"It's a turkey, Gertrude!"

 

 

I don't know how it happened, but Thanksgiving is next week. 

Next. Week. 

It totally snuck up on me, what with trying to keep all of my assorted balls in the air.  You know the ones:  keeping the kids alive, employers happy, animals fed, and bills paid.  Add in a hurricane and a presidential election and it's no wonder I'm a more disorganized mess than usual.

As I attempt to pull a holiday dinner together this year, I can't help but think how our Thanksgivings have changed over the years.  One of my favorite memories is of the time when my soon-to-be-husband Dan and I traveled to Ohio to spend Thanksgiving with my maternal grandmother.

After we arrived, we learned that Grandma had not yet gotten a turkey.  Ignoring the obvious question of why didn’t she have a turkey already if she was having guests for Thanksgiving dinner, Dan and I offered to go to the store and buy one. 

Looking for a turkey on Thanksgiving Day was a much bigger challenge than we expected, especially considering that we needed a fresh, unfrozen one.  A frozen turkey would never thaw in time to cook.  Dan waited in the car while I went into the grocery store.  I made a bee-line to the back of the store toward the meat department.  To my horror, there was not a single fresh turkey to be found.  Not one. 

Should I get a chicken?  A roast?  As I considered the options, my eyes were drawn to a freezer bin near the meat case.  Inside it were smallish turkey-looking items.  I picked one up.  The size was perfect since there were only going to be the three of us for dinner.  As I checked the package for the little pop-out timer thingy (a necessity for a young cook), I discovered that my perfect turkey was really a capon.  A capon?  What on earth is a capon?  Oh well, it looked like a turkey and it wasn’t frozen.  It would have to do. 

I wanted to impress my grandmother with how well I could cook a turkey, so I immediately began preparing the bird once we got back to her apartment.  There was no need to tell her about the capon.  After all, it looked just like a turkey.  Who would even know the difference?  I cut open the wrapper, cleaned the inside of the bird, and seasoned it so that it was ready for my grandmother’s oven.  I was proud of myself that I knew how to prepare a turkey.  Surely Grandma would be impressed as well.  I couldn’t wait for her to take the first bite.

My grandmother made several side dishes to accompany the “turkey”.  I helped her finish the rest of the preparations while Dan set the table.  Just as we were about to sit down to eat, there was a knock on the door.  It was my Aunt Mary.  Aunt Mary was known for showing up unannounced whenever a meal was likely to be happening.  She was a tough, independent woman; the bold, feisty yin to my grandmother’s quiet, passive yang.  Aunt Mary believed that she knew everything about everything and no one dared to tell her otherwise.

The  four of us sat down at the table and took turns selecting our food.  After taking the first bite of her “turkey”, my grandmother paused and said, “Hmmm.”

Uh-oh.  Is that a good “hmmm” or a bad “hmmm”?  Did I do something wrong in cooking it?  Did she bite into the giblets bag? 

“What’s wrong, Grandma?”  I asked.

Grandma took another bite.  “This tastes like a capon.”

How could she possibly know that it tasted like a capon?  I took a bite.  I couldn’t tell any difference except that the meat was less dry than a turkey. 

Before Dan or I could say anything, though, Aunt Mary jumped to our defense.  “It’s not a capon, Gertrude.  It’s a turkey.”

Grandma took another bite and chewed it slowly.  “I don’t know.  It sure tastes like a capon to me.”

Dan and I looked at each other.  If we come clean with the fact that it is, indeed, a capon, we’ll embarrass Aunt Mary. 

Aunt Mary took a bite.  “This is a turkey, not a capon.”  She looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say "your grandmother is losing it." 

Grandma wasn’t about to let it go.  After another bite, she was certain.  “Yes.  This is definitely a capon.  This does not taste like turkey at all.”

Aunt Mary, unable to contain herself any longer, slammed down her fork and shrieked:  “For crying out loud, Gertrude, it’s a turkey! What do you think, they’d buy a damn capon for Thanksgiving dinner?” 

Right.  Who would buy a capon for Thanksgiving dinner?

Thankfully, the identification of the bird wasn’t mentioned for the rest of the meal.  We talked and laughed and shared an otherwise uneventful Thanksgiving with my grandmother and Aunt Mary.   

The next day, as Dan and I were preparing to leave, Grandma thanked us for coming for Thanksgiving and for helping her cook the meal.  I could tell that something was bothering her though..

 “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.  “I still swear that bird was a capon.” 

 

 

 

photo by Lisa Kern

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All was fine until the polynomials showed up

“Mom, I need your help with my homework tonight,” Evan announced as I picked him up from school.

Then, the words no parent wants to hear: “It’s algebra.”

Algebra. Not much scares me these days (except wolf spiders, poison ivy, and an ineffective Congress,) but algebra still paralyzes me with fear. At my age, I’ve forgotten much more math than I remember. In fact, I think algebraic concepts were among the very first things in my brain to shrivel up and die during childbirth.

Twenty-plus years and three children later, my memory of algebra hasn’t returned and I can honestly say I haven’t missed it. The way I see it, you’re inviting trouble when you allow letters and numbers to fraternize with one another anyway.

After dinner, Evan began to work on his math homework. It wasn’t long before he ran into problems (I know, I know…bad pun.)

I looked at his homework but it might as well have been written in Chinese. It made just as little sense to me.

I stared at the problems, incredulous that I’d ever been capable of figuring them out at any point in my life. No matter how long I stared at them, though, I could not remember what to do with them. Which do I solve first: the addition and subtraction or the multiplication? What about the x’s and y’s? What am I supposed to do with those? And what’s the deal with those tiny numbers that like to hang out above and to the side of other numbers? Those things are just plain annoying.

Why can’t math be more like language arts? If you can’t remember a grammar rule or how to spell a word, you can at least look it up in a stylebook or a dictionary. There’s no reference book for math problems.

I consider myself to be an intelligent person, but not being able to figure out my son’s seventh grade homework makes me feel uneducated and, worse, incredibly old. What would I forget next – how to tie my shoes or eat with a fork?

Even though I did not want to allow myself to be beaten by my son’s algebra homework, I hadn’t been able to successfully solve a single equation. Still, this wasn't my homework so why should I have to continue to struggle with it? I’d already passed seventh grade!

I decided to give up and tell Evan that I can’t help him with his homework. One of the perks of maturity is that we no longer have to be so concerned with how competent we appear to someone else. We’re more relaxed with ourselves and therefore less likely to feel insecure by admitting our shortcomings.

Or something like that.

While it’s probable that I care less about my shortcomings and more about not spending the rest of my night with an algebra book, I felt proud that I was able to drop the Supermom façade and admit that Evan’s homework was beyond me.

I couldn't abandon Evan, though. Solving algebra successfully would require the big guns, a secret weapon, and an ace-in-the-hole.

I asked his older brother to help him.

Who says I’m too old to figure this stuff out?

 

In which I fling my comfort zone off a cliff

(and it only took us 1-1/2 hours!

I've been a bit distracted lately.  Most days, it feels as if I'm not fully present at all.  Blame it on overwork, stressful challenges, or lack of a vacation, the result is still the same:  I'm missing out on my own life.

As if to punctuate the fact that I've been living in a fog, I mistakenly put body wash in my hair the other day instead of shampoo.  There's nothing like smelling the scent of "Energizing Citrus Ginger" where it's not supposed to be in order to jolt me to attention.

Realizing that I need to make some changes in order to restore some semblance of balance, I began examining the way that I've been living.  If I'm honest, I'll admit that I'm rarely mindful of whatever I'm doing, and I tend to hop from activity to activity at a frenetic pace.  I'm rushing through life and missing out on its joys.  I need to slow down, plain and simple.

At the same time as my stop-and-smell-the-roses epiphany, my son Evan began bugging me about accompanying him and his class on an overnight field trip.  There will be lots of driving, chaperoning other people's children, and, most distressing of all, sleeping in a tent.

A tent!  Doesn't he realize that I seriously love electricity and indoor plumbing? And what about the woods?  I'm a poison ivy and wolf spider magnet!  My biggest worry, however, is kind of embarrassing.  Thinking of it makes me feel old and out of shape.  Of course, it  doesn't help that I AM old and out of shape. 

When my stiff and aged body meets the hard, unyielding ground beneath that tent, I'm not sure what's going to happen.  I mean, I'm far from being anything resembling flexible.  What if I go to sleep on the floor of the tent and can't get back up?  I imagine a muscle spasm so severe that I'm forced to lie there,  paralyzed, while everyone else contemplates whether or not to bring in the Jaws of Life to free me.

But then, there's my sweet boy, wanting his mom to go with him.  At age twelve, he's becoming more of a young man and less of a child every day.  I'm not sure how much longer he's going to feel this enthusiastic about having me around.  What if this trip is the last time?  How would I feel if I miss it?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I signed up for the trip.  I can do anything for one night, right?  Even if it does mean sleeping in a tent and putting myself out there as bear food. 

Best case scenario:  we won't get eaten by bears, I won't get stuck in the tent, and I'll make some happy memories with my kid.

Worst case scenario?  I'll have plenty of stories to write about.  Just as soon as they free me from that tent.

 

*photo by Lisa Kern

What the Great Recession didn't take

 

 

I may have mentioned a time or two (or twenty, if you ask my kids) about my relentless case of poison ivy - how I’ve had it all summer and how it won't go away no matter what I try. 

My frustration finally led me to see my doctor.  This is a very big deal considering I have no health insurance and the cost of an office visit throws my monthly budget right off of a financial cliff.

The diagnosis was indeed poison ivy, and a round of prednisone was prescribed.   This, of course, created an open invitation for the kids to poke fun at me:  "Hey!  Mom's on 'roids!" 

'Roid Rage, PMS, it's all the same outcome:  at least they’ll leave me alone for a while.

The prednisone worked until it didn't, which, unfortunately, happened to be the day after I stopped taking it.  Soon itchy little blisters once again covered the areas of my skin that had attempted to heal while I was taking the steroid.

I called the doctor's office and was told that they'd call in a prescription of a steroid cream for me.  No office visit!  I just had to go to the pharmacy to pick it up.

My joy was short-lived when I arrived at the pharmacy and learned the cost of the prescription. Nearly $50.00!  I didn’t know what to do.  I only had $20.00 or so in my checking account until pay day. 

To make matters worse, I’d just learned a few hours earlier that our Internet and telephone were shut off.  While engaged in the Great Recession sport known as Competitive Bill Juggling, I must have missed making the payment for it.  I’d already spent every single moment prior to arriving at the pharmacy stressing about how to get the funds in order to have the phone and Internet turned back on.  I certainly didn’t need an expensive prescription thrown into the mix.

 

As I stood there, seeing the cost of the prescription displayed on the cash register and the clerk waiting ever so patiently for me to pay, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

I don’t want to cry!  Not here, not now!

But it was too late.   I’d reached my emotional breaking point and tears were now rushing down my cheeks.  Not only were my financial struggles once again bearing down on me, but now I’d never get rid of the poison ivy rashes that were psychologically torturing me.

                “I’m so sorry,” I choked through the tears.  “I just can’t afford this.” 

As I turned to leave, the pharmacist rushed over to the counter.  “Here are some lower-cost prescriptions that you can ask your doctor about.  They work just as well as the prescription she ordered for you.”

She handed me a paper with a couple of different drugs circled.  “Why don’t you call your doctor when you get home and see if she’ll prescribe one of these?”

I was so relieved to know that there was an option for me.  I nodded and took the paper from her.  I would call the doctor when I got home.

My husband Dan had been waiting with me and heard the whole conversation.  We walked out of the store silently and empty-handed.

In the car, Dan suddenly erupted in laughter – the kind of uncontrollable laughter that spills out of you in spite of your best efforts to stop it. 

                “What are you laughing about?” I sniffed.  “There’s nothing funny about this situation at all.”

                “I’m sorry,” he snorted between laughs.  “It’s just that I realized the ultimate irony in all of this.”

                “Irony?  What do you mean?” I asked.

Dan still couldn’t stop laughing.  “She told you to call your doctor…”  More laughter erupted.

                “Yes.  So?”

                “…but we don’t currently have a phone!”

And with that, I suddenly burst into laughter as well:  wonderful, healing, clearing, belly laughter.  There we sat, in the car, laughing our crazy, broke heads off.  It was the perfect illustration of how challenging life had become for us, yet in that moment, we were both overcome by the sheer implausibility of all of it.  There was my never-ending skin rash, our never-ending financial quicksand, and now, the cherry on top of this terrible trifecta, no phone to call the doctor. 

In a strange way, it was comforting to accept that there wasn’t anything we were going to do about any of it in that present moment.  Perhaps solutions would reveal themselves tomorrow, but for now, there wasn’t anything to do except be with one another and laugh until our bellies hurt.

 

(photo by Lisa Kern)

 

 

 

Remind me about this when I'm whining in February

Even Mewcifer thinks it's too hot

Welcome to August, the time of year when I can't remember what I ever found appealing about summer in the first place.

The yard, so beautiful at the beginning of the season, now looks like an abandoned field. In the Survival-of-the-Fittest Plant contest, the weeds are definitely winning. The grass, once green and vibrant, is now a crunchy, lackluster brown and isn't even a contender.
The endless string of ninety-plus degree days have certainly worn out their welcome. The electric meter is spinning like a whirling dervish on 5-Hour Energy. I know it's hard to believe, but the fun has definitely gone out of opening the monthly electric bill. At this rate, I'm going to need to sell a kidney and one of the kids in order to pay for these summer heat wave energy costs.

What a change from June, when the hot weather was a welcome treat, a sign that winter was really, truly over. Day 1 of hot, humid weather: It's definitely summer! Day 37 of ninety degree weather: For the love of all that's holy, can we please fast forward to February?

Yep, only August can make a Pennsylvania winter look inviting.

By this point in the summer, I've had my fill of getting dressed in front of the window air conditioning unit just to avoid receiving brush burns from putting on my bra. Likewise, a head of huge frizzy hair has also lost its appeal. By the time August rolls around, my hair has seen more silicone in the name of frizz fighting than Pamela Anderson's breasts.

And then there's summer's favorite torture trio: poison ivy, oak, and sumac. Would you believe that I am on my third round of poison ivy? This stuff just won't go away. I've had it in one form or another since May and I'm ready to let someone else have a turn.

I don't even know how I get poison ivy. It's not like I actually garden or anything (unless weed-whacking to get to the grill counts.) Yet here I am, covered in calamine lotion and wanting to scratch my skin off. I must have logged seventy-three hours Googling 'poison ivy remedies' on the internet. Let me save you the trouble: nothing works.

And of course, August wouldn't be August without some fussing from the offspring.

The kids say they're bored and there's nothing to do. I totally don't understand this at all since the last time I've experienced boredom was in 1982.

Maybe the next time they complain, I'll have them research poison ivy cures for me. That'll keep them busy.

Right after they're done weed-whacking the patio furniture.

Posted in Life between spin cycles on phillyburbs.com on Friday, August 3, 2012 12:51 pm. Updated: 1:02 pm.

Screen Name or EmailNow I remember!

                  

Pardon me, my local pride is showing

I live in a place where nothing ever happens.  Nothing bad happens, but nothing very exciting happens either.

On most days, the lack of excitement is welcome, especially considering there's always enough stuff going on in my house to keep me entertained.  Anyone would agree that  scaling world-record sized laundry piles and cleaning up after the humans and animals I share my space with are always engaging activities.  You can't find that kind of fun just anywhere.

But back to where I live...

It's a tinier-than-tiny town located in one of the suburban counties surrounding Philadelphia.  Its unique blend of rural and suburban areas means that we have frequent encounters with wildlife.  Just a few weeks ago, a bear was wandering around the area, following the creek and stopping to munch bird seed from back yard feeders along the way.  By all accounts, he was having a splendid time.  He was probably here on vacation from New Jersey. 

There are plenty of other animals, too.  We frequently have visits from deer, groundhogs, and coyotes, and every spring, Evan and I watch the fox babies play in the field behind our house.  Deer and groundhogs are so abundant that our dog Bailey is the only who still gets excited about seeing them. 

Since there are always so many animals around, it wasn't exactly a surprise to see a critter of some sort crossing the road in front of us as we drove home the other night.

Upon nearing the animal, we could see that it was a turtle.  More specifically, it was a huge snapping turtle, the size of a trash can lid, who'd decided to come to a complete stop in our lane of the road. 

Since the road that we were on is one of the main ones in the area, it was likely that this turtle wasn't going to make it all the way across the road without someone running it over.  But how do you move a huge turtle, especially one with as bad of an attitude as a snapping turtle?

My quick-thinking husband stopped the car a few feet from Turtlezilla and put on the hazard lights.  Dan jumped out of the car and began digging around in the back of it to find something to help him move the turtle off the road.  There wasn't anything in our car that could provide enough distance and survive the strong bite of a snapping turtle, though.

Just then, three other vehicles stopped around us.  A young man jumped out of a car across the road from us and grabbed a golf club from his back seat.  A man wearing a safety vest who looked like he'd just finished work on a road crew parked his truck behind us and ran past our car carrying a huge plank.  Another man and his three young children watched the turtle rescue operation from the safety of their car on the other side of the road.

The man with the plank placed it squarely under the bottom of the turtle, lifting its rear legs into the air.  He pushed the turtle forward so that it was walking solely on its front legs.  At the same time, the man with the golf club used it to guide the turtle on its path and to prevent the turtle from doing what it does best:  snapping.

I watched as they coaxed the turtle into the tall marshy grass on the side of the road, relieved that no one had been bitten and that we could finally get home.

The three young kids cheered once the turtle was safely off the road, and Dan and the other two men briefly exchanged thank-yous and high-fives.  And then, just as quickly as they'd all gathered, everyone was back in their vehicles and on their way to wherever they were going.

I like where I live for many reasons, but most days, I don't readily think of them.  I get so mired up in day to day life that I forget about the beauty and peacefulness that lured me here thirteen years ago.  

Now I have one more reason to love where I live:  any place that has the sort of people who'd stop to help a snapping turtle cross the road has to be one of the kindest places on earth. 

I'm so glad that it's also the place I call home.

The Mom Days of Summer

  

It’s Day 28 of captivity, also known as summer vacation.  The kids have once again imprisoned me through their ability to stay awake later than me at night and yet still have the energy to pester me first thing in the morning.

Frankly, I’m exhausted. 

Between trying to stay up later than the kids, the increased time spent chauffeuring children all around the tri-county area, and the relentless July heat, I’ve decided to scale back some of my activities for the summer.

For example, I’m only going to let the cat and dog outside a maximum of 19 times per day.  The 47 times that they’re demanding now is simply too much.  I fail to understand how being outside could be so gosh-darned appealing five minutes ago and yet pure torture, as evidenced by the cat’s pitiful howls and the dog’s incessant scratching, five minutes later.

I’m also giving up the need to control the entertainment and enrichment activities for these kids.  They want to sleep all day?  Fine.  The way I see it, they’ll be consuming less food if they do (a win for the budget!)  Play video games?  No problem.  At least they’re reading something. 

The way I see it, on this July day with a heat index of a gazillion and twelve, if they manage to avoid incarceration and are all still breathing at the end of the day, I’ve done my job.    

Of course, I can’t leave them on their own for everything.  Showering is a prime example and one that is non-negotiable.  There’s enough boy-stink in this house at any given time that we certainly don’t need the added aroma of a gamey twelve year old thrown into the mix.

I’m also determined to teach them, once and for all, how to close a door as it doesn’t appear that they’ve learned this particular skill.  It can be 14 degrees outside in the winter and they will leave the door open.  98 degrees with the air conditioner running?  They will still leave the door wide open.  Our electric company loves them so much that it recently sent them a fruit basket.  OK, I might have exaggerated about that last part, but I do imagine PECO Energy beginning every board of directors meeting with the words, “Profits are up once again this quarter, thanks to those energy-wasting Kern boys.”

Hanging up a towel is another life skill they have yet to master so we'll work on that.  The kids can practice hanging freshly washed towels on the clothesline.  They'll learn how to stop driving their mother so crazy by leaving wet towels on the floor and the laundry will get done by someone other than me.   Yes!

Of course, we'll still make time for some fun.  There are some things about summer that you need to have kids around in order to fully experience.   No, I'm not talking about overripe socks either.

It's summer evenings.

Who knows the pure joy of catching fireflies on a summer night better than a kid?  As the fireflies rise from the grass at the first hint of darkness, it takes a kid to  appreciate the sheer magic of thousands of tiny lights rising toward the sky. 

You also need kids for squirt gun fights.  They just aren't as fun with the folks from the office or your crotchety neighbor.  While I'll admit that squirting crotchety neighbors is infinitely more satisfying, it's usually frowned upon in polite society.  You can always get your revenge once you need to unload that yearly overabundance of zucchini.  That'll learn 'em.  Zucchini is the ultimate teacher.

Rain storms aren't nearly as fun without a kid or two jumping in the puddles with you.  The bonus for you is that their feet get clean at the same time.

And a kid won't remind you of how much sugar and calories are in that ice cream sundae you're sharing.  Kids are all about those pure, guilt-free moments and are just happy to share them with you, lecture-free.

In fact, I think that to truly experience summer, you NEED to have some kids around.

So what time should I drop mine off? 

***follow me on twitter @LisaKern

Closing doors and opening windows

It was an impossible decision to make.  On one hand, closing our small construction business seemed like a good idea.  We’d been struggling for several years with inconsistent work and dramatically reduced income as a result of the ongoing Recession.  On the other hand, if we closed the business, how would we survive without its income, however sporadic it might be?  It was expensive to keep the business open, but closing it would erase all possibility of any future income.

Neither choice was a good one. 

When faced with difficult decisions, sometimes we tend to make no decision at all until the decision is ultimately made for us. 

That’s what happened with us. 

Our business insurance was renewing in a few days and we didn’t have the money to pay for it.  It had been a while since we’d had work and the bank account was nearly empty.  We simply could not afford to pay for our insurance renewal.  No insurance meant that we couldn’t legally drive our work truck, and no truck meant that we couldn’t take on any construction jobs even if they were to miraculously show up. 

Whether or not we were ready for it, the decision was finally clear:  it was time to close our business.

Closing a business is especially difficult because its very existence is woven into every aspect of your life.  In our case, we’ve never known anything else.  My father-in-law in started the business in 1951 and my husband operated it since the late 1980s – our entire married life.   Our whole family was involved in some way.  Our children grew up in the business, learning at their father’s side how to choose lumber, drive a nail, hang doors, install windows, and frame out walls.  

On the day that our insurance ran out, we stuck our work truck out at the end of our driveway with a For Sale sign on it.  Fifteen minutes later, it was sold.  If we were looking for confirmation from the Universe that we’d made the right decision, selling the truck so quickly was probably it. 

The door has definitely closed on our business.  Hopefully, it won’t be long before a new opportunity comes along and opens a window.

Grow where you're planted

The junk trees are sprouting up in my yard again.

There's a mimosa coming up in my iris bed, a tulip tree growing out of the foundation on the north side of my house, and various maple and black walnut trees poking through shrubs around my front porch.

 

These trees, along with assorted thistle, blackberry brambles, and weeds, do this every year in an attempt to reclaim my small half-acre yard as a field. So far, their hostile takeover ways are winning. I cut them down, only to have them reappear even larger the following year.

I'm not a very good gardener even without the challenge of these invasive foes. My gardening style basically consists of throwing plants in the ground, watering them a few times, and then declaring that they're on their own.

It's survival of the fittest for the green stuff around my home.  This is probably why the weeds and junk trees have an edge over anything I've ever planted on purpose. These plant-pests are tenacious and unstoppable, determined to live and grow for another season.  No matter what I throw at them, they come back, year after year, stronger than ever.

They are not at all like me.

I easily come unglued these days, especially after seemingly endless assaults from this never-ending recession. After struggling against an impossible situation for four years now, my weapon of choice lately is surrender: I rage, I cry, and then I give up.  Whatever happens, happens. Why continue to fight an impossible battle?

Just once, I'd like to feel as if I were ahead in the game instead of constantly feeling as if I can't even make it to the ballpark.  I'd like to know what it feels like to not live on such a dangerous knife edge all the time, precariously perched, mere inches from disaster.  Most days, I'm shrunken and diminished, tired of the same old circumstances, yet powerless to change them.  It's difficult to believe that I'll ever know the feeling of security again. 

I am here, but I'd rather, with all of my heart, be over there.

As I pondered new and different ways to kill the junk trees once and for all, an unexpected appreciation for them flooded over me.  In spite of every attempt at destroying them, they have continued to thrive in those exact same spots for years now.  Perhaps rather than looking at them as adversaries, I should view them as inspirations.  Certainly I could stand to have more of their kind of tenacity in my own life, especially when confronted with difficult challenges.

My son Evan saw me taking a photo of one of the junk trees and asked why I was doing that.

            "You know how these trees keep coming up year after year even when we cut them down?" 

            Evan nodded.

            "I was thinking about how resilient they are and how they survive in spite of our efforts at eliminating them."

Evan thought about this for a moment.   

            "They're a lot like people," Evan explained.  "We go through stuff but we still survive.  We're all junk trees on the inside."

Indeed. 

We are all junk trees on the inside - inherently flawed, yet eternally strong and hopeful.  We may not be able to change our current situation or our present place in the world, but the drive is still there to push through the dirt and lift ourselves up toward the sun.

Cooking with Cats

Ever since Mewcifer the stray cat pranced into our home and later, our hearts, I have become an unwitting student of cat behavior. For example, I can't tell you how many times I've been bitten before I learned to pay attention to the direction of Mewcifer's ears.  If those babies start turning back and flattening , look out. 

After a lifetime of having only dogs as pets, the biggest adjustment to having a cat in our house is the realization that cats jump up on everything.  In fact, the higher the object, the better.  I've even seen Mewcifer studying the ceiling fan, no doubt mentally calculating how high he'd have to jump to land successfully on one of its blades. 

Given Mewcifer's affinity for being up high on things, he's become a constant companion when I'm in the kitchen.  Not only does he want to see what I'm doing, but he feels it's his duty to keep a careful eye on anything pertaining to food.  I guess that's understandable, given his history as a skinny stray, but this cat reminds me of someone salivating while watching the Food Network.  The only difference is that he's able to reach out and steal a taste when I'm not looking.

Even though Mewcifer is officially a member of the family these days, I'm not very keen on having him snitch food from our plates.  His stealthy ways have caused me to keep a spray bottle nearby while I cook so that I can shoot him with a quick spritz of water if he tries to steal anything.

The other night, I was mixing some ground meat for hamburgers.  Of course, Mewcifer jumped onto the end of the counter so that he could supervise. 

I formed the meat into round patties which I placed on a plate to the left of me, squarely between me and Mewcifer.

Determined to keep an eye on him, I watched as he slowly crept near the plate.  Realizing I was watching him, Mewcifer quickly sat down and meowed angelically as if to say "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

I returned to my patty-making, still watching him from the corner of my eye.

Mewcifer slowly lay down, ever so quietly, to not attract my attention.

I didn't look at him but continued making the hamburgers. 

Mewcifer slowly and quietly rolled onto his side.  I still didn't look at him.

He froze in position for a minute or two, like a rabbit who believes you can't see it if it doesn't move.

I finished making the final patty and put it on the plate.  I turned my back on the cat briefly to wash my hands.  When I turned back around, I saw Mewcifer's front paw outstretched mere millimeters from the edge of plate.  He was about to snatch one of the burgers.

I grabbed the spray bottle and shot a quick spritz at him. 

And then, do you know what that cat did?  He actually had the nerve to make me feel guilty for squirting him.  It's true.  As he cleaned the water from the spray bottle off his back, he flashed his sorrowful golden eyes at me as if to say, "How could you squirt a helpless little kitty cat who loves you so much?"  I felt so bad that I gave him a few of his kitty treats - the ones he likes so much that we've renamed them Kitty Crack.

Talk about manipulative!  How did that cat turn his bad behavior around into something that earned him his beloved Kitty Crack? 

This ability alone is probably why we should fear cats taking over the world.  

Maybe I'd better grill him a burger as a peace offering.

Bailey the Conqueror

I've come to the conclusion that my dog is nuts. 

Not in the fun, oh-look-at-the-way-she-lays-on-her-back-and-chews-her-toenails cute way of nuts, either.  I'm talking about full-fledged, certifiably crazy.  If she were a human, she'd be on a therapist's couch somewhere explaining what went wrong in her early puppyhood and how the cat just doesn't understand her.

We adopted Bailey at the age of two from a family who could no longer handle her exuberant personality and frequent sprints out the back door.  At the time, a friend suggested quite poignantly that her running away meant she was trying to find me.  While I doubt that a creature who derives much pleasure from licking her own butt could formulate such a plan, we haven't had a problem with her running away in the three years we've had her.

Bailey is a great dog but she has a few issues.  Like many other dogs, she doesn't like thunder, fireworks, or loud noises of any kind.  She will stay glued to the leg of the nearest human until the storm passes or the noise is gone.  Fortunately, her loud noise anxiety only presents itself a few times a year.  Her fear of our living room ceiling fan is another matter entirely.

When we brought Bailey home for the first time, she refused to come into our living room for three weeks.  We had no idea why and just assumed it was because she was getting adjusted to our family.  Who could blame her?  Our family is definitely an acquired taste, one that's best eased into, especially if no tequila is available.

We figured out that the ceiling fan was the culprit when Bailey eventually came into the living room (to throw up on the newly-cleaned carpet, of course.  Barf is my life.)  We noticed that every time she was in the living room, she'd constantly look up at the ceiling fan.  Although the fan was stable and didn't make noise, its presence concerned Bailey.  Was she afraid of it falling on her?  Did her other family chase her around with one? 

Weeks passed and Bailey finally stopped paying so much attention to the fan.  Her acceptance of the fan  continued for over two years until that ceiling fan quit working and we had to replace it with a new one.  Once again, Bailey refused to come into the living room.  Apparently she didn't like the fact that this new fan is a dark wood color whereas the old fan was all white.  Who knew that dark wood ceiling fans are the natural enemy of the Labradoodle? 

We kept the fan turned off so that Bailey could get used to it without the worry of those spinning blades.   When she finally began coming back into the living room, she was even more cautious than she'd been with the old ceiling fan.  She'd glance up at it frequently as if to let it know she was keeping her eye on it and that it shouldn't try anything funny.

All was good until last week.  A blast of summer-like weather forced us to (gasp!) turn the fan on.  As expected, Bailey ran out of the living room and refused to set one paw back in it.  She wouldn't even walk to the back door in the kitchen because she could see the reflection of the spinning fan blades on the hardwood floor in the hall.

We tried tempting her with food.  We tried luring her with toys.  No luck.  She even refused to greet visitors in the living room because of her ceiling fan fear.  She was terrified of that ceiling fan and it didn't appear that anything could change her mind.

Then a funny thing happened:  we had a thunderstorm.  It wasn't a quick little thunderstorm either.  This one lasted for nearly an hour.  The thunder was loud and booming.  Streaks of lightning filled the sky.  Rain drummed loudly against the windows.  

Bailey was terrified and remained glued to my side.  She shook mightily as if someone had set her to the 'vibrate' position.  She was so worried about the storm that she walked with me into the living room, completely oblivious to the ceiling fan that she'd feared only moments before.

Apparently, dogs, much like people, don't respond to the lure of their favorite things in convincing them to move past their fear.  Sometimes, when the fear is deep, momentum is best achieved from the looming threat of something we fear even MORE.   I'm still working on this concept in my own life, but Bailey managed to figure it out herself.

Maybe she's not so crazy after all.

A PSA

I've been crazy busy this week.  Actually, I should say craziER and busiER than usual.  Life around here typically moves at a breakneck pace somewhere between mach 1 and insanity on most days, but lately, it's been ridiculous. 

Remember that saying, "running around like a chicken with its head cut off?"  That would be me, except I'm not a chicken, and I have a head - even if it is a head in desperate need of sleep and a touch-up.

Whenever I'm in these overwhelming, can't-get-off-of-the-hamster-wheel moments, all I can think of is getting through them.  I want to move past whatever events or challenges are stealing my time and attention and get to the other side as quickly as possibleso that I can enjoy life again.  I dream of a day when I can relax and not do anything.  I fantasize about stopping time. 

For an equally busy friend of mine, time has stopped for her and her family, but not in the way any of us would want.  Her twenty-something daughter was tragically killed by a speeding drunk driver who plowed into her car as he failed to stop for a stop sign.  One single, senseless, selfish decision by someone has caused a young life to be snuffed out too soon and a family to be torn apart.  Someone's bad judgment and irresponsibility has stopped the clock for them, freezing  this painful day forever in their memories.

Today, as I work to meet all of my duties and responsibilities and challenges, I'm going to do my best to appreciate the fact that I'm still here, and my family is still here.  I'm going to remember how blessed I am to have such a full life to live.   It may be messy and tough to manage but it's mine and I'm grateful for it.

And I'm going to hug my kids.  Tightly.  Even the too-cool older ones.  And when they complain, I'm going to hug them again because some moments can't be repeated too often. 

You might want to do the same.