Beach Bum

In May I went to the beach with my mom and my sister. It was a great Mother's Day trip for just the three of us - no kids, no husbands. We went to Destin, Florida and spent Friday, Saturday and Sunday lounging around. For those of you who didn't grow up in the South, Destin is one of the favored vacation spots on the Gulf. For those of you without kids, three days without "MOM!" is sheer heaven. Put the two together and I was completely aghast at the idea of going back to my house at the end of the weekend.

The trip also dredged up a lot of memories for me, since my family used to vacation in Destin regularly when I was growing up.

Back then Destin didn't have much going on - only a couple of resorts, and a few small condos. Everything was right on the beach. There was nothing to do except play on the beach or go to a restaurant. Mom absolutely adored floating around in the waves. My sister and I tried to get as tan as possible. Dad would usually fry to a subtle red crisp on the first day and spend the rest of the time in the shade or covering the red spots with a towel. We had our favorite tradition of getting up early to pick out treats from The Donut Hole, or heading out late afternoon to the local fish market and making a scrumptious peel-and-eat shrimp dinner.

When I was a 15-year old sophomore in high school, my parents rented a condo in Destin for a month in the fall. My mom stayed there all month, while my dad and my sister and I went down there on weekends. On Fridays, Dad would pick us up from school, and we would drive straight to the beach. The trip took about 5 hours. We'd stop for dinner at some tiny town in LA (Lower Alabama). For those of you old enough to remember, that was back when Hardees had the California Raisins in their TV commercials, and the figurines were on sale with various combos. During that month, we ended up collecting the entire set for Mom, who was a big fan of those guys. I wouldn't be surprised to discover my mom still has those stashed away somewhere. In fact, they're probably designated for someone special in the will.

My parents let us take a best friend with us one weekend that month. I invited one of my best friends and later on, another friend and I planned a big surprise birthday party for her. We had a menu planned, her mom was going to make stuff, and we were working on the entertainment. And then suddenly it clicked - wait, I was taking her to the beach with me that weekend. Sorry, no party! That Sunday after we got back, the neighbors came over to tell us about our yard getting rolled Friday night. Very kind people who knew we were out of town and didn't want it to stay like that all weekend, so they cleaned it up for us. Monday I came to school telling people that we had gotten our yard rolled and I never even saw it. Folks, I honestly never put two and two together. Back then I was very book smart, but socially clueless. Maybe I'm still like that. A few years later, one of my friends confessed. He mentioned how the party getting cancelled meant they had some "free time," and how frustrated they were I never even saw it or had to clean any of it up. Oh, the agony, but they couldn't say anything.

My biology teacher assigned us the infamous "bug project" that fall: collect 20 bugs, mount them on a posterboard and appropriately label them with their species names. In late September and early October live bugs are very hard to find, even in the deep South. So our class really struggled with this project. NOT ME. A humid beach town always has plenty of bugs, year round! Every weekend, I found some exotic new species in Destin. I could always count on finding a couple of moths around the outside lights at night, or some crazy thing crawling in the sand. One Friday night we pulled into the parking lot and piled out of the car, and I spotted a huge grasshopper heading quickly for the main laundry room. I cornered him near a dryer and kept him in a jar all weekend until I could get back to town and put him on the posterboard. The length of my hand, he dwarfed everything else, and ended up being the Shock and Awe of my bug project. The teacher was stunned when I turned it in.

We ate regularly at a restaurant at the end of Beach Road called The Back Porch. Back then it was just a cheap little bar & grill, right on the beach. One of the popular menu items was a grilled amberjack sandwich, and boy howdy, that thing was fantastic. I know people refer to it as "trash fish" but I fell in love with that sandwich. Years later I made regular trips to Destin with friends, and discovered that Destin had exploded, and The Back Porch has become a force to be reckoned with. They expanded the restaurant and added a beach bar. If you're not in line by 5 pm, you're not eating dinner there any time soon. And the beloved sandwich is now $12. (Oh, beach towns, they quickly recognize a good thing and price it accordingly.) A few years ago, Brian went deep sea fishing off the coast of New Orleans and brought back a giant cooler full of fresh tuna and grouper, and a few pieces of amberjack. Even though it was 8:00 at night, I made him take the amberjack straight outside and grill it for me. When he finished, I put it on a bun with some mayo and a slice of tomato, took a picture of it with my phone and sent it straight to my mother. I just had to do a little bit of gloating. And then I inhaled that sandwich. Oh, the sheer joy.

One week toward the end of the month-long vacation, I was in the locker room after P.E. class, and had taken off my gym shirt to put on my school clothes. One of my classmates commented, with what I thought sounded like a bit of jealousy, "Jennie, you are so tan." In October, it was pretty unnatural to be that shade of brown so the beach lifestyle was making an impression on me. This was back in the clueless teenage years when we tanned like idiots - slathered in baby oil, on top of foil, anything to get some extra rays. Today, it's hilarious to think I could have been so tan that another teenager would be jealous of me. I'm the palest person I know, and on the rare occasions I do go to the beach, I live under an umbrella and pile on SPF 50.

A special thank you to my mother and my sister for a great time on vacation. The luxury of not having a kid wake me up, getting first choice of a box of doughnuts, or not having to pour a glass of milk for someone 18 times in a day was absolutely exhilarating. But add in the time to chat with my mom and my sister without being interrupted or having to mediate a toy battle, and that time suddenly becomes precious. I hope we've started a new tradition.

Helen Turns 6

Helen turned 6 on Saturday.

Since the last day of school was on Wednesday and her birthday was on Saturday, I thought long and hard about it, and decided not to invite a bunch of kids over for a party when it was going to be 97 degrees outside. Instead, on Saturday morning I took her to her favorite store (Michael's) to let her pick out something crafty (friendship bracelet kit). Then while she napped, I made her a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
Sidebar: guys, if you have not checked out the recipe for Chocolate Frosting on the back of the Hershey's Cocoa canister, you are seriously missing out. Frosting from a can? Not on your life. I've permanently converted to homemade, y'all. (For further Chocolatey Awesomeness, pair it with the recipe for the Chocolate Cake on the same label.)

Anyways, I digress.

You might have noticed a quick mention in that last paragraph. Yes, my 6-year old naps. Two, sometimes three-hour naps on the weekends. Both days. DEAR BABY JESUS, PLEASE LET IT NEVER END. AMEN.

We also made a pizza from scratch for dinner. Publix has a really great lump of unbaked dough in their bakery that you need to buy, stat. Couldn't be easier, and they come out way better than the frozen ones. Helen helped me spread the sauce and the cheese and the toppings. Alice kept pinching fingerfuls of cheese off the pizza when I wasn't looking. It turned out delicious.

After dinner and blowing out the 6 hot pink candles on her delicious cake, we gave her a little pink Razor Scooter. As if her knees and elbows weren't bruised and scraped up enough from running around outside, we added the element of speed to all future injuries. Yay, good parenting!And then she went to the pool with her dad for an evening swim. So she was in a bit of kid heaven.

The next morning, she woke up and asked me when her party was. Um, gulp.

So I replied as casually as possible, without a single shred of fear and trepidation, "Hey Helen, you remember the craft thing and the pizza and the scooter and the part where you blew out candles on your cake? Yeah, that was your birthday party!"

Oh, it was a frosty morning.

I am going to fry in a remote corner of hell reserved strictly for kids' birthday parties, where they're perpetually turning two years old. Dear Reader, I swear there will be a real party with a bunch of kids invited next year. I don't care if only two kids show up because school's out and it's too hot. She is going to have a party. Your job is to remind me next May when my resolve is weak and the sun is strong. And just to make it interesting, you can come, too.

For some perspective, here's her Birth Story, and her first birthday.

A Reflective Sort of Birthday

To Jennie, on her 19th birthday:


Girl, you are almost through with your freshman year in college, and what a year it has been. You are living away from home and meeting new people and finding out what life is like outside of your hometown. Occasionally you are learning that you know zero about the world, and even less about your place in it. Keep reminding yourself daily that you are clueless. Maybe it will keep you from telling that English professor that you don’t need his required English class. That cranky old man will make you a much better writer one day. So shut your mouth and listen to him.

In fact, you will eat a lot of your words that you speak as a 19-year old. So the less said this year, the better. But keep your chin up, girl. It gets awesome. Just you wait. People are being nice to you today, and your dorm door is decorated, and maybe a cute boy will say hi to you.

To Jennie, on her 29th birthday:


You are out on the town with your posse. You have flirted your way past all cover charges. The word of the night is “shots!” and you are hanging in there like a pro. Your hair is curly, and it’s staying curly. You feel skinny in that outfit. You can’t stop grinning. Your favorite cover band is playing all of your favorite songs. They even bring you up on stage and serenade you. Everyone is hugging you and wishing you Happy Birthday, and you love the world. You feel like a superstar. Best. Birthday. Ever.

Sometimes, there isn’t much to grin about. And sometimes, your hair won’t curl at all. You won’t always be the superstar. On those days, your real friends still love you. And that’s a much better birthday gift than a couple of shots. But the memory of this evening, and how happy you were, will make you smile for the rest of your life.

To Jennie, on her 39th birthday:

If you fall asleep on the couch tonight, you can always celebrate 39 again next year.

Snow? Oh Man ...

This winter Helen's school had a record 9 snow days in 2 months. They only budgeted for 4, so a few professional development days for the teachers got cut, plus part of Spring Break, and they added some time to the end of the school year. Poor kids.

Anyway, I thought I would post pictures of one of the snowmen Brian and the girls built in the backyard after one of the bigger snows we got in January. Mr. Snowman is wearing one of my old scarves and has Oreos for eyes and a nose, and raisins for a mouth.

While I find it hard to send such tiny bodies outside to play in 10 degree weather, I tried to be very conscious of the fact that snow days have the potential to make memories for a lifetime, and I let them play a little bit in the snow. I truly hope they had some fun. But snow days don't mean the same thing to an adult. All I could think of is every time the TV news anchors delivered the school closing info was, that's one less vacation day. Is that wrong?

One of my most memorable snow days was when I was 8 years old. We got a week off from school due to a major ice storm. We had about 4 inches of ice when it was all over, and sub-freezing temps, and of course, no power. My dad had bought 2 of those big orange plastic saucers with little rope handles on the side. We took them out the next morning after the storm had subsided to see how they did on the icy hill in our side yard. I sat down on my saucer, and my dad gave me a gentle shove to get me started.

Here's the part where we learn the moral of the story is "planning ahead." I slid down the side yard hill at record speed. Good times, right? But our side yard faced a long downhill to a cul de sac, and to this day my dad insists that watching me hit the street, he realized I had no way to stop. He stood helpless on that icy hill, watching his daughter hurtle down the street on a thick sheet of ice, and was sure I would end up with something broken, or at the very least, come to a stop somewhere in the next county. To me, it was just exhilarating and a little bit scary. I came to rest, very suddenly, against a mailbox. I was stunned by the unexpected bonus part of the ride, but fortunately unharmed. Clearly, I knew I was invincible.

Getting back up the hill was another story. My sister immediately declined to ride her saucer. And we didn't play outside much that week. Ahh, snow days.

What are your favorite snow day memories?

This One's Sad. Read with Kleenex.

After I graduated from college, I moved away from home to take an accounting job in Charlotte, North Carolina. I had a month between graduation and my first day at work, so after securing an apartment, I went home to rest, relax, pack, and plan for the move. At some point during that month, my mother told me I would be taking the family cat with me.

Abby the Tabby was 12 years old and finicky. We got her the summer I turned 10, and she pretty much ruled the roost right from the start. We had a couple of dogs along the way - large Labrador Retrievers - but size never mattered to her. All 8 pounds of tabby cat were definitely in charge at our house. She had her moments where she loved us, usually involving a can opener, and quite a few moments where she was an outright terror. I'll never forget her nightly escapades where she chased my little sister down the hall or up the stairs to her room each night for bed. And then she would sit on the bed, right next to her face, and watch her fall asleep. My sister used to fake snoring just to get her to hop off the bed. I bet she was the one who suggested that I take the cat.

Anyway, Abby and I moved together to Charlotte that summer. The drive was excruciating - the first 3 hours she spent howling at me - and I know it was a huge change for Abby. She must have been miserable not having a whole family to boss around any more. But we grew pretty close over that first year, and I watched her turn from a bossy and demanding pet into a very loving and sweet cat. She followed me everywhere, and it was really nice to have her around. The next year, I made plans to visit the family for Thanksgiving. I was going to drive straight from work, and had left a big bowl of food & water for Abby to last all weekend, but I forgot my ATM card at home that morning. So I headed home to pick it up after work. When I came in the front door, no cat greeted me. I found my ATM card and then went hunting for her.

Abby was under the bed, panting hard and not moving toward me when I called to her. Alarmed, I dragged her out from under the bed and carried her to her food bowl. She sort of sat there, continuing to pant, but not touching her food or water. So I put her head in the water bowl, and she kind of sipped at it. I called the vet, who at that hour of the evening was already sending calls to the emergency clinic, but said to touch base in the morning if we needed her. I took Abby to the clinic, and they proceeded to do a bunch of tests. She wouldn't walk - I had to carry her. She just panted and kind of moaned once in a while.

After a lot of crying, I ended up leaving her at the clinic overnight for testing. I went home to tell my parents that I would not be driving home yet, and I cried a lot more that night. This was the one pet we'd had forever, and this was a very sudden change that I was not prepared for yet. I was so worried and upset. The next morning, the clinic couldn't tell me anything new. They'd checked everything and done a ton of tests - $250 worth, to be exact - and still no sign of what could be wrong. So I drove to the vet's office.

This was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, at 8 am. If you've ever been to a vet on that particular morning, you already know that the parking lot was full and the line was out the door. Everyone in the county was dropping off dogs to be boarded. Me, I had a box lined with a towel, and a sick cat lying inside, panting and hooked up to an IV. To top it off, I'd been crying all night. So I went to the front of the counter and asked quietly if I needed to be in line, since I actually had an appointment to see the vet. The lady behind the counter said yes. She claimed there would be other people in line ahead of me who were also waiting to see the doctor. I told the last person in line, a kind older woman who was just down the steps outside the door, to please save me my place, because I'm going to sit in the waiting room with my cat in a box. And everyone shuffled slowly past me, some giving me sympathetic looks, others trying hard not to look, and a few brave enough to ask me what was wrong. It was pretty darn clear what was wrong. To this day, I will never forgive that lady behind the counter for making me sit there, and not letting me go sit in an exam room. Needless to say, not a single person ahead of me was there to see the vet that day.

The meeting with the doctor was short. We went over the results from the clinic. I vaguely recall having an x-ray for her to see. She couldn't see anything obviously wrong to cure, either. I think she had planned to take the long way toward a discussion of what was going wrong and how to best make Abby comfortable, but after that much crying over a long night, I had really come to the decision already. Abby was suffering and it was time. So I said goodbye and then the vet gave her the shot, and that was it. The end of an era.

I drove home to my family after that, crying the whole way. It was a 7-hour trip. My contacts were a giant layer of salt from all the tears, and I had to stop about 4 times to clean them so I could see through the blur. Really, it was one of the worst days I had ever had in my whole life. When I got home, my dad said that my mom and my sister were out shopping but should be back soon. I took my things up to my room, composed myself a little, and heard my mom & my sister arrive. I headed back downstairs. My sister rounded the corner with a tiny black kitten in her arms, and my mother right behind her. My first thought, which I did not say out loud, was "Oh, how incredibly tacky. I just put Abby to sleep this morning, and they want to replace her with another cat ON THE SAME DAY."

And then he looked up at me and meowed. Oh my lord, that meow. It was like sweet music. I took him in my arms, and I didn't put him down for 4 days. The rest of the trip was a blur. I'm sure I helped cook Thanksgiving dinner, but I don't remember it. Sometime that next day, I named him Max. I drove 7 hours back to my place on Sunday, and realized my family was really thinking about me. I didn't have to show up alone that night and see all the reminders of Abby everywhere - I had a little kitten to distract me! And I promptly found a brand-new vet, one with a staff that was awesome.

It's hard to tell what kittens will turn into. My mom and my sister wanted to get something that wouldn't remind me of Abby, so they bought a male black cat. He turned out to be a long-haired one. Who knew? Plus, he was massive - 13 pounds. But he was adorable and awesome and I basically doted on him.

About 2 years later, I moved back home with my parents, and Max promptly became their first grandkid. He'd wait for them next to the treat drawer whenever they appeared with grocery bags, and 100% of the time, he was rewarded for that minimal effort. Max went out on their screened-in porch nearly every day to watch the birds and enjoy the breeze and sleep in the sun. During the summer, tiny lizards used to crawl in between the boards. My mighty hunter was waiting for every single one of them. He got nightly pampering from my dad who had dubbed himself as keeper of the king-sized lap. They missed him when I moved out on my own again, so I brought him to visit Camp Grandma frequently.

As much time as I've spent brushing his fur off of every single thing I own, that guy is mine, all mine. He's the nicest cat on the planet. He put up with me bringing other cats home, and moving across the country and back, and switching apartments every 3 years. He put up with my late nights during my single years, and even later nights during the infant years. He patiently tolerates my children who yank on his fur. Last fall, he turned 15. I sent a couple of texts to my family and gave him a lot of hugs and thought about how fast 15 years has flown by, and kept on going.

There's a lot of kitty throw up that you tolerate as a long-haired cat owner, but daily for a couple of months is a bit much. He's gotten pretty skinny in the past few months. So this past Saturday, I took him to the vet. The vet did about $250 worth of tests (hmmm, I'm sensing a pattern here) - but the short answer is kidney disease. He's not getting good nutrition, and he's pretty dehydrated. There's a plan, not a great one (it involves pilling a cat - woo hoo), but it's a plan.

I'm not sure what to expect in terms of how long. Right now he seems fine. He loves everyone, and he plays, and he cuddles, and you would never in a million years guess that he is 15. But the vomiting is a problem, since he's not getting food or water to stay down long enough to keep him in good health. I can see where this is headed, much slower this time. I can stop and appreciate him and hug him and care for him, and it will still hurt like hell when he's gone. It dredges up awful memories and tears to think of that morning with Abby, and it was really just me handling it on my own. Thank god I'm wearing glasses while I'm writing this. I'm not sure another pair of contacts could take it.

NOTE TO MOM AND SIS - YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO VISIT PET STORES, BREEDERS, RESCUE SHELTERS, OR HOMES OF FRIENDS WITH RECENTLY-BORN LITTERS OF CUTE ANIMALS. NO "GIFTS FOR THE GIRLS." NO, NO, NO.

The One Where I Probably Violate Some Unknown Copyright Law

I want to dedicate this video blog entry to my friends Christine & John, who have listened to more than a few cover songs with me back in the day, before I moved away to be with Brian. At the dueling piano bar this past weekend, the band played it nearly instantly after I sent the request up there. I thought my friends might enjoy the stroll down memory lane, and the rest of you might love a trip back to the 1980's, when the music had layers and the lyrics didn't and nobody seemed to mind a bit. Apologies for the dim lighting (in a bar) and the less than stellar quality of the sound (recorded on my phone), but hopefully you get the idea. I miss you guys, and I hope your new hometown has a stellar cover band, too.

Strawberries!

Last month Brian picked up Helen from daycare and headed southeast of town to one of those Pick Your Own farms. He and I had looked at possible places to go the day before what ended up being the big flood weekend. That flood sort of put everything on hold for a while. So when he texted me this picture in the middle of my workday, I got excited.

When I got home that night, I realized I had to do something with over 10 pounds of perfectly ripe strawberries. Fast.

We ate a bunch of them that evening. Most of the berries you buy at the grocery store are red on the outside and white on the inside and taste vaguely berry-ish. Sometimes there is an exceptional period of about a week or two where you break down and buy a pint or a quart and they turn out fantastic, but you dare not press your luck any longer.

Not these berries. These berries were red on the inside, juicy and DELICIOUS.

One summer when I came home from college, I visited a farm near campus and brought my mom a couple of pounds of fresh strawberries. She made a pie with them that was amazing. So, naturally, I decided that's what I had to do with these berries.

The next night, after the kids went to bed, I got to work making my own pie. Rolled out the crust, found a recipe online, and WOW. It was fabulous! I didn't even bother with making a whipped cream topping, but that would have made it even better.

We snacked on the rest of the berries that week. Truly a delightful way to start off the summer. Prices were reasonable, around $2 a pound (not counting the gas for the trip out of town). Most farms will have some pre-picked for a little bit more, if you don't want to do it yourself. The way the heat index has been the past 2 weeks, I wouldn't blame anyone for skipping that step.

Blueberries are in season now, and so are blackberries. I might need to send those two off for my next cobbler ingredients.

Waterloo no more

My grandmother made fabulous orange bread. Whenever we visited her, she usually took a loaf from the freezer to thaw, and we'd toast it for breakfast and add lots of butter. It was always a great treat to have a homemade slice of her bread.

Sometime after I graduated from college, I called and asked her for the recipe. We were having a potluck breakfast at work for Christmas the next month, and I thought it would be good to bring her bread to share with everyone. I carefully wrote down all the steps on two cards. Step one was for the candied orange peel that got chopped up and mixed into the bread dough. Step two was making the bread dough.

The next month, I had my plan. I would plow through step one after work, and then handle step two early in the morning before going to work, so the loaf would still be warm as it was served to my co-workers. That night, before I went to bed, I carefully saved the sugared peel in a ziploc on the counter. The next morning, I got out my recipe card for the bread dough, and noticed one of the ingredients was a cup of the sugar water that cooked the orange peel. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. I had poured that sugar water & candied orange peel into a colander the night before, so all of that water went down the drain. I said a few choice words before shoving the recipe cards back in the box and heading for the shower. I stopped on the way to work and bought a big coffee cake from the grocery store. A few days later, my grandmother called me to find out how it went and we both had a good laugh over what a gigantic idiot I was.

A few years later, I dug the recipe cards out to make it and SCREWED UP AGAIN. People, it's like I totally forgot what happened the first time, and I went to strain the water from the orange peel and dumped it all into the colander and then sucked in my breath like one of those horror films as I watched the water go down the drain. I hung my head and took the colander over to the trash can and dumped the peel in the garbage. I mean, I just cannot be trusted to get this right. TWICE.

So at this point, this recipe is like my Waterloo. I love the memories of eating it, and I love thought that I *could* make it, since I have it in my recipe box. It seems like it should be easy enough, and yet TWICE I couldn't get it done. Which for me is like a giant mental stumbling block to ever trying to make it again.

So while I was on maternity leave, I decided to get past it. Dang it, I wanted some orange bread! This time I took out both recipe cards, and gave myself a stern lecture before I even put a pot of water on the stove. "Jennie," I said out loud, "you cannot mess this up. Your grandmother worked hard to give you orange bread on each visit. She trusted you with the recipe, and she is counting on you to get it right. You have tossed out that water twice now. Can you remember to save it this time? CAN YOU FINISH THE DAMN RECIPE ALREADY?"

And this time, I made the orange bread. And it was awesome. Oh, how I loved it. I made two more loaves while we were at my parents' house, and I shared them with my sister and mother, and I fed it to my girls. It's good stuff, people. But more than that, I'm finally past that obstacle. There's a lot of things that mentally hold us back from getting things done, and I finally charged right over one of them. Hoo-rah.

I know Grandma is up there somewhere smiling and totally thrilled that I got through it for once, but I just wish I could call her to tell her how good it was.

Powerless

Flood weekend, after the rain had fallen for 2 full days, and the power had been out for 8 hours:

Brian: You know what I've learned this weekend? Marriages thrive on love, patience, and electricity.

Jennie: (through gritted teeth) Yep.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, a huge ice storm knocked out our power for nearly a week. There was an initial panic to get back to the house in worsening weather in the middle of a school day,as road conditions quickly deteriorated. But as soon as we got home, and knew we'd be out of school, I remember being excited and happy. We had a camp stove that ran on sterno. We had a woodburning fireplace. We had winter coats and mittens and hats. We played outside as much as we could on giant sheets of thick ice. We hung blankets up to block off the rest of the house and keep all the heat in the living room. We slept in sleeping bags in front of the fireplace at night. I don't remember any worries about the refrigerator or whether there was enough food to eat. I don't remember whether we had lots of candles or flashlights. I don't remember anyone worrying about firewood running out. It's all kind of hazy in my mind, except for images of drying mittens on the hearth, and one speedy trip down a long icy hill, riding one of those orange plastic saucers.

Outside the ice storm had snapped tree branches, which then fell on power lines. I think it was a record number of trees down for that storm. We lived on the top of a mountain surrounded by trees, and it was a long windy trek to get to us. And during that week, I think each and every neighbor visited the guy across the street who worked for the power company and asked him to pull some strings. But the tree clearing crew had to come with the power crew to make it all happen.

I'm sure my parents had moments when their nerves were frayed from all that togetherness. Somehow they kept it from showing. Families weren't quite as addicted to video games and TV back then, but having to live in one room for a week with 2 girls who were quickly getting bored still must have been hard. I remember playing board games and card games to pass the time. I must have read some books, too. I don't remember having an especially early bedtime, nor sitting around a bunch of candles at night, but the sun sets around 6 pm in the winter. Maybe we did all just go to bed.

What I discovered during the flood weekend last month is that our family is not prepared for a long-term power outage. In the days when I was single, I had a ton of candles, and an apartment with a gas stove. I kept a ton of snack food on hand, and my fridge just kept cokes and beer and limes chilled.

Now, I'm down to 2 candles on the mantle, plus a pack of birthday candles in the kitchen. We have an electric stove, and a fridge full of staples and leftovers and not nearly enough beer. There is a gas grill outside, but in the driving rain, that's impossible to use. We have a gas water heater that works without power, and we have a gas fireplace that can get noticeably warm in the winter. But that's useless in the summer.

So, I panicked. Power was out and roads were blocked and houses were underwater. My cell phone didn't work. The nearby grocery store was almost flooded. There were suddenly a lot of strange people walking up and down our street to check out the flooding on either side of us. It was hot outside, and getting warmer inside. The milk was getting low, and I had no way to chill more, even if I could buy it. I don't know how to cook mac & cheese on a grill. Without food, I get cranky. Brian gets even crankier. In the summer, the sun sets around 8 pm, so I wouldn't have to worry about candles and flashlights as much, but we tried Trivial Pursuit after dinner, and Alice kept moving our game pieces to new spots on the board. We did get a game of Twister going though, and that killed about 20 minutes. I also learned my thigh muscles don't stretch any more. So, kind of a bust on the board games.

Without power, Brian can't watch sports on TV or play video games. There is no internet to surf. Without cell service, there are no calls to chat with friends. So he was getting restless. He had a book, but with 3 girls bouncing off the walls inside because it's raining outside, it's hard to read. And both of us getting increasingly worried about the rain and when it might stop and when we might have power again - we felt very disconnected from the world. And it's difficult in 2010 to be disconnected. It was like we were both going through withdrawal: edgy, panicky, nervous, and unsettled. We were well aware that we were completely unaware of what was happening all around us. I think being able to focus and handle everything would have been easier if I could have at least made a proper dinner.

I realize part of the fun of a power outage for a kid is the adventure of doing the same things in a brand-new way. Seeing it from the parents' point of view this time around, it was not nearly as fun. I lasted less than 24 hours before I bailed and left town. I packed up the kids that Monday morning, and spent 8 hours trying to get to my parents' house, which is normally about 4 hours away. Brian cleared everything out of the fridge and left to stay with his brother, and came back to check on the house. Power was back by Tuesday night, but internet took a week. Cell phone service was spotty for a while.

I bought some more candles when I got back to town. And I'm pricing a good camp stove. Brian mentioned looking into a generator that will run the TV and the router. So, we have different priorities. But both end at the same point - being able to create more fun memories for our family the next time we lose power.

PS - Priority one on the next power outage is to loot Marble Slab Creamery. I didn't even think of it until I got out of town, and I won't make that mistake again. And they can thank me later when they don't have to clean up all that melted Double Dark Chocolate in their freezers.

Italian in a Small Town

It was 1997, and I had moved back to my hometown after a relationship tanked miserably. My parents very graciously allowed me to move back home, ten years before all the cool kids were doing it. After a few weeks of job hunting and wandering around my boxes and figuring out what to do with my life, I finally resigned myself to being a permanent resident of the town where I graduated from high school.

Yep, I went to get a new drivers license.

The county where my parents live is mostly rural. They reside in the more populated northern side of the county, which bumps up against a large metropolitan county. So I could have gone downtown to get my license, but instead I headed south to the small county courthouse, just for the experience. My parents told me where to find it, and wow. It's a tiny downtown. There's one stoplight in the town square, a few small stores, and the old courthouse. Here's a picture I found online:


I found an empty parking space on the street, right in front of the building. What kind of planet had I landed on? Further evidence of having left actual terra firma for parts unknown: there were only TWO people in line at the License Window. Cue angels singing Hallelujah!

Drivers license, fishing license, boat license, license plate for your boat, your car, your RV, etc. - all of this happens at the same License Window in the courthouse. Ahh, small towns. I immediately vowed I would never go to the downtown DMV again.

I told the woman at the window that I had just moved from Utah, and needed to get a drivers license. Clearly, this woman thought I was coming from another country (she was about half right), and although I didn't know it at the time, one vital word could have saved my morning from heading off the rails, right here ... but I didn't say it. She told me I needed to head over to the "Buchellus Building" to get my license.

"Where?" I asked, not sure I understood her accent.

She pointed to a doorway, which led to a parking lot. "It's across the parkin' lot, the Buchellus Buildin'."

Okay. I had no idea what I needed to do in this other building that couldn't be done at the super-nice, all-inclusive, no-waiting License Window, but I dutifully headed to the parking lot.

While I walked, I tried to figure out who the heck this "Buchellus" might be. Some Italian, I wondered, had settled here, of all places, and got this small town to name a public building after him! Amazing.

Once I made it across the parking lot, though, I started laughing. Over the top of the door, the sign proudly declared: "The Frank 'Butch' Ellis Building."

Inside, I encountered a small group of about six people, seated in chairs lining a hallway. It appeared to be moms with their bored-looking teens. So of course I started to get nervous that I would have to retake the drivers test. (Anyone remember what the fine is for littering on the highway? Yeah, I don't either.) I grabbed a copy of the drivers manual sitting on a table nearby, and took a number. Sitting down, I flipped through the book, awaiting some clerk to tell me it was my turn to fail. I overheard one of the moms say that she was really worried about her daughter's driving test, since that four-way stop intersection nearby was pretty tricky, and she wished they had gone to (even smaller town) instead for their test. That comment made me giggle, picturing my own drivers' test about a dozen years earlier. It was on the wrong side of downtown in the previously mentioned metropolitan area. To compare, a four-way stop in that neighborhood might be the ideal location for a carjacking.

Eventually, one of the clerks came back from administering a driver's test, and he did a double take when he saw me. Apparently that building was for teenagers anxiously awaiting freedom, not adult children returning to the nest because they couldn't make their first post-college relationship work right. I got to skip to the head of the line. Thank god for small favors, because it was at this point I learned I did not have to retake the test. Sweet! Then I learned that since I previously had a license in that state, he sent me back to the courthouse to get my old license number dug up and reinstated. I had just spent all that time waiting for him for nothing. That one vital word I should have told the first clerk? I had just moved BACK from Utah. Tips 'em off that I used to live here, la ti dah, here's your old license. None of the co-mingling with sweaty, nervous teens, none of the worries about re-testing decades after Drivers Ed, none of it. Ah, well.

Back across the parking lot. Back to the short line at the License Window. One photo session and small fee later, back to owning my new/old license. Again.

To sum up: there are no famous Italians in small rural Southern towns. Four-way intersections freak out moms of teenagers, probably because they know their own kids are so bad about taking turns. When you leave your hometown, YOU NEVER REALLY LEAVE YOUR HOMETOWN. Even the DMV is just waiting for you to mess it all up and come crawling back.

And no matter how far into the woods you drive, and no matter how short the line is, it still takes forever to get out of the DMV.

First Job

When I was a teenager in the late 1980s, our next-door neighbor started his own business. They had gone exploring in a couple of nearby states to check out the newest trend in retail - really fancy bookstores with comfy chairs and coffee bars and peaceful adult contemporary guitar music. You know - a wonderful hangout where you could read.

Keep in mind, this is the late 1980s. The idea of drinking a cup of coffee AND reading a book IN A BOOKSTORE was like, BOOM - your mind just exploded. What if the customers spill the coffee ON THE BOOK? What if they get crumbs from their bagels ON THE BOOK? What if they READ THE WHOLE BOOK? How would that kind of place ever survive?

Yeah, I mean it. Seriously. it's hard to remember how novel that concept was in the beginning, but today, we all know the book-buying public latched on firmly. Nowadays, it's hard to imagine a bookstore you want to visit without a latte and a place to sit. Add some Manheim Steamroller, and stir. Presto! Suburban bookstore. Or: sprinkle hipster glasses, and toss with a calico cat. Presto! Urban bookstore.

Anyway, this neighbor opened the store with a friend of his in a brand-new shopping center near our neighborhood, and I sort of knew about it because my parents talked about it with our neighbor, and sometimes those talks happened in the driveway where I might be standing around and overhear it. I remember a grand opening, and I found it amazing. They had a couple of permanent employees right off the bat. These were good people who knew books and read books and LOVED books. Then one day, I think it was a few months later, our neighbor approached me about a part-time job doing some computer work in the back room. Turns out they were photocopying all the checks that people wrote (again, this was back before everything was bought on a debit card), and they planned to enter all of the addresses into their customer database. They wanted to create a mailing list for their newsletter, but their staff were generally busy selling stuff and didn't want to enter all that information. Could I help out? 

I'm not sure why they thought of me.  Cheap teenage labor?  Because I was there?  I don't remember asking my parents if I could, I don't remember if my parents talked to me first and then we talked to the neighbors - really, at this point it's all a giant blur of how it happened.  But I do know that I said sure!! and promptly spent Saturdays, and sometimes Sunday afternoons off and on working in the backroom of the newest trend in retail l for the next year and a half. They had a great DOS-based system (remember, 1980s) that catalogued all the books, with search capabilities and easy ordering from the distributors.  It all combined up at the counter with the register sales.  Yep - we used the computer as the register.  You can now applaud wildly at that cutting edge technology.  

My part of the system was pretty easy - I just entered in the addresses & phone numbers into a customer list. They had been saving a big stack of these check copies, and it took me a few months to work through them and get to current dates on checks. I got to where I recognized the repeat customers. 

It was cool to see the store grow to a huge success.  In the beginning, i don't remember being on a specific schedule but I basically worked weekends.  When they got busy, especially around Christmas vacation, they asked me to work the floor. I sold books, I shelved books, I wrapped gifts, I helped people pick out books, and I looked up stuff when people had questions. Eventually they felt like the mailing list was big enough, so I stayed on the floor as needed on the weekends. 

Working in a bookstore was my only retail experience. It felt like a smart place to work, like we had knowledgeable customers who looked at us as experts - not the retail clowns you always found at the mall bookstores. These days I think there are entire websites devoted to the dumb questions that customers will ask the good folks at Barnes & Noble, but back then, it certainly didn't feel like there was a giant conspiracy aimed at ruining our day.  Or else I was too young to notice it yet.  I had good bosses and co-workers, and while it wasn't a traditional office job with staff meetings and cubicles and memos, I definitely enjoyed it.

Oh - except for Manheim Steamroller. Nowadays I get an instant migraine when I hear that music.  Spend 8 hours listening to the same cd of adult contemporary guitar music, and tell me if you still enjoy it.  The owners got to pick the music, and we didn't get much say in that day's pick.  So, my favorite part of the day, musically speaking, was when one of the owners would rush back about an hour before closing time, steam pouring out of his ears, and change the cd to ANYTHING, GOD HELP ME ANYTHING BUT THAT ONE.

What was your first job? We're talking real paychecks here. Teenage babysitting or lawn mowing doesn't count.  Did you like it?

My Doll

When Helen was born, I got a gift from her great-grandmother.  She sent a baby outfit and a matching Carter's doll.  My cousin told me later that she had taken her to the store, and my grandmother picked it out herself.  Considering that she was already in somewhat poor health at that time, it meant a lot to me that she had gone out and done that.

I treasure the doll.  Carter's has been a big part of dressing both of my babies, so it's nice to have a lasting reminder of the adorable little clothes that my girls can play with for years to come.  

And when my grandmother passed away about a year later, I realized that gift meant even more.  She would never get to meet her other great-grandchildren or pick something out for them that she thought they might like.  

At my work baby shower for Alice, I was in a room full of people opening presents and was startled to find another Carter's doll.  There was no way my co-worker could have known about it.  And in a way, it was like Grandma was right there with me, letting me know that she wanted this one to have something special, too.

I know pregnancy is an emotional time that comes with its own set of irrational thoughts and weepy moments, but that's what I was thinking.  And 4 months after the pregnancy has ended, I still believe it.

Alice loves this little doll.  It's very soft and squeezeable, and when she gets a little sleepy, I put the baby in her arms and she pulls it toward her face to chew on it.  

I really miss Grandma.

Unforgettable

Here are 5 things I don't ever want to forget that Helen says.

1. "Callapitter" instead of caterpillar.
It now takes me forever to figure out in my head how to say it right. Some days, under extreme sleep deprivation, "callapitter" sounds like a good choice.

2. For a long time we called a serving of chicken "bock bock" after the sound that a chicken makes. Helen started it as a toddler, and after a while I was doing it, too. Giving this some serious thought lately, I don't know if Helen has actually put together that the chickens that walk around clucking are the same ones that end up in her Happy Meal. But calling it "bock bock" might be the best way to reinforce that very image. So I stopped doing it. Call me chicken (pun intended), but I'm not ready for that conversation yet.

3. For words that start with "Y" she uses the "L" sound. Especially "yellow" which is now "lellow." Typical conversation:

Jennie: What color is the sun?

Helen: Lellow.

Jennie: No, it's yellow, Helen. Ye-llow. Say it.

Helen: Le-llow.

Jennie: No. Try this. Ye ...

Helen: Ye ...

Jennie: llow.

Helen: llow.

Jennie: Ye .. llow.

Helen: Le ... llow.

Jennie: *sigh*

And for some unknown reason, L words got the Y treatment last year, like "Yama" instead of "Llama" or "Yove" instead of "Love." We worked *forever* on sticking that tongue between the teeth to make the L sound, and she finally got the hang of it. Now we're working on the reverse with the Y words. It never ends, people. But I realize, mine is not to reason why, mine is but to teach that kid how to speak correctly, or die penniless because she never graduated from med school with that speech impediment. "What we'll do is make a yateral incision along the yeft ventricle ..." "Uh, there's the exit. Use it."

4. Last weekend, we went to the "Libarry." It is my firm belief that at least four out of every ten adults INSIDE THE LIBRARY still say "libarry." So this may not be easily fixed.

5. Lately, Helen doesn't want us to leave the room without sharing something vital. If I get up to check on the baby or head to the kitchen, Helen asks me to wait, she has to tell me something. And then I pause while she struggles to make something up to tell me. It's a delaying tactic, I get it. And my sole purpose is to get out of the conversation quickly, so I can get on with what I was going to do, before I forget what it was. So I don't really engage her, and yet she comes up with these gems off the top of her head that are so sweet.

The one where I get the punchline:

Helen: Mommy, I have to tell you something.

Jennie: What is it?

Helen: You're the bestest mommy, ever.

Jennie: I know!


The one where Brian gets the punchline:

Helen: Daddy, I have to tell you something.

Brian: What?

Helen: You're my daddy.

Brian: That's what they tell me.

Family Jargon

If you've ever checked out the list of blogs I read, one is a community blog called "Ask MetaFilter."  Basically, it's a large group of people who live for the internet, some of whom are experts in their chosen fields.  The site's purpose is to ask questions and post answers on a variety of topics.  Questions range from technical details on setting up a webpage to the ethical dilemmas that pop up at work to the dire psychological problems in a relationship - even hypothetical situations are fair game.

I noticed one yesterday as I perused the site for some interesting reading, where a poster was looking for examples of family jargon.  Going beyond just the average inside jokes, the poster wanted to learn more about the origins of the terms, and if outsiders would be clueless hearing them used in the average dinner conversation.

There were over 100 responses, some of which were downright hilarious.  And it got me to thinking about our own family jargon that I grew up with.  I'll explain some of them to you.

NIGHTY-SUIT

A lot of family jargon comes from kids who make up words or have trouble with pronunciation.  As long as I can remember, the clothes you wear to bed in my family have been called "nighty-suits."  The true origin is lost in the hazy mists of my memory, but I'm guessing this came from my mom's own childhood.  And my mom still uses this phrase today.

SCROUNGE NIGHT

We've all been there - Mom would get tired of figuring out what to cook the troops for dinner.  Or we'd have some leftovers, but not enough to serve the entire family for another meal.  So Mom would call for a Scrounge Night, and we could dig whatever we wanted out of the fridge or the pantry to cook for ourselves.  It went without saying that the meal had to fulfill certain nutritional requirements (i.e., cookies are not a meal) but as long as we reheated it ourselves, we could enjoy it.

CAMP GRANDMA

Every summer, my grandparents would meet my parents halfway between our house and theirs, and my sister & I would get in their car and go spend a week at their house.  Usually our cousins would meet us there to hang with us that week.  Many years later, I learned that it was informally called Camp Grandma by our parents.  We had waterfront activities just about every single day.  Also, we did arts and crafts.  Often there were cooking lessons.  Also, we went to see the outdoor amphitheater performance of "Oklahoma!" near their home.  Grandma even enforced a "naptime" every afternoon.  And if the trip coincided with July 4th, we walked down to the river to see the city's fireworks show.  Later, my sister & I used "Camp Grandma" to refer to our own parents caring for our cats while we were out of town.  I don't think they had to enforce naptime, though.

SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED

Based on the Gary Larson cartoon here, my sister and I make the same gesture and repeat "School for the Gifted" whenever we do something really dumb.  Sometimes we just do the gesture, without saying the words.  

COOK IN THE CAR

In my mid-twenties, I moved back in with my parents after ending a long-term relationship out of state.  I worked downtown and commuted about 45 minutes back home.  Sometimes I'd offer to pick up dinner on the way home.  My parents would call in and I'd stop to pick it up.  And just as often, my dad would pick it up.  On one of those occasions, we discovered just how many times we had called a particular Chinese restaurant for takeout.  As my dad came in, the hostess greeted him, "Ah, Mr. Brown, you cook in the car tonight?"  We all loved the idea of "cooking in the car" so much, that's how we refer to all takeout food.

Please please please contribute an example of your own family jargon in the comments!  I'd love to hear more.

Fireworks

We're headed back to the farm this weekend (yes, the one with all the cows) for a family reunion.  This evening, I wondered aloud at the spectacle Brian and his brother might create with fireworks.

Brian:  It's nothing compared to my uncle.  One year he had driven home long-distance for a 4th of July party, stopping at every fireworks stand along the way.  He picked the biggest and best at every shop.  By the end of the trip, he had a huge garbage bag of fireworks.

Jennie:  What happened?

Brian:  Everything was great until the second one took a bad hop and landed in the garbage bag.

Jennie:  (laughs)

Brian:  He set the lawn on fire.

Jennie:  (still laughing)  Oh god, please stop.  I've peed my pants!  (the 3rd trimester sucks, y'all.)

My own family has a very long tradition of setting various patches of grass on fire on the 4th of July.  Some collateral damage includes hearing loss, heart palpitations, burned fingers, and a large orange glow in the far woods of a nearby house, where the garden hose couldn't possibly reach.  But I'll never forget the year we let a 5-year old boy hold a 5-ball Roman Candle, and after the first one we all made the obligatory "ooooh" noises, whereupon the 5-year old turned to us, proud of his handiwork, with a giant grin on his face and the Roman Candle aimed at us.  

You've never seen a bunch of ladies hit the deck that fast.  

This year we've been told that fireworks on the farm are allowed, within very reasonable limits on after-show cleanup.  That basically leaves giant cannon shots that can be seen for miles.  

This should be a very interesting holiday.

But with all the commotion, the cows will probably stay far away, and I won't get to take lots of pictures of them.  And that, Dear Reader, will be a win-win for you.