My neighbor just got a new car that has a camera on the bumper or somewhere and she can see on the dashboard what is behind her before she backs up. This sounds like a swell idea because you never know what is behind you when you back out of your garage.
I thought I had the newest thing because my mini-van has little lights at the back window that come on when you start to back up and it will beep if you get too close to something. It beeped last winter when all that was back there were big ruts of ice in the street left over from the blizzard, so I'm not sure how much I trust it's judgement, but it is a big improvement over what I've had for years: a mirror.
I'm always very careful when I back out of my driveway. I even use the mirror AND turn and look over my shoulder. Of course when you are looking over one shoulder things sometimes are lurking over the other shoulder, like the side of the garage. The basketball pole that used to be next to our driveway is the one that took the side mirror the rest of the way off, though. Twice. Dennis had me park on the other side of the garage after that.
You would think that I'm always backing into things the way they carry on around here. That dumpster at the furniture store in St. Louis where I worked was parked crooked or the corner of it would never have come through the back window like that, leaving all those glass pieces all over the back seat and the parking lot. (I never did tell them in the store where all that glass came from, so let's just keep it between ourselves.)
Here is some free advice: If you are visiting someone and have to park on the street, don't park across from the end of somebody's driveway! It is just common sense. Sometimes people might not see your car there even if it is red. And for heaven's sake, don't park there again a few months later. You'd think people would learn after the first time.
I have this great idea that I think Detroit should look into. Swivel seats! (I haven't figured out the steering wheel and pedal part yet, but they are pretty smart there; they can come up with something) When you are going to back up, just swivel all the way around to the back and watch out the rear window. It would also come in handy when you have to keep saying "Don't make me come back there!" to the kids.
My dad had a unique way of backing up that he taught all us girls. It worked best if you were on a country lane or had to back up a long way and there were no other cars coming. You open the driver's door, lean way out of the car with your right hand still on the steering wheel, then you kind of hang out the door as you go and you can see a long way and have a better view of everything you are backing toward. It was especially helpful when my sister lived on a farm because it was a pretty long drive and no way to turn around until you got to her house. There was one problem, though. Her road was not paved and sometimes after a rain it was pretty muddy. Don't do that hanging out with the door open thing if it is really muddy. It takes a long time to clean out the car and you may not have brought along a change of clothes. Or shampoo.
I try not to back up any more than I have to. I learned my lesson on that when I was taking my mom to the airport in Los Angeles after she came out to help when Jake was born. Josh was two and a half at the time. They had this system straight from Satan in their parking lot to keep people from getting away without paying. There were huge spikes in the pavement right at the ticket machine. When you drove forward they would bend down and they were safe to drive over, but if you backed up, BAM! they got you, right in the tires. But the ticket machine didn't give me my ticket so I backed up just a tiny bit to try again. Well, Josh got a big kick out of seeing the tow truck.
When looking for a parking place at the store I try to get a space that has no other car in front of it, then I pull straight through to the place on the other side. Occasionally it is a big surprise to the person getting ready to pull into that spot, but it makes it possible to pull right out when you leave. No backing up. You do want to be kind of careful doing that, though because sometimes one of those big concrete curb things is between the two spaces and you may not notice it until you get the front wheels over it and the rest of the car doesn't keep coming and then you are high-centered on it and your husband or somebody has to leave work and get you off of it.
Someday when I win the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes or something, I won't even need any of that high-tech equipment like a back up camera. I'm only going to go to places that have valet parking. Let them back the car up.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
Stage Presence
When our oldest son, Josh, was twelve years old he had been playing the double bass for a couple of years and the Music Director of our church asked him if he would play on Sunday mornings with the orchestra so he became the only kid playing with the group of adults. I had to drive him back and forth to rehearsals, of course, and sometimes they got a little late and at Christmas there were a lot of practices, but all in all it was a good experience for him and I didn't mind.
That Fall the Oklahoma Baptists were having their annual convention in Oklahoma City and our church orchestra was asked to play one evening. The Convention is a big deal in Oklahoma Baptist life. There are about 1700 Southern Baptist churches in Oklahoma, big and small, and a whole lot of them send "Messengers" to the convention. They were holding it at Council Road Baptist Church because they had a new facility, big enough to hold everybody, and the ability to televise programs. At the convention they have meetings all day and preaching and music in the evening and it is kind of like a loop, something going on all the time.
The only problem with Josh going was that it was on a school night and their orchestra wasn't scheduled to even play until 8:00. And besides that, I had forgotten that he was supposed to go. So when he came out to the yard where I had been cleaning up leaves and dead flowers and such all day and said "Mom, I'm supposed to be there in 15 minutes," I just grabbed a coat and ran for the car.
Now, when we lived in St. Louis there was a lady in our neighborhood that we saw out watering her lawn quite frequently, who was completely dolled up, make-up and all, for working in her yard! I think she even had on pearls. This is not how I dress to work in the yard. I'm pretty sure I was wearing an old sweatshirt with the neck stretched out. I know I was wearing my oldest, most comfortable, semi-transparent-in-more-places-than-the-knees-jeans, and probably the tennis shoes that used to be white but by this time may have inspired the crayon color, Burnt Sienna, in several spots. With holes in them.
The closest coat was my comfy, old corduroy from the time that Dennis and I first got married and purchased---are you ready?---matching jackets. (We were practically still teen-agers and really in love, so what can I say? Stop gagging!) We were married almost seven years when Josh was born and he was twelve, so you add it up. Here's a hint: at the time of purchase the fashionable color was Avocado Green. Mine may have faded a little. Or a lot. The term Monkey-Vomit Green comes to mind.
Now, when I work in the yard, I may sweat a little. Excuse me, my mom always said "Ladies do not sweat. Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, ladies 'glow'." I probably had "glowed" about a gallon's worth. And it may have affected my hair. When I "glow" my hair goes into Cheerleader Mode. No, not slicked back, perky ponytail. More like "Lean to the left; lean to the right. Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!" But I ran my fingers through it a lot on the way, hoping to help it.
We made it the church with about a minute to spare, drove up to the back where the entrance to the choir room was, and Josh jumped out to unload his bass. "I'll park," I told him, "and then I'll go sit up in the balcony and after you play, when they're praying you can catch my eye and we'll leave. You can't stay for the whole thing on a school night."
I know. I probably should have waited in the car, but it was getting cold and I wanted to hear him play, and I had not been to this church since they built their new building, and I really wanted to see inside. Besides, the church was huge and I was sure the balcony would be about empty and probably kind of dark.
I found a parking place nearby, for which I was glad, because have you ever had to lug a bass violin any distance? The door Josh had gone in seemed the best bet so I went in that one. I could hear people singing and there was a stairway going up right there. That was great; I wouldn't have to ask for directions to the balcony.
I opened the door at the top of the stairs. There were a lot of empty chairs just as I expected. I went down and sat in the third row from the back on the aisle. I looked around to see the beautiful new sanctuary they had built.....and realized I was on the platform. In the empty choir loft. And Dr. Bob Agee, president of Oklahoma Baptist University was at the pulpit on the stage in front of me, preaching. He didn't see me, but, maybe 1,000 people in the congregation couldn't miss. And it was being televised.
At first I just stayed there. It seemed it might make more of a scene to get up and leave, but the longer I sat there the more I thought, "The choir Josh is playing for will come in soon. They may notice if there aren't enough seats for them." Baptists usually don't wear choir robes for an evening service, but you never know. I didn't think my outfit would blend in. There was nothing to do but gather my Monkey-Vomit Green jacket around me, go back up the stairs and leave.
Six years later, when Oklahoma Baptist University gave Josh a full-ride scholarship, besides paying all academic expenses, they also paid for meals, books, parking, and all fees. I'm sure it was because he was an excellent student. If anybody thought he needed all of that extra stuff because his mother was a Bag Lady, no one said.
That Fall the Oklahoma Baptists were having their annual convention in Oklahoma City and our church orchestra was asked to play one evening. The Convention is a big deal in Oklahoma Baptist life. There are about 1700 Southern Baptist churches in Oklahoma, big and small, and a whole lot of them send "Messengers" to the convention. They were holding it at Council Road Baptist Church because they had a new facility, big enough to hold everybody, and the ability to televise programs. At the convention they have meetings all day and preaching and music in the evening and it is kind of like a loop, something going on all the time.
The only problem with Josh going was that it was on a school night and their orchestra wasn't scheduled to even play until 8:00. And besides that, I had forgotten that he was supposed to go. So when he came out to the yard where I had been cleaning up leaves and dead flowers and such all day and said "Mom, I'm supposed to be there in 15 minutes," I just grabbed a coat and ran for the car.
Now, when we lived in St. Louis there was a lady in our neighborhood that we saw out watering her lawn quite frequently, who was completely dolled up, make-up and all, for working in her yard! I think she even had on pearls. This is not how I dress to work in the yard. I'm pretty sure I was wearing an old sweatshirt with the neck stretched out. I know I was wearing my oldest, most comfortable, semi-transparent-in-more-places-than-the-knees-jeans, and probably the tennis shoes that used to be white but by this time may have inspired the crayon color, Burnt Sienna, in several spots. With holes in them.
The closest coat was my comfy, old corduroy from the time that Dennis and I first got married and purchased---are you ready?---matching jackets. (We were practically still teen-agers and really in love, so what can I say? Stop gagging!) We were married almost seven years when Josh was born and he was twelve, so you add it up. Here's a hint: at the time of purchase the fashionable color was Avocado Green. Mine may have faded a little. Or a lot. The term Monkey-Vomit Green comes to mind.
Now, when I work in the yard, I may sweat a little. Excuse me, my mom always said "Ladies do not sweat. Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, ladies 'glow'." I probably had "glowed" about a gallon's worth. And it may have affected my hair. When I "glow" my hair goes into Cheerleader Mode. No, not slicked back, perky ponytail. More like "Lean to the left; lean to the right. Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!" But I ran my fingers through it a lot on the way, hoping to help it.
We made it the church with about a minute to spare, drove up to the back where the entrance to the choir room was, and Josh jumped out to unload his bass. "I'll park," I told him, "and then I'll go sit up in the balcony and after you play, when they're praying you can catch my eye and we'll leave. You can't stay for the whole thing on a school night."
I know. I probably should have waited in the car, but it was getting cold and I wanted to hear him play, and I had not been to this church since they built their new building, and I really wanted to see inside. Besides, the church was huge and I was sure the balcony would be about empty and probably kind of dark.
I found a parking place nearby, for which I was glad, because have you ever had to lug a bass violin any distance? The door Josh had gone in seemed the best bet so I went in that one. I could hear people singing and there was a stairway going up right there. That was great; I wouldn't have to ask for directions to the balcony.
I opened the door at the top of the stairs. There were a lot of empty chairs just as I expected. I went down and sat in the third row from the back on the aisle. I looked around to see the beautiful new sanctuary they had built.....and realized I was on the platform. In the empty choir loft. And Dr. Bob Agee, president of Oklahoma Baptist University was at the pulpit on the stage in front of me, preaching. He didn't see me, but, maybe 1,000 people in the congregation couldn't miss. And it was being televised.
At first I just stayed there. It seemed it might make more of a scene to get up and leave, but the longer I sat there the more I thought, "The choir Josh is playing for will come in soon. They may notice if there aren't enough seats for them." Baptists usually don't wear choir robes for an evening service, but you never know. I didn't think my outfit would blend in. There was nothing to do but gather my Monkey-Vomit Green jacket around me, go back up the stairs and leave.
Six years later, when Oklahoma Baptist University gave Josh a full-ride scholarship, besides paying all academic expenses, they also paid for meals, books, parking, and all fees. I'm sure it was because he was an excellent student. If anybody thought he needed all of that extra stuff because his mother was a Bag Lady, no one said.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Big Brother is Watching
Sometimes I wonder if there aren't people somewhere writing bizarre directions for complicated networks and electronic devices and then laughing their heads off because we are blindly following them. Like the time we got our only brand-new car back in 2000. At the dealer they said in order to set the compass and the time to the proper time zone and attach to a certain GPS satellite we had to go to an open area, like an empty parking lot and, drive the car around in circles until it reached some set of numbers. Despite my best advice, Dennis HAD to follow directions and then there we were, going round and round the K-Mart parking lot and suddenly we were "linked in". I'm thinking the GPS "linked in" to someplace at the manufacturer and they were sitting there taking bets on how many times we would go around in meaningless circles till we figured it out. Of course, now that I think of it, my sister sold us that car.....
Or when my other sister got a new atomic clock the directions said we had to take the clock outside----I swear I am not making this up!----face Ft. Collins, Colorado, and let it sit there until it set itself. I don't know! It was either worshipping some false god in Ft. Collins or somebody somewhere was hysterically laughing at the thought of all the people who bought that clock making fools of themselves in their back yards. Or front yards depending on where Ft. Collins was from your house. And who knows which direction Ft. Collins is anyway?
Things don't have to be high-tech to be secretly evil. Back when baby wipes first came out they were sold in a canister similar to the ones today but the opening where you had to reach in and pull out the first one was where they got you. It was a plastic circle with teeth-like points all around and once you put your finger in, there was no coming out. It was like Chinese handcuffs; the harder you tried to get out the tighter it held. And it hurt! You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. The first time I got stuck in one I was working in Vacation Bible School at our church in California. The other workers in the nursery tried to help but it wasn't coming off. They actually were getting ready to call the Fire Department when someone said "Get a knife," and I don't remember after that.
I steered clear of baby wipes from then on. Well, except for the day we brought Josh, our first child, home from the hospital. Dennis had to go to work and my mom was not due from the airport for several hours and the baby really needed to be changed and all of a sudden there I was, wearing that baby wipes canister on one hand and trying to hold a screaming baby with the other. I don't know exactly how I did it----I tend to block extreme pain from my mind----but I somehow freed myself before my mom got there and was met with a poopy baby and a frantic daughter. Somebody somewhere probably got a big kick out of that!
And there just may be a hidden camera in one of the rest stops on I-44 on the way to St. Louis. The faucets there are made in such a way that you have to push down on the top for the water to come out, then hold your hands under the faucet but when you let go of the push button the water goes off. So you push it down again, try to whip your hands under it, and the water is gone! Again and again!! It is diabolical. When we were there I kept trying and trying and finally went out to get my daughter-in-law, Jerilyn, to come in and hold down the button so I could wash my hands. She thought it was very funny. When she finally got control of herself she said "Try holding the button down with one hand while washing the other, then switch." She may have been in league with Them.
Now, I am very grateful for some of today's technology, like the bell that rings in my car if I leave the lights on, but a few years ago----okay, decades----that did not exist and if you left your lights on the battery was most likely dead when you came out of the store causing untold misery in hunting down jumper cables, finding someone to jump the battery, being late for work and frozen vegetables melting in the back seat. People didn't lock their cars as much back then so if I was walking through a parking lot and saw that someone had left their car lights on I would reach in and turn them off for them. I am very helpful that way. There was that one time, though, when----it must have been a newer car with some innovations I was not aware of----I reached in the open window to turn off the headlights and the trunk popped up. I looked for the hidden camera while I was briskly walking----okay, running----to my car but I wasn't able to catch them that time.
I'm pretty sure They are watching me all the time. And laughing, for one reason or another.
Or when my other sister got a new atomic clock the directions said we had to take the clock outside----I swear I am not making this up!----face Ft. Collins, Colorado, and let it sit there until it set itself. I don't know! It was either worshipping some false god in Ft. Collins or somebody somewhere was hysterically laughing at the thought of all the people who bought that clock making fools of themselves in their back yards. Or front yards depending on where Ft. Collins was from your house. And who knows which direction Ft. Collins is anyway?
Things don't have to be high-tech to be secretly evil. Back when baby wipes first came out they were sold in a canister similar to the ones today but the opening where you had to reach in and pull out the first one was where they got you. It was a plastic circle with teeth-like points all around and once you put your finger in, there was no coming out. It was like Chinese handcuffs; the harder you tried to get out the tighter it held. And it hurt! You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. The first time I got stuck in one I was working in Vacation Bible School at our church in California. The other workers in the nursery tried to help but it wasn't coming off. They actually were getting ready to call the Fire Department when someone said "Get a knife," and I don't remember after that.
I steered clear of baby wipes from then on. Well, except for the day we brought Josh, our first child, home from the hospital. Dennis had to go to work and my mom was not due from the airport for several hours and the baby really needed to be changed and all of a sudden there I was, wearing that baby wipes canister on one hand and trying to hold a screaming baby with the other. I don't know exactly how I did it----I tend to block extreme pain from my mind----but I somehow freed myself before my mom got there and was met with a poopy baby and a frantic daughter. Somebody somewhere probably got a big kick out of that!
And there just may be a hidden camera in one of the rest stops on I-44 on the way to St. Louis. The faucets there are made in such a way that you have to push down on the top for the water to come out, then hold your hands under the faucet but when you let go of the push button the water goes off. So you push it down again, try to whip your hands under it, and the water is gone! Again and again!! It is diabolical. When we were there I kept trying and trying and finally went out to get my daughter-in-law, Jerilyn, to come in and hold down the button so I could wash my hands. She thought it was very funny. When she finally got control of herself she said "Try holding the button down with one hand while washing the other, then switch." She may have been in league with Them.
Now, I am very grateful for some of today's technology, like the bell that rings in my car if I leave the lights on, but a few years ago----okay, decades----that did not exist and if you left your lights on the battery was most likely dead when you came out of the store causing untold misery in hunting down jumper cables, finding someone to jump the battery, being late for work and frozen vegetables melting in the back seat. People didn't lock their cars as much back then so if I was walking through a parking lot and saw that someone had left their car lights on I would reach in and turn them off for them. I am very helpful that way. There was that one time, though, when----it must have been a newer car with some innovations I was not aware of----I reached in the open window to turn off the headlights and the trunk popped up. I looked for the hidden camera while I was briskly walking----okay, running----to my car but I wasn't able to catch them that time.
I'm pretty sure They are watching me all the time. And laughing, for one reason or another.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Can You Hear Me Now?
Unless you are of "a certain age" you have missed out on one of the icons of the twentieth century: the telephone with the long, long cord. Moms used to be able to talk on the phone while cooking dinner, stretching the phone cord clear across the kitchen, dragging it from the wall phone through the boiling spaghetti water, narrowly missing the cord while chopping vegetables but never missing a word of the latest news from the neighborhood. Dads could have you hand it to them while they were in their recliners, stretching it from the kitchen wall to the living room and sometimes almost decapitating unsuspecting toddlers and dogs who came through without looking.
There was a little cushiony thing you could buy to put on the headset so you could lean your head over and hold the phone between your ear and your shoulder guaranteeing a crick in the neck that might last half a week, but it enabled you to then use both hands for other things. Some neatniks could even clean windows and bathrooms while chatting away. I wouldn't know from personal experience, of course, but I've heard it could be done.
Best of all, teen-agers could take the receiver, tugging the cord with them, and pull it into a nearby closet, laundry room or hallway, any place that had a door to close for privacy. At our house we had the stairwell to the basement close enough to drag the cord down at least three steps where we could sit for hours talking with kids we had just seen all day at school. Or boys.
Portables freed everyone from the long cord but they presented a new problem: Where, the heck, do they go? We have found them under the couch cushions, in the bathroom, on top of the refrigerator, in the garage, yes on the roof of the car, and in Dennis's pocket more than once. He got all the way to church one Sunday with the portable phone in his pocket. It didn't have coverage.
Dennis always kept the phone close by wherever he was in the house so when he fell asleep on the couch one evening and the phone rang he automatically reached out his hand for it, still a little asleep. Unfortunately, there was a glass of water where he expected the phone to be and he grabbed it, held it to his ear, shouted "Hello! Hello!", held it away from his ear and looked at it and said "Hello!" again, frustrated that no one was answering him and the phone was still ringing. I could see what he was doing but I was laughing too hard to get up and hand him the phone. If that was you calling, call us back.
When the phone company offered Call Waiting I thought we didn't really need it. No one ever really stayed on the phone that long. Well, there was that one time before we had it, okay, two times, that Dennis called the neighbors and asked them to come over to our house and tell me to get off the phone so he could call me.
It's not that I was on the phone enough to be neglecting my children after all. There was just that one time when Jake was about four that he kept bugging me while I was talking and next thing I knew Call Waiting beeped in and it was Jake. He had gone to the neighbor, Maureen, and asked to borrow her phone. Of course, she thought it was a serious emergency. He called to tell me he wanted a snack. After that Maureen seemed to watch him rather closely as though she wondered if he was a poor, neglected child who couldn't even get something to eat at home without going to extreme measures.
Jake was the one who was the phone addict at our house. He knew just what to do with it at an early age. Dennis traveled a lot when Jake was a baby but he would call every night and Jake would "talk" to him on the phone. I think he was telling him jokes because he would jabber, jabber, jabber, wait a minute and then fall over laughing.
Once when Dennis and I were at dinner with some important clients in a classy restaurant in Oklahoma City,-- do you remember Junior's ?-- the maître d' brought a phone to our table, set it on the starched white tablecloth and whispered to Dennis, "It seems to be an emergency, sir." It was Jake calling to tattle on his brother. And, of course, the first day of first grade, he decided half a day was enough, walked into the office at lunchtime, picked up the telephone on the secretary's desk without asking and called me. "I'm ready to come home now. Come get me."
Today even the portable phone is disappearing from houses. At Jakes house he has no land line. Everyone uses cell phones instead, the better to be instantly connected. He always has the latest model, knows all the ins and outs, plans and particulars. And he always has his phone close at hand. Recently, in fact, when he left one job that supplied him with his phone and the new employer's phone had not yet been issued, he didn't miss a beat---or is that beep?---he just walked around with Hayley's phone to his ear. The pink one. With the jewels on it.
I don't think Dennis and I are as dependent as that. We still have our wall phone, it even has a curly cord, albeit a short one, but it rarely gets used. In fact, Dennis is calling me on his cell right now. From the kitchen.
There was a little cushiony thing you could buy to put on the headset so you could lean your head over and hold the phone between your ear and your shoulder guaranteeing a crick in the neck that might last half a week, but it enabled you to then use both hands for other things. Some neatniks could even clean windows and bathrooms while chatting away. I wouldn't know from personal experience, of course, but I've heard it could be done.
Best of all, teen-agers could take the receiver, tugging the cord with them, and pull it into a nearby closet, laundry room or hallway, any place that had a door to close for privacy. At our house we had the stairwell to the basement close enough to drag the cord down at least three steps where we could sit for hours talking with kids we had just seen all day at school. Or boys.
Portables freed everyone from the long cord but they presented a new problem: Where, the heck, do they go? We have found them under the couch cushions, in the bathroom, on top of the refrigerator, in the garage, yes on the roof of the car, and in Dennis's pocket more than once. He got all the way to church one Sunday with the portable phone in his pocket. It didn't have coverage.
Dennis always kept the phone close by wherever he was in the house so when he fell asleep on the couch one evening and the phone rang he automatically reached out his hand for it, still a little asleep. Unfortunately, there was a glass of water where he expected the phone to be and he grabbed it, held it to his ear, shouted "Hello! Hello!", held it away from his ear and looked at it and said "Hello!" again, frustrated that no one was answering him and the phone was still ringing. I could see what he was doing but I was laughing too hard to get up and hand him the phone. If that was you calling, call us back.
When the phone company offered Call Waiting I thought we didn't really need it. No one ever really stayed on the phone that long. Well, there was that one time before we had it, okay, two times, that Dennis called the neighbors and asked them to come over to our house and tell me to get off the phone so he could call me.
It's not that I was on the phone enough to be neglecting my children after all. There was just that one time when Jake was about four that he kept bugging me while I was talking and next thing I knew Call Waiting beeped in and it was Jake. He had gone to the neighbor, Maureen, and asked to borrow her phone. Of course, she thought it was a serious emergency. He called to tell me he wanted a snack. After that Maureen seemed to watch him rather closely as though she wondered if he was a poor, neglected child who couldn't even get something to eat at home without going to extreme measures.
Jake was the one who was the phone addict at our house. He knew just what to do with it at an early age. Dennis traveled a lot when Jake was a baby but he would call every night and Jake would "talk" to him on the phone. I think he was telling him jokes because he would jabber, jabber, jabber, wait a minute and then fall over laughing.
Once when Dennis and I were at dinner with some important clients in a classy restaurant in Oklahoma City,-- do you remember Junior's ?-- the maître d' brought a phone to our table, set it on the starched white tablecloth and whispered to Dennis, "It seems to be an emergency, sir." It was Jake calling to tattle on his brother. And, of course, the first day of first grade, he decided half a day was enough, walked into the office at lunchtime, picked up the telephone on the secretary's desk without asking and called me. "I'm ready to come home now. Come get me."
Today even the portable phone is disappearing from houses. At Jakes house he has no land line. Everyone uses cell phones instead, the better to be instantly connected. He always has the latest model, knows all the ins and outs, plans and particulars. And he always has his phone close at hand. Recently, in fact, when he left one job that supplied him with his phone and the new employer's phone had not yet been issued, he didn't miss a beat---or is that beep?---he just walked around with Hayley's phone to his ear. The pink one. With the jewels on it.
I don't think Dennis and I are as dependent as that. We still have our wall phone, it even has a curly cord, albeit a short one, but it rarely gets used. In fact, Dennis is calling me on his cell right now. From the kitchen.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Granddogs
We have only had two of our own dogs through the years. Bucky, a girl dog, so named because two-year old Josh said "ALL my life I've wanted a dog named Bucky." And Roxie, a dog about whom Jake said "A dog is someone you can tell your secrets to and you know they won't tell."
They were great dogs, but just dogs, grown dogs when we got them. Bucky had been a stray that our friends rescued but couldn't keep. We got Roxie from the pound. We chose her because she was the only short-haired dog in the place who was not actively giving birth at the time.
The year before Jake and Robyn got married Jake (not living at home at the time) acquired August, a pure-bred German Shepherd puppy. Granddogs are a little like grandkids. You get to enjoy them but you send them home for potty training etc. We knew August was very special because he liked to wear lip gloss but we don't spoil our grandkids and we didn't spoil him. If their parents make rules we always follow them.
Well, Dennis was maybe a little indulgent. Jake had said August had to stay in the garage at night so when I woke up in the middle of the night once when we were dog-sitting, and Dennis wasn't in the bedroom I went looking for him. He was sitting in the car holding August. "He's afraid to stay in the garage by himself," he told me And he did let August sit on his lap while he was cutting the grass with the riding lawn mower. But that was all. We really didn't spoil him. Except for maybe giving him a teeny amount of table scraps. And taking him to Doggy Day Care the week we kept him while Jake and Robyn were on their honeymoon. What?? We couldn't let him stay at home all by himself all day while we were at work!
Now we have Gus, a Yorkie. Hayley, our granddaughter, got him when he was a puppy but a little later they also got a Great Dane and while Ty, the Great Dane, stayed in the fenced backyard with no problems, Gus became an escape artist. No matter how many times Jake fixed the fence Gus found a little place to squeeze through and went on an adventure. He is so little that it would be very easy for a driver not to see him running down the street and finally Jake said Gus would have to find a new home. Hayley, of course, was devastated so that is how we got permenant custody of Gus.
Gus is certainly not spoiled. I mean, we have him all the time so we are very careful about that. Just because he wants to sit on my lap even while I'm typing doesn't mean a thing. Yorkies are bred to be Lap Dogs. That's their job. And just because if he is sitting on my lap in the evening while we are watching television and I have to go to the bathroom so bad I almost wet my pants but I don't get up if he is comfortable doesn't mean he's spoiled. He mainly only sits there when I have the down throw across my lap anyway...every evening. Gus loves down!
He doesn't really sleep with us either. Well, not exactly. I fold the comforter into thirds and make a really high, soft spot for him and he sleeps at the foot of the bed. Until about 4 a.m. when he comes up and snuggles into the back of my knees. I hardly notice him unless I want to turn over. Then he just gets up and settles in on the other side of me. I don't think he really even wakes up. And he hardly snores at all.
Today I'm going to make home-made dog biscuits. I've got varying sizes of dog-bone cookie cutters and I usually make some in each size for all the granddogs, Gus, CoCo, and Ty. They would eat the kind you buy from the store but why should they have to?
Dog Bone Recipe
1/4 cup hot water 1/2 cup margerine, melted
1/2 cup powered milk 1 teaspoon salt
1 egg, beaten 2 teaspoons sugar
3 cups whole wheat flour 1 tablespoon beef bouillon granules
Preheat oven to 325; stir bouillon into hot water;
In large bowl, stir in bouillon, powdered milk, salt and egg
Add flour 1/2 cup at a time
Knead for 5 minutes to form a stiff dough, roll out to about 1/2 inch thick
Cut into shapes with cookie cutter (use a dog bone cutter if you have one, but the dog won't care if you don't)
Bake at 325 degrees for about 50 minutes. Turn off oven, prop open door and leave till oven cools off.
Store in zip lock or plastic container.
They were great dogs, but just dogs, grown dogs when we got them. Bucky had been a stray that our friends rescued but couldn't keep. We got Roxie from the pound. We chose her because she was the only short-haired dog in the place who was not actively giving birth at the time.
The year before Jake and Robyn got married Jake (not living at home at the time) acquired August, a pure-bred German Shepherd puppy. Granddogs are a little like grandkids. You get to enjoy them but you send them home for potty training etc. We knew August was very special because he liked to wear lip gloss but we don't spoil our grandkids and we didn't spoil him. If their parents make rules we always follow them.
Well, Dennis was maybe a little indulgent. Jake had said August had to stay in the garage at night so when I woke up in the middle of the night once when we were dog-sitting, and Dennis wasn't in the bedroom I went looking for him. He was sitting in the car holding August. "He's afraid to stay in the garage by himself," he told me And he did let August sit on his lap while he was cutting the grass with the riding lawn mower. But that was all. We really didn't spoil him. Except for maybe giving him a teeny amount of table scraps. And taking him to Doggy Day Care the week we kept him while Jake and Robyn were on their honeymoon. What?? We couldn't let him stay at home all by himself all day while we were at work!
Now we have Gus, a Yorkie. Hayley, our granddaughter, got him when he was a puppy but a little later they also got a Great Dane and while Ty, the Great Dane, stayed in the fenced backyard with no problems, Gus became an escape artist. No matter how many times Jake fixed the fence Gus found a little place to squeeze through and went on an adventure. He is so little that it would be very easy for a driver not to see him running down the street and finally Jake said Gus would have to find a new home. Hayley, of course, was devastated so that is how we got permenant custody of Gus.
Gus is certainly not spoiled. I mean, we have him all the time so we are very careful about that. Just because he wants to sit on my lap even while I'm typing doesn't mean a thing. Yorkies are bred to be Lap Dogs. That's their job. And just because if he is sitting on my lap in the evening while we are watching television and I have to go to the bathroom so bad I almost wet my pants but I don't get up if he is comfortable doesn't mean he's spoiled. He mainly only sits there when I have the down throw across my lap anyway...every evening. Gus loves down!
He doesn't really sleep with us either. Well, not exactly. I fold the comforter into thirds and make a really high, soft spot for him and he sleeps at the foot of the bed. Until about 4 a.m. when he comes up and snuggles into the back of my knees. I hardly notice him unless I want to turn over. Then he just gets up and settles in on the other side of me. I don't think he really even wakes up. And he hardly snores at all.
Today I'm going to make home-made dog biscuits. I've got varying sizes of dog-bone cookie cutters and I usually make some in each size for all the granddogs, Gus, CoCo, and Ty. They would eat the kind you buy from the store but why should they have to?
Dog Bone Recipe
1/4 cup hot water 1/2 cup margerine, melted
1/2 cup powered milk 1 teaspoon salt
1 egg, beaten 2 teaspoons sugar
3 cups whole wheat flour 1 tablespoon beef bouillon granules
Preheat oven to 325; stir bouillon into hot water;
In large bowl, stir in bouillon, powdered milk, salt and egg
Add flour 1/2 cup at a time
Knead for 5 minutes to form a stiff dough, roll out to about 1/2 inch thick
Cut into shapes with cookie cutter (use a dog bone cutter if you have one, but the dog won't care if you don't)
Bake at 325 degrees for about 50 minutes. Turn off oven, prop open door and leave till oven cools off.
Store in zip lock or plastic container.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Up, Up and Away
Do you remember The $25,000 Pyramid? I'll give the clues and you answer.
Me: Cups of Coke; a Bible; a portable phone; a sheet cake; cinnamon rolls----one by one; the pan the cinnamon rolls were in.....
You: Things that have blown off the roof of Pat Carey's car!
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!!!! You just won Twenty-Five Thou-ou-ou-sand Dollars!!!!
Okay, admit it. I know I'm not the only one who has done that. I've seen you with the cup of Coke on your roof. But, we got the Bible and the phone back, remarkably undamaged. The cinnamon rolls and the sheet cake, not so much, but the pan the rolls were in only has a small dent in it and I still use it.
Oh, one more thing: When Jake was about seven years old Dennis had met us at a T-ball game after work so we had two cars to ride home in. Josh, who was about ten, rode with Dennis, Jake with me in the station wagon. Back then kids could ride in the front seat with you. It was spring and the car windows were open. I followed behind Dennis, then he turned into our neighborhood at the entrance that he insisted was the fastest way. I knew, I had told him over and over, that the other way was faster, so I went that way---maybe I gunned it a little. Sensing the excitement and wanting to get in on the fun, Jake said "Mom, let me ride on the windowsill!"
"Absolutely not!" I told him. "This is not the Dukes of Hazard." I saw Dennis's car coming down the side street, so naturally I sped up, but for some reason when he got to the intersection he didn't try to beat me. In fact, I could see him. He wasn't laughing, he was yelling "Stop! Stop!"
I slammed on the brakes, throwing out my arm to catch Jake as every mother does. I felt nothing but air. Jake was not in the car. To say my heart flew into my mouth would be too tame. It was out and onto the floorboard. I jumped from the car to look for my baby splatted on the pavement---and there he was on the roof of the car. He didn't sit on the window; I had told him not to. But I hadn't said "Don't climb out and onto the top of the car!" I still don't know why he thought this would be a fun trick, but, Praise the Lord, there was a luggage rack, because when I slammed on the brakes he held onto it and that is the only reason on God's green earth that he didn't join all that stuff that has blown from the roof of my car.
Now that I have a mini-van, I don't have the problem of things blowing off because I can't reach the roof to set anything up there.
Well, okay, there was that one time when we were coming back from a road trip to St. Louis and it wasn't me who had put things up there anyway. We had taken Josh, Jerilyn, Jake and a friend of his with us and somehow on the return trip we had more luggage than would fit in the van with all six of us.
I think it was Dennis's idea to put the bag of dirty clothes on the roof. He tied it down really well. I think he even borrowed some bungee cords from my brother-in-law, but perhaps the trash bag I had used to stow the clothes wasn't as strong as they claim on TV because about thirty miles west of St. Louis on I-44 a car pulled up next to us and the driver was pointing to our roof. I turned around to look and through the back window I watched my lingerie flying down the highway back toward St. Louis, piece by piece. Dennis pulled over onto the shoulder.
"It's okay, it's okay! I needed new underwear anyway," I kept saying, but, NO, all four of those kids would have nothing but to run up and down the side of the road, sometimes out into a lane, grabbing up my bras, panties, night gowns, and who knew what other unmentionables, laughing so loudly that I think the passing vehicles could hear them in spite of the roar of the traffic. In fact, I'm sure they could hear them, why else was everybody slowing down and looking at us?
We didn't try to put them back on the roof again but stuffed everything along the floorboards. It's not like they could have gotten any dirtier. When we got home I washed them with extra soap and bleach for disinfectant. When they came out of the dryer can you believe that everything I had taken to St. Louis was there? Along with a prize for going through the ordeal: maybe not $25,000, but a lovely silk scarf I had never seen before.
Me: Cups of Coke; a Bible; a portable phone; a sheet cake; cinnamon rolls----one by one; the pan the cinnamon rolls were in.....
You: Things that have blown off the roof of Pat Carey's car!
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!!!! You just won Twenty-Five Thou-ou-ou-sand Dollars!!!!
Okay, admit it. I know I'm not the only one who has done that. I've seen you with the cup of Coke on your roof. But, we got the Bible and the phone back, remarkably undamaged. The cinnamon rolls and the sheet cake, not so much, but the pan the rolls were in only has a small dent in it and I still use it.
Oh, one more thing: When Jake was about seven years old Dennis had met us at a T-ball game after work so we had two cars to ride home in. Josh, who was about ten, rode with Dennis, Jake with me in the station wagon. Back then kids could ride in the front seat with you. It was spring and the car windows were open. I followed behind Dennis, then he turned into our neighborhood at the entrance that he insisted was the fastest way. I knew, I had told him over and over, that the other way was faster, so I went that way---maybe I gunned it a little. Sensing the excitement and wanting to get in on the fun, Jake said "Mom, let me ride on the windowsill!"
"Absolutely not!" I told him. "This is not the Dukes of Hazard." I saw Dennis's car coming down the side street, so naturally I sped up, but for some reason when he got to the intersection he didn't try to beat me. In fact, I could see him. He wasn't laughing, he was yelling "Stop! Stop!"
I slammed on the brakes, throwing out my arm to catch Jake as every mother does. I felt nothing but air. Jake was not in the car. To say my heart flew into my mouth would be too tame. It was out and onto the floorboard. I jumped from the car to look for my baby splatted on the pavement---and there he was on the roof of the car. He didn't sit on the window; I had told him not to. But I hadn't said "Don't climb out and onto the top of the car!" I still don't know why he thought this would be a fun trick, but, Praise the Lord, there was a luggage rack, because when I slammed on the brakes he held onto it and that is the only reason on God's green earth that he didn't join all that stuff that has blown from the roof of my car.
Now that I have a mini-van, I don't have the problem of things blowing off because I can't reach the roof to set anything up there.
Well, okay, there was that one time when we were coming back from a road trip to St. Louis and it wasn't me who had put things up there anyway. We had taken Josh, Jerilyn, Jake and a friend of his with us and somehow on the return trip we had more luggage than would fit in the van with all six of us.
I think it was Dennis's idea to put the bag of dirty clothes on the roof. He tied it down really well. I think he even borrowed some bungee cords from my brother-in-law, but perhaps the trash bag I had used to stow the clothes wasn't as strong as they claim on TV because about thirty miles west of St. Louis on I-44 a car pulled up next to us and the driver was pointing to our roof. I turned around to look and through the back window I watched my lingerie flying down the highway back toward St. Louis, piece by piece. Dennis pulled over onto the shoulder.
"It's okay, it's okay! I needed new underwear anyway," I kept saying, but, NO, all four of those kids would have nothing but to run up and down the side of the road, sometimes out into a lane, grabbing up my bras, panties, night gowns, and who knew what other unmentionables, laughing so loudly that I think the passing vehicles could hear them in spite of the roar of the traffic. In fact, I'm sure they could hear them, why else was everybody slowing down and looking at us?
We didn't try to put them back on the roof again but stuffed everything along the floorboards. It's not like they could have gotten any dirtier. When we got home I washed them with extra soap and bleach for disinfectant. When they came out of the dryer can you believe that everything I had taken to St. Louis was there? Along with a prize for going through the ordeal: maybe not $25,000, but a lovely silk scarf I had never seen before.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Cake Walk
In our family a birthday cake must be home-made, not one of those fancy-shmancy store-bought ones, or else it means your mother doesn't love you enough to go to all that work. (It may be that I started this practice because I was too cheap---or broke---to buy the bakery kind but I'm not going to admit that now.)
I'm not sure that my daughters-in-law would thank me for this tradition, but they do go along with it, with some stunning results, I might add. Over the years I've seen, among others, kitten cup cakes with licorice whiskers and chocolate-kisses---ears painstakingly carved by a real surgeon, an Elmo cake so real looking it made you think you were hearing that obnoxious "Elmo's World" song in the background, and a charming Cinderella wearing a huge hoop-skirted ball gown, although poor Cinderella had to sacrifice her legs to fit into the gown, but no one knew that till the cake was being eaten.
My efforts at theme cakes may have been a little less, shall we say, recognizable than my talented daughters-in law's. Like the time I wanted to make a computer cake for Josh. I baked it in two loaf pans, laid one flat on the platter and stood the other on it's end at the back of that layer. A little frosting, some candy letters that spelled Josh's name on the "monitor" and---voila!--- a computer. Perhaps everyone didn't have the vision to see it. I heard one of Josh's friends whisper to him, "Josh, why did your mom make a tombstone for your cake?"
A few years ago when Jake's wife, Robyn, was having a birthday and her whole extended family was coming to town to celebrate, I volunteered to make the cake. I knew better than to try a theme cake, but since it was going to be a crowd---Robyn's aunt even drove all the way from Dallas---I thought it should be big. And impressive. (I have heard rumors that Robyn's opinion of my cooking skills is not too high.) I decided to dazzle them all.
A white cake should be easy, I thought, with chocolate icing. Simple but elegant.Three layers ought to do it. I gave up trying to figure out the math to make three layers instead of two or four, so I doubled the recipe and put a little extra batter in the three cake pans. This, for some reason, made the baking time a little confusing, and by the time I had opened the oven five times and stuck a toothpick in the cakes to see if they were done I was running a little late so I might have hurried things a little. The cakes may have been a little too warm when I started frosting them. They wouldn't stay in their 3-layer stack! I had to keep pushing them back in place. I made more frosting, building up the valleys in between layers. The cake got to be quite tall. It kind of resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Italy was NOT my theme..
Then I remembered a trick I had seen my sister use to hold layers together. She used long skewers, inserted them in the cake and frosted over them. Now, I didn't have any long skewers but not to worry, I did have spaghetti noodles. They were just the right length although it took about a dozen to hold the cake together.
Very slowly, I slid the cake onto a cookie sheet for safe carrying, very slowly slid it onto the floorboard of the car and very slowly drove over to their house. It isn't even a mile to Jake and Robyn's house; it is in our neighborhood. You would have thought a cake could make it that far without leaning, especially secured with almost a whole serving of spaghetti noodles! Who knew that once the noodles hit that moist cake (my cakes are always moist, thank you!) they would get kind of limp?
I slowly slid the cookie sheet with the cake out of the floorboard of my car and slowly walked up to the door. Presentation is everything, so since the cake was leaning about 30 degrees to the right, I leaned about 30 degrees to the left. Nobody mentioned that I was listing. They probably didn't notice since they seemed to be stunned by the yummy looking, very tall cake
The candles were lit, we sang Happy Birthday and everybody crunched into the cake. Did I say "Crunched"? I meant dug. They all dug into the cake. Maybe all of the noodles hadn't succumbed to the moistness yet. There was plenty of frosting though.
I'm pretty sure they knew that it wasn't some fancy cake from a bakery.
I'm not sure that my daughters-in-law would thank me for this tradition, but they do go along with it, with some stunning results, I might add. Over the years I've seen, among others, kitten cup cakes with licorice whiskers and chocolate-kisses---ears painstakingly carved by a real surgeon, an Elmo cake so real looking it made you think you were hearing that obnoxious "Elmo's World" song in the background, and a charming Cinderella wearing a huge hoop-skirted ball gown, although poor Cinderella had to sacrifice her legs to fit into the gown, but no one knew that till the cake was being eaten.
My efforts at theme cakes may have been a little less, shall we say, recognizable than my talented daughters-in law's. Like the time I wanted to make a computer cake for Josh. I baked it in two loaf pans, laid one flat on the platter and stood the other on it's end at the back of that layer. A little frosting, some candy letters that spelled Josh's name on the "monitor" and---voila!--- a computer. Perhaps everyone didn't have the vision to see it. I heard one of Josh's friends whisper to him, "Josh, why did your mom make a tombstone for your cake?"
A few years ago when Jake's wife, Robyn, was having a birthday and her whole extended family was coming to town to celebrate, I volunteered to make the cake. I knew better than to try a theme cake, but since it was going to be a crowd---Robyn's aunt even drove all the way from Dallas---I thought it should be big. And impressive. (I have heard rumors that Robyn's opinion of my cooking skills is not too high.) I decided to dazzle them all.
A white cake should be easy, I thought, with chocolate icing. Simple but elegant.Three layers ought to do it. I gave up trying to figure out the math to make three layers instead of two or four, so I doubled the recipe and put a little extra batter in the three cake pans. This, for some reason, made the baking time a little confusing, and by the time I had opened the oven five times and stuck a toothpick in the cakes to see if they were done I was running a little late so I might have hurried things a little. The cakes may have been a little too warm when I started frosting them. They wouldn't stay in their 3-layer stack! I had to keep pushing them back in place. I made more frosting, building up the valleys in between layers. The cake got to be quite tall. It kind of resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Italy was NOT my theme..
Then I remembered a trick I had seen my sister use to hold layers together. She used long skewers, inserted them in the cake and frosted over them. Now, I didn't have any long skewers but not to worry, I did have spaghetti noodles. They were just the right length although it took about a dozen to hold the cake together.
Very slowly, I slid the cake onto a cookie sheet for safe carrying, very slowly slid it onto the floorboard of the car and very slowly drove over to their house. It isn't even a mile to Jake and Robyn's house; it is in our neighborhood. You would have thought a cake could make it that far without leaning, especially secured with almost a whole serving of spaghetti noodles! Who knew that once the noodles hit that moist cake (my cakes are always moist, thank you!) they would get kind of limp?
I slowly slid the cookie sheet with the cake out of the floorboard of my car and slowly walked up to the door. Presentation is everything, so since the cake was leaning about 30 degrees to the right, I leaned about 30 degrees to the left. Nobody mentioned that I was listing. They probably didn't notice since they seemed to be stunned by the yummy looking, very tall cake
The candles were lit, we sang Happy Birthday and everybody crunched into the cake. Did I say "Crunched"? I meant dug. They all dug into the cake. Maybe all of the noodles hadn't succumbed to the moistness yet. There was plenty of frosting though.
I'm pretty sure they knew that it wasn't some fancy cake from a bakery.
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