Dryers and clothes lines

The dryer in my grandma's kitchen was also her pantry.  It was full of boxes of crackers, bags of chips, and assorted cookies.  I don't know if she ever used the dryer for clothes, because there was so much food in the drum that it would have been a chore to clean it out for a load.  Her kitchen was tiny with just a couple of cabinets and nowhere to store much, so the dryer doubled as a pantry.  The washer and dryer stood sentinel against the wall across from the stove and just down from the fridge with their tops doubling as counters.  It wasn't odd for me to see the washer and dryer in the kitchen or to open up the dryer and grab a bag of Munchos.  It was just Granny's house.

She often had her blouses and pants hanging to dry in her bathroom on the shower curtain rack, and she had a drying rack in her back bedroom for smaller items.  I think I remember a clothes line in the back yard, but it's like a dream, so while I'm guessing she had one, I can't say for sure.

We had a clothes line pole in the side yard at our house when I was growing up.  It was about 5 feet square with concentric lines from pole to pole like a spiderweb.  There was a bag of clothes pins hanging on the line with both wooden and plastic clothes pins in it.  My mom would often hang our clothes on the line during the summer, and I can remember going out and pulling things off the line when the weather would turn and rain threatened.

My favorite thing dried on the line was our sheets.  We all had twin beds, and if we folded the sheets in half, we could get one on each of the outer lines with the fitted sheet on the second line in.  I can see those rainbow and flowered sheets dancing in the wind on that square clothes line.  They were like walls and almost made a little house, and I used to secretly walk between the sheets like they were a maze.  I loved the smell of those sheets the day after they'd been dried on the line.  They were so crisp and so fresh.  They just smelled clean.

During my old fashioned phase (which has never actually ended!), I used to wash my doll clothes by hand in a bucket and hang them on the line like I imagined Ma Ingalls doing on the prairie.  Tiny dresses and aprons, doll socks, and baby blankets dried in the sun while I pretended to be Laura gathering apples to put up for the winter.

I haven't had the occasion to dry clothes outside for a long while.  I really don't remember the last time I put anything outside besides my reenacting clothes, and then our dryer went out last week.  It ran through a cycle, and when I went to get the clothes out, they were still wet.  I ran it again.  Same thing.  After some investigation, I realized the heating element was bad, so I called a repair service.  Just to come out and take a look at it was $185.  To fix the 10 year-old dryer would cost about $400.  We could get a new one for just a little bit more than that, so I took myself down to Lowe's and got one.

There must have been a run on appliance purchases because it was going to be nine days before it could be delivered.  Nine days.  With no dryer.

I thought about going to the laundromat, and I still might, but we have a clothes drying rack for sweaters during the winter, so I decided to give it a whirl.  I brought the rack out to the patio and hung our clothes to dry.  It worked like a charm!  The clothes are not as soft as those dried in the dryer, in fact, the towels are downright scratchy. Everything is wrinkly and needs ironing once it's  dry.  But it's not been bad.  And the clothes smell so clean, just like I remember.

Hot Flashes, Hot Flashes...A Poem

By Sharron Hilbrecht

with a nod to Jack Prelutsky

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

I hate you!  You stink!

Your randomness pushes me

Over the brink.

I could be alone

Driving home in my car

Or out with my friends

With a drink at the bar

Or singing in church

With a hymnal in hand

Or lying in bed…

Who knows when you’ll land?

All of a sudden,

My cheeks will feel flushed.

My head starts to sweat,

And then I feel rushed

To find paper, a napkin,

A menu, a check,

Something to fan

the dew off my neck

My forehead, my chest,

And the top of my head.

My hair is all sweaty.

My cheeks are all red.

My shirt is constricting.

I really need air!

I peel off my clothes

Until I’m nearly bare

Then it’s over. You’re gone.

Now I’m wet, and I’m cold.

I’m wiping my face.

It really gets old!

You make me take baths

In a tub full of ice

or kick off the covers

(it’s not very nice),

Or turn down the air  

To 60 degrees

Until everyone’s freezing

Well, all except me,

or open the door of the

fridge for a breeze,

the heat and the sweat

just hoping to ease.

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

I don’t know why

You even exist.

I’m not gonna lie

Menopause sucks.

It really is wack.

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

Go away! Don’t come back!

Granny's Easter Eggs

When I was a little girl, I was amazed at my grandma's Easter eggs.  Their colors were so rich and vibrant that they almost looked painted.  Deep red, yellow, blue, and green, they were so unlike the eggs my sisters and I dyed each year.  Ours were pale, mottled things with our names scribbled in wax crayon on the shells, experimental drips of colors bleeding into each other as we tried in vain to make rainbow and tye-dyed eggs.  Don't get me wrong.  We had a lot of fun, each of us with our own dozen to do with as we pleased, but they never ended up looking like we imagined.

One year when I was a bit older, I asked Granny how she got her eggs to look so pretty.  She used plain old food coloring, she said, and let the eggs sit in the dye for 10 or 15 minutes at a time.  Ten or fifteen minutes?  My young brain couldn't imagine waiting that long!  Plus, with 36 eggs to dye, my sisters and I would be at it all day.  It would never happen.

When my own kids came along, they created the same eggs I did when I was little.  Who can wait 10 or 15 minutes for color when you are 6 years old and anxious to create the next beautiful egg?  Even when they got to be teenagers, they still enjoyed writing their names on the shells in that wax crayon and making two-toned eggs or double-dipped eggs.  We tried all of the Paas options over the years:  traditional, jewel tone, tye dye, sparkle, stickers.  Occasionally, we'd let the last 6 eggs sit in the dye for longer while we cleaned up the mess, and sometimes we got that deep color, but the Paas dye was not the same shade as Granny's food color eggs.

Last night, it was time to color our eggs.  Kyle and Claire are not around to help, and Emily was going out on a date and said for me to go ahead and do it.  It was a lonesome feeling dying eggs by myself.  I don't even eat them, but I felt like we had to at least have a dozen in the spirit of Easter.  I had not purchased a box of Paas dye yet, so I decided to do it my grandma's way with food coloring.  I also decided to let the eggs soak.

I thought about her working alone in her kitchen, getting ready to have the family over for Easter Sunday, while the eggs took on color in coffee mugs on her formica table.  I imagined her taking them out of the dye, wiping them down, and putting them back in the egg carton until Easter dinner.  I could see  them sitting in the bowl on the table amidst the ham sandwiches, potato salad, macaroni salad, deviled eggs, potato chips, and those green coconut topped cupcakes with the three little jelly beans in the center like colored eggs in grass. I thought about my aunts and uncles and cousins crowding in that tiny house enjoying a meal and each other.  It made me smile to remember all of us together.

So while my kids weren't with me to dye eggs for the first time in 23 years, I was still with family in my heart, and I made Granny's eggs just like she used to.

Recipes That Feed the Soul

When I moved away to Texas nearly 30 years ago, I asked my mom to write down her recipes for my favorite foods.  I wanted to be able to make her apple pie and lasagne and summer salad and potato soup and so many other dishes that she so effortlessly put on our table.  Mom was an excellent cook, and I aspired to be like her one day.  I made a list of recipes I wanted, and at some point, Mom copied them down for me.  I can imagine her sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by her cookbooks and recipe cards, carefully writing down the ingredients for her best meals. She made sure to put the name of the recipe, her name, how many it served and often put a smiley face at the end or wrote "Good luck!" after.  She enclosed each card in a plastic sleeve to keep the recipe free from splashes.  When she was finished, I had about 20 of my favorite recipes in a small plastic box ready for my trip to adulthood.

I referred to those recipes often.  We didn't have the internet to look up new ways of preparing pasta or chicken, so it was either those little note cards or one of the two cookbooks she got me: Where's Mom Now That I Need Her? or the tried and true Betty Crocker's Cookbook.

As I ventured out into life, I would come across delicious dishes at company cookouts or officers' wives' potlucks.  I'd often ask for the recipe for those foods and added the cards to my box.

While stationed in Texas, the parting gift when a woman left 1/8 CAV with her husband was a wooden recipe box with Texas bluebonnets painted on the front, and each officer's wife would add her favorite recipe to the box.  By the time I left, the commanding officer was single, and the tradition had floundered.  I did get the bluebonnet recipe box but no recipes from the other women.  Didn't matter.  I had my favorites ready to go inside when I got it home.  I have added to that box over the years, and it now contains all of my favorite foods written by hand by the women I've loved.

Of course, there are Mom's recipes, added to over the years, when I called her for how to make party mix or spaghetti sauce or a particular cheese ball.  She'd write down the ingredients and the steps and put it in the mail the next day.  I have Aunt Jeri's butter mints recipe.  (How many showers did I help roll those out for?  I can still remember pressing them down with a fork and hoping they didn't break in the process...)  Amy McDonald's sugar cookie recipe.  Hands down,  The.  Best.  Ever.  Julie Dalton's Swiss Pie that became Jack Pie by accident and a family favorite.  Cheryl Hahn's banana bread that I always use when my bananas get over ripe.  Betty Weber's sweet potato casserole, a staple at Thanksgiving...The best of so many women is in this little box.

With today's technology, it's so easy to pop open the laptop and google how to make anything.  There are always pictures, videos, and reviews for each amazing option.  I even have a folder on my computer with my favorite recipes, and I add to it all the time, but it's not the same.

Some of the recipes in my box were written nearly 30 years ago.  Mom's been gone almost 14 years, and I haven't seen Julie or Cheryl or Amy in 25 years, but  I can put a face with the handwriting on the card and remember when those dishes fed me body and soul.  Sure I can find anything I want to cook on the internet, but there's nothing like opening up my bluebonnet recipe box and thumbing through all of the cards inside, seeing the handwriting of the women who've filled my life with good food and good friendship and making those dishes and thinking of them.

Christmas Letter 2018

Christmas 2018

Have you ever fallen asleep while laying in the middle of a parking lot at midnight gazing up at the Milky Way?

Underneath your beach towel, the asphalt is still warm from the day, but the evening air is cool after the heat of the afternoon.  Crickets and frogs and owls serenade you from the edge of the surrounding forest as the stars slowly brighten before your eyes.  The Big Dipper comes into view. Orion’s Belt. There’s the Little Dipper and Polaris.  Could that be Venus, or is it Mars?  Is that a shooting star or a satellite? 

And as you lay there next to the four people who mean more to you than anything else in the world, with no cell phone service or television to distract you, you begin to contemplate the glory of creation, to think about how very infinitesimal you are in this incredibly infinite universe.  You realize that what matters most is right here and right now with these people in this place.  You feel connected to all of the hundreds of millions of people who have looked up at these very same stars for millennia, and you let the stress of 21^st century life slip away. 

You talk a little, not much though.  Nothing more than, “Did you see that shooting star?” or, “Look!  There’s the Seven Sisters constellation!” or simply, “Oh wow!”  The time between words spreads out until all you hear are the sounds of the night and the slow, quiet breathing of those around you.

And then time stands still, and the sky becomes one with the asphalt, and you are floating, falling, connected to those four people by an invisible, unbreakable cord that reaches out beyond you, and connects you to everyone who has ever gazed at the night sky in wonder, and those who will someday do the same.  And you feel yourself letting go, and peace washes over you.

At some point, you realize you’re all sleeping in the parking lot of Mammoth Cave National Park, and it’s well after midnight, and you should probably get up and go to your cabin so you don’t get run over by some late-arriving RV.  But you don’t want to break the spell of being surrounded by the people you love, so you linger a little bit longer while everyone else sleeps, drinking in the miracle that is this life, this place, these people.  And all you feel is love.

That is what I wish for you this holiday season…wonder and peace and love.

Merry Christmas!

NOW is better than THEN

I love reenacting. I love the clothes, the manners, the slow way of life, and pretending to be someone who lived nearly two centuries ago. So much about stepping back in time is just really, really fun, and we tend to romanticize how things were back in the old days.

And then every now and then, I am reminded, slapped in the face reminded, why NOW is so much better than THEN.

Today, while doing some genealogical research, I stumbled across a compilation of causes of death for people who lived in Grayson County, KY, where my ancestors had lived since the early 1800s. I began scrolling through the years to see if I could find any of my people. I ran across a couple, but what I found was one of the main reasons I am so glad to be alive now instead of then: healthcare.

Looking at the lists, one of the first things that struck me was how very, very young most of the people who died were. Babies, children, and teenagers made up the majority of deaths in several years. Hardly any people had "old age" listed as cause of death. Instead, what was listed time after time after time were deaths from illnesses that are basically non-existent (or easily cured) in today's world...typhus...scarlet fever...croup...whooping cough...fever...worms...diphtheria...measles...so many deaths that are preventable today. So many lives gone so very young. There were families that lost two and three children to typhus or scarlet fever. One family lost 5 family members. Another lost 4 children. My own great-grandmother lost one child to typhus and the other to the flu. I saw all of those causes of death listed and thanked God for vaccines.

Many people died from "milk sickness," which is caused by drinking milk from cows who have eaten the snakeroot plant, the same thing that killed Abraham Lincoln's mother. One family lost a father and 2 children. Another lost a mother and 3 kids. Just from drinking milk.

As I sat there skimming those names and ages and causes of death, I felt blessed to live during a time when so much illness and death can be prevented, when my kids are safe from measles, mumps, and rubella, diphtheria, pertussis (whooping cough), and tetanus, from typhus and scarlet fever and worms and croup. I thought of the night Emily had a croup attack, and we gave her a breathing treatment, but her lips started turning blue anyway, and we called 911. She got to ride to the hospital in an ambulance and come home the same night. What if that was not available to us? It makes me wonder what future generations will marvel at when they look back on our causes of death.

So, while I love dressing up and pretending it is 1816, I am ever so grateful to live in 2018.

http://genealogytrails.com/ken/grayson/graysoncountydeaths.html

Hanging Up My Hat

I'm about to lose my job.  I've had it since August of 2001.  Sometimes I've loved it, but there were many times I hated it.  It's been inconvenient, patience-testing, and the hours have sucked.  I've done this job in the rain and snow and heat and when I was sick and exhausted and had 1000 other things to do, but now that it's ending, I am grieving the loss of driving my kids around.

I began taking my kids to school when Kyle started kindergarden.  Kyle could have taken the bus, but school was close, and we saved several hundred dollars a year by me driving, so I drove.  I was pregnant with Emily at the time, and Claire was just 2 1/2.  I remember dropping Kyle off at school the first morning with Claire strapped in her carseat in the back, and she cried, "I want Kyle!" as we pulled out of the parking lot.  A couple of months later, Emily was born, and I had three kids in carseats in the back of the minivan.  I became an expert at finding the lost pacifier along the side of Emily's carseat while stopped at a red light.  Pretty soon, I realized it was a better option to put Kyle next to Emily and Claire in the way back, so he could help hold a bottle if Em got fussy before we got where we were going.

I drove them to and from school for awhile, and then their dad took them in the mornings, and I picked up each afternoon.  We carpooled with a neighbor for a few years, taking turns driving two or three days each week...Dads in the mornings; moms in the afternoons.  I sat in the afternoon parking lot for hours of my life, waiting for my kids to come out with the bell.  I could tell if it had been a good day or a bad day by the looks on those sweet faces.  Sometimes they grinned with exciting news...an A on a test, spelling bee champion, a lost tooth.  Sometimes they crumpled and tears spilled if it was a not-so-good day...a card flipped to yellow, a snub at lunch, a bad test grade.  No matter.  I hugged them when I saw them, and I knew I'd hear all about their day when we got in the car for the ride home.  I was so glad I was driving on the day of the Sandy Hook massacre because all I wanted to do was hold my kids, and I cried when I saw them coming across the parking lot.

During these years, I not only drove to school, I took the kids to guitar practice, dance class, and football, soccer, volleyball, field hockey, lacrosse, and basketball practices held at schools and churches around town. I drove to field trips and skating parties and sleepovers, and when they got older, dates and movies and Friday night football games.  One of my favorite memories is one night when the van was full of Emily's friends belting out songs from "Newsies" even though none of them except Emily had ever seen the show.  My kids knew that I was willing to drive them and their friends to wherever they needed to go, and I always had a van full of smiling faces, and they always thanked me for driving.  My parents had driven me everywhere, and I, in turn, wanted to do the same for my kids.  On many days, I'd put 50 or 60 miles on the van just driving within a 10 mile radius of my house.  I tried not to have them eat dinner in the van, but sometimes they did.  And poor Emily spent so much of her early life strapped into her carseat while I took Kyle and Claire places, it's a wonder she learned to walk at all.

When Kyle started high school, I was back to morning driving.  Kirk still took the girls to school, and we carpooled to both places, having to coordinate my high school days with my grade school days so that all the kids were covered.  My calendar was color coded to make sure I didn't forget to pick up or drop off anyone.  I actually loved driving to St. X, hearing Kyle and Evan recount the latest Coach Hines video, imitating him berating Yamanashi.  I learned that if I stayed silent, they almost forgot I was in the car and would talk about things like I wasn't there.  You can learn a lot driving kids around!  Pick up from high school football, wrestling, or rugby practice at evening rush hour was never fun.  The boys smelled bad and were tired, and the ride home was mostly silent.  Still, sometimes they talked or shared a moment from their day.  It was nice to just be in the car with Kyle for 30 uninterrupted minutes since he was gone from home most of the time.

I loved sitting in the parking lot at St. X at dismissal and watching the boys pour out of school, pulling off their ties and untucking their shirts, backpacks slung over their shoulders or books on their hips. They'd go to their cars, throw their things in the backseat and head out, windows rolled down, hollering at friends.  The difference between freshman and senior is never so obvious as in the parking lot after school.  The last day of my St. X carpool duty was a sad day for me.  I tried to take it all in, waiting for Kyle to walk out the cafeteria doors.

Kyle was driving himself to school by the time Claire started at Sacred Heart.  We had another carpool to SHA, and Kirk still drove Emily in the mornings to Holy Trinity.  The girls were always chatty, and, again, I learned that silence is the best way to get the scoop.  Sometimes I'd pull up to get Claire, and she'd be standing there with two or three friends, a smile on her face, asking if they could come home with us or if I could drop someone off on the way.  I didn't mind.  I was glad to be the mom she knew she could count on to help out.

I drove Claire to volunteer out off Poplar Level Road on Wednesdays.  Some days I had to sit in the Holy Trinity parking lot for an hour to get a spot in the first row so that I could get Emily first and then head to SHA so Claire could get to her volunteer work on time.  There was a lot of planning involved to make sure everyone got where they were supposed to be.  It was exhausting.

Claire started driving to school senior year, and she took Emily to and from on most days.  It was actually weird not to have to drive to school, and I kind of liked it.  There were days I'd have to pick up Emily from SHA, and I was still taking her to dance class and play practice, but the driving was not constant like it had been in earlier years.

This year with Claire away at college, I drive Emily to and from school every day.  We listen to "Are You Smarter Than Dingo" every morning and marvel at how dumb people really are.  Sometimes we listen to pop on the radio, sometimes country, sometimes her CDs of "Dear Evan Hanson," or "Hamilton" or "Heathers."  I pick her up in the afternoons either from school or rehearsal and hear all about her day.  This week it was how she spoke out against "juuling" and vaping.  Two weeks ago, it was about all of the issues that happened on sophomore retreat and what grades she got on her geometry test.  I drive her to voice lessons and dance class and drop her off at rehearsal for whatever play she is in at the time.  "Mom," she'll say, "do you want to hear the new song I learned today?" and of course I alway say yes, and then she will belt out the newest song in her repertoire.

After the audition for "Pippin" a couple of months ago, I saw her face when she came out of St. X and knew she'd burst into tears as soon as she got in the car.  She had forgotten the words to the audition song and had to ask to restart.  She knew it was a death sentence and thought she'd never get a part.  She cried all the way home.  Turned out not to be a big deal because she got a great role with a solo, but I was glad to be there to pick her up that day.

Emily has her permit now and will get her restricted license in a month or so.  She will be able to drive herself wherever she needs to go, and my job will be done.  Three kids, three schools, three minivans and thousands of miles later, I will hang up my chauffeur's hat and call it quits.  Breaks my heart.  I will miss the smiling faces, the stories in the car, singing Broadway tunes, and the uninterrupted minutes when it's just my kids and me.  Precious time it has been, gone way too soon.