat an elephant?’ ya know?” She replied: “One bite at a time. Sometimes you gotta choke it down. Other times I think, ‘I can’t do this. It’s too…big, maddening, frustrating, and for WHAT?!’ For the challenge of doing it and the joy of laying the words on the page. Even if it’s nothing more than that, there is value in the process.”

I’m trying to stay away from book-writing advice in general. I’m in “Just Do It” mode. But if I get stuck, I’ll explore the bounty of books about writing books. I have heard the average novel is 75,000 words long. Which means I’m about (oh, man—a math problem…where is Will when I need him?) 7 percent done! (Man, oh, man. I’m gonna need a BIG blogging break. Maybe I can rope Will into telling a few A-Town tales.) However, if I go by NaNoWriMo standards, it’s only 50,000 words, in which case my book is (darnit, where’d that computer calculator thingy go?) precisely 11 percent complete! Still not very far along, but I’ve got the rest of my life, right? (Or, if I NaNoWriMo, 53 days—better get typin’!)

In the meantime, a couple of A-Town tidbits:

Behold, Our Back Porch (above). It’s the plant we’ve all been watching these past few weeks. This is what I believe gardeners call a “volunteer”—something we didn’t intend to grow there that sprouted up on its own. I suspect it is a cucumber plant, but only because I thought I spied one in a neighbor’s yard that was actually bearing “fruit.” However, clearly what I really need on this scene is a volunteer to paint my porch!

Poor Man’s Pizza (or perhaps more appropriately: Poor Persons’ Pizza, since there are several of us and we are not all adult males). We recently discovered the benefits of ordering bread sticks with cheese from Uncle S’s Pizzeria in A-Town. For about half the price of a regular “pie,” you can get, essentially, the same ingredients, packaged better for little people (smaller portions and less sauce = less waste and less mess). Che bello!

Cork Boards & Butt Cheeks: The 8 mm solution

Today I found out that the answer to my problem is an 8 mm.

Ha! No, I’m not getting a gun, I’m getting a lift—a heel lift. My pelvic X-ray revealed an 8 mm discrepancy in leg lengths that’s preventing my psoas muscle from healing. That’s the assessment of my chiropractor, whose opinion I truly respect. I had two questions for her:

1) Will I have to insert this disc-like devise into every pair of shoes I wear for the rest of my life? And,

2) When can I run again?

To which she replied:

1) I don’t know. And,

2) I don’t know. Oh, and,

3) You also have to have a butt lift.

(Say what? But I thought my butt was looking better these days. C’mon, 25 pounds down from a year ago—whadd’ya mean, a butt lift?)

The heel lift will stabilize my stance when I’m standing, but when I am sitting, a thin-ish magazine—about 8 mm thick—tucked beneath my right butt cheek, should do the trick. (I’m paraphrasing. Dr. L somehow made this message sound much more professional. She’s my wordsmith hero.)

So there you have it: Months of frustration, stretching, coddling and cajoling, and the answer boils down to a sliver of corkboard. I hope.

The Nerve

i'm a bundle of nerves,

and i don't know why

x-ray today—

but first: field trip to the fire hall,

and before that,

the rush to school,

and after, my job,

where there’s so much to do,

i don’t know where to begin

weary of the juggling—

readying the kids,

figuring out who needs to be where, when—

the daily dance of will’s work and mine,

trying to keep the schedule straight,

trying to keep the bank accounts black—

failing

and, all the while,

wanting to write,

trying to write,

jonesing to write—

Must Write!!!

but can’t—

gotta do stuff

i'm a bundle of nerves,

and now i know why

You've Got...Purpose?

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder: Do I do it because I like it or because I haven’t been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book [or saw on a movie], when shouldn’t it be the other way around? I don’t really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So goodnight, dear void.”

—Kathleen Kelly, You’ve Got Mail

Cousin Karin and the ‘C’ Word

Today is my cousin Karin’s 36^th birthday. She’s celebrating on the other side. Since I started this blog in her memory, it seems appropriate that I write something in tribute to the privilege of living. We never know when or where our time on earth will end. This occurred to me especially today when I made a special trip to the chiropractor’s office because my pelvis went out of whack—again!—just 2 days after my last adjustment. Something is definitely awry with my muscular-skeletal system, and we (my chiro and I) haven’t yet been able to figure out what. One thing I appreciate about Dr. L is her thoroughness. She asks a lot of questions and tries a lot of techniques. She had her husband and fellow chiro Dr. M take an X-ray of my pelvis about a month ago, but it was a couple inches too high (I have a long torso), so we’ve scheduled another X-ray later this week.

We’ve talked about all kinds of possibilities, but today was the first time I insinuated that I feared something worse than muscle strain might be at play. Though I haven’t had any other troubling symptoms of the “C” word, today, on Karin’s birthday, I couldn’t help but “go there.” I hope and pray (and strongly suspect) my qualms are unfounded on this score. Nevertheless, having witnessed the untimely death of a family member or friend changes us. It makes us more aware of our mortality. I’ve always been inclined to ponder death (as is common to humankind, no?)—not morbidly longing for it, but considering the inevitability of it. And preparing to face it.

I’ve experienced 2 near-death experiences that I can recall. Both happened with Will, both in the same vehicle. In January 1995, during the holiday break between semesters our senior year of college, we went to Long Lake in the Adirondacks to visit friends. Lyn and Leigh were excited about showing us around their new hometown, and we were merrily rolling along one wintry afternoon when I lost control of our Nissan Pathfinder and played Ping-Pong with the guardrails on both sides of the ravine-lined road. While Leigh summoned Jesus’ help from the back seat (and thank God she did), I scrambled to summon my memories of Driver Education: Was I supposed to steer into the skid, or in the opposite direction? I don’t remember which way I turned. I just know we drove away from that country road with our lives intact. We were rattled, but preserved.

In October 1998, Will was driving the Pathfinder to church, with me as the lone passenger. Another country road. A 16-year-old boy was wandering aimlessly in unfamiliar territory, looking for—what was it?—a horse show or some-such. His parents had gone ahead, and he was trying to catch up to them. In his confusion, he pulled out in front of us at a visibility-impaired intersection. Had Will not swerved, we would have broad-sided the kid at 55 mph. The thing with swerving in an SUV, however, is the roll-over risk factor. Will risked it, and we rolled over—twice, according to eyewitnesses. Again, we came away unharmed. Can’t say the same for the Nissan, which was beyond totaled. But all I bear from that accident is a few small scars—amazingly few, considering the billions of bits of broken glass we left behind.

In some ways, neither experience shook me as much as saying goodbye to 2 precious people taken too soon by cancer: First, our friend Matt in March 2005, then my cousin Karin last December. Their deaths—and others, including the recent passing of my colleague’s daughter Kathy—have not only forced me to face the inevitability of my own death (whether soon or far off, I don’t know), but I have also had to come to terms with the difficulty and discomfort of Not Understanding Why. I guess you could call it the death of simplicity.

And yet, “these three remain: faith, hope, and love.” I believe in the One Who knows all, understands all, and loves all. I look to the Light of the World to uphold me, here and now and, someday—with Karin and Matt and Kathy and Edna and Lisa and all the saints who have gone before me—in Heaven, that place of perfect peace for those whose hearts are stayed on Him.

I have the song “In These Times,” by Quaker folk singer and English Lit Professor Bill Jolliff, spooling through my mind. Though I couldn’t find the full lyrics online, the chorus goes something like this: “These are my times / These are your times / We can be the love of Jesus in these times / Count the hours, count the days / It’s really not that long to stay / We can be the friends of Jesus in these times.”

Image: A painting in Karin’s memory, by one of her many, many friends Laura: http://karinupdates.blogspot.com/2009/01/awesome-painting.html

An A-Town First: A Recipe—for a Clean House & a Home-cooked Meal

We have young kids, plus we were pretty bad housekeepers before they joined our family. This means we have a mostly messy house, most of the time. But once in awhile, we invite people over. And if they’re people we don’t know very well, or people we’re not sure will still like us if they knew how messy our house usually is, we clean. Frantically.

It’s good for us, I tell myself as I shovel piles of papers, toys, crayons and crumbs into banker’s boxes and march them up to the attic, piling them on top of the previous Visitors Day banker’s boxes. “No,” I mutter to the cat as I shovel, “it was not a mistake to invite people over again. It’s good to reach out and socialize. We’ll live longer.” And the truth is we neeeeed these excuses to tidy up, albeit sloppily.

Today is one of these days. (So instead of tidying, you’re blogging? you ask. Yes, I know, I know…I can’t seem to help myself!) But the guests coming later this afternoon (4 hours left to clean, Clean, CLEAN!!!) are not only “new” to us, they’re also above-average in health consciousness. Which means my standy-by “Cheesy Casserole for Visitors” is out of the question. Have I mentioned that I’m neither a housekeeper nor a cook?! For help handling my self-induced predicament, I turned to my good, healthy friend Jody, who sent me a recipe for stew that I’m sharing with A-Town readers today. I shopped yesterday (my very first time purchasing parsnips—for the record, they look like white carrots, not like potatoes as I expected), and I chopped the veggies early this morning. Crockpot, I love you…I think. I’ll letcha know how it turns out.

Gotta go fill some more banker’s boxes. Bon Appetit!

“Autumn Dream” Stew

Originally an EatBetterAmerica.com recipe called “Slow Cooker Winter Stew,” adapted by my good, healthy friend Jody and revised further by me because our visitors prefer to steer clear of potatoes (I upped the parsnips and the squash)…10 points for Gryffindor to the A-Town reader who identifies the source of my stew title!

2 cans diced tomatoes, undrained
4 medium red potatoes, diced
4 medium stalks celery, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
4 medium carrots, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
2 medium parsnips, cut into 1/2 inch pieces

(also throw in some butternut squash chopped up, says Jody - it adds nice flavor and color)

1 can vegetable broth
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. thyme
1/2 tsp. rosemary or Italian seasoning
3 tbs. cornstarch
3 tbs. cold water

1. In 4- to 5- quart slow cooker, place all ingredients except cornstarch and water
2. Cover; cook on low heat setting 8-10 hours or until vegetables are tender
3. Mix cornstarch and water; gradually stir into stew until blended. Increase heat setting to high; cover and cook about 20 minutes longer, stirring occasionally until thickened.

Jody says: I also make a sun dried tomato and garlic bread in my bread maker that goes wonderfully with this! Let me know if you want that recipe too. If you don't have a bread maker they have really good whole grain breads at Tops and Wal-mart that you can warm and serve with this. This meal is a favorite with my whole family!!!!

Image Source: http://www.steinar.ru/2009/02/22/last_autumns_dream-dreamcatcher/