A is for Artichokes

Welcome! To my new and "old" readers alike, I'm glad you're here. I have joined the A to Z Blogging Challenge.   In short, that means posting every day except Sunday during April, beginning with A on April 1st, and ending with Z on  April 30th.

Some of the 1800+ bloggers have chosen a theme to guide their posts. I'm a theme gal, so I "bit" into that wisdom myself.










To provide structure, I have chosen three criteria: 

1) my theme will be memoirs based on food and drinks in my life, 

2) my posts will be limited to 26 sentences, and

3)  the memory I have of each food (or drink) taught me something about  people, life, God, or myself.



My one hope is that you will enjoy each post like a good meal, walk away satisfied, and come back for more.

So, there it is: 26 days in April, 26 letters of the alphabet, 26 foods or drinks I've got memories about, each one written in a maximum of 26 sentences.

Here we go.








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A is for Artichokes



It was Spring Break 1984 when I met my first artichoke. Strange looking creature, that artichoke, but captivating with its green spiky armor. Normally I would have been skeptical to try it, except I trusted the cook.

My Aunt Linda, quite arguably the world’s best chef, prepared a meal of orange roughy, spinach salad, baked potatoes, and steamed artichokes with lemon butter.

I remember the care she took to strip away the toughest outer leaves of each artichoke before steaming it.

I remember the oak table, with its thick, shiny brown beams, set with thick, brown cotton napkins, sturdy earthenware plates, wine glasses, and water goblets.

I remember thinking what a double luxury this was to get away from cafeteria food and have food served as art, with love and candles.

I remember that Aunt Linda put on a  Joan Baez record, and then we sat down to eat.

We talked, ate, talked, drank, talked, laughed, talked, cried. Being with her, a person who cherished me, who accepted me as I was, who created a soft place for me to land--there was nothing quite like it.

Aunt Linda had to show and tell me how to eat artichokes; peel, dip, eat, savor. Peel, dip--"don't be afraid to get messy!"--eat, savor. "The best part is the heart," she said.

Artichokes, that night nearly 30 years ago, became my personal metaphor for how to get to know people.

Peel their rough edges away carefully.
Dip yourself into their world and don't be afraid of the mess.
Eat up experiences with the people you love.
Savor time with the people who love you.

And always remember, the best part is their heart.

A Sandy Cove Memory

One of my dear friends is Marilyn. Her husband ( a wonderful pastor) threw a birthday party yesterday in her honor. In guy terms, that means he waited till Thursday to make some phone calls send a mass email and say he was putting together a little dinner with a few of her closest friends.

I wanted to take her a special gift, something from my heart, so I thought I'd paint something.  I thought of a fruit still life with her favorite grapes, watermelon and 'lopes, plus adding a scripture, but that fell short of inspiring me.   I thought of doing a Zambezi River scene  since she loves the deep colors of her African heritage.  But the photo of the river did nothing but make me say, "Oh, that's pretty."  It wasn't like she'd been there or talked of the Zambezi River.  However, the photo I found did lead me to want to paint a seascape for her, and the first thing I thought of was  Sandy Cove.  It's a Christian camp/ retreat center on the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay where she and I went for an impromptu prayer retreat overnight a few years ago.  Marilyn is the "prayingest" woman I know.  A true intercessor. 

She is also in great shape, being a runner and loving the track and field events (and still competing at her age!).  So our prayer retreat of course included her idea of relaxing before midnight prayer: a 10-minute "burn session."  (This was not something she had discussed when were planning our getaway. She's a wise woman.) Picture doing a cardio workout in a hotel room with an Olympic trainer when you're really thinking some decaf coffee and a donut would be a good segue into the throne room of heaven. Marilyn took out a stretchy rope with handles and made me step on it and stretch muscles in my arms. Muscles I didn't have before I got to Sandy Cove.  She made me do knee lifts to my chin, which is all of seven inches. She made me run sprints in our hotel room, back and forth from window to door. I'm sure the people below were asking for their 99 bucks back. Actually, there was no "below." We were on the first floor, at sea level, with a beautiful view.  But someone, somewhere, must've been saying, "I feel the earth movin' under my feet."

When that was over, we caught our breath, got our showers, and resumed prayer. Marilyn kept moving; she paces when she prays. I, on the other hand, didn't want to make God nervous, so I sat on the foot of the bed. We prayed about everything we could think of, starting with me being able to walk the next day. Mercy! We prayed about everything from children to church to marriage to spiritual gifts to the purchase of a home for her family.  We cried. We laughed. We took potty breaks because we're women of a certain age.  We prayed some more, and then, at last, around 1:15 a.m., we finally fell asleep.

The next morning we slept till past the breakfast service so decided impromptu to fast till lunch.  (Not  a spiritual decision, mind you. Our choices were vending machine and McDonald's.)   We went outside to find a quiet place to sit and talk and pray while watching sailboats on the water and hear gulls overhead.  There was a lone, shiny green bench at the crest of a knoll just a few feet above the tiny beach, somewhat under a shade tree. The leaves were full and green, the grass was green, the water was blue-grey, and the sky at midmorning was yellow and pink.  We agreed to pray with our eyes open because it was just too magnificent a view to pray with closed eyes. God would hear us either way

Fast forward to Saturday night. I drew a quick sketch of the scene I best remembered--that of the morning view of  the bay at Sandy Cove from the bench.  (If you open the photo you'll see an aerial view of the campus. Look at the cluster of trees near the main walkway toward the water. Under one of those sprawling oak trees is a green bench where Marilyn and I sat for morning prayer.) 

Then I painted the scene with acrylics (Grumbacher brand). The only artistic license I took was to change the bench from green to red. A green bench under a green tree on green grass would not have drawn the eye in nearly as much. I learned from a seascape painter in Maine that he often puts red doors on seaside cottages in his paintings for that reason. Gathering tips from pros hither and yon has become a hobby all its own.  Gotta love getting knowledge for free.

Another tip I read Saturday was to combine all the colors from the painting into the sand--tiny hints of blue, green, grey, yellow, brown, orange, whatever. It's so subtle amidst the dominant sand color, but doing this trick brings all the colors together in the foreground.  The eye perceives a unified painting. 

Yet another painting tip is to ask for critique from a 10-year-old artist who happens to be your son. I asked,"Tell me what time of day this scene is."

He first said, "6 a.m." 
I told him it was supposed to be 9 or 10  a.m. 
He said, "Easy, then. Add more yellow." 
I did, and asked him 10 minutes later, "So...what time is it now?" 
He  said, "Turn around and look at the clock."
" No, no, smarty pants, what time is it in the painting?"
 "Oh....about 9:47."

Little squirt.

Now, you're probably wondering Marilyn's reaction to her birthday painting from me.  I was really hoping she'd instantly recognize the scene. If not, I'd never paint for another person again.

She opened my painting and said, "Hey! You know what this reminds me of?  Our prayer retreat at Sandy Cove! Remember? Just you and me? That was such a great memory!"

Aah. Satisfaction.

But guess what? When you paint until midnight, your brain gets foggy.  I forgot to take a picture of
the painting I titled "A Sandy Cove Memory."   Nonetheless, I won't soon forget the power of prayer, friendship, and stretchy ropes applied to flabby arm muscles.

J is for Jason

I am too tired after our trip to write a long post on the letter J, but the person I would write more about if I had the energy would be Jason.

He was one of the best pastors my husband and I have ever had. For Jason's compassion, leadership, wisdom, faith, and friendship, we have been deeply thankful. Although he moved away several years ago, his legacy of caring remains. He was the one who would call when he heard one of us (usually my oldest son) was in the ER or facing surgery. He would inquire of our marriage and give us hope during the rough times. He befriended my husband over many breakfasts at Panera talking about the Lord and football. (Not necessarily in that order.) Jason took a keen interest in our children's lives. He prayed often and specifically with us and for us. His sermons came from his heart and he illustrated his point with humility and humor from his own life.

Jason has modeled the heart of a pastor over and over. Our family misses him and his wife Laurie, who are now in another city pastoring a different church, but as the saying goes, "better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." His counsel always pointed me to Jesus and His power to change hearts. Working with a hardhead like me takes a lot of patience, but Jason excelled in talking me "down from the ledge" quite often, and I will be forever grateful.

Hodgepodge of Baked Goods, Barbies, and Breathtakers

Hey, Christmas comes around about as fast as the Wednesday Hodgepodge. Let's head to the North Pole for some questions. On second thought, let's get the questions from my friend Joyce who lives north of here, but not THAT far north! After your mouse-drawn sleigh has stopped at my blog, why not giddy-up on over and read others' answers? Better yet, jump on board and write your own:) It's fun. Almost as fun as eating Christmas cookies.

1. Do you put Christmas decorations in every room of your house? If not every room, what rooms do you decorate?

No, I don't. I decorate the foyer and public rooms-- kitchen, family room, dining room, living room , half bathroom--and sometimes I put a snowman gourd in the basement. I don't decorate the upstairs at all. The less I put out, the less I have to put away. I also decorate the front porch with winter paraphernalia. Maybe I'll post pictures later? If you're inclined to see a tour of my home at Christmas as it was two years ago, click here.

2. If you could visit one of the Nordic countries (Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, and Sweden) which one would you choose and why?

I'll admit it. Scandinavia has never "called my name" because 1) it's cold, 2) I have no ancestry there that I'm aware of, 3) one time I wore a pair of slides (backless heels) to my Christian school in 9th grade, and a female teacher told me -- in front of the entire French class-- that I shouldn't wear them because "ze bad girls in Denmahque wear those kinds of shooss." So now whenever I hear the word "Denmark," I think of that teacher who essentially was telling me I was dressed like a hooker. Talk about cold!

I guess if I COULD visit one of those Nordic nations, and none others were on the itinerary as options, I'd choose Sweden because of its brightly colored, fanciful art. But I would take my friend Laurie with me who could really help me appreciate the country.

3. What does the word "faith" mean to you?

The definition of faith that I hold to comes from Hebrews 11:1 which says, "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen." Faith is a gift from God, not something we can drum up. Faith is believing that what you can't imagine is possible with God. It is also an active and living thing that is evidenced by one's deeds. If you believe that God will answer your prayers for rain when it's been 192 days without rain, you will carry an umbrella.

4. You can go back to your childhood for one day...what day and age would you choose?

I would be nine again, in third grade, listening to Mrs. Grose (my teacher) reading Old Yeller to the class, and then I'd go home and it would magically be a summer day in a small Kansas town with my friends Barb and Brenda. We would ride bikes, eat cherries off the tree, jump off Mrs. Fair's porch into spirea bushes, ride Shetland ponies without permission, play tennis, ride another horse (who wasn't 'broke' but without one of us getting our finger broken--ahem), swim in the tin horse tank, make mudpies, play with Barbies, put on Avon lipstick samples, and love on three new Sheltie puppies, and two of those puppies would not have died within 6 months.

We never did all that in one day, but if I could recreate such a day, I would.

5. When did you last have 'punch'? If it's not too much trouble share your favorite punch recipe.

Monday evening I had an orange-lemon punch at my daughter's graduation reception. It was quite yummy and pretty with sliced oranges floating on top. I'm not sure I have a favorite punch, but I do love any kind that includes sherbet. Here's a Lemon Sherbet punch I made for a baby shower, and there wasn't a drop left when we were cleaning up.

6. Do you fill stockings at your house? Are stockings opened before or after the bigger gifts?

We do fill stocking and open them before the bigger gifts. But we have no fireplace, so we hang them on the banister. As much as I'd love to have a fireplace, it's not all bad. The good thing about being without a chimney is that at least Santa never catches the "flue" from us.

(Sorry, I thought of that pun this morning while driving, wondering where I could work it in. Thanks, Joyce, for the perfect set-up!)

7. What takes your breath away?

Um, literally? Falling off a horse during riding lessons. I remember approaching a jump on the back of an Arabian mare when I was 12. She cantered up to it, her gait as smooth as a rocking chair. I envisioned sailing over that white horizontal pole as if it were invisible. Unfortunately the horse had a different vision.She halted abruptly in front of the jump, sending me "head over heels." I landed flat on my back. That knocked the wind out of me. When I recovered, I got up and proceeded to beat the horse with my crop, per the instructor's orders.

But if you mean, what's a lovely breathtaking scene for me, I would say it's the sight of a beautiful bride coming down the aisle. I can hardly wait to see my son's face when he beholds his bride on March 10th. Someone reminded me that the wedding is now less than 100 days away. That thought takes my breath away (and some major money, too).

8. Insert your own random thought here.

I'm planning to make loaves of bread and deliver them with mini jellies and butter as gifts to neighbors this year. I have better success with bread than cookies, and I haven't met anyone (except gluten-free people) who don't love a loaf of warm, fresh bread any time. Besides, I don't have to babysit a bread machine. I can get other things done in the three hours a loaf is baking, and clean-up is a cinch. What's more, the ingredients for bread are less expensive than all those chocolates, nuts, condensed milks, icings, and other special things that jack up the cost of Christmas cookies.








The picture to the left is me last December with flour on my clothes-- after baking a bunch of cookies alongside my girl. Does my expression say what was in my mind: "I'm so glad this is over!" ?

Wednesday Hodgepodge: Gadgets, Grandparents, and Games

Once again, here come some great questions from Joyce. I find myself wondering if she spends all week coming up with her Wednesday wizardry. I hope you enjoy reading my answers as much as I enjoy writing them. Link up this week, won't you? This is one fun meme.

1. Of all the tools and gadgets you own which do you most enjoy using?

Wow, I love a lot of tools and gadgets, ranging from big to small, necessary to superfluous.
Of the biggies, I like the lawn mower because, having mowed the front yard, it' "stays done" longer than other jobs. Of the small tools or gadgets, I am fond of paintbrushes and chalk pastels to apply color to paper in the name of art. I also can't deny my love for the computer to stay in communication with the outside world. But I would say that on a daily basis, my favorite low-tech tool is the pen. There's nothing like a fabulous, smooth, cool writing pen. I have a penchant for them!

2. When (if ever) is impatience a virtue?

Impatience is never a virtue. It's a fruit of selfishness, demanding one's own timetable to be met. The opposite is a biblical imperative because it's in the nature of God. So to be like Him, one must be patient.

3. What temperature do you keep your thermostat set to in winter? Do you have another way to heat your house besides a furnace of some type?

Keep it? Well, prior to this year and the onset of female "power surges"--ahem-- I was prone to jack up the temp to a toasty 72 when I got cold. But hubby preferred it 68 during the day, 66 at night. Now that he has had a milestone "age spurt" (thanks to Joyce's hubby for coining that delightful term), he's been wearing two layers around the house, and he shuffles around in slippers. My guess is the 'stat might go up to 70 this winter. We have a heat pump, which, letmetellyou, is far more pump than heat. I mean, is it a misnomer or WHAT when the air blowing out of a heat vent is cool in December? If there's one thing I miss more than anything about our previous house, it was the fireplace. Oh, don't get me started...

4. Do/did you have a close relationship with any of your grandparents?

Unfortunately, no. I can count on both hands the number of times I visited my maternal grandparents. My mom's parents divorced when I was two; we were living in Maryland, they in Kansas. So when we did get to "vacation" out there, we had to "make the rounds" from my grandpa and his wife's farm in Valley Falls, to my biological grandma's house in Lawrence, and out to my dad's parents' home in Sterling. (There were hours and hours of driving associated with these rounds.) My grandpa was a quiet man who loved animals and smiled with his eyes, and when he did talk, people listened. His wife, Mayme, was a nervous type, always busy keeping an immaculate house, but not one to sit and play with the kiddoes. I always felt more like a guest than a grandchild.

My other grandmother ("Granny"--my mom's mother) stood an imposing 5'9" and could be curt and even abrasive at times. One thing she demanded was a yes or no when she offered something (usually an edible treat)-- not an "I don't care" or "It's up to you," or "If you feel like fixing it." She would say, "Well, if you don't care enough to give me a yes, I don't care enough to fix it for you!" So if you wanted ice cream, honey, you'd better say, "Yes, please" If you really didn't, then "No, thank you." I credit Granny with molding me into a decisive person, especially when it comes to food! (I also find myself annoyed when people don't give me a straight answer. "Do you want cheese on your eggs or not????!!! Yes or no????" (Oh, that would be would my unvirtuous impatience showing, wouldn't it?)

There were two wonderful years, however, when we actually lived in Kansas, only seven miles from my paternal grandparents. I felt closer to them because Grandma took a genuine interest in me. She sat next to me on the piano bench and sang hymns while I played. I still remember her favorite, "His Eye is on the Sparrow." She had a famous witty saying, "Oh, I just love old hymns. So much of the Bible is based on them!" She played baby dolls with me in the metal camper out back of their house. She remembered my name when she got Alzheimer's and couldn't remember my sisters. So, as "close" goes, I was only "close" to one grandparent, but it's not like some people who can remember "every Sunday going to Grandma's for supper" or anything as idyllic as that.

5. When did you last have a family portrait taken?

Two weeks ago at my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party. Portraits have always been important to my mom, so we hired a professional. At first I thought I wouldn't be keen on
portraits, just candids, but the last one we had of just my "six pack" was about 10 years ago. In preparing for the party ,going back through pictures, I realized the blessing of having the family I grew up all in one shot where we all actually tried to look our best, is truly a step-up from a bunch of randoms. (Wish we'd had more randoms as well, but taking pictures wasn't my parents' thing. Heads chopped off, lampshades giving us a halo, you know what I'm talking about.)

This year would be the last our nuclear family of six would be together in a professional portrait. We splurged. The next family portrait will include our new daughter-in-love in March, Lord willing!!

6. What does the word patriotism mean to you?

It means a lump in my throat. It meas the national anthem, the flag, soldiers, standing for freedom, voting, honoring veterans --especially those in our family, sending cards and cookies made by special young'ins to a beloved soldier, welcoming him home with a private parade on our street, watching this tough guy tear up at the prayers of thanksgiving offered by children who sent him Gummi Worms every month. Patriotism is personal to me, in case you can't tell.

7. Do you like to play cards and if so, what's your favorite card game?

It really depends on the game and my mood. I have two favorite card games, Pit and Spoons. Pit is that loud stock-market game where you trade "crop" cards (wheat, barley, oats) and try to get rid of the Bear but keep the Bull. I also like Spoons. If you've never played it, you really should try at your next gathering. The thing that's cool about Spoons is that you don't need to know good English to play it. The most fun we've ever had was playing it with Chinese students from the local university at Thanksgiving one year.

8. Insert your own random thought here.

The season of fall certainly is a metaphor for midlife. The leaves change color inevitably, and it's over way too soon. If childhood is spring, and adolescence is summer, and old age is winter ,then I am in the fall of my life. I can't deny the glorious beauty of some of the changes, but it seems to they seem to be happening with every sunrise, and I find my heart writhing at the rapid succession of changes as it grabs the heels of Today."No!! Please stay! Please stay! Please don't go! You just got here!"

That Wasn't Nice

This afternoon I wrote a post that I have since decided to retract. It kind of poked fun at my own distantly-related redneck kin, though I only ever met them once and I'm sure they don't give a rodent's backside about me or even remember my name. It was a long time ago in a place far, far away where I met my redneck relatives at a family reunion. I am positive no extended family members from way back then have read my blog or will ever read it, or for that matter, would even think to look me up. So it's HIGHLY unlikely any of them would take offense.They were strangers then and strangers now--a one-time meeting of people who just happen to be connected to me through someone's DNA, and that's where it stops.

So let me share other things. (Why is it often harder to dig up the good instead of the bad?)

Here goes a five-minute recollection post on the topic "Remember." Thanks to The Gypsy Mama for hosting. I will go alphabetically as fast as I can.

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I remember ALWAYS having to come home for dinner whenever I was at a friend's house when their dad came home. My mom told me never to invite myself to dinner, so I didn't. Not back then. But I will now because my friends are good cooks (most of them). And the whole "don't invite yourself over" thing doesn't apply to friends anyway, right?

I wore a BARRETTE on a lock of hair I pulled straight back from my forehead. I thought it was cute. Looking back, I doubt my sense of style. But I was a confident third grader, that much I can say without doubt.

I loved CEREAL. I especially loved Life cereal (and still do). It was our breakfast as well our after-school snack and sometimes before-bed snack.

I remember the time my foster brothers (who were with us for 11 months when I was 3) had to share a bike. One day the older brother was riding, took a break to come inside the house for water, and the younger one hopped on the bike. The older one saw him through the front glass DOOR, flew into a rage, and bolted through the door. I don't mean he opened it first. He charged right through the glass, shattering it into a million pieces. Blood from face to feet is the picture I still remember.


STOP.

I

Silly Sister Sleepover

As best we could recall, it had been 30 years since my sisters and I had all four bedded down under our parents' roof at the same time. Rachel went off to college in 1981, and she was the first to leave home, followed by me in 1983, then Andrea in 1985. Jill commuted from home to college, and didn't leave the nest until she was married in 2003. (She is 14 years my junior, hence the big gap in time.) So from 1981 to 2011, we had gone our separate ways, and although we've been together since then many times, we have slept in hotels, extended families' homes, or our own homes (for those of us close by).I probably would have had to miss out on this slumber party had my dear husband not been able or willing to take Friday off to drive our boy to and from school, and tend to his needs while I was busy doing a host of things with my sisters. A big thanks to my honey for that!My parents absolutely loved having their four girls at their place, all snuggled up in pj's under blankets. We sure got silly. I mean, giggly-giggly and about as immature as immature gets. But boy, oh boy, was it fun. We laughed till our sides hurt and our faces cracked. My family is into big words as a matter of habitual speech, and phrases that sometimes could be simplified aren't. We understand each other, though. Yet it's comical to realize it's not "plain English" to everyone. We occasionally catch ourselves and ask, "Do you mean__________?" and then we just "lose it".
Let me give an example. Thursday night, when we girls were trying to decide sleeping arrangements, and Daddy wanted to know what we wanted for breakfast (since he is Breakfast King), he asked what time we each get up. I said, "Well, first, five o'clock, to pee, and then I go back to bed till 7--ish." Mama started the giggle fest when she asked if we were aware that nocturnal urination is an early warning sign of diabetes.

Rachel: "Do you mean peeing in the middle of night?"
Mama: (sheepishly grinning) Yes.
Me: I thought it was just from having too much to drink at eleven!
Andrea: Well, better nocturnal urination than nocturnal flatulence.
Jill: If you get nocturnal flatulence, Andrea, you can sleep by yourself!

We went on and on and ON about nocturnal this and nocturnal that. My poor mother just wanted to inform us of diabetes warnings, and we go making light of the symptoms. To the point we almost DID urinate on the sleep sofa!

Our silly sister sleepover. It was the most refreshing time I've had in ages , even though I didn't fall asleep until 4 a.m. My parents are truly old, as evidenced by the setting on their thermostat. It feels like they keep their house a toasty 84 degrees (or is it 94?). At any rate, menopause and toasty already go hand-in-hand, so I wasn't exactly comfy. Nocturnal perspiration. Nocturnal suffocation. Plus, I really had had a Coke while we were making pumpkin vases a few hours earlier. Guess I'm more sensitive to caffeine than I thought. We then got up at 8 for the grand decorating day that was upon us. Beauty rest eluded us, but I repeat: it was so much fun!

50th WAP: Making Picture Boards

If memory serves me, my wisdom took a flying leap out of a high tower the day I agreed to take on the visual display portion of the party.








My sister Rachel actually did the lion's (lioness's?) share of making collages from pictures the other three girls sent her. She took advantage of Walgreen's online photo software and did a great job. (Those shots later.) Meanwhile I said, "Sure, I can handle making the background boards for them. A little spray paint and something to connect the things and a way to make them remain in an upright and locked position -- that should all be fairly simple."

The operative word there? "Should." Who are we kidding? And the word "fairly" is being used loosely in this context. Very loosely.

Actually it would have been easy had I stuck with Plan A to spray paint the boards. But I wasn't happy with the color I chose after all--thought it would look blah to have just a solid backdrop. My motto: Why be simple when you can be complicated? Put another way, Why stay sane when you can go lulu instead? Life is too short not to live on edge, right? It's the way I roll, which explains a lot. It's why they invented Zoloft, for when "Zo's a little off."

Anyway, I decided I really wanted to use the Faith paper collection from Hobby Lobby since we'd already bought it a ton of it. Like 160 pages of it! I figured I'd make a patchwork quilt of sorts for each board.

Choosing the paper arrangements was easy. Gluing them in place was easy.
But getting the edges cut clean with a razor knife ? Not so much.

The time consuming part is always the fussing. It seems I double my time on task when I start the fussing part.


Every job needs a supervisor. My dog volunteered. It was the least he could do. And the most. Part of his job description (which I did not write) was "keep thwacking your tail into those lightweight foam boards all afternoon, but stop just short of getting hauled back to the humane society. And charm her with your good looks when you're on the brink of impoundment."

As you can see, the tools of my trade include a "Mod"est amount of ModPodge. I love that stuff. It seals and glues and shines in one swell foop! And at times, it gave me the lift I was needing when boredom set in. Just kidding.


Thirteen and a half hours later (the boards are two-sided, if I failed to mention that little factoid) I came to the stopping point. The more time wore on, the more I wore out.

Yet I enjoyed the fussing and dreaming of how they'd turn out when all was said and done.

Finished product will be shown later. I promise.

Spent and Happy

Well, it's over. It's over and it was wonderful. The big 50th wedding anniversary bash that has consumed my every waking (and sometimes sleeping) hours, has come and gone . It was beautiful, everything my parents hoped for and then some. ("Some" surprises, too, like SNOW. In October, in Maryland, where pumpkins are supposed to be orange, not white!)

I will have pictures up soon. Right now I am spent in every way--physically, mentally, and financially! But oh so happy. I can't believe the time went so fast. Well, yes I can. Life moves at the speed of light when you're enjoying yourself. God anointed the time with His grace. I will say more about that later, but I must give Him the praise for orchestrating all things great and small to make the event something that rivals gold.

For now, I am going to take a much-needed nap. I wish I were on a beach in Belize, but that's another post for another day. Happy Halloween and for those up north, enjoy the great "meltdown."

A Baby Picture of Yours Truly

I love this picture. It's my parents, my older sister Rachel, and me in 1966. (Since I was born in August of '65, and I'm shirtless in this shot, it must be summer of '66. ) Look what a cute baby I was! Soft and chunky, that's me-- always and forever, I guess.

I'm loving the dress my mom's wearing. So feminine and comfy. My dad's glasses and skinny legs kill me. I am struck by the obvious affection he has for his family. Some things never change. See how he's holding Rachel and squishing up close to Mama? I think if he had three arms, he would be touching me somehow with his gentle, loving hands.

I also notice the detail of Daddy's watch. He's always been a watch-wearer, always punctual when by himself. When the family has all had to be somewhere together, though? Not so much. It's been one of the most sanctifying things in his life. We really knew how to slow him down with our bickering, our pokeyness, our wardrobe woes, our hairspray, and sisterly drama. (I remember the year he and I were in the play "The Music Man" together at a local community college theatre, he was a River City Volunteer fireman and I was Amaryllis. He had one line, when the townspeople had decided to tar and feather Harold Hill. His line was, "Well? What are we waiting for?" It couldn't have been easier for him to remember.)

This house in Baltimore City was one my parents bought and turned into apartments (or maybe it was already in apartments). They were tenderhearted toward internationals who, at that time, had a hard time finding landlords who would rent to them. My parents named this the International Friendship House. I remember a man named Feruz, but not fondly-- he always greeted me by pinching my cheeks. I guess they were irresistible. I can still feel the pain.

Anyway, I am in the process of scanning and cropping a lot of old pictures in preparing for my parents' upcoming 50th anniversary party. I'll be showing a few (or more?) shots from my past in the near future.

My Mother and Grandmothers

Remembering some of the "good ole days" when my grandparents were alive and my parents were relatively young. Here's a shot of my parents' 25th wedding anniversary taken at our home in Dublin (Maryland) in October of 1986. Paul and I were married three months later. It's hard to believe that he and I will be married 25 years this year, and that our son is contemplating getting married; wouldn't it be fun to have all our weddings 25 years apart?

Anyway, my mom's mom (who chose to be called Granny, which I always thought sounded super-old) was a card shark. You couldn't beat her at poker, rummy, or GoFish. And she could shuffle faster than anyone I knew. With 9 and 3/4 fingers!

Granny (Tola was her name) once owned a Baskin Robbin's ice cream store in Lawrence, KS, and we always got free quarts of our favorite. Not cones, quarts! Our favorite was Jamocha Almond Fudge. I remember it was a welcome relief during the Watergate trials on TV. "Anyone want ice cream?" I think I was so bored I would've jumped at the chance to eat sardines if it meant getting out of the house. Granny lost the top third of her right index finger when she cut it on a tin can lid while working in the ice cream shop. The cut got infected and the finger had to be amputated at the first knuckle. She always teased that it happened from shaking it off, shaking it one too many times to get her kids to listen. She warned me not to do that when I had kids. I didn't heed her advice and still have all ten digits.

This second photo is a picture from 1989, the last time I saw my dad's parents. They were residents in Sterling Presbyterian Manor in Kansas. Left to right: My mom, Wild Cowlick Me (holding five-month old Sarah), my sister Andrea with that great 80s hair, my sister Rachel, youngest sister Jill, Grandma and Grandpa). Ben was 13 months old and probably being chased by his daddy down the hall.

I remember the day my mom saved Grandma's life. She choked on birthday cake in the summer, so it could have been my fault if it was August. Not sure. But I remember my mom yelling, "Lyle! She's choking! Take her outside!" He lifted her up from her chair so fast it was like watching Superman in action. He carried her outside laid her down on the grass. Mama began CPR on her. Pretty soon Grandma "came to" and thanked my mom profusely. "Girl, I was so scared! That cake went down the wrong pipe!" (My mom hated to be called "Girl" but put up with it.) My mom also gave Grandma a "permanent" every six months which Grandma just loved. She had such beautiful white hair.

Grandma was "always a Christian" in my girlhood days. The grandmother who sang hymns and played baby dolls with me, the one who loved to paint nature scenes and make doll furniture. The grandmother who hosted 4th of July on the Lake. The one who was always telling Grandpa to give us something to take home. "Now, Chet, why don't you check your pockets and see if there aren't three nickels in there for the girls." And then Grandpa would say that as long as he had Kathryn, he'd always have at least one Nickel. (It was her maiden name.) But he couldn't guarantee three nickels, even though he always "somehow" always found three in his pocket for his granddaughters.

Granny, on the other hand, came to Christ later in life and, to be honest, I was intimidated by her sometimes. I didn't know her well enough to be able to tell when she was kidding around until she burst out laughing. Her sense of humor was beyond my comprehension sometimes, she was so bright. She did soften much later in life and by the time I was an adult ,we could talk about biblical things with ease and I "got" her jokes. Her 80th birthday was the highlight of her life when she got to meet--and be kissed by--Pat Robertson at a taping of the 700 Club. (I'll have to post pictures some time.)

I had a third set of grandparents (my dad's dad remarried after divorcing Granny). Charlie and Mayme. They lived on a 400 acre farm in Valley Falls, KS when I was growing up. I have a few pictures around somewhere, but haven't scanned them. Maybe soon. They were quiet folks with a lot of energy. Grandma Mayme could sew, cook, and keep house to perfection. I remember once taking my shoes off for a nap, not minding one whit that they were strewn willy-nilly in the vicinity of the couch. When I woke up, they were side by side on the floor on one end of the couch. Nothing was ever out of place. Grandpa knew his cows by name and had special affection for a few of them. I loved to watch him at complete ease around all things farm.

Wishing today, as I have many times, that I had known all my grandparents on a daily or at least weekly basis, to be able to write memories of the sort that are too numerous to recount. But alas, I have just a few "Grandma and Me" stories, and those are the ones I tell over and over like a good, but short, children's tale.

Z is for ZZ's Last A-Z Challenge Post

Well, at last, I'm at ze end of ze A-Z Challenge . I will have to say it's been a great way to pick a topic to blog about. The challenge to post daily is not a challenge at all for me. Blogging is a fun hobby for me.

At the end of every adventure, I like to evaluate the pros and cons. In no particular order, here's a list of my thoughts.

1. It helped to choose a theme for the challenge. I chose memories.
2. I learned from taking this "trip down memory lane" that I didn't include as many high school memories as I could have.
3. Quitting was what I felt like doing at letter Q, but I had come so far and didn't want to give up.
4. "Meeting" other bloggers is fun and inspiring. The one I checked in with daily was Joyce, whose theme was travel. I'll be asking her advice for many things in the near future.
5 . Pictures would have made my posts more appealing, but so many of mine that include OLD memories were taken on OLD school film and are in OLD albums. It would have taken a lot more time than I was willing to devote in order to take them out and scan them, or even to shoot pictures of pictures in my albums. I will do that as time permits for future posts.
6. I am too wordy.
7. It was refreshing to me to jot down my memories, even though I'm sure most people skimmed or skipped my posts. At least now they're on record.



That's about it. I am ready now to get back to blogging in a more "normal" way. Thanks for sticking with me, if you did.

Y is for Yesterday's Weddings :Flashback Friday

Thanks to a meme I enjoy from Linda, I have great questions to help guide (and condense...maybe condense??) this post about family weddings. (She asked that we not include memories of our own wedding.)


1. What was the earliest family wedding you remember attending?

It was my Aunt Vesta's and it was outdoors and mostly a drizzly day with some sun peeking out now and then. I was probably about seven or eight years old. She was a tall, beautiful blonde and this was her second marriage, I think. She wore a hat, which I thought was not very bridal compared to a veil and I wondered if a wedding outside a church really "counted." I asked my mom if they were really married since they weren't in a church. She said yes.

2. Did your family attend many weddings? What do you remember of them?

We attended a few. I remember my Aunt Gail's, though. Since she was my idol in my early youth (she was sweet and beautiful) she was a storybook bride. Huge Catholic church wedding. I really only remember that I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Her gown had a cathedral train and big veil and I think it was at her wedding that I fell in love with lace and said, "Someday when I'm a bride, I want a dress like that!" (And I got it.)

3. What was typical of weddings, and were you ever in a wedding as a child?

Throwing rice at the happy couple between wedding and reception was typical. My mom, who hated the tradition because people threw it at her face way too hard, always said, "toss it lightly up--not at--the bride and groom!" I was never in a wedding as a child. The first one I was in ? My own. Second and only other? My sister Rachel's.

4. {As a young adult in weddings} what role did you play?

I was just a regular guest at my sister Andrea's wedding. Hers was a small garden ceremony at Steppingstone Museum overlooking the Susquehanna. My role was to help my husband keep our three kids on or near our laps and to keep their mouths from saying, "I'm hungry." "I'm bored." or "Is it over yet?"

At my sister Rachel's wedding, all three of my older kids were in the ceremony. Ben and Stephen were ringbearers, and Sarah (along with her cousin Emily) were flowergirls. I was Rachel's matron of honor.

5. Growing up, were you the one who planned your wedding repeatedly, or was it no big deal?

In my teens I remember thinking I could pick any day I wanted to get married (knew nothing of church master calendars, reception hall venue booking, or reasonable amount of time to put a big wedding together). I wanted to get married on April 18th because I thought the date sounded pretty, and that I would choose a lot of different pastel colors for my bridesmaids. One in lilac, another in yellow, another in green. I never thought that all of my grandparents would NOT be there. I don't think I thought much more about just that I would be a beautiful bride with a tall, handsome groom who would be a great daddy to lots of babies. I spent more time naming my future children and trying to figure out what kind of last name would be good with "Zoanna."

6. What is something that is different about today's weddings, and do you think it's for the better or worse?

Negatively: The number one difference that I see is how much more casually dressed some of the guests are at the more formal weddings. If the guests simply "don't like to dress up," they disregard decorum. I think ladies should wear dresses or skirts, and guys should wear jacket and tie unless it's sweltering hot outside.

Not different from today's and yesterday's weddings is the split between the sacred and the secular the moment the reception starts. It's like going from Westminster Abbey to the French Quarter on Mardi Gras.

Positively: It seems like grooms are more involved in the planning, so it's "their" day, not just "her" day. Brides seem to do things their way a bit more often (which I'm sure is the source of contention between mothers and daughters, particularly if mother and dad are footing most or all of the bill). The cakes are certainly more original in design, I think, or at least it's okay to have a robot cake or a Nascar cake or kissing iguana toppers if you want.

T is for Traffic Court

Continuing in this A-Z Challenge (which has been good, but I'll be glad to get back to "normal" blogging about whatever)...

I remember getting my first traffic ticket ever. The year was 2004 and I was pulled over on the way home from an exciting English class and apparently wasn't watching my speed. Normally I'm very cautious.

When the cop pulled me over, he told me I was doing 42 in a 30. I didn't argue; it's easy to go that fast on any road, but particularly a road with so many hills. I signed the ticket dutifully, my nerves keeping me from reading anything more than the big, fat $75 violation fee.

When I got home and calmed myself , I read the details. There, in small scribble from the officer's hand, was a figure 8 made dark over the "2" in 42. What? He told me 42. The kids who were with me remember he said 42. He had changed it to 48 when he went back to his car to write it up!

That sunuvva*b* , I thought. He falsely accused me! To do 12 miles an hour over the posted speed limit was wrong of me, but not a reckless speed considering the stretch of road I was on.
But I could not have, in good conscience, done 18 over without feeling like a bad mother at the wheel.

What was the cop thinking? What would make him jack up the speed on paper?

For the six weeks it took waiting till my court date, I wrangled with the injustice of it. Found myself cursing the police officer several times in my spirit. Hating him. First, he had ruined my perfect driving record. Second, he had embarrassed me in front of my kids. But worst of all, he had falsely accused me. He had no reason or right to cross out 42 and write 48 in its place.

When we got to court, my case was one of about twenty, mostly adolescent male speeders who barely had peach fuzz, let alone a high school diploma. There I was, a 40 year old mother of four, "on trial" (or so it felt to me) after 24 years of good driving. The judge called my name and I took my place about fifteen feet from the police officer, and was asked if I had anything to add what the officer said (that I was doing 48 in a 30 and that I was cooperative at the scene). I added that I was guilty of speeding, but not for doing 18 over the limit. She reduced my fine and court costs down about $53,
but didn't really "take sides."

Looking back, I see how wrong I was about almost everything. First, the cop didn't ruin my perfect driving record. I did. And it was never perfect before God! Second, he didn't embarrass me in front of my kids. My actions made me feel embarrassed for getting caught. Third, I honestly could have been doing 48 in a 30 (though to this day I doubt it with all my heart) and maybe the cop meant to say 48, not 42, when he came to my window. Either way, I was guilty of speeding. Period.

I took my paperwork to the cashier after stopping at the water fountain for a long drink after all that sweating!

As a Christian this situation makes me think of Jesus. Falsely accused. But he truly had done no wrong. Nothing. Nada. And he did not curse his accusers; he forgave them. He did not open his mouth against his torturers; he took the punishment handed down from the Judge, his own Father.
His fine was not reduced. He drank the entire cup of wrath so that I could drink the full cup of blessing.

Hallelujah! What mercy!

P is for PIt

This will be short. A pit stop, really.

He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. Psalm 40:2 (NLT)

I was recalling in my journal today how many times the Lord has brought me out of "the pit." Six years ago today was one of the hardest days of my entire life. A figurative bombing of my own life's federal building. I won't go into detail, but something that I had feared six months prior happened almost as I had predicted. Whenever information is withheld from me, I go into panic mode if I feel the least bit unloved. If I feel disposable or replaceable, the feelings of foreboding bite into my very core, their sharp teeth bearing down into my soul and gripping me like a ... dare I say...a pit bull?

Although I have forgiven my offenders,I have clearly not forgotten. But I have learned lessons about myself and about other people, namely not to align too closely with humans I don't trust.

But more than that I learned that Jesus defeats the Enemy and can be trusted to lift me out of the pit. The night that that incident took place, April of 2005, I was so filled with anger and hatred that I was visited by creatures I can only describe as gremlins. They hovered near the family room ceiling, crossing swords like x's in front of themselves, mocking and jeering, telling me I had no right to call myself a Christian and that I deserved what I got, and look what God had done to me now! Still, in the midst of the lies, in the midst of shaking in fetal position on the couch, I cried out, "Help me, Jesus. Tell them to get out of here! Help me, Jesus." And within moments, the voices and the gremlin faces vanished. I eventually calmed down, and was "spent" from agony and crying; the evil left the room. The name of Jesus, though I hated what had been done IN His name (supposedly), was my strong tower. Jesus rescued me. He had rescued me many times before, and many times since, but this day every year reminds me of His saving grace. It's not a one-time deal to "get saved." It's daily a saving from myself and the lies of the Enemy and the evil in the world if I get too close to it.

I don't like to talk about the experience, and honestly it took me two years and a lot of hard counsel to get to the point of forgiving those who had offended me, and to confess my part in the ordeal as well. After that, the ground was "more steady as I walked along."

In some ways I feel I am almost there again, almost at the bottom of yet another pit. I am in a fight right now to believe Truth, and to love my Passover Lamb, Jesus. He will deliver me out of this pit. I am sure of it.

M is for Mailboxes

In high school I was homogeneous. Not a homo. Homogeneous. I blended in with whomever I was with at any given moment. You wouldn't vote me Most Likely to Know What She Values, but you probably would have liked me because I'd go along with your adventure.

For ill or for good.

One night I was hanging out with my friend Carla (not her real name). She and I were a year apart in school (I was older--and should have been wiser). Both of us were wholesome looking over-achievers. Some students in public school even teased me for knowing all the biblical allusions in literature class. Carla's work ethic impressed almost everyone. (She was one of the few students who held a part-time job while going to school.)

No one would have suspected that we were capable of vandalism.

And I don't mean toilet-papering a Ford truck on Halloween. I mean vandalism.

I still remember the night it happened. I was spending a Friday night at Carla's and we were listening to music and thinking about baking brownies, doing our nails, and watching TV to fill our evening. It was just the two of us upstairs, and her brother and his friend were in the basement. Carla's dad was often away on business trips, and I don't know where her mom was this particular night, but she wasn't home. (There is a theme to my "when-parents-aren't-home stories," huh?)

Carla and I made a pan of brownies and ate half of them ourselves. We shared a couple with her brother Connor and his friend Ricky, and then ate the rest, for what reason I don't know, other than that we could.

Friday Night. No Parents Home. Keys to the Car. The boys decided that this would be a good time to go for a ride. And take some baseball bats with us.

I was so naive I thought we were going to go find a lighted field somewhere at 11 p.m. and play baseball. Seriously, I was so dumb I should've been blonde.

"Hop in the back, girls!" and we did. Connor got behind the wheel and Ricky rode shotgun.

We drove through the neighborhood, Connor zig-zagging between parked cars. Windows rolled down all the way, Connor shouted, "That one, man! Get that one!"

Ricky stuck the bat out the window and started swinging. He clobbered six or eight mailboxes in a row before Connor changed streets and sped off to find other metal to mash. At one house that was completely dark, the boys got out and took turns bludgeoning the mailbox to a mangled heap on the ground. Their laughter creeped me out.

I sat in the back shivering with fear. I had never taken part in a crime before. All I could think about was those poor people would wake up to find their mailboxes destroyed on their front lawns.

Ricky handed the bat to Carla. She laughed nervously and said, "Nah...I'm not strong enough."
But they coaxed her into taking a slug at a plastic newspaper box. She cracked it wide apart with one blow. Then she handed the bat to me.

I shook my head.

"No, that's okay. Haven't we all had enough fun and destruction for one night? We'd better quit before we get caught."

"Aw, you scared, Zoey?" I hated being called Zoey, and they knew it. It made me mad enough to swing.

"No, I'm not scared. I just don't want to do this."

They shrugged and kept driving and smashing mailboxes, cackling all the while. After twenty minutes or so, I think I got numb to the destruction part and started seeing it as fun. Rick turned to me and said, "You know you want to. Take just one swing. That's all. Just one."

So I took the bat, held it out the window and purposefully just grazed the next mailbox.

"Took some paint off that one!" I bragged, probably lying.

By this time Carla was egging me on. "Hey, Zo. Let's show 'em what we're made of." And then, I took the bait. The competitor in me had to win, or die trying.

I don't remember doing any damage personally, but I remember cheering Carla while she smashed the boxes to smithereens.

And I remember the terrible stomach ache I had as I tried to fall asleep back at Carla's house. The guilt over my actions gave me crippling pains inside. It wasn't worth the so-called fun to realize I had taken part in ruining property. We never confessed. Never apologized. I never did that again, but the memory haunts me still. I have asked, and received, God's forgiveness for my foolishness, but there is no way of going back to make amends to those people. That happened thirty-two years ago and I have no clue where we were exactly in the darkness of that night.

I learned something about my friend Carla and myself that night. We were capable of destroying far more than a pan of brownies.

I is for I Spy my Former Self

Back in the day, I was a cheerleader from seventh grade through tenth grade at a Christian school. Don't look at the lower right hand picture. Our uniforms were just way too sexy. You could almost see our kneecaps if you play "I Spy."

Here is a picture of a scrapbook page I made. Yes, that would be me in the denim overalls. We were doing a pep rally with a "Hee Haw" theme. (Readers under 40 years of age might have to Google "Hee Haw TV show" to understand the reference. Ouch.)

The ankle-crossed-leaning-like-dominoes photo (L. to R.) shows Yours Truly, Louise D, Margaret Ann R., and Wendy E. I've lost touch with Louise and Wendy, but Margaret Ann and I still keep in touch a few times a year. I spent countless hours at her house when we were growing up.

The most fun that Margaret Ann and I had was on a certain Halloween night when we toilet-papered her neighbor's truck and lawn, and soaped his windows. The man--Mr. Knaub-- happened to be the boys' gym teacher at our school, and he was at prayer meeting with his family that night. I don't know where M.A's parents went, but they weren't home either.


She and I had never done anything so ornery as this little stunt, and we were loving every minute of it. Two "good girls" being very,very bad. Working swiftly, hearts pounding, we giggled harder with every roll we finished off. When we finally ran out of TP, we high-fived. What great mummifying skills!

We crossed the street and decided the better part of wisdom would be to go bed before her folks--or Mr. Knaub--got home. Of course, we couldn't really sleep, we were so "wired" from our escapade. We wondered how long it would before Mr. Knaub found the culprits. Surely we'd help him hunt them down; surely they were mean-awful-no-good hoodlums from the other side of the tracks.

Margaret Ann's parents got home around 10 pm. We were "asleep" so they didn't come asking about our evening. All looked normal, and besides, it was a school night, and we were tired cheerleaders. Ahem.

Ding-dong! I still remember the doorbell. We trembled and yanked the velvet bedspread up over our heads.

Mr. Reeves answered the door.

"Hey, Al, what brings you over?"

"Hey, Donny, uh--I was just wonderin' if you had any trouble tonight."

"Trouble? You mean Halloween trouble? No, why. You?"

"Yeh. Somebody papered the truck, all up the hood, around the wheels, in the bed, everywhere. Soaped my house windows. Grass is covered, every square inch of it."

"Really? Oh, Al, no. I'm surprised being right across the street we didn't get the same thing done, but no, we're fine. Margaret Ann and Zoanna were here, but they're in bed now."

"They are? Oh, I was gonna talk to them, see if they knew who done it."

"Well, I can ask them in the morning..."

"Thanks, Donny. I mean it's going to take a lot of work to clean it up, and I really want to find out if they know who it was."

We could hear every word through the thin walls of the small house. Margarent Ann's room was right behind the front door. It was all we could do to squelch our giggles under the covers.

As soon as the front door closed and Mr. Knaub was gone, we burst out laughing. So loud that Mr. Reeves came to his daughter's door and knocked. "Margaret Ann, I thought you girls were asleep. What're you laughing about? Al was over here just now. He wasn't in a real good mood. You have any idea who coulda--"

We opened the door, doubled over in ribs-hurting, face-cracking laughter.

Her dad started chuckling. "You two papered Al's truck? And soaped his house? While we were gone? I never woulda--"

The next day our consciences would not let go of us. We found Mr. Knaub at school and told him it was us. He knew. He knew? The good girls of HCS, his own sweet neighbor girl and her innocent friend?

He was right. It took a lot of work to clean that mess up.

F is for Favorite Childhood Things

Favorite candy: Pop Rocks and Pixi Stix. My sister Andrea was always the most enterprising of the girls. I remember when Pop Rocks came on the market; she
would buy them for 10 cents each and sell them for a quarter because kids wanted them so badly. She capitalized on the principle of supply-and-demand at the tender age of seven.








Favorite Color: purple

Favorite room: At our farmhouse in Dublin, Maryland. I had a purple, crushed velvet bedspread. The only thing that spoiled it was a part near the pillow area where the cat had peed. That 12-inch round spot remained permanently crusty.

Now that I've whetted (wetted?) your appetite, let me tell you about my...
Favorite food as a kid. Grilled cheese and tomato soup that my mom fixed every Sunday after church at Alden.



Favorite pet: Brandy, our horse. She was a chestnut Morgan-Thoroughbred, technically a pony at 14.2 hands, who loved to run but hated to jump. Picture that love/hate relationship with a rider (me) on her back, approaching the jump at 462 mph. The thrill for both of us stopped when she did. Typically that was 18 inches in front of the jump. But truly, I loved her. Trust me.

Favorite vacation: We didn't take many, but I loved our trip to Colorado except for the camping. My parents didn't have experience with tents and such, but I remember the best part was breakfast. My mom bought those miniature cereal boxes --the kind that come in an 8-pack or 12-pack and are high in sugar. I still remember reaching for a dwarf-sized box of Sugar Pops (as they were called before Kellogg's changed it to Corn Pops) , and Frosted Flakes the next. We never got sugary cereals at home unless we put sugar on our Shredded Wheat. (You know, because everyone needs some sweet sandpaper to cleanse their palettes and colons from time to time.) In Colorado, we went horseback riding through Estes Park and my little sister Andrea pretended we were "real live cowgirls." We were higher than the Rockies on Sugar Pops, so high we probably could've ridden to Oregon without refueling.

Favorite toy: Lincoln Logs

Favorite celebrity: Olympic ice skater Peggy Fleming held regal status in my mind. I watched her on TV, read books about her, and pretended to be her as I skated around the linoleum kitchen floor in socks. I remember one day a boy at school asked me the riddle, "What's green and skates?...Peggy Phlegm." If it wasn't so funny, I might've smacked him.

Favorite fast food joint: I'm old enough to remember the first fast food restaurant I ever went to, which was fairly new: Wendy's. She looked like Pippi Longstocking. But fast food was a rare treat until we moved to Maryland. Then my dad started taking the family after church to lunch at Hardee's so that Mama wouldn't have to cook. One time we went with friends. The kids sat at one booth,the adults behind them at another. Well, the friends had two teenage boys, Kevin and Michael, who sat across from each other and thought it would be fun to squirt each other with ketchup packets. It would have been funnier--or maybe it was funnier because--Kevin missed. Phyoop! Deep red Heinz ketchup hit my mom instead--right in the bosom on her pale pink dress.

Favorite subject: penmanship

Favorite song:" Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" and "Fairest Lord Jesus." If you find the connection, do tell.

Favorite gifts: 1) a musical jewelry box with a ballerina wearing a pink tutu. 2) a multi-colored overnight bag and 3) vinyl rainbow-strap sandals with one-inch heels. I think the heels landed me the part of Amaryllis in "The Music Man." I actually looked more like Shirley Temple on the good ship Lollipop, what with my chubby cheeks and brunette ringlets.


How about you? Remember some favorite things from your childhood?

C is for Cars

I started liking cars when I was about nine years old. My Uncle Ike let us ride in the rumble seat of his Model A car. I felt like a parade princess tooling around Buehler, Kansas. From then on, I was hooked on the feelings that came with riding in cool cars. I have an old photo somewhere, but his Model A kind of looked like the one pictured here.


Another car I remember is the Buick that broke down on our family vacation. My parents had six kids--three biological and three foster kids. The car broke down en route to our destination and we had to be towed to the bus station. In those days, they let people ride in the towed vehicle. I still remember how fun it was to ride at an angle! To me, it was an adventure of magnanimous proportion. (How many other kids get to ride on the back of tow truck on their vacation? We were just lucky, I guess.) My mom remembers each of us carrying a suitcase through the bus terminal. Picture the Family von Trapp minus one child and the drapery-inspired wardrobe.


When I was in fifth grade, my dad and I played in "The Music Man" at the local community theatre. He was a River City Volunteer fireman, and I was Amaryllis. Our rehearsals were from about 6-9 pm several nights a week. Riding our half-hour round trip together for 12 weeks was a special time of bonding with him, and the medium blue car was really cool-- A '64 Dodge Rambler with push-button transmission. The buttons were on the dashboard. I loved to get in and, with permission, push "reverse" and then other gears as long as we were on back roads heading to rehearsal.

One car I loved, loved, loved to ride in was our shiny black '66 Fleetwood Cadillac, like the one below. My dad paid $900 for it. Built into the back of the front seats were drop-down trays like you see in airplanes. By pushing a button on the top of the seat, down it came. Daddy didn't allow eating in his cars, but we liked to prop our book there and read. The car also had hinged footrests. Despite its beauty and charm, the car had its mechanical and electrical quirks. My friends from youth group teased us about our rattle-trap. Church bells couldn't drown out the sound of pathetic pistons.



The car I learned to drive on was a new, white Toyota Corolla Tercel. My dad took me first out to the pasture in the vehicle and gave a few instructions. "The main thing is not to hit the horse or the barn." Patient man, I think I gave him whiplash on multiple outings in that car, but I am so glad I learned to drive a stick shift. There's no feeling quite like burning up a clutch--er, changing gears with the left foot and right hand in unison.

My first car was a 1984 navy blue, two-door, 4-speed Chevy Chevette with black cloth seats and no air conditioning. There wasn't much legroom in the thing--and I'm short! (As one reviewer says about that model, "This car was small enough to fit into its own glove compartment." The sticker price was $4200, but Daddy taught me to haggle with few words. (Or, at least he tried.) I wanted that car so badly I would have paid full price (only considering that my monthly payments would be stretched out, not the overall value of the thing). He told the salesman our bottom price was $3400, take it or leave it. The salesman walked away (the old "to speak with my manager" trick) and while he was gone, I nearly hyperventilated. "Daddy! It's my car! I will pay $4200 if I have to! I really want it!" He shushed me and said not to let on how much I wanted it, and not to worry-- the salesman needed a sale. Sure enough, we got the keys to the car for $3400, and I got not just a new-found freedom, but also a lesson in business transactions at a car dealership.

The experience also taught me this: if you can covet a Chevy Chevette, you can covet anything.


Coincidentally--something I thought quite romantic-- Paul also had a 1984 Chevy Chevette when I met him-- except his was a silver sedan with A/C. Whenever we went places together, his car was the car of choice.

One of my favorite cars that Paul and I bought was our '88 Dodge Dynasty. What a luxury to drive around with so much space that two kids couldn't touch each other.

My Uncle Norman's '66 red Mustang convertible is a true beauty. A few months ago, he and I were talking about cars and I told him that his convertible rides had made me a really big impact on me. I had decided that, when I was in my 40s, I'd treat myself to the joy of owning one, and so--when my daughter needed a little beater car, why not make it a fun beater? We found a '97 Saab convertible for $3300 and bought it. I do go joy-riding in the sunshine as often as possible.

Uncle Norman asked me what color it is.
"Taupe," I said.
"Oh, uh-huh, taupe, huh? Taupe's nice." I could hear a polite, Midwestern disapproval from the word "nice." Then, unable to resist interjecting his car-buff's opinion, he added this: "Paint it red. You'll get a lot more attention."

I think that's hysterical coming from an 80-year-old man.

Right now I drive a silver Chrysler. A "nice" ride for a minivan, a vehicle I'm thankful for, but I'd love a new thing of automotive beauty. Like I tell people, it'd be great to do more than zero-to-sixty in an afternoon.

C is for cars, and if I don't stop talking about them, I'm going to end up at a showroom taking a Jaguar for a spin.