Botched potatoes and Black Friday magic

Thanksgiving was fine, but I badly botched the mashed potatoes. Ironic, seeing as how: a) I insisted on making them because Will’s are typically butterless and bland; and b) I had actually taken the time to read an article online yesterday morning about how not to botch the mashed potatoes. As my 14-year-old niece would say, “Fail!” Ah, well—we consumed our obligatory feast anyhow, in the company of several beloved family members, plus one quirky guest. I really should focus on the togetherness rather than the excess—it would make me much less Grinch-like on these over-the-top occasions.

I’ve blogged before about why holidays tend to make me twitchy, but yesterday, a new idea arrived: The Magic of Ordinary Days. It’s the title of one of my favorite movies, one that hardly anyone seems to know about. It’s a Hallmark flick, starring Keri Russell and Skeet Ulrich, an unlikely couple who end up enjoying much love and contentment together, in a wholly wholesome way. While I definitely recommend the film, it’s the title that struck me as the reason I resist the merriment most everyone else embraces.

I simply prefer ordinary days to prescribed “special” ones. I really do revel in routine. It’s not that I abhor surprises, like some friends I know. And I don’t think I’m a dull sort of person, who doesn’t know how to have fun. I like to enjoy the good stuff of life in the midst of it, not necessarily in a time set aside. I don’t want my “special moments” to be pressured or forced. In fact, rather than resisting surprises, I regularly seek them out and delight in them. Give me one serendipitous bout of laughter over a boatload of sappy greeting cards.

The moral of my Black Friday reflection? Hallmark cards, no; Hallmark movies, yes. But seriously, I’m spending my day doing laundry—and loving its magical ordinary-ness (once I tear myself away from this magnetic black hole called the “internets”).

Nat'l Un-Friend Day: Digging deep for shallow relationships

Today was, supposedly, "National Un-Friend Day" on Facebook. My own "collection" of 826 people, with whom I enjoy enormously erratic levels of interpersonal connection, does sometimes cause me pause. And for a few minutes, I thought about dropping perhaps a dozen distant acquaintances from my list--people I might or might not recognize if I encountered them at Wegmans.

But then I remembered Doug Newton's recent editorial in Light & Life magazine, and I thought, "Would B.T. Roberts really have amassed 2,000+ friends by now? And, if so, should I strive for that level of connectivity? Or, would B.T. (whom I consider a hero in the faith, and myself his direct descendant in the Free Methodist denomination)--would this spiritual giant have chosen to "hang out" online, or would he have invested himself in other ventures, reaching out to people and promoting his passion for justice, redemption, and purity of heart in ways that surpassed this oft-times superficial venue for human interaction? Or would B.T. Roberts' own maturation and the development of his ideals have been thwarted by too many games of Bejeweled Blitz?

And by the time I'd considered all that and become thoroughly baffled by my own confusing set of questions, I got distracted by some other urgent electronic plea for my attention, and I didn't care to attempt the tedious and taxing task of paring down my list.

(Do you suppose this resistance to friend sorting has anything to do with my propensity for clutter? Blech! Forget I asked that! These are people, not Post-It Notes! Does anyone else find this Facebook phenomenon, this culture-altering tidal wave of cacophonous communication, more than a little unsettling...?)

Bibbidi - Bobbidi - Boo-yeah!

I, Grace, have a very exciting announcement: I made pumpkin soup today! From an actual pumpkin (spherical orange object so popular this time of year). Plus half an onion, 2 cloves of garlic, 2 cans of chicken broth, a dollop of whole milk, and a few sprinkles of dried parsley flakes that might have been in the cupboard forever, but who cares?! I made something from (almost) scratch! Hurrah for moi!

Two out of 2 grown-ups in the household have deemed it yummy. The one kid to try the soup so far didn't fancy it, but she adored the (store-bought) bread and butter I served on the side. My other 2 solid food eater offspring are off gallivanting at Tuesday evening activities (Scouts for Ben, dance classes for Vi). The fourth child will surely enjoy the soup, since it will be specially processed and formulated just for her.

Ironically, I didn't even have to cook tonight. A very thoughtful woman from our church called this morning to say she would be dropping off something for us. I didn't have long to wonder what it could be when she showed up at my side door, handed me a half-full plastic grocery bag, and flitted away. I thanked her very much, stepped back inside, and opened the bag to find another bag--of salad--plus a pizza coupon, a 20-dollar-bill and a handwritten note saying, in sum: "Congratulations on your darling 3-month-old! Enjoy some supper, on me."

I am convinced there would be more converts to Christianity if everyone could experience the kindness of our particular congregation. "I Stand Amazed in Their Presence."

So, even though I didn't have to make soup tonight, I could, and so I did. Pizza will be perfect some other evening, I'm sure, and we will be grateful to that dear lady. We already are.

Mysterious change in the air

The crows are causing quite a cacophony in my neighborhood this morning—making a mighty racket! They’re clustered, as if for a coffee klatch, in the treetops about a block from my house.

When I first heard their honking, I thought romantically, “Oh—the geese! They’re singing their song of change!” In my mind, I began waxing poetic about the changes I need to make in my own life, drawing inspiration from the chorus of migratory creatures outside my window.

But then I noticed that the stream of sound was not leaving. Either there were gobs of geese steadily streaming southward in my sky (something I surely needed to see), or there was something else afoot in the air. I slipped outside to investigate.

I looked up, and saw nothing—nothing except a thick cover of light gray clouds. I walked a bit, toward the source of the noise, and there they were: Dozens of black birds, most perched, some coming and going from the uppermost bare parts of two or three trees bearing the colors of autumn. “What on earth, do you suppose, can they be crowing about?!”

At first, I thought: “I will have to go ask an ornithological expert: my sister!” But then my misty-eyed tendencies reconsidered, and I again pondered the prospect that these chatter-beaks might be signaling something from which I could draw magical meaning: “It’s change that’s coming—oh, yes—only not the sort I might have guessed. Something different, something mysterious…and loud!”

“What could it be?” I wonder. (Oh, how good it is to wonder!)

Blathering blogette in a pink pok-a-dot jumpsuit

Now that I know you’re listening (via comments and stats), you won’t be able to shut me up—I’ll be a blathering blogette!* I’ll be “incorrigible,” a la Kurt, from The Sound of Music. 

Speaking of TSOM, my friend Mary tells me that the whole cast will be on The Oprah Winfrey Show tomorrow. I hardly ever watch TV, but the prospect of a few moments with Captain von Trapp might just motivate me to turn on the tube.

I met him once, you know—not the real CVT, but the actor, Christopher Plummer. It was 1994 and I wore a pink pok-a-dot jumpsuit for the occasion. My sister “Beulah” works for a radio station. Capt. Dreamy was set to visit, so B shamelessly abused her position as a peon and smuggled me in. We waited outside the studio and accosted our all-time favorite actor with eyes like saucers and breathy exclamations of respect and admiration. He put up with us for a whole 30 seconds before saying, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye.”

*OK, so the Wiktionary defines “blogette” as a small blog. But I’m using it here as a feminine form of blogger. (I like to make up words, especially when alliterative opportunities arise.)

P.S. The fact that Plummer is now an octogenarian does not diminish his beauty—and Get! This! When looking up his age on imdb.com just now (not that it matters), I found out we share a birthday! Well, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens!”

Our sloppy, earnest selves

I’ve been having a lot of “What Not to Wear” days lately, a consequence of rapid weight gain (via pregnancy), accompanied by my scale’s unprecedented stubbornness. Despite my halfhearted efforts to shed postnatal poundage, the needle refuses to budge. If I sound like a broken record, it’s because my Sunbeam analog weight measuring machine looks like one!

(I’m also experiencing an unprecedented case of blog inertia. It’s been so long since I’ve posted here that I now hesitate to disturb the peace. But I don’t think I’m ready to let A-Town die, so I’m shouting this “HELLO!-Hello!-hello-hello…” to echo in the blogosphere. It doesn’t matter if anyone is listening.  Sometimes the sole purpose of throwing a stone is to witness the ripple, a reminder to oneself: “I am alive. Here I am. Hello.”)

Getting back to the bad outfits, I’ve been cobbling together pitiful combinations of thrift store finds, not-too-huge maternity clothes, and the few faithful pieces of my year-ago wardrobe that still will accommodate my considerably expanded girth. The results ain’t pretty. The selection problem, paired with the schedule problem (getting the kids ready, myself ready, and the house ready to meet the challenges of our daily life, all before noon), gives rise to a clumsy tango of doing what needs doing, and being who we are: Our sloppy, earnest selves.

We’re facing the music with as much grace as we can muster. This is where God comes in. Where we are inadequate, God carries. Some days I feel perfectly capable and confident. Other days I relate heartily to the helpless infant in my lap. And God carries us both – God carries us all.

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved,

clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances
you may have against one another.
Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

And over all these virtues put on love,
which binds them all together in perfect unity.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,
since as members of one body you were called to peace.

And be thankful.

—Colossians 3:12-15

Santa Claus Coming from A-Town

I’ve been neglecting this blog in favor of the baby (good choice, right?), but since she’s asleep and the other kids are happily occupied, I am sitting down to write in the same way I started Life in A-Town: A Saturday morning, a cup of coffee, and no idea what I’m going to say.

Today is Charles W. Howard Day in A-Town, a celebration of the original Santa Claus School and its founder, a native son. It’s also Homecoming at my alma mater 30 miles away. The Waters Family took a “divide and conquer” approach to this dilemma: Will and Vi went to the college, specifically to run the annual 5k race held in memory of one of our classmates. Ben, Pearl, Lia and I dressed up in Christmas-y clothes and strolled up the street for the Santa festivities, which turned out to be a bit boring for the kids, but fun for me. Stuff like that makes me feel all fuzzy about our little village, and reinforces my doubts that I could ever leave for good. Providentially, I married a man with an even greater aversion to moving than my own, and whose affection for A-Town also runs deep and wide.

Today is also my mother-in-law’s birthday. (Happy Birthday, Mom—across the miles.) I often see sweet little houses here and wonder if she could ever be persuaded to move. Maybe someday, but I suspect she feels as strongly about her roots as I do about mine—possibly stronger, since she’s had a few more years to grow them.

Lately I’ve been thinking (again) about revealing the identity of A-Town in this blog (more blatantly than I have in the past … even in this very post, there’s an embedded give-away). Part of me thinks, “Who really cares, one way or the other?” Part of me thinks, “No—continue to protect your young family’s privacy.” But then I wonder if the blog might be more meaningful to more people (translate: more widely read) if it were, more decidedly, an A-Town blog. (And ultimately, wouldn’t it be great if someone wanted to pay me to write it? How much do people make when they “Monetize” with Google Ads anyhow?)

I recently watched the movie Julie and Julia, in which “Julie” cooked and blogged her way through “Julia (Child)’s” Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I relate to Julie, the frustrated writer (but not so much to Julie, the lover of cooking). Do I want to write simply for the enjoyment of it? Yes, but that’s not all. I want my writing to make a difference to someone other than myself. I also see the appeal (for writer and readers alike) of a blog like Julie’s, with a goal and a deadline. I tend to be a “go with the flow” kind of gal (except for some things, like recycling at the office—ask my co-workers). Goals and deadlines are for Type A’s, of which I am not one. But I do long for some structure in my life—certainly more than I’ve had these past 9 weeks, since Lia’s arrival. Maybe my return to part-time work in 9 days will scratch that itch, and I can go on blathering aimlessly here on this amorphous sliver of the blogosphere.

We shall see… (Leave it to me to remain “undecided.”)