Easter Pies

Have you ever found yourself doing something simply because it is a family tradition and thinking, why am I doing this? Or, whoever thought of doing this? I read an anecdote about a family who always asked the butcher to cut off the small end of the ham, which they placed beside the larger portion to cook. When one of the daughters married, her new husband asked her why she cooked ham this way. She replied because it is the best way...my mom always cooked it this way. At the next family gathering, he queried the mother as to why she cooked ham in that manner. She affirmed that it was the best way because her mother had always done it that way. The next time the man saw the grandmother, he remembered to ask her why she cooked hams that way. She laughed and responded that her roasting pan was small and that was the only way the ham would fit!

I love pie, but hate to make piecrust. When I was first married, I was enthralled with the picture of the piecrust in the Betty Crocker cookbook. I have wasted hours of my life trying to make the perfect piecrust. And so I would only make pies for very special occasions or holiday. Since most of the other holidays had their own sweet dishes, pies became THE thing for Easter. A wonderful friend gave me an easy recipe for fresh strawberry pie and together with lemon meringue, they were necessities for our family celebration. We probably have more pictures of the girls stirring and then slicking the bowls of the Easter pie fillings than we have of them dyeing their Easter eggs. We didn't have pie at the end of the meal, because we couldn't properly appreciate it while we were so full. We would wait until just about sunset and then mark the end of another memorable Easter by consuming a huge piece of pie.

One Easter, we were not in the mood for the usual sit-down formality of a meal and so we put the ham and potato salad and rolls in a picnic basket and drove a few miles to the backside of nowhere and picnicked and then flew kites all that windy afternoon. We weren't quite prepared, however, to completely break with tradition and so we got home in time for sunset and the Easter pies.

As the years piled up and our family changed, we opted to make Easter dinner into Easter brunch. The Editor would make an unbelievable number of waffles that we would sometimes eat as we walked from the kitchen to the dining room so they would not be less than piping hot as we consumed them. Busybody taught us to eat fresh strawberries dipped first in sour cream and then in brown sugar, and so we no longer needed the strawberry pie. For several years, there were only adults at these get-togethers and they changed quite a bit to accommodate the composition of the family. Usually, one or more daughters would need to leave to visit the other family that now had share rights and the sunset pie was no longer a whole family observance.

This year it was only me and the Norwegian at home for Easter but I still felt compelled to make an Easter pie. The crust didn't seem so difficult--maybe because there was only need for one. And then, because the Norwegian was gone for the day and I had more time than usual, I happened to take note of the microwave instructions on the box of the lemon pudding and pie filling. I would never have departed from the tried and true stirring-in-a-pan method if we had been having guests for dinner. But, I can give up some points on taste in order to gain convenience and, really, is a husband going to notice? Surprisingly, it was easier! I licked the bowl--myself--trying to determine what made those scraped up bits so delectable to little girls. And now I know!

The celebration is over, the pie is gone, but memories have a way of hanging around. Maybe that's why we start traditions, steadfastly maintain them and pass them on.


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

We had eggs

I never was a big fan of the dyeing of the eggs at Easter. Maybe I was when I was little, but I can remember dyeing eggs as a teenager at Gigi’s and not being very fond of it. I always liked the way the paper towels (I used to dry my hands or the eggs on) turned out more than the way the eggs did. And Gigi ALWAYS wanted us to wear gloves on Easter to cover up the dye on our fingers—no eggceptions (Maybe she always wanted us to dye eggs so we would stain our fingers so we would HAVE to wear gloves. Gigi?)

I am beginning to realize that a lot of my aversions stem from holidays at Grandma’s house. Every Easter when I was little we would go to church, then the entire extended family would convene at Grandma’s for an Easter feast. All of the cousins would bring their basket of eggs for a gigantic Easter egg hunt and then we’d sit down to eat. Our gross boy cousins would then crack and peel several of their Easter eggs, slather them with ketchup (of all things!) and stuff the whole thing into their mouths, with crumbly egg and ketchup oozing out of the corners. I’m not eggsaggerating.(Waiting for the gag reflex to pass…) Who eats eggs like that? (My cousins, that’s who, but besides them?) My guess is no one in civilized society.

Fortunately for me, Marlo is not eggsactly interested in dyeing eggs yet. She IS into furiously coloring them after they are dyed. Joy, however, could hardly contain herself all day long (on Saturday) in anticipation of dyeing the eggs. I tried to minimize the time spent on this endeavor, but there is only a certain amount of corner cutting you can do…the boiling, the mixing of the dyes (we used food coloring this year), doing a scavenger hunt for the egg dippers, covering the table and the kiddos with stainable clothing/table cloths. Finally it was time—and do you know how much time it took Joy to dye 18 eggs? 4 minutes. I guess if I actually liked the dyeing of the eggs, I’d be a little miffed. All that time and energy spent on the preparation and build up for 4 minutes?

So here it is: I don’t mind that it took the better part of a day to prepare for a 4 minute activity. Joy was proud of her work. Marlo embellished to her little heart’s content, and 4 minutes later I was thrilled that it was over, eggstatic even!

Good-bye, Peter Cottontail…see you next year!



Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Moment of Bliss Report

To the editor: Holidays create a problem in my life: Not during the time of preparation for them nor in the actual celebration of them, but in putting them away. As I write this, my house is still full of Valentine mementos. They may not be so timely right now, but did remind me to respond to your request for feedback on our moment of bliss.

I had thought I might never have grandkids because I was much closer to 60 than I was to 50 when the first one was born. As soon as I was getting somewhat accustomed to my new role, four more came quickly to join us in our play and to teach me the lessons of a grandmother. I feel that my life must be joined to theirs in a very unique way since they dilly-dallied so long about showing up: We just have to make up the lost time.

For seven years, the first grandson has known his place in my heart and, I feel sure, he fully reciprocates. He says, “I love you most, Gigi”. I understand. He doesn’t mean that he has more love for me than anyone else; I am not alone at the top of his love list. He means that he loves me at the ultimate level: It isn’t possible to increase that love. (I taught him that phrase, and so I can interpret its meaning to you.) He is such a little schmoozer and I know he tells that to his mom, all of his aunts, and his cousins, maybe to certain friends and possibly his teacher, but in that moment, for both of us, it is our heartfelt heart song.

His Christmas Day birthday made him five. Even so, the second grandson does not talk so much and he sometimes leaves us guessing as to what and why and when he does things. Maybe because he doesn’t talk that much and thinks he needs to maximize his words, he is sometimes, unintentionally I hope, blunt. He looks so angelic, but is such a little boy, boy that it makes me laugh to hear the things he says. After Christmas, he realized that there were a few more things he wanted, and started to work on the problem with me. In his haste, he blurted out, “Why did you get me this, Gigi? I don’t even like it.” His big, blue eyes looked at me and I could see the cogs turning in his mind as he put an (unexpectedly delightful) addendum to his statement, “but I love you, Gigi.” Momentary oopsie: momentous correction.

The oldest granddaughter is very verbal: It is her gift; her charm; her essence. Not being that far along in her fourth year, though, her very busyness and ability to craft excuses, sometimes leads to unexpected outcomes. One day ice cream dripped while she explained the plot of a movie; there was a picture that needed to be immediately painted and there was no time to put on the painting shirt, and she scientifically tested the hypothesis that the faster you pump the hand soap the farther it will squirt. All of these necessitated more than one change of clothing and when Busybody got home from work, she had to put out yet another change. But she then let me (the partner in the misdemeanor?) take over the actual task. I try to hurry the process and so I talk about how pretty the clean outfit is and how nice she’ll look when (I mean If) we ever get her into it. And then I say, “Hey, look, even your unders match. Your Mommy takes such good care of you. Aren’t we glad we have her?’’ Without thinking or hesitation, she replies, “Oh, yes. I think in Heaven she’s going to win the prize for Mommies.” In response to that moment, I suddenly can treasure the dribbles and drabs of the day.

The second granddaughter is well established in her terrific two’s. In repose, she looks like a blue-eyed, golden-curls doll cast in porcelain. During activity, she looks like a cabbage patch kid cast in durable plastic. With two older brothers, she can return klonks with gusto and deliver bonks as she boldly attacks from behind. The way she views herself, however, is more in keeping with my first description. No matter what her attire, she drapes everything beautiful around her neck or wrist or ankle, sticks gorgeous accessories in her disheveled hair and puts together extravagant outfits. Before breakfast, she puts on her best (that means frilliest) tutu with her pajama top, diaper, two stretchy headbands for necklaces and a peacock feather to wave around (after it fell out of her hair) and starts to whirl herself around the room while executing the high kicks, the backward leg movements, the air jumps of the ballerina she has become. She says, “Look, Grams” (the only grandchild who does not call me, Gigi. ???)wanting to display her unique dancing abilities. The editor pauses in her momly activities and starts to sing Angelina Ballerina and claps out the lively rhythm. We enjoy an impromptu recital. ScoobyDoo comes on the television and the moment dissipates. The actual moment, that is; the remembered moment will always be there.

At still under a year and a half, the Little Bits granddaughter doesn’t talk; she communicates. I arrive to share the day and she sees me from the next room. First, she squints and puts on her mad face. (To scare off a possible intruder?) Then she bends slowly from the waist with her hands on her hips as though to gain the advantage of another perspective. She jerks her head in a little double-take as she recognizes me, lets out a shriek of joy and runs toward me. I start to bend down to scoop her up for a hug and kiss of welcome, but as she comes almost within reach, she makes a perfect U-ey, and, without breaking stride, takes a couple more laps around the house, all the while, shrieking her thrill of recognition, being able to run and being in control. Hugs and kisses have to be kept for the times when life slows down; such as, when I leave; when she is tired; when she doesn’t feel good, or when she deems the time is appropriate. In our own way, we each savor the moment, before we seize the day.

It seems my moments of bliss come in multiples of five and I love each one the most.

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Lila and Merona

In honor of the month of February, I want to share a tongue twister:

Lila's love laughs loudly.

Once, when we were young, we had a teddy bear tea party at our house and invited the kids from the street. One little girl, whom we called Merona (not her real name--a twist on Ramona of Beverly Cleary fame) attended and she was the source of much merriment with this tongue twister.

The game for the tea party was to sit in a circle and, when it was your turn, hold the microphone and say "Lila's love laughs loudly" three times in a row. When it was Merona's turn, she took the mike and said, "Lila's love laughs" and we all said, "loudly." So, she did it again with more volume, "Lila's Love Laughs" and we all said, "loudly." So, she did it again, but yelling this time "LILA'S LOVE LAUGHS!!"

Game over, we all laughed so hard.

Posted by The Editor.

The Wink

Do you remember when you learned to wink?
Did someone teach you?

It's possible I learned how to do it when I was very young--the actual closing of one eye at a time. But I really learned when to wink and how to use a wink from my Grandpa, Gigi's father.

Just like Grandma, he was sassy and silly in his own way, strong and gentle, all at the same time. He could convey so much with that wink and accompanying twinkle in his eye. He had a hard life, lived through the depression, suffered heart problems and more. But all of those factors were irrelevant when he'd tell a good story and flash that twinkle and wink. You'd think he was living the high life, and I guess in a way, he was. Irrepressible spirit transcends all, if you let it.

I was the one who taught all my kids how to wink. And, I hope they see that spark of life sometimes in me. Life is not easy. We all toil with our own troubles, heartaches, and circumstances beyond our control. I do think, however, a bit of sass and laughter will help us see our way through.

I hope all you readers had a wonderful weekend. Ours did not quite go as planned...we had one with stomach flu, one with a fever, and one day that did not crack 40 deg F all day, followed by a day in the high 60's. But, we were all together. We laughed and played and smiled in the sun that has been missing for weeks.

What was the highlight of your weekend? Please leave a comment, we love to get them!

Posted by The Editor.

Weekend of Bliss

St. Valentine's Day is one of those days...if it's good, it's really good and if it's not, it's horrible. I, for one, do not like to get flowers or go out to dinner in celebration of the day. Flower prices are inflated and the restaurants are crowded. I suppose a girl should be grateful to get either one and I am in no way trying to be hurtful to those that don't even have an option. I like holidays, really, I do. Except I like them as special days, not commercialized checklists of what is required in order to have a perfect one. I want them simple, so I can be fully present and appreciate the beauty and love that surrounds me. So this weekend, wherever you are, I wish for you, one small moment of bliss. I invite you to come back Monday and share it in the comments section here.

I already have had mine:

Samantha was trying to fall asleep tonight after a long, busy, rainy day.
Tossing and turning she asked,
"Where is daddy?"
I answered, "Sleeping."

"Where is Bubba?"
"Sleeping, shhh."

"Where is Stump?"
"Sleeping, shhh."

"Where is the sun?"
"Sleeping."

"Where? In the van?"
"In the van?"

"No," she says, "in the clouds."
And with that precious, beautiful thought, she fell asleep.


Posted by The Editor.

Happy Birthday to Me

One year on my birthday, Hubs had not said a word about it being my birthday. I didn’t mention it, either, because I thought maybe he had a surprise planned. We worked together at the police department. We got up, got ready, went in in the morning, had lunch together, drove home together. Not a word. I think I made soup and cornbread muffins for dinner. Still, not a word. We watched TV while we ate dinner. There was a commercial about someone having a birthday. Even that was not enough to jog his memory. We went to bed early because he was tired.

The next day he had to work but I did not. I decided that since my birthday was forgotten the day before that I would indulge myself by staying in bed a little later than usual. That was cut short, however, by the phone ringing. It was Hubs. He had a list of errands that he needed me to run. After giving me numerous chores to do, I snottily asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Clueless, he said “No.” Then I asked, “Is there anything else you want to say to me?” And, of course, he started to get a little irritated with my attitude, so he said, “Like what?” in a rather snotty tone of his own. When I said, “Oh, I don’t know, like ‘Happy Birthday’ maybe?” he said, “I didn’t forget! I was going to do something—“ and I said, “Really? When? Because my birthday was yesterday!” (Crickets chirping…pins dropping…)

We laugh about it now, but ever since then he has been very careful to remember my birthday, on my actual birthday. I just had another one—the darn things seem to be a yearly occurrence!

(After a very long day of laundry, cleaning, kids, and making my own cake…) Hubs had arranged for his mom to come over to watch the girls, made dinner reservations, and even got me a gift.

I am the one who just turned one year older, but I think Hubs might be starting to grow up.

MIL brought me a cake. (I had made my own, of course, but if I hadn’t she wouldn’t have brought one.) Dinner was at Café Sevilla—anyone living in So.Cal or visiting HAS TO GO! It is fabulous!

And when I got home, Joy had fallen asleep on the couch with Grandma. I turned down the covers on her bed and Hubs carried her up to her room. Just as he was about to place her in her bed she sleepily opened her eyes. She smiled, clapped her hands twice, and said, “Oh, Mom! I didn’t know you were going to be home so soon!” Then she kissed me good-night and went to sleep. Now that’s a good birthday!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Bubba's Birthday Story

Have you wondered about my children's names? Bubba, Stump, and Samantha Jeanpocket? Obviously, they are nicknames but maybe you are curious about why those names, and maybe you aren't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Long before there were any kids, we (I) used to talk about baby names. I brought up all those I used to list on the MASH game (remember Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House)? See these links for a refresher: http://www.espin.com/mash-game.php http://mashgame.com/ http://www.bored.com/playmash/

The Italian didn't like any of them, even though we weren't even pregnant yet, we would fuss over the names, like "that's horrible" or "no! you have to admit, that's a good one!" The discussions would then degenerate into the Italian telling me he had his heart set on Bubba and Stump in counterpoint to my Esme and Gibraltar. Finally we agreed that he could name the boys and I would name the girls (first names only and the other spouse would choose the middle names). But, I warned him, if he settled on Bubba and Stump, his daughter would go through life carrying the Samantha Jeanpocket moniker. The children actually have great names that we both like, but in virtual reality, it's amusing to me to use Bubba, Stump, and SJP. But, I digress, this post is about the day Bubba was born, seven (short) years ago.

The story I tell him every year goes like this:

On the day you were born, I woke up early, very early. Daddy was already getting ready for work and I was afraid he had left.

I called downstairs, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming."

But, he didn't hear me. So I called again, louder this time, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming!"

But, he still didn't hear me so I yelled really, really loud: "DADDY! DADDY! TODAY IS THE DAY THE BABY IS COMING!"

And, that time he heard me and came running upstairs. "Are you sure?" he asked. I said, "Yes, I am positive." He said, "OK, let me call work and tell them." So he did and then I ate a bowl of Cheerios, called Gigi to tell here that today was the day and we got our stuff and got in the truck and drove to the hospital.

At the hospital, we waited and waited and waited some more. Gigi and The Norwegian came to wait with us and we waited all day. Finally, you arrived. They wrapped you up and put a little hat on your head and placed you near my heart and you looked up at me and we looked at each other and I smiled and said, "Oh my baby, you are finally here!"

Then you went with daddy to get your first bath and later they brought you to me and we snuggled and cuddled all night. You were so sweet and you kept stretching your arms and legs, a little further each time to see how far they could go. You picked your head up to look around and all the relatives and friends came to meet you.

We left the hospital together with Daddy and Gigi on a cold and gray January day. When we got home, we walked you through the house and said, "This is your home and we are so glad you are with us." We still are.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Posted by The Editor

Dancing Santa 2009

Illuminated by the soft, pink-hued glow of hundreds of red and white Christmas bulbs, she calls, “More, again!” and throw up her arms towards Santa and his Winter Wonderland on the roof. The ferris wheel spins, the seesaw tips, the reindeers look back and forth and Santa, on cue, starts singing and swaying, standing tall against the night sky, showering the sidewalk below with familiar classic melodies of the season. She, in turn, starts her self-appointed role of dance partner, harmonizer and neighborhood greeter.

It has become a nightly ritual: dressed in her small pink coat, warm printed tights, coordinated dress and fleece boots, topped by the pink hat, she rides her carriage to the appointed corner and commands a seatbelt release. On cue, she high steps and jumps, hops and jives, twirls the skirt of her coat and marches up and down with her hands pressed together in the small of her back. The neighbors pass by in their nightly routines, to smile and comment on her evolving ritual--each night is a bit fancier and grander than the previous.

The air is quiet and cold, save Santa’s singing, and her occasional “Merry Christmas” and “Ho, Ho, Ho” to chime in with Santa’s song. She triggers the sensor again and again to continue the dance, never tiring.

Every evening, before bed she asks, “Go outside, see Santa, please, mom?” And every evening, until Santa retires for the season, I will take her, trying to savor and save the experience, never tiring of watching the dance of complete joy, staged on a sidewalk corner by a two-year old swathed in pink.

Posted by The Editor.

Stumps's Birthday Story

One of our family traditions is that I tell each child the story of their birth on their birthday. Obviously, it does not have all the details, but they love to hear it over and over and over. This is the stuff their legends are made of. And this is the story for Stump, who turned five on Christmas Day this year:


The night before you were born, the house was full of family for Christmas Eve celebrations. About 8 o’clock, I got really sleepy and my sister said, “You’d better take a nap because that baby might be coming soon.” I really couldn’t keep my eyes open so I went to lie down and when I woke up, everyone was leaving to go home, except Gigi and The Norwegian.

We all went to sleep and about 2 o’clock in the morning, I got up and woke Daddy up to tell him it was time to go to the hospital because our baby was coming. I also woke up Gigi to tell her that we were leaving. I peeked into Bubba’s room to whisper “Merry Christmas” and then we got in the big truck and drove to the hospital. We waited and waited. Your aunts came to wait with us and we waited some more. Finally, at dinnertime, you arrived and they put you in my arms and I said “Oh, my sweet baby, here you are.”

Then you went with Daddy to get your little hat and shirt and I went to my room where they brought me a little boxed Christmas dinner -- I was starving--and then they brought you to me. All the relatives and Daddy went home to finish Christmas and get some rest too. We were alone in the room and it was very quiet that Christmas night. I made a little nest for you in the pillows beside me and we snuggled and slept but you wouldn’t open your eyes and look at me. I got up and turned out all the lights and opened the curtains a crack for a little bit of light. THEN, you opened one eye and then the other to peek at me and I said, “Oh, my sweet baby, there you are.”

The next day, lots of relatives came to visit and Gigi and The Norwegian brought Bubba to meet you. He wasn’t yet two and was more interested in the buttons on the bed than the tiny baby in my arms. The day after that, Daddy took us home in the big truck and it was a cold and gray day but in the driveway was a bundle of bags with balloons welcoming you home. Our neighbor had brought presents for you and Bubba: books, blankets, and clothes. Inside our warm house, the Christmas decorations were still sparkling and Gigi and The Norwegian and Bubba were there to welcome you home.


Posted by The Editor.

Christmas 2009

Said the night wind to the little lamb, “Do you see what I see?”

Christmas Eve was full. Full of food, full of laughter, full of happy children, full of decoration, full of music, full of cookies, full of family, full of fun, full of presents. Christmas Eve was full.

The cousins came from out of state to visit. They are great friends. All of the kids were too excited to nap, too excited to eat, too excited to listen. Someone convinced them, when it was present time, that there was a contest. The cousin who was sitting the quietest would be chosen to open gifts first. That was rough…the shiny wrapping, the beautiful bows, the mystery of the gifts made them all giggly and jumpy and wiggly. It was almost too much to bear. The 3 big kids (big as in almost 7, 5, and 4) managed to pull it off for a few minutes. The two little ones didn’t even try.

Then it was bath time. Each family of kids went to their own bathroom. There was a contest to see who could be bathed, pj’d, and brushed (as in teeth), first. The out of towners got a head start, but my girls came from behind like champs. In the end I think it was a tie.

Next it was a rush of thank yous and good-byes and hugs and kisses. The cousins and Gigi and The Norwegian were off—trying to get “home” before Santa. My little ones didn’t argue about bed. They, too, needed to get to sleep before Santa came by—because we all know what happens if Santa comes and you aren’t asleep! (I still have to lie down with Joy for her to fall asleep. Fortunately, it only takes her 10-15 minutes. Unfortunately, I only need 5-10 minutes to fall asleep myself! An hour later I emerged from her room…only to find Hubs sound asleep on the couch.) Hubs jokingly said, “What if we had stayed asleep and the kids woke us up on Christmas morning?” That’s not funny.

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy, “Do you hear what I hear?”

The house was quiet once again. Silent night. Holy night. All is calm…just not at my house. First, Hubs and I cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes, put all the food away, swept, vacuumed, and mopped. It almost didn’t look like we hosted Christmas Eve. After the cleaning was done, “Santa” had to get all the gifts wrapped and under the tree. Finally, Hubs and I could crawl into bed, knowing that in a few short hours two excited little girls would be waking us up to see if Santa had made it.

He did!

It’s been a rough couple of years at our house. We work in the real estate industry. Times are tough. We have tightened our belts and tightened our belts and tightened our belts. We are going to have to make new holes if we have to tighten them any more! We know that things are going to get better. They always do. We know that there are worse things than telling your kids, “Not today, we don’t have the money for that right now.” We are healthy, our kids are wonderful, we are all together. All I can say is thank goodness for Dollar Tree and Big Lots! Our girls will never know that this Christmas was meager, that it was a huge struggle for us. We pulled off the magic of Christmas for them and that’s all that matters.

We went to Hubs’ grandmother’s house to see more grandmas and uncles and aunts and cousins for the day. The girls got more gifts, we had a delicious dinner, and we left tired and happy. It was late when we got home so we gave the girls a snack and got them into bed. (They thought no baths on Christmas was a great gift!)

Said the shepherd boy to the might king, “Do you know what I know?”

In the hustle and bustle of the holidays it’s easy to forget what’s important about the season. I was surrounded by the people I love the most. I got to see pure joy on the kids’ faces as they opened up their gifts. I am so grateful. I am so grateful someone was willing to send their only child to save the earth. I don’t think I could give up either one of my girls for any reason—even one as miraculous as saving the human race from hell. I am so grateful that God’s gift to mankind is the perfect gift…it’s the right size, the right color, the right everything. I am so grateful. Christmas was perfect this year.

I see a star, dancing in the night…I hear a song, high above the trees…I know a child shivers in the cold. I am so grateful for what I have in my life, what I am able to provide for my family, for what I am able to protect my children from. Christmas was perfect.



Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Christmas Always Brings Wonder

I was born on a farm in the south. It was a small farm. I didn’t know that. It was a place of adventure and surprise and wonderment. The sky was an inverted bowl that touched the earth just beyond New Liberty Church and on the far side of Larraine and then encircled River Rock’s outer limits and rounded out across the back side of our farm. It was the world—my world. There were other places—I knew that. There was California. Hadn’t we lived there for a while? And there was Big Springs. My Grandma and Grandpa lived there. We got letters from them and once they came on the bus to visit us. There was Wisconsin. My Aunt and Uncle lived there. I knew about these places, but I didn’t have to make room for them under that bowl. I knew what I knew and the world was complete with just my boundaries.

We were poor. I didn’t know that either. I thought cornbread and milk for supper was the food of the gods. Well, I didn’t think that exactly, because that little church on the edge of my world wouldn’t have permitted me to think of God in a plural form. The church was small and poor (are you seeing a pattern here?) and could only afford a preacher to come once a month; but in the meantime, we had Sunday School and prayer meeting and someone led in a few inspirational thoughts. Theology was simple and would never have permitted the word, gods. Nevertheless, the food was…Heavenly? Divine? No, I couldn’t have used those words either about food. Vocabulary was important and you didn’t use words lightly. For instance, the word, liar, could only be used about the grossest of sinners who would be consigned to eternity in Hell. If you used it about your sister or brother or neighbor, then you might be the one with the consignment. And if not that, you’d certainly be the one with the slapped face or the spanked bottom. Giving children time out was an unheard of thing in those days, and wouldn’t have set too well with parents who were trying to raise their kids “right”. And that meant getting the meanness out of them as quick and as soon as possible. Nothing is quicker and sooner than a slap or a whipping to make an impression that the behavior is unacceptable. Back to the food… I guess you would have had to come home from the fields for dinner (which came in the middle of the day and supper came at night) and, while we were washing up at a tin basin out in the yard, be smelling candied sweet potatoes and fried ham and gravy and homemade biscuits to know why I can’t use mere words to describe the smells and tastes that have stayed with me for a lifetime.

My first recollections of Christmas are from that little farm.( Apparently, our theology permitted us to believe in Santa. After God, of course.) It was cold and the windows were frosted over. The house was heated by a little gas heater in the front room. If you stood near enough to feel the heat, you might get burned, and beyond its radius, you were cold. My sister and I stood by the window and, with our sleeves, cleared patches to look out. We were watching for Santa. I heard the sleigh bells first. And then I saw him. We ran pell-mell for bed—not even waiting for Mom to warm the quilt, which was freezing cold in that unheated bedroom. We didn’t care. We knew we had to be in bed and asleep for Santa to bring us anything. Although I had unshakeable faith in Santa, I wasn’t so sure of myself. I knew all my transgressions for the past year and was hoping against hope that he was watching some other child during those times I had transgressed and had somehow missed my misbehaviors. Sleep hurried the time and we ran to the front room and, Wonder of Wonders, Santa had been there! We set up a whoop and a holler that brought Mom and Dad running from the back bedroom with our little brother. In post-war farm poverty, it was a miracle. There was a doll for me. She was beautiful. She had a pink dress and bonnet that far surpassed anything that I had noticed at the dime store in town. She was the real thing. Designed and fashioned by Santa and his elves in faraway North Pole and transported to me by flying reindeer. She had that new doll smell that I would only experience four times in my childhood. Oh, there was MORE. We had hung a sock –a clean one—from the back of the kitchen chairs and they were lumpy. There was a candy bar in the top. We didn’t tear into it. We would have to look at it and find the perfect time and place to enjoy it. The next thing to be pulled out was an ORANGE. We only had those at Christmas; And at the bottom of the sock was a handful of mixed nuts. Later in the day, Dad would bring in a big rock and the hammer and crack those nuts and tell us their names and we would feast on their unusual and wondrous tastes. Mom sat in the rocking chair with the contents of her stocking in her aproned lap and said she thought she would make cookies and put candy pieces in them. Dad said no, we’re all going to eat our candy bars and be thankful for the treat and the abundance of Christmas. At the time, I thought my parents were old, but they were young: Too young, really, to deal with the hardships of their life, but apparently old enough to be brave and loving and good. Oh, what a memory!


Posted by The Editor for Gigi

Foggy Bloggy

It is 4:35 am on Christmas Eve. No, I am not up early in anticipation of the day’s excitement. I am still up on a marathon sleep deprivation binge that started a week ago last Tuesday. My Christmas shopping is done (as of 12:35 yesterday morning). Most of my cookies are baked. My house is reasonably clean. My gifts are what is going to have to pass as wrapped. Hubs and the girls are all snug in their beds.

I am just thankful that red and green are the colors of the season.
The green tinge to my sleep thirsty skin and my red, bloodshot eyes should just blend right in!

Merry Christmas!


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

The Last Big Christmas Tree, maybe

Today was tree decorating day. It said so on Joy’s advent calendar. (I am currently running about 6-16 days behind on everything. I am not sure why…maybe because there is too much on my plate and I have control issues.) Since it said so on the calendar, we did it.

Anyway, the tree is decorated. There are still storage boxes decorating the corners of my living room. I keep crossing my arms and blinking my eyes, but they will not go away. And I keep twitching my lips and snapping my fingers, but the rest of the Christmas decorations will not place themselves. And truth be told, it’s not my favorite thing to do.

I like the décor when it’s up and running—within a certain time frame. However, actually putting it up is clouded by the knowledge that it has to come down and get put away in a few short weeks. Everyone is all enthusiastic about making cookies and cocoa and putting things up, but no one likes to help with the putting away stuff. OK, actually, Joy likes to help, but this is her version of helping:
Grab hold of an ornament and pull until it comes off of the tree or the hanger comes off of the ornament. As you are trotting to the table to put your one ornament in the box, look out for the other 16 on the branch that you just took the one off of because the rebound effect has just sent them flying into the wall across from you and you will soon be showered with pretty shards of Christmas shrapnel. Go get the broom and dust pan. Knock 7 more ornaments off of the tree with the handle of the broom (it’s a good thing you have the broom to clean them up!), sweep up the mess and deposit them in the trash. Go back to the tree and grab hold of an ornament and pull, etc. etc. (I guess this is part of the natural selection of ornaments. Those tough enough to survive get packed away for next year. The rest get a one way ticket to the dump.)

My goal for next year is to get the girls their own mini trees and let them decorate them themselves. Then I am going to get invited (or invite myself) to a Christmas party every weekend day of December. That way I won’t miss the tree. (I will also frame a pic of this year’s tree to gaze at if, and only if, I start to miss having one.)

My goal for this year is to minimize and simplify. I have plenty of friends that I can visit to oooh and aaah over their decorating genius. My other goal is to have the stuff down and put away at 12:01 am on 12-26-09.

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches…especially when they are safely packed away in their box and all snug in their bed… on the garage shelf.
I am not a Grinch, I just have a thing about cleaning to decorate for a few weeks to have to un-decorate and clean again. It kind of detracts from the reason for the season for me.


And while we are on the subject, I do not eat red meat, popcorn, or French fries. My husband calls me un-American. My friends call me crazy. You can call me anything you want—just don’t call me to tell me you are coming over…I still have decorating to do, and it has to get done by Christmas or it won’t get done at all!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body, who used to eat red meat a long time ago, ate popcorn every visit to Grandma's at 9:00pm for a bedtime snack, sitting on the couch with a stainless steel bowl but, really, was never very fond of French fries.

Decorating the Empty Nest

The daughters call my house the Christmas boutique: I call it home. But decorating the empty nest. Not so fun. There is no lack of things to choose from: Over the years I have accumulated many boxes of Christmas treasure. The question used to be where to put it, now the question is how much can I leave in the boxes. As I was decorating, memories flowed. I particularly enjoyed my recollections of my first venture out into the world and my journey back home for the holidays.

I was over twenty when I started college and I thought I was the most independent of my siblings: The most adventurous; the most mature. Being the middle child, I thought I was the one that didn’t need the apron strings, but now I know that I had just pulled them off by holding them so tightly.

I chose a small, religious-based southern college hundreds of miles and several states away. Glad to be going: Happy to be on my own. It was fun. It was exciting. It was different. Ah, college. Time rushed by. It was Thanksgiving. There was a mass exodus of students going home. I wasn’t one of them. All of those states and miles were not in my favor, now. I caught up on my sleep, my papers, my laundry, my letters, my dorm room cleaning, hmmm. On Thanksgiving Day there was a big dinner in the campus cafeteria. I didn’t go. I went for a walk in the woods and I was (choose one:)

1. Impressed by nature

2. Homesick

3. Ready for more challenges

4. None of the above

The correct answer is (2). Homesick. Everything reminded me of home--even sights and smells that probably should not have been included in the category, I could somehow relate to that perfect spot on earth. Well, now, the only remedy was to go home for Christmas. Did I want to exchange snow at Christmas ( a new experience) for sunshine(the same old familiar stuff)? You betcha. I needed to inform my parents that they needed to send tickets for whatever--bus, train, plane—just get me home. I had to wait in line for the one phone in the dorm hallway (the college thought we were there to be studious, not talk on the phone) and I smiled in anticipation. My mom answered and I jumped to the middle of the reason for my call, because every minute was metered and they really valued brevity during phone calls. She listened and then said, Here, you better talk to your dad. He listened. He went to the middle of his reasoning. He reminded me that we had decided, before I left for school, that I wouldn’t be coming home during the school year. It was less than a year’s time that I would be away; it was too far; it was too expensive; our three minutes are up. Call over. Smile gone—new plan.

I had heard that one of the guys who happened to live in an adjacent town to my hometown was going to drive home and was taking paying passengers. I had an emergency bank account in town. What could be more emergency than going home? I put on my coat and gloves and knee socks and struck out for town. It was all downhill easy, but going back uphill was a little breathtaking. Not so much so as to deter me from my appointed task, and so I went straight to the boys’ dorm and had the young man paged. When he showed up, I waved my money around and begged incoherently and randomly for one of the seats in his car. Yeah, o.k. (Wow, that was easy.) BUT, there’s no eating or drinking or chewing gum in the car. You can bring one small suitcase and one small purse. You can have a pillow and a blanket (small, as I remember). Rest stops will be timed and you must be ready to go at the appointed time. Hey, I’ll type this all up and leave it in your campus mailbox. (Great, there is now a car code. Going to a small, religious-based southern college in the early ‘60’s meant there was a dress code, a dorm code, a dating code, a study code, a moral code, and now, a car code. I finished that school totally encrypted. Oh, well, small price, right?)

Skipadeedoodahing back to my dorm, I thought of my next requirement. I would have to tell my parents. I would much rather rush up to the front door and yell, surprise, surprise, but the car code required that someone pick me up at a designated parking lot in Driver Boy’s hometown. And so, I wait in line, dial home, bypass my mom, put dad on the phone, please, and sure enough, my definition of emergency is not the same as his. He does, however, agree not to leave me stranded on an unknown parking lot beyond walking and carrying my own suitcase, purse, pillow and blankie distance from home. I am homeward bound! The visit was HYPER (one of my Greek vocabulary words, look it up!) I’ll have to save those stories for another session of visiting with” you all“(one of my southern expressions). At the end of the two (too) short weeks, we kept a predawn rendezvous on that same parking lot. My dad wasn’t a huggy, kissy kind of man, and so our leave-taking was brief, but when he shook Driver Boy’s hand and his voice was full of tears as he said Drive with care, I knew our definition of emergency had blended.

P.S.

Did I say empty nest? It actually is very crowded with all the precious people with whom I have shared my life. Including you. Have a blessed, down home Christmas--wherever that may be.




Posted by The Editor for Gigi

Turkey day recap

I said I was going to write about Thanksgiving after the fact. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. Under promise, over deliver is my new mantra.

First of all, I think they moved Thanksgiving up this year. It came really fast and I simply wasn’t prepared. The shopping got done on Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, by my husband. (See my previous post about Thanksgiving, specifically the challenges that husband- shopping poses, to understand my issues.) Anyway, if you have ever cooked a Thanksgiving dinner, you understand that it really does take more than 36 hours to thaw a frozen turkey. A turkey to feed me and my husband and my 1 and 4 year olds probably could have thawed in 36 hours (or less), but we did not get one of those. Nope. My husband got a turkey that would feed our usual household of people, but, as luck would have it, we did not have our usual multitude this year. Family members got sick, others had to work, friends went out of town. It ended up being just us. It was cozy, intimate. I’d like to say peaceful, less work, and quiet, too, but that would be a big fat frozen turkey lie.

Even though we had about 16 fewer guests than usual, my husband could not seem to be able to negotiate the menu. I tried to cut out dishes. I tried to pare things down. He simply was not able to forego the ambrosia or the mashed potatoes or the potato salad or the sweet potato casserole or the asparagus casserole or the green bean casserole or the stuffing or the cranberry sauce or the orange carrot bisque or the dinner rolls or the pecan pie or the pumpkin pie or the budge. (Budge is what Joy calls fudge. Actually, Joy was the one who couldn’t live without the budge…but I am certain that my husband would have insisted if she hadn’t.) Yes, I made all of this, in addition to a 22 pound FROZEN turkey, for four of us, two of which have stomachs the size of small citrus fruits. (Incidentally, after touching and handling a raw, albeit frozen, turkey, I kind of get the ick and can’t really eat all that much. I have issues. I know.)

This year, for a fun, new holiday twist, I decided to get sick. Actually, I got sick about 5 days earlier. It started with a sore throat, and then it turned into chest congestion and a cough. I never felt bad enough to stay in bed, but I wasn’t my usual Energizer Bunny self. The cherry on top of the cake (or the whipped cream on top of the pumpkin pie?) was that I coughed so hard that I cracked a rib. I don’t want anyone accusing me of not going all out. Heaven forbid! (Maybe it wasn’t to appear to be a super hero, but rather to show my sympathy for the main dish…who knows? Next year I’m going to add spare ribs to the menu in case I crack another one, AND because my husband doesn’t want our Thanksgiving table to look bare.)

All’s well that ends well, I guess. Joy helped me put up my decoration, so my house did look Martha-esque. You can cook a frozen turkey safely. The leftovers heat up pretty well and you don’t have to cook anything new for a long, long time. Marlo went to bed early. She got all tuckered out from the excitement of the day. Joy fell asleep on the couch watching a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Then I fell asleep watching Martha Stewart’s Holiday Special. I was thankful for a lot of things, but mostly that it was over.


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Flashback to my pre-holiday event marathon...

Joy was a witch for a cupcake decorating event at a local ice cream parlor...but for Halloween she was Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's. Here's the story:

All year she was completely enthralled with Pocahantas and Mulan. She was going to be both for Halloween and she was going to have a Pocahantas and Mulan birthday party. (I am not sure how her mother was going to pull that off, but those were her plans for about 10 1/2 months.) Several weeks before Halloween she decided she wanted to be a witch, which was great with her mother because her mother had saved a witch costume from when she was 3 or 4 and it fit just right. However, a week or so later, Joy announced, "I'm going to be Mommy for Halloween." Her mother thought, "What the heck?" So she asked for clarification. Joy waltzed to the DVD drawer, pulled out Breakfast at Tiffany's and said, "See, I want to be Mommy--just like this." Now, her mother, not wanting to disappoint her by telling her that she is not really Audrey Hepburn (and rather appreciating the comment and wanting to perpetuate that idea for as long as she can!), came up with the costume you see Audrey Hepburn wearing in the opening scene of the movie: long black dress, choker, long black gloves, tiara, cigarette holder, and big, dark sunglasses. Most of the costume was made possible by Gigi, who still had vintage gloves, choker, and hemmed up the dress. (I am both technically challenged and seamstress-ly challenged!) She was the hit of the neighborhood! (She stayed in character for 2 hours of trick or treating... able to do so because of all of the time she spent studying the character in the movie--it is now on her top 10 list of favorites.)

Before you start composing an email telling me of the evils of allowing a 3/4 year old to watch TV/movies, just come live in my shoes for a day and you will probably change your mind. She is too smart for her mother's own good and her mother needs a 'talking time out' every once in a while.

Marlo was a flower fairy. She thoroughly enjoyed Halloween as well...not because she liked dressing up--because she didn't. And not because she liked the candy--because her mother only let her have one piece. And not because she particularly liked the other ghosts and monsters and princesses who were out and about. No, Marlo enjoyed the night because (1) she got to stay up past her bedtime, (2) she loves to be outside, especially after dark, and (3) she really thought she was flower fairy royalty, being pulled around the neighborhood in the wagon, waving at all of her admirers along the way.

Joy and Marlo's mother was a witch. (They will probably tell you she didn't have time to dress up.)

Joy just offered me a lick of her sticky lollipop. She still has a full bag of candy. The neighbors loved her costume so much they gave her extra candy. Her mother was thrilled.

(And here's a tip: If your Thanksgiving plans don’t come together, you can finish off the Halloween candy for dessert. See "Thanksgiving, oh, my stars!” for the full story.)

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Giving Thanks

Oh, I HAD plans...I had PLANS, big PLANS! And they were thwarted by one little girl.

The flu and a cough, a month of sleepless nights, followed by a repeat fever of 102 deg F, and then the subsequent vomiting...that was the final straw on the camel's back. I am fortunate it will only be us--I didn't invite any one or it would have to be potluck and me scrounging the freezer for my part.

Because of the trip to the doctor, I didn't get my shopping done on the very last day in the only time slot I had available and now, there's not enough time to make the fabulous meal I had planned.

Will the kids notice? Probably not. They prefer dinosaur chicken and pasta with broccoli to all other meals. Will the husband notice? Maybe. Maybe not if I let him watch football all day. Will I notice? Only if I let myself.

Perhaps we will figure out a fabulous, low-key approach that will become our new tradition. I'll let you know how it turns out.

I am still giving thanks, however. I held my baby and rocked her and took care of her with the time I would have spent on shopping for and preparing a fancy meal and she has made a speedy recovery. Her smile and laughter and joyfulness will make whatever we eat taste delicious.

Posted by The Editor.