For most of my life, I have had jeans-envy. Being vertically challenged, I have always been jealous of my male counterparts who could walk into a store, find a pair of jeans that fit them both waist-wise and length-wise and walk out with pants ready to wear. No trip to the tailors’ necessary. No hemming once they got home. Just jeans that Goldilocks would love: not too short, not too long, but just right.
Women’s jeans come in three lengths: “Tall,” (which I am definitely not), “Average,” (which I consider myself pretty close to being), or “Short,” (which designers apparently think I am).
The problem with“Average” jeans is that I am not 5’7” unless I am in 4-inch heels, and even then, when I’m not twisting my ankle, I’m stepping on the hem of the”Average”jeans. “Short” jeans are fine until they are washed, and then they are just too short. They come to the tops of my feet and just sit there, no way close to looking cool and fashionable.
Last week, while waiting for my daughters’ dance classes to end, I wandered into Steinmart. Near the entrance were several racks of jeans, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt, Nine West…I walked over, remembering when all I wanted in life was a pair of Calvins. I took the jeans in hand and noticed something odd. Not only was there the usual size 8, there was an additional number, “32.”
I stopped. Could it be? I checked another pair. They said, “Size 10, 30.” I flipped through all the jeans on the rack, and sure enough, it was true! I could buy a pair of jeans not only by waist size, but also by length! There were “4, 29s” and “6, 33s” and “12, 30s.” Jeans to fit any and every woman who ever wished that she, like every single man who ever bought jeans, could buy hers by length as well as width.
I tried on several pair before I found the right size for me (I guess the designers were right about me!), but I walked out with a pair of Nine West jeans that were just right. I call them my Goldilocks jeans!
You can probably find these at any local department store that carries Calvin Klein and Nine West , but I got mine at Steinmart, ready to wear, for $29.99. (I still didn’t get a pair of Calvins, but I got cool and fashionable, and that’s what it’s all about!)
Monday, September 14, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Snapping Beans
When I was a kid, my mom put up a lot of food each summer. It started in June when we'd go pick strawberries. Within the week, we'd have half a dozen batches strawberry jam in the freezer and bags of strawberries frozen to eat over ice cream later in the winter. As summer moved on, she would do the same for blackberries and peaches, making jam and bags of frozen fruit out of both. I didn't mind helping with those. I would pop pieces of ripe fruit in my mouth while we worked so that by the time we were finished, my chin was dribbled red or purple and I was sticky all over.
When tomatoes started coming in, Mom would make spaghetti sauce to freeze for us to eat later too. I loved helping with those tomatoes. She would bring a big pot of water to a boil and then drop the tomatoes in for 30 seconds or so. Then she would scoop them out real fast and put them in an ice water bath. Right away, the skins would split and start to peel off. I thought it was so cool to just pop the skin of the tomato off and put the flesh into the big Pyrex bowl where it waited for chopping. Then we'd cut the tomatoes in half and dig our fingers down the sides to scoop out as many seeds as we could. Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of garlic and onions and oregano and if someone didn't know any better, they'd think they were in Italy when they walked into the kitchen.
We had an apple tree in the back yard for a time. The neighbors behind us did too. Neither tree bore great fruit because neither my dad nor the neighbor sprayed for pests, but the trees did have apples every year and those trees are where my love for food preparation and storage ends. The apples from these particular trees were tiny, about the size of a lemon. They were irregular and spotted and wormy. Mom didn't care. She'd send us out to pick any apples we could reach and even pick up the ones that had fallen on the ground. We couldn't pick apples from the neighbor's tree, but since many limbs hung over our yard, Mom figured that any apples that fell into our yard were fair game, so we had to pick them up too. Didn't matter if the apples were bruised on one side or half eaten by bugs. Mom would cut the bad parts out and slice the rest for apple sauce, freezer bags, and pies. I hated it. The apples were so small that they were difficult to peel. I hated cutting into one to find that I had also cut a worm in half. I worried about how many worms made it into the winter stash without my knowledge. It was just a chore. But we sure loved the apples come January when Mom would take a bag out of the freezer and heat them on the stove with cinnamon and sugar and serve them with dinner.
Corn and green beans put me over the edge too. My dad had a friend who would send a bushel or two of corn home just out of the blue. We never knew when it would come. Dad would pull into the drive with a grin on his face and haul out two big burlap bags of corn. Mom's face would fall because she knew the work that had unexpectedly come her way for she had to put the corn up immediately or it would get tough. That was another job I hated. The corn always had worms and it was sticky and the silks made me itch. I dreaded pulling back the husks to find a big, fat, white corn worm gnawing away at the kernels. Once we got the husks pulled off, we had to cut the kernels off the cobs and into a big bowl. Then Mom would take the back of her knife and scrape the cobs to get all the juice out of the corn that she could. Corn juice would fly all over the kitchen. It was mess! We'd be sticking to the floor for days after, but again, there was nothing like a bag of sweet corn from the freezer, fried up with butter and salt in the middle of winter.
My least favorite job, however, was snapping beans. We would get a big bushel basket every so often and we'd have to sit out on the patio and snap the beans into bite sized pieces so Mom could can them the next day. I thought there must not have been a bottom to that old basket because it felt like it took forever to break up those beans. Mom would can them the next day and the house would be hot and we would be banned from the kitchen in case the canner blew up. I was terrified that that would happen. I had visions of the lid to the canner flying through the air and slicing through the wall. The jars would explode and Mom would die in a hail of green beans and glass. Of course it never happened, but I thought each year that it might be the year that it did. I remember the "sssssss" sound of the canner and the pops the jars made as they sealed. Mom would be so proud when all of her jars would be lined up on the shelves in the basement waiting for us to eat in the months to come. For all I hated the work that went into canning beans, I loved, loved, loved to eat them.
After she died, there were still a two jars left downstairs from the last time she canned beans. The beans were from Dad's garden. Mom had been gone a year, and my sisters and I just couldn't bear the thought of opening those beans and eating them. They were a tangible gift from her. A reminder that she had been here, been alive, cared enough for her family to go to all the work to store up food for winter. We finally decided to eat them on Thanksgiving. We opened them up and cooked them and ate them. There was not one bean left. How could we waste any?
I thought about all these things today as I sat on my own patio breaking beans. Mom and I had canned together in the summer of 2004 when she was well. I didn't feel comfortable enough to do it by myself without supervision, so she was going to help me the next year too. It didn't work out that way. She died in September of the following year after being sick the entire summer of 2005. Funny that the one thing I hated most as a kid is the one thing I wanted to learn to do more than anything. Mom's cousin, Betty Jean, is coming out to my house tomorrow to teach me to can. I am excited to learn, but I wish Mom was here to teach me.
So as I sat there today, thinking about how hard I had tried as a kid to get out of helping Mom with this chore, I just wished I could sit on the patio with her and break beans one more time.
When tomatoes started coming in, Mom would make spaghetti sauce to freeze for us to eat later too. I loved helping with those tomatoes. She would bring a big pot of water to a boil and then drop the tomatoes in for 30 seconds or so. Then she would scoop them out real fast and put them in an ice water bath. Right away, the skins would split and start to peel off. I thought it was so cool to just pop the skin of the tomato off and put the flesh into the big Pyrex bowl where it waited for chopping. Then we'd cut the tomatoes in half and dig our fingers down the sides to scoop out as many seeds as we could. Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of garlic and onions and oregano and if someone didn't know any better, they'd think they were in Italy when they walked into the kitchen.
We had an apple tree in the back yard for a time. The neighbors behind us did too. Neither tree bore great fruit because neither my dad nor the neighbor sprayed for pests, but the trees did have apples every year and those trees are where my love for food preparation and storage ends. The apples from these particular trees were tiny, about the size of a lemon. They were irregular and spotted and wormy. Mom didn't care. She'd send us out to pick any apples we could reach and even pick up the ones that had fallen on the ground. We couldn't pick apples from the neighbor's tree, but since many limbs hung over our yard, Mom figured that any apples that fell into our yard were fair game, so we had to pick them up too. Didn't matter if the apples were bruised on one side or half eaten by bugs. Mom would cut the bad parts out and slice the rest for apple sauce, freezer bags, and pies. I hated it. The apples were so small that they were difficult to peel. I hated cutting into one to find that I had also cut a worm in half. I worried about how many worms made it into the winter stash without my knowledge. It was just a chore. But we sure loved the apples come January when Mom would take a bag out of the freezer and heat them on the stove with cinnamon and sugar and serve them with dinner.
Corn and green beans put me over the edge too. My dad had a friend who would send a bushel or two of corn home just out of the blue. We never knew when it would come. Dad would pull into the drive with a grin on his face and haul out two big burlap bags of corn. Mom's face would fall because she knew the work that had unexpectedly come her way for she had to put the corn up immediately or it would get tough. That was another job I hated. The corn always had worms and it was sticky and the silks made me itch. I dreaded pulling back the husks to find a big, fat, white corn worm gnawing away at the kernels. Once we got the husks pulled off, we had to cut the kernels off the cobs and into a big bowl. Then Mom would take the back of her knife and scrape the cobs to get all the juice out of the corn that she could. Corn juice would fly all over the kitchen. It was mess! We'd be sticking to the floor for days after, but again, there was nothing like a bag of sweet corn from the freezer, fried up with butter and salt in the middle of winter.
My least favorite job, however, was snapping beans. We would get a big bushel basket every so often and we'd have to sit out on the patio and snap the beans into bite sized pieces so Mom could can them the next day. I thought there must not have been a bottom to that old basket because it felt like it took forever to break up those beans. Mom would can them the next day and the house would be hot and we would be banned from the kitchen in case the canner blew up. I was terrified that that would happen. I had visions of the lid to the canner flying through the air and slicing through the wall. The jars would explode and Mom would die in a hail of green beans and glass. Of course it never happened, but I thought each year that it might be the year that it did. I remember the "sssssss" sound of the canner and the pops the jars made as they sealed. Mom would be so proud when all of her jars would be lined up on the shelves in the basement waiting for us to eat in the months to come. For all I hated the work that went into canning beans, I loved, loved, loved to eat them.
After she died, there were still a two jars left downstairs from the last time she canned beans. The beans were from Dad's garden. Mom had been gone a year, and my sisters and I just couldn't bear the thought of opening those beans and eating them. They were a tangible gift from her. A reminder that she had been here, been alive, cared enough for her family to go to all the work to store up food for winter. We finally decided to eat them on Thanksgiving. We opened them up and cooked them and ate them. There was not one bean left. How could we waste any?
I thought about all these things today as I sat on my own patio breaking beans. Mom and I had canned together in the summer of 2004 when she was well. I didn't feel comfortable enough to do it by myself without supervision, so she was going to help me the next year too. It didn't work out that way. She died in September of the following year after being sick the entire summer of 2005. Funny that the one thing I hated most as a kid is the one thing I wanted to learn to do more than anything. Mom's cousin, Betty Jean, is coming out to my house tomorrow to teach me to can. I am excited to learn, but I wish Mom was here to teach me.
So as I sat there today, thinking about how hard I had tried as a kid to get out of helping Mom with this chore, I just wished I could sit on the patio with her and break beans one more time.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Thoughts at the Start of Football Season
I love football season. I love the bleachers, hot in August and freezing in October. I love the smell of home fries from the concession stands and lollies and sodas that never have the right syrup/carbonated water mix. I love the players, sweaty and grass-stained, their hair messy from wearing helmets. I love the referees, older guys, working for their passion of the game. I love the coaches, those dads who can’t get enough. I love watching boys who started out little bitty guys in flag football, gain skill and confidence and strength over their “careers.” I just love football.
Football season started this weekend with our jamboree games. Teams who aren’t in the same bracket play each other for practice, to get those first-game jitters out of the way without it mattering if they win or lose. But sitting on the bleachers on Sunday (cool in August for a change), I was reminded of the one thing I hate about football…The Ugly.
I arrived with my son the required one hour early before his game. The game on the field was starting the second quarter. I took a seat and set out to work on my day planner, glancing up now and then to watch the game. It was a good game. Both sides played well. I found myself paying less attention to the work in my lap and more attention to the action on the field. I was feeling the football spirit once again.
Then, as one team scored, The Ugly began. The coaches across the field started screaming. The fans in the stands started yelling. Not just cheering the players on, but also yelling ugly things like, “KILL HIM!” and “HURT HIM!” and “TAKE HIM DOWN!” One man said of a player on his own team that he “played like a faggot.” They screamed at the referees, yelling, “Can’t you see, Ref?” “What are you? Stupid?” I even heard the f-bomb thrown out a time or two.
Since I had no stake in this game, I stopped what I was doing and observed the people around me. It occurred to me that if someone was doing a documentary on Catholic youth football, that the people in these stands would not look very Christian. I daresay that they would have been ashamed of themselves if they were to watch their behavior on screen afterward. The coaches looked less like dads and more like Bear Bryant on a really bad day. One coach was called for an unsportsmanlike penalty. Really! In a jamboree game!
A lady (and I use that term loosely) behind me was out of control. After a player on the opposing team was called for a late hit, she stood up and screamed, “Is that how you do things up there off Westport Rd?” When the penalty was announced, she waved her arms back in forth in the air shouting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” She ranted throughout the game, making derisive comments about the other team’s players, coaches, school, and neighborhood. Nobody asked her to be quiet. A few people tried to shush her, but no one said, “That’s enough.”
After the game, one of the people around me stopped and said, “She’s not with us. Don’t judge us by her behavior.” I agreed that there’s one like her at every school. What I thought to myself though was, “Why do we let it go on? Why don’t we say, ‘Enough?’ What are we afraid of?” I have 3 kids who started playing sports at school 9 years ago, and I have never been moved to act like I was at this game.
I’m guilty of not speaking up. I have sat in the bleachers with equally vociferous parents and kept my mouth shut. I’ve sat there while our fans screamed at the referees, the players, and the other fans and not said a thing. I’m guilty as well of being a less-than-shining example of a model fan. I’d like to think I’ve never acted as ugly as the people I sat around on Sunday, but I don’t think I’d bet too much on it.
I plan to change that.
This past Saturday, our parish leadership team set a goal for the year for our church. We are challenging our parishioners to become “Eucharist-centered” people, meaning that we keep Christ in our minds in all that we do, whether it is at mass, at work, at Kroger, or on the playing field. All we do should be for the glory and praise of God.
I would like to extend this idea to the entire Archdiocese. I would like to challenge everyone to act in a more Eucharist-centered way, not just on Sundays in church but on Sundays in the stands and on the fields. Ask yourself, “Would I act this way if Jesus was on the other team? Would I scream at Jesus if he made a bad call? Would I yell, ‘KILL HIM!’ if Jesus was running for a touchdown?”
Don’t get me wrong. I am all for competition. I love the cheering and the yelling in the stands FOR good plays, FOR touchdowns, FOR the win. I love the challenges and the heartbreaks and the wins and the losses…well, not so much the losses, but you know what I mean. I love the excitement and the anticipation and the team spirit and the fun. What don’t love is The Ugly.
I think that if we all behaved as though we were being filmed for a documentary on youth football, we could get rid of some of that Ugly. If enough parents stood up and said, “ENOUGH” when things got out of hand, we would get rid of more of the Ugly. If we all try to remember to keep Christ in the game, we wouldn’t even know what Ugly was.
I love football, but it is a GAME. Contrary to popular belief, CSAA football is not a blood sport. We quit those a couple of thousand years ago. Remember, those players out on the fields, while they may look huge in their helmets and pads, are in grade school. They are CHILDREN. Would you scream at your own child like that? Would you scream at God’s?
Football season started this weekend with our jamboree games. Teams who aren’t in the same bracket play each other for practice, to get those first-game jitters out of the way without it mattering if they win or lose. But sitting on the bleachers on Sunday (cool in August for a change), I was reminded of the one thing I hate about football…The Ugly.
I arrived with my son the required one hour early before his game. The game on the field was starting the second quarter. I took a seat and set out to work on my day planner, glancing up now and then to watch the game. It was a good game. Both sides played well. I found myself paying less attention to the work in my lap and more attention to the action on the field. I was feeling the football spirit once again.
Then, as one team scored, The Ugly began. The coaches across the field started screaming. The fans in the stands started yelling. Not just cheering the players on, but also yelling ugly things like, “KILL HIM!” and “HURT HIM!” and “TAKE HIM DOWN!” One man said of a player on his own team that he “played like a faggot.” They screamed at the referees, yelling, “Can’t you see, Ref?” “What are you? Stupid?” I even heard the f-bomb thrown out a time or two.
Since I had no stake in this game, I stopped what I was doing and observed the people around me. It occurred to me that if someone was doing a documentary on Catholic youth football, that the people in these stands would not look very Christian. I daresay that they would have been ashamed of themselves if they were to watch their behavior on screen afterward. The coaches looked less like dads and more like Bear Bryant on a really bad day. One coach was called for an unsportsmanlike penalty. Really! In a jamboree game!
A lady (and I use that term loosely) behind me was out of control. After a player on the opposing team was called for a late hit, she stood up and screamed, “Is that how you do things up there off Westport Rd?” When the penalty was announced, she waved her arms back in forth in the air shouting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” She ranted throughout the game, making derisive comments about the other team’s players, coaches, school, and neighborhood. Nobody asked her to be quiet. A few people tried to shush her, but no one said, “That’s enough.”
After the game, one of the people around me stopped and said, “She’s not with us. Don’t judge us by her behavior.” I agreed that there’s one like her at every school. What I thought to myself though was, “Why do we let it go on? Why don’t we say, ‘Enough?’ What are we afraid of?” I have 3 kids who started playing sports at school 9 years ago, and I have never been moved to act like I was at this game.
I’m guilty of not speaking up. I have sat in the bleachers with equally vociferous parents and kept my mouth shut. I’ve sat there while our fans screamed at the referees, the players, and the other fans and not said a thing. I’m guilty as well of being a less-than-shining example of a model fan. I’d like to think I’ve never acted as ugly as the people I sat around on Sunday, but I don’t think I’d bet too much on it.
I plan to change that.
This past Saturday, our parish leadership team set a goal for the year for our church. We are challenging our parishioners to become “Eucharist-centered” people, meaning that we keep Christ in our minds in all that we do, whether it is at mass, at work, at Kroger, or on the playing field. All we do should be for the glory and praise of God.
I would like to extend this idea to the entire Archdiocese. I would like to challenge everyone to act in a more Eucharist-centered way, not just on Sundays in church but on Sundays in the stands and on the fields. Ask yourself, “Would I act this way if Jesus was on the other team? Would I scream at Jesus if he made a bad call? Would I yell, ‘KILL HIM!’ if Jesus was running for a touchdown?”
Don’t get me wrong. I am all for competition. I love the cheering and the yelling in the stands FOR good plays, FOR touchdowns, FOR the win. I love the challenges and the heartbreaks and the wins and the losses…well, not so much the losses, but you know what I mean. I love the excitement and the anticipation and the team spirit and the fun. What don’t love is The Ugly.
I think that if we all behaved as though we were being filmed for a documentary on youth football, we could get rid of some of that Ugly. If enough parents stood up and said, “ENOUGH” when things got out of hand, we would get rid of more of the Ugly. If we all try to remember to keep Christ in the game, we wouldn’t even know what Ugly was.
I love football, but it is a GAME. Contrary to popular belief, CSAA football is not a blood sport. We quit those a couple of thousand years ago. Remember, those players out on the fields, while they may look huge in their helmets and pads, are in grade school. They are CHILDREN. Would you scream at your own child like that? Would you scream at God’s?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Random Thoughts
I found out this week that my grandmother, Mimi, went to live on the Island of Jersey in the English Channel for a spell when she was 16 years old. She had graduated from secondary school, and her father, who must have been a very progressive kind of guy, sent her there to learn to speak English more fluently. She also spoke three other languages: French (obviously), Spanish, and Catalan. He also sent her to as many additional schools as she could attend---stenography school, etc.---to give her the best education possible.
I find that remarkable. It was 1906. France. He was a cork maker for the champagne industry. His wife, my great-grandmother, ran a tavern out of their house. Yet he was open-minded enough to send his girls (my great aunt as well) to as many schools as they could attend so that they would have a better chance at life than he and my great grandma did.
Then in 1912, they upped and moved to America. June 12 they landed in New York City. My great uncle was already here. When my grandma arrived, at the ripe old age of 20, she was well-educated enough in English and secretarial skills that she was able to get a good job in an office. A few years later, she met my grandpa, and that was that. But for a little while anyway, she was an independent woman, living and working in the busiest city in America at the turn of the century...what a heady time that must have been for her!
I am thankful for Grandpa Joe's liberal attitude towards his daughters' educations. It translated well through the years. My dad was raised to be open-minded toward women, and in turn, raised us that way. Even though I am a stay-at-home mom now, it has been MY choice to do so. It was never, ever suggested to me that there was anything I could not do if I set my mind to it. I think Mimi, because of her father, must have felt the same way.
Papi, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur.
I find that remarkable. It was 1906. France. He was a cork maker for the champagne industry. His wife, my great-grandmother, ran a tavern out of their house. Yet he was open-minded enough to send his girls (my great aunt as well) to as many schools as they could attend so that they would have a better chance at life than he and my great grandma did.
Then in 1912, they upped and moved to America. June 12 they landed in New York City. My great uncle was already here. When my grandma arrived, at the ripe old age of 20, she was well-educated enough in English and secretarial skills that she was able to get a good job in an office. A few years later, she met my grandpa, and that was that. But for a little while anyway, she was an independent woman, living and working in the busiest city in America at the turn of the century...what a heady time that must have been for her!
I am thankful for Grandpa Joe's liberal attitude towards his daughters' educations. It translated well through the years. My dad was raised to be open-minded toward women, and in turn, raised us that way. Even though I am a stay-at-home mom now, it has been MY choice to do so. It was never, ever suggested to me that there was anything I could not do if I set my mind to it. I think Mimi, because of her father, must have felt the same way.
Papi, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tick tock tick to ck t i c k
I dropped of a trunk load of toxic chemicals at the Haz-Bin site today. Colleen and I have been s-l-o-w-l-y cleaning out Dad's garage, and I went out yesterday and got all of the jars, bottles, and cans of poisonous crap off the back shelves in the garage. No kidding, I could have easily knocked off a small village with the stuff I hauled away from there.
My favorite aerosol can of the bunch was one called "Cabinet Magic." It had a "wood" label on it featuring Mrs. Happy Homemaker in her dress and apron, holding a dusting rag in one hand, sporting a mean beehive updo, and smiling like she was just so darn happy to be polishing cabinets today. I promise you in all of my 41 years, I have never, ever cleaned kitchen cabinets in a dress and apron, and even if I had, I would not have been smiling about it!
I also liked the can of "* Shine Brite *" glass polish in the powder blue label. I wish I could show the kind of font the text was in. It was so typically 1968 Bewitched. That can was probably loaded with enough CFCs to add another couple hundred miles to the hole in the ozone.
There was a plastic bottle full of something. Dad and I had no idea what it was, but Mom had written, "POISON XXX" all over it, so we touched it very gingerly and put it in the corner of the box so it wouldn't fall over and kill us with fumes.
I hauled away several bottles of transmission fluid, power steering fluid, grub killer, rose dust, paint thinner, spray paint, varnish, Liquid Gold, and lighter fluid from when Dad smoked, oh 35 years ago, and would refill his lighters when they got low.
I took about 15 odd cans of paint to the back yard and filled them up with the old sand from the sandbox. Some of that paint hadn't been on the walls for 2 or 3 layers. There was a full can of black latex paint that I have no idea about, and a red that I think was on the basement floor. (The basement was finished and carpeted in 1983.) Toxic chemicals and paint being what they are, they were all still mostly liquid. The only way to dispose of them, according to MetroCall, was to take off the lids, fill them with sand, and let them dry out. I guess the fumes are okay to release into the air, but I wouldn't want to hang out in Dad's garage for any length of time for the next couple of weeks. We'll keep checking on them and put them in the garbage once they are dried out. It could be awhile.
So as much as I'm ragging on all of this poisonous stuff in the garage, it was really pretty sad. I would hold up each item and tell Dad what it was, and he'd say yea or nay to keeping it. When we got to the automotive stuff, I thought about how long it had been since Dad even checked the fluid levels in his vehicles, much less topped them off. I could see the wheels turning in his head, "Do I think I'll ever be needing this again in my lifetime? No, probably not..." We did that with a lot of things: paint, lawn chemicals, WD-40, mineral spirits. We kept a few cans of spray paint, some fertilizer for the yard, and a car cleaner that had "GM" (General Motors) written on the can that Dad got as a gimme from when he worked for GM. Remember, Dad retired in the late 80s.
I stood there holding up cans, and it was like watching him shut door after door while he analyzed his future possible use for each item. There wasn't much need for a number of things.
He helped me take the paint cans back to the garage before I left for home. He is so slow. His steps are very short, about the length of his foot, and he shuffles pretty badly. He'd take a couple of cans at a time and then have to stop and sit down every trip or two. Watching Dad is like watching a wind-up toy winding down or a clock ticking ever more slowly. Only there is no key on his back with which to rewind him, and I know that sooner than later the last tick is gonna come, and he will stop.
My favorite aerosol can of the bunch was one called "Cabinet Magic." It had a "wood" label on it featuring Mrs. Happy Homemaker in her dress and apron, holding a dusting rag in one hand, sporting a mean beehive updo, and smiling like she was just so darn happy to be polishing cabinets today. I promise you in all of my 41 years, I have never, ever cleaned kitchen cabinets in a dress and apron, and even if I had, I would not have been smiling about it!
I also liked the can of "* Shine Brite *" glass polish in the powder blue label. I wish I could show the kind of font the text was in. It was so typically 1968 Bewitched. That can was probably loaded with enough CFCs to add another couple hundred miles to the hole in the ozone.
There was a plastic bottle full of something. Dad and I had no idea what it was, but Mom had written, "POISON XXX" all over it, so we touched it very gingerly and put it in the corner of the box so it wouldn't fall over and kill us with fumes.
I hauled away several bottles of transmission fluid, power steering fluid, grub killer, rose dust, paint thinner, spray paint, varnish, Liquid Gold, and lighter fluid from when Dad smoked, oh 35 years ago, and would refill his lighters when they got low.
I took about 15 odd cans of paint to the back yard and filled them up with the old sand from the sandbox. Some of that paint hadn't been on the walls for 2 or 3 layers. There was a full can of black latex paint that I have no idea about, and a red that I think was on the basement floor. (The basement was finished and carpeted in 1983.) Toxic chemicals and paint being what they are, they were all still mostly liquid. The only way to dispose of them, according to MetroCall, was to take off the lids, fill them with sand, and let them dry out. I guess the fumes are okay to release into the air, but I wouldn't want to hang out in Dad's garage for any length of time for the next couple of weeks. We'll keep checking on them and put them in the garbage once they are dried out. It could be awhile.
So as much as I'm ragging on all of this poisonous stuff in the garage, it was really pretty sad. I would hold up each item and tell Dad what it was, and he'd say yea or nay to keeping it. When we got to the automotive stuff, I thought about how long it had been since Dad even checked the fluid levels in his vehicles, much less topped them off. I could see the wheels turning in his head, "Do I think I'll ever be needing this again in my lifetime? No, probably not..." We did that with a lot of things: paint, lawn chemicals, WD-40, mineral spirits. We kept a few cans of spray paint, some fertilizer for the yard, and a car cleaner that had "GM" (General Motors) written on the can that Dad got as a gimme from when he worked for GM. Remember, Dad retired in the late 80s.
I stood there holding up cans, and it was like watching him shut door after door while he analyzed his future possible use for each item. There wasn't much need for a number of things.
He helped me take the paint cans back to the garage before I left for home. He is so slow. His steps are very short, about the length of his foot, and he shuffles pretty badly. He'd take a couple of cans at a time and then have to stop and sit down every trip or two. Watching Dad is like watching a wind-up toy winding down or a clock ticking ever more slowly. Only there is no key on his back with which to rewind him, and I know that sooner than later the last tick is gonna come, and he will stop.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Vinegar and Baking Soda
It's interesting how using up the last of the vinegar and throwing the bottle away could hurt so much, but it does.
I was cleaning up Dad's kitchen today, and the sinks were smelly. I poured an old box of baking soda down the drain and then looked in the cabinet for some vinegar to flush it with. There was a new bottle of cider vinegar in the front of the cabinet that had not yet been opened, and a partially used bottle farther back. I thought I'd just use up the bottle already opened, so I took it out. It was a bit murky, much more that I expected. I wondered with a chuckle how long it had been in there and looked for an expiration date. I found one.
It said, "Use before September 2005." That stopped me cold because in all probability, my mom had purchased this bottle of vinegar.
I stood in front of the sink for awhile debating what to do. Do I use this up and throw it in the recycling? MOM bought this. MOM used this. MOM held this very bottle in her hands. Was I going to keep a fermenting bottle of vinegar at my house? Probably not. If I did, where would I keep it? For how long? Somebody has to throw it away. If I don't get rid of it, Dad might use it on accident. It could make him sick. Mom bought this vinegar. Mom at Melton's, pushing the cart down the aisle, took this bottle off the shelf and paid for it and brought it home. Mom.
After a few minutes, sanity prevailed, and I poured the remaining vinegar down the drain and took the bottle out to the recycling. I had to do it fast though so I couldn't change my mind.
I was cleaning up Dad's kitchen today, and the sinks were smelly. I poured an old box of baking soda down the drain and then looked in the cabinet for some vinegar to flush it with. There was a new bottle of cider vinegar in the front of the cabinet that had not yet been opened, and a partially used bottle farther back. I thought I'd just use up the bottle already opened, so I took it out. It was a bit murky, much more that I expected. I wondered with a chuckle how long it had been in there and looked for an expiration date. I found one.
It said, "Use before September 2005." That stopped me cold because in all probability, my mom had purchased this bottle of vinegar.
I stood in front of the sink for awhile debating what to do. Do I use this up and throw it in the recycling? MOM bought this. MOM used this. MOM held this very bottle in her hands. Was I going to keep a fermenting bottle of vinegar at my house? Probably not. If I did, where would I keep it? For how long? Somebody has to throw it away. If I don't get rid of it, Dad might use it on accident. It could make him sick. Mom bought this vinegar. Mom at Melton's, pushing the cart down the aisle, took this bottle off the shelf and paid for it and brought it home. Mom.
After a few minutes, sanity prevailed, and I poured the remaining vinegar down the drain and took the bottle out to the recycling. I had to do it fast though so I couldn't change my mind.
Snapshot: Emily
I saw her standing in the backyard under the maple tree looking up, intently scanning for something I couldn't see. She was wearing the National Guard ball cap her dad had given her on Saturday at Thunder. It's too big, so it doesn't sit well on her head, and her short blond hair was sticking out willy-nilly from under it. Her shorts and tee shirt were dirty, and her feet were asphalt black from going around with no shoes on.
I watched her through the kitchen window for a bit. She stood still, poised to spring, gazing intently at the sky.
Curious, I went to the back door and asked, "Emily, honey, what are you doing out there?"
She looked over at me with a big grin on her face and replied with the joy of a seven year old in spring, "I'm catching helicopters!"
My beautiful girl.
I watched her through the kitchen window for a bit. She stood still, poised to spring, gazing intently at the sky.
Curious, I went to the back door and asked, "Emily, honey, what are you doing out there?"
She looked over at me with a big grin on her face and replied with the joy of a seven year old in spring, "I'm catching helicopters!"
My beautiful girl.
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