No Milk

We finally arrived in Milwaukee at about 7:00 on Friday night, after a long, leg cramping, shoulder tensing, four hour drive in 75 mph traffic. It felt so good to get out of the car and stretch. And carry in our bags. And quickly greet Jonathan, who we hadn’t seen since Christmas.

Of course, he was waiting to go and eat dinner with us …

You see, I had emailed him that morning. “Are you going to have dinner ready for us when we get there tonight or should we stop on the way and grab something to eat?” I asked.

“We don’t have any milk in the house,” he replied. “Maybe we could go out for dinner – a family dinner?”

Family dinner in my family usually means one thing.

Mom and Dad’s treat.

Whether it be my mom and dad taking us out.

Or me and my husband taking our kids out.

It’s just the natural order of things in this family.

Anyway, I don’t really know what not having milk had to do with any of it but our plans were made – and we enjoyed our dinner. And our conversation.

Waking up to a winter snowstorm on Saturday morning put a slight damper on the remainder of our weekend plans. After I looked out the window and saw at least six inches of snow on the car, I decided I didn’t even want to go outside. We cancelled our trip to the big mall, and settled instead on visiting the smaller mall close to Jonathan’s house, so Mickey could check out what it was like to shop in Milwaukee.

I bought vacuum cleaner bags.

And soap.

Because I felt the urge to take care of a few things.

Like vacuuming.

And just a little cleaning.

You see, my Grandma Vera could often be seen with dish rag in hand. I can still hear my mom saying, “Mom, please put that rag down and visit for a while. You don’t need to wipe that off right now.”

But Grandma was happiest with dish rag in hand.

And I was too – this weekend at Jonathan’s. I vacuumed the carpets and then cleaned both bathrooms. I washed the dishes and wiped off the countertops and stove. I swept the floors and shook and washed the bathroom rugs.

I was happiest with dish rag in hand.

Just like my Grandma.

… Oh, and I did buy him some milk.

bap⋅tism [bap-tiz-uh-m] –noun

 

1. a ceremonial immersion in water…

I opened the kitchen door, just back from visiting Mom. Right away I spotted the little snow boots on the rug. Peeking around the corner I saw Kaitlyn, perched on a kitchen chair in front of the sink.

“Hi sweetie! What are you doing at Grandma’s house today?”

Kaitlyn’s face breaks out in a big smile, “I’m washing dishes!”

Grandpa is at the counter, getting ready to put fish sticks in the oven. He smiles at me and says, “Kaitlyn and Chrissy came over today to go sliding, but weren’t ready to leave yet, so they are staying for an hour or so."

I’m thinking – what a bonus – I get to hug my sweeties plus I get my dishes done – all at the same time!

Kaitlyn has dishcloth in hand, washing up a storm. The sink is filled with a couple inches of warm, soapy water and she meticulously scrubs the plates, forks, spoons and cups. I cringe as she picks up a glass – I can just imagine her breaking the glass and cutting her finger. Seeing the distress in my eyes, Grandpa quickly comes to the rescue, trading the glass for a plastic cup.

“Grandpa, this chair is getting really wet,” she remarks, and he gets a towel for her to stand on. “My pants are getting really wet too, Grandpa.”

I look at Grandpa and we both smile, as we continue sopping up water from the chair, floor, and surrounding kitchen countertop.

Chrissy is rinsing and then drying the dishes. A six year old with much more dexterity than her four year old counterpart still complains that Kaitlyn is washing too fast – she can’t keep up rinsing and drying. I notice the cold rinse water and think, while it may not be the recommended method, it is certainly not going to hurt us just this once.

“You’re doing a good job, Chrissy! You must help Mom at home all the time with dishes,” I tell her.

In a whiny, but still forceful voice my strong-willed granddaughter replies, “MY MOM NEVER LETS ME DO DISHES!!!”

(In defense of my daughter-in-law, I can assure you that there is another side to her story…)

Grandpa inspects the dishes as he puts them away, returning a couple bowls to Kaitlyn for a second wash. As quickly as our girls came, they were gone - Mom and Dad returned to pick them up – and the dishes were done and put away.

By now, moonlight is peeking through the window. As I get ready to turn the lights out in the kitchen and head to bed, I notice a glistening spot on the end of the kitchen countertop – under the box of Kleenex.

A puddle of water.

I smile to myself as I get yet another towel and wipe up the water. It appears that my new kitchen got quite a baptism tonight.

What a fitting end to a splendid Sunday.

I'm a VP

VP. More than two letters in the alphabet. They stand for Volunteer Partner and I just finished my training today to become one.

A program which is now being implemented by the Brain Injury Association of Wisconsin (BIAW) is called Supportive Partner-to-Partner Network (SPPN). Its purpose is to provide support to families whose loved one has sustained a brain injury.

We are very fortunate living here where we do, to have access to some great brain injury support groups in our area. I learned today that many areas in Wisconsin (where the population is quite sparse) are not as fortunate. This makes the SPPN Program all the more important.

My role as a Volunteer Partner is to listen, encourage and empower family members to make their own decisions regarding their loved ones. I will work with my Supportive Partner via telephone, with a mutually scheduled time for our conversations.

I learned a lot at my training today – including some interesting facts and figures.

-Did you know that brain injury is the leading cause of death and disability in children and young adults and the leading cause of death until age 44?

-Did you know that 3 million Americans suffer disability from stroke – but 5.3 million Americans suffer disability from traumatic brain injury?

-Did you know that more Americans died as a result of traumatic brain injury between 1981 and 1993 than have been killed in all the wars in our history combined?

-Did you know that a mild brain injury is also known as a concussion? That’s right – even if you don’t lose consciousness you could have sustained a mild brain injury. The symptoms might not appear until much later.

-Did you know that many survivors continue to recover for years? Yes, years – 5, 10 or even 25 years.

Now try this-

Slightly lift your right foot off the floor.

Begin circling that foot clockwise, then at the same time …

Pick up a pen and write your name in cursive.

I don’t know about you, but my foot started circling counter-clockwise when I tried to write my name, and my name did not turn out quite right. This is an example of how difficult it may be for a person with a brain injury to use their motor skills.

Educating the public about brain injury is important. And helping out families whose loved ones have survived a brain injury is critical. I feel lucky to be able to be a part of this very important network and look forward to putting my training to use.

VP. More than just two letters of the alphabet.


Note: All facts and figures quoted are from the BIAW website and SSPN Program Training Manual.

The Rookie

“What does it mean when I turn my computer on and it says I have eleven unread messages?”

“Where do I type in where I want to go?"

“Right here … Like this?”

“Why does this box want to know if I want to win money?”

“Isn’t Hotmail and Facebook the same thing?”

“How do I send this message?”

“How did this stuff get on my screen?”


Diane takes a deep breath …


“Do I ask you how to put a new head gasket in the tractor?”

“Do I ask you how to put the lawn mower belt on?”

“Do I ask you how to change the element in the hot water heater?”

“Do I ask you how to put a new light fixture in the laundry room?”

“Do I ask you how to figure out how many pounds of fertilizer to put on the field?”

“Do I ask you how to filet a fish?”

“Do I ask you how to put new brakes in my Tahoe?”

This is the winter that I rounded up an old laptop for my husband, so he wouldn’t feel like an outcast in the family. On cold winter days he can be found sitting on the sofa, surfing the internet, checking his email, and yes – reading Facebook. The rookie is now officially a Facebook junkie.

I think I’ll write on his wall right now.

Even though we’re both in the same room.

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Stupid Clothes Basket

I’ll admit – I have an organization problem. With clothes baskets in particular.

Two years ago, I wiped the slate clean and threw out most of my clothes baskets. It makes doing laundry a little tough, (especially when you have to carry a load outside to the clothes line) but the consequences of having a clothes basket in my possession are somewhat life threatening.

Because clothes baskets can be used for many things besides laundry.

You can use a clothes basket to put the pumpkins in that you pick from your garden the night before the hard frost. But they will freeze if you leave them in there, and then you have to dump the whole mess out anyway.

You can use a clothes basket to put your donated clothes in until you get the right size box to put them in and take them to Goodwill. But if you leave the basket sit in your dining room until Easter, you have to move the basket to the basement when you have the family over for dinner.

You can use a clothes basket to store the toys in that you dig out of the closet when kids come to play. But if you don’t put the toys away, the Barbie’s hair gets full of Silly Putty, the slinky gets wound around the Poky Little Puppy’s tail and no one can play with anything anymore.

You can use a clothes basket to put groceries in that don’t fit into your pantry. But then you have to move the basket every time you want to open the refrigerator.

You can use a clothes basket to put your cleaning supplies in that don’t fit under your sink. But then the Mr. Clean will spill out on the dust rag and you will get suds when you use it to dust the coffee table.

You can even give your grandchildren a ride in a clothes basket, pulling them across the dining room floor, with them giggling as you screech around the corner – tumbling them onto the living room carpet.

And you can use a clothes basket as a hamper.

Like the one that I use as a hamper in my closet.

Last Saturday, against my better judgment, I fell off the wagon and put my laundry in one of the few clothes basket I still own and carried it to the washing machine.
I washed and dried the clothes and in my haste, threw the clean clothes back in the clothes basket.

To be folded later.

The basket stayed in the hallway all week. Then I moved the basket to my bedroom. There it sits, piled with other clean clothes that I haven’t put away yet – but plan to soon. Sometime this week. Or for sure by Saturday.

Yes, it’s almost time to do laundry again, but this time I will carry each load individually to the washer, and immediately fold each load as I take it out of the dryer and then put the clothes away.

Right away.

The papers that should be in files are in a clothes basket in my office. (The file folders are in a box on the closet shelf). When I need to find something, I dig through the basket. If I can’t find it after about an hour of looking, I just buy a new whatever it is.

Yes, it’s almost tax time again, but this year I vow to use my new label maker to label each file folder in the box and put them in the drawer in my desk. And to put the papers in the files.

Right away.

Because I shouldn't come within a mile of a clothes basket.

The Icing on the Cake

At age 34, I asked my doctor, “Do you think it’s too late to have a baby?”

She said no.

This one little word had just validated and sealed the thoughts inside my head – the longing all mothers have from time to time – the desire to hold a newborn baby in their arms, to share their love with another , the desire to extend their own mortality through another.

A year later, Mickey was born. Not an afterthought, certainly not an accident or surprise – but a blessing from heaven – and with a set of parents who were armed and hopefully ready for the second round of parenthood, this time with the added benefit of experience.



Mickey graces our life with her bubbly personality, keeping us ever-entertained with her wit and humor. The charm she possesses works well for her, whether she is twisting her mother’s arm to go to the mall, or gracefully coaxing her father into giving her money from his wallet (except she would do the coaxing first, then the twisting).

And she keeps us young.

Or perhaps, she just doesn’t let us feel as old as we sometimes feel.

At a time in my life when parents our age are seeing their children graduate from college and move on to start their lives, our daughter is just beginning to plan her future – thinking about careers, where she would like to live and what her hopes and dreams are. I pray that her future is bright and her aspirations in life are achieved.

Mickey is truly our icing on the cake and we wouldn’t have life any other way.



Plus, she did say that when she is living “some place where it’s warm” six years from now she would still come and visit us at Christmas.

I said, “I'm glad, but could we see you more than once a year?”

She pauses to think and then says, “Sure, you can jet out anytime you want.”

Our daughter. A blessing in our lives, her personality molded and shaped by those who love her. Here with us to live, learn and grow, preparing to fly away just like a balloon drifts off into the sky, not knowing quite where it will land – but enjoying the ride.

That’s Mickey. The icing on the cake.

Happy birthday, sweet daughter.

The Halo?

Someone in this picture is donning a halo (well, a star, I guess). I'd like to think of him as being very angelic.

But I don't know...

What do you think?

The '90s

I unpacked my laptop from its bag and put it on the kitchen table. My mom was intrigued, watching me plug it in, start it up, pop in the DVD I’d burned and navigate through the screens to my pictures.

We sat together at the kitchen table for at least a half an hour, commenting on all the pictures from the past year – from Mickey, Kaitlyn and Chrissy’s birthday parties, to the snowstorm on April 28th, to our grandkids in the pumpkin patch, and of course, most recently - Christmas Eve at my Mom’s.

After I ejected the DVD from my computer, I showed it to Mom. Explaining to her that the pictures we just looked at were all contained on this thin sliver of a disc, she just shook her head in disbelief.

The computer back in its bag, Mickey immediately went on to further wow her grandmother with technology – probably more than she needed in one Sunday afternoon. Mickey took one of her IPod ear buds out and placed it in Grandma’s ear. For a minute, they rocked together in their chairs, back and forth to the music.

For a minute, my mom didn’t look quite so old. For a minute, she didn’t look like she didn’t understand what was going on. Mom enjoyed sharing this piece of technology with Mickey. And I enjoyed watching them rock together in their chairs.

All of a sudden Mom pulled her ear bud out, turned to Mickey and asked … don’t you have any “old” music?

To which Mickey replied … “I have some from the ‘90s … “

Yes, the ‘90s.

Before DVDs. Before IPods. Before Mickey.

January 18, 2004

The phone ringing woke me from an early morning sleep. Still groggy, I picked up the receiver – unaware that this day would leave me forever changed. The news on the other end was something we all dread. The person on the other end was telling me that my son was in a car accident.

Getting into the car with a friend who had been drinking left him injured and unresponsive, the inside of his head filled with stretched and sheared neurons in his brain.

I had no idea that this day would be forever etched in time as a true dividing time in my life. My life is now divided into two segments – the time before his accident, and the time after his accident.

Jonathan is five years into his recovery this January 18, 2009. The time after his accident has been a long journey, filled with ups and downs. There have been times when he seemed to be taking a step forward, only to be thrust two steps behind in an instant. Our lives for the past five years have moved in slow motion, as we painstakingly watched him desperately try to recover and regain his life.

He was saved for a reason. There are times, when life seems to be against him, that I know he struggles to understand why. There are times when his life seems to be filled with more failure than success, and more sorrow than joy. But those are times to step back and take a look at the big picture.

On the fifth day in intensive care, January of 2004, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

It was December, 2006. The band was playing Pomp and Circumstance. The graduates were rounding the corner into the hall. I spotted him amongst the hundreds of black caps and gowns. As he walked up the aisle to the stage my eyes filled with tears of joy. Just a year and a half before, he was lying in intensive care, unresponsive and I didn’t know if he would even ever walk again.

In the spring of 2008, he loaded up his friend’s van with all his belongings. Heading out the driveway he went south – to start a new job and a new life four hours away from us, becoming totally independent again.

This the big picture in our forever journey.

And while he is still searching for that reason, I don’t know if I need to have a reason. I know that over the last five years we have built a strong bond with each other – one that otherwise, may have gone undiscovered.

I run my fingers through his dark brown hair and give his head a squeeze. While all my children are special, each in their own way, I can’t help but think of how I truly value this child’s brain – the very center of his personality, his intelligence and his emotion. I can’t help but think of him as a little boy – in the time before his accident, innocent and full of hopes and dreams. I can’t help but think of him as a grown man – in the time after his accident, wondering what his hopes are now and struggling to make new dreams that he can achieve.

But I do know that he will achieve.

And I will never look upon this day as the day I almost lost my son.

I will forever look upon this day as the day God saved my son.

What You Should Know About My Baby Brother

When he was born, Mom asked me what we should name him. Since there was this cute boy that rode my bus named Leonard, I told Mom we should name him Leonard – and call him Lennie for short. Mom was speechless. She never did share with me who chose the name David.

I got to change his diapers. Something new and exciting called “Pampers” were just invented. You had to use diaper pins, though – no sticky or Velcro tapes to fasten them with.

He loved tractors already at age six. He liked to spend time sitting on the tractor, pretending he was driving. He found out that if you played with the cigarette lighter you could pretend you were smoking a cigarette. Mom found out when she heard him scream, his lips branded with a red circle of burned skin.

With great curiosity, David could be found under Grandma’s hospital bed, turning the crank and trying to figure out just how it worked. That curiosity carried him into the pre-teen years, dragging out Dad’s tools and making things in workshop in the basement. Once again, screams of pain traveled up the staircase as he mistakenly kneeled down on a board which was lying on the cement floor with a nail in it.

He cried when Frosty the Snowman melted.

For a very small moment, we both wore the same size shoes.

For a very small moment, I could take him down and sit on him.

When I got my driver’s license, David was a champion back seat driver. One time after spouting off one too many directions to me, I abruptly stopped the car (not too far from home) and made him get out and walk. I don’t remember any back seat driving after that.

He played the saxophone.

I helped him get ready to go to his high school prom. I shined his burgundy shoes, fastened the bow tie and cumberbund on his light blue tuxedo, and styled his dark brown hair.

My brother survived his snowmobile hitting a tree. He lay in the snow for about three hours until his friends found him. The bark from the tree was embedded in his helmet. We stayed by his side through shoulder and knee surgery – and the rehabilitation after.

David continued in his adult life with his love of tractors and making things, by building his own pulling tractor. Watching the black smoke roll out of the stack, hearing the whistle of the turbos, and feeling the ground beneath you tremble with the unleashed horsepower as the tractor makes its way down the track is breathtaking. Although it lasts only about ten seconds, it overpowers you with a rush of fear and excitement -all at once.

He has two darling daughters, who are a special part of our family.

Oh, and my baby brother has a birthday tomorrow. Happy birthday, David!

Dreaming Under the Influence – or – What Sudafed Does To Your Mind While You Sleep

Cold relief. One tiny, red pill. Half the recommended adult dose.

On Saturday night I was driving my car down a dusty gravel road until I finally arrived at my dad’s farm. Out in the hay field in front of the house he had a great big barbecue set up. Dad was charcoaling something for all the neighbors and friends to eat. I find this to be quite odd, because Dad only threw one party in his life – my wedding reception. The only other party at the farm was a housewarming party when we moved in – and that was a surprise planned and executed by friends.

Dad proceeded to give me a tour of the house (which is also odd, because I lived there for six years and obviously shouldn’t need a tour). But much to my surprise, inside the living room you could look up and see the upstairs through a big hole in the floor. Actually, only the perimeter of the ceiling above the living room was there. We went upstairs and looked down. All along the edges of the room I could see a maple wood floor – its jagged edges peeking through the torn carpeting. I wondered why no one had ever discovered that before.

Could it have something to do with the fact that I recently refinished two hardwood maple floors in one of my rentals?

My cold still getting the best of me, on Sunday night I took another Sudafed. It wasn’t long and I could hear my dad telling me that mom wanted me to make her some meatloaf. I asked him why but he didn’t really want to say. After prodding him just a little more, he admitted that she was sick of the meals on wheels.

I can’t parallel this to anything, except maybe the fact that I’ve been eating fast food all week while I was in town painting at the rental and I could go for some homemade dinner myself, for a change!


Breaking down and actually taking this decongestant to unclog my sinuses for the last few nights has really been pretty eventful for me. In the dream world, that is. I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight – so I can find out what journey is in store for me as I sleep, head propped up on pillows for maximum breathing effect – helping the little red pill work its magic.

A Long and Happy Life

The candles will be blown out and put away. The lights will be wrapped up and packed in a box. The Santa's, snowmen and angels will be tucked safely in tissue paper, high on a shelf in the attic. The tree will be set out for the birds to nest in.

The Christmas decorations are gone until next year.

But the image of the dozens of shoes lined up down the fifteen foot hall at my in-law’s house will stick in my mind all year long – a reminder of the long and happy life they have enjoyed. With seven children, four daughters-in-law and three sons-in-law, a foster daughter and her husband, eighteen grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren; amazingly, all but four were present over the Christmas holiday season.

Which explains the long, long row of boots and shoes in this picture – and why I have given this blog post its title.



A long and happy life.

When all is said and done, and we have to look back on the accomplishments in our life, we need look no farther.

May you have a long and happy life.

The Grandma Shirt

She wrinkles up her nose. She glares at me with eyes that spell out the word “eeww”.

No, Mickey doesn’t like the same clothes I like. And when I try to show her something classic, she makes the same face at me. “That looks like a grandma shirt,” she says.

I’m not in the dark about fashion. I know what people are wearing. I know what’s in and what’s out. But I also know what I like and don’t like. I don’t like shirts that are skin tight. I don’t like jeans that are so low cut that a person has to make sure they have coordinating undergarments on. After all, I grew up in the era where girls tried to make sure their bra straps didn’t show.

I do like the classic, uncomplicated clothes. Sweatshirts. Jeans. Cardigan sweaters and roomy t’s.

Last winter I found myself picking up and contemplating the purchase of an awesome navy blue sweatshirt with a snowman appliqué on it. After my inner voices wrestled back and forth with themselves about the shirt, my younger self won. I couldn’t force myself to buy it.

Because my mom wears shirts like that.

Yesterday I spotted a red sweatshirt with Christmas trees appliquéd on the front. I picked it up. I liked it. I put it back down. I walked around the store one more time.

I thought to myself, “You are a grandma, for heaven’s sakes. Buy the darn shirt.”

Yes, I have come to realize that you get to a point in your life where you finally admit to yourself that it’s okay to dress as you like, wear your hair as you like – and quit using the Loving Care.

I’m not quite there yet – but I can feel it coming.

And I’m kind of okay with that – kind of.

Trust Your Heart

The air was frigid. It was one of the coldest days so far this winter. As we got closer to the stop light, we saw two gentlemen standing by the curb, the wind chill literally taking their breath away. A piece of cardboard, cut from a box, had writing on it, scrawled with a black magic marker. The light turned red.

With my car slowly rolling to a stop, I was able to make out the words “Please, we need money for bus tickets,” and “God bless you”.

The driver in the car ahead of me opened his window and handed them money.

In an instant, I turned and grabbed for my purse. My thick, glove-covered hands pulled a ten dollar bill out of my wallet. By now the light had turned green. I glanced in my rear view mirror and could see about four cars behind me. Tugging on the window switch, it made its way down. At the same time, I slowly pulled ahead and thrust the ten dollar bill out of the window as my car neared one of the gentlemen.

He took the money and said “God bless you ma’am”. I nodded to him and drove off.

As we rounded the corner, Mickey turned to me and said, “Didn’t that feel good?” I agreed with her. It felt really good.

I don’t know how many of the subsequent cars behind me followed suit, but I know at least one did. I don’t know if these gentlemen really needed bus tickets or not, but I didn’t care.

Then turning back to Mickey I said, “It doesn’t really matter what they wanted the money for. What matters is that we trusted our heart.”

Muddy Footprints

“Make sure you tell Grandpa he doesn’t have to catch a turkey this year, because we have one in our freezer,” Chrissy says to me as we talk about what we like best about Thanksgiving.

Chrissy and Kaitlyn both agreed they like the turkey the best. And for the record, the ones I bake come from the grocery store.

The housecleaning is done as good as it will be this year. There are a few doors that will be shut - to hide the stray boxes leftover from the kitchen remodel that I haven’t the gumption to deal with.

More importantly, tonight I am relaxing with my little sweeties – savoring my Tuesday night with them while their mom is at class. We were sandwich artists tonight, the three of us up at the counter building ourselves each our own classic. After supper we got out our pencils and paper and wrote letters to Santa. After homework is done and we read a book or two, I’ll tuck them into their beds, listen to their prayers, and kiss them goodnight – sending them off to dream their sweet little dreams of Barbie houses, play makeup and Nintendo DS games.

While the house is quiet I think of all of us fretting to get everything on our lists done in time for Thanksgiving. I think of all the floors that are being scrubbed and vacuumed, and furniture being dusted. I think of all the trips to the grocery store for the special ingredients.

We clean and cook with love in our hearts for those we love the most.

And after the day is over, in much less time than it took to prepare, there will be muddy footprints on our freshly scrubbed floor, spilled gravy on the tablecloth, and half-full (or half-empty, depending on how you look at it) glasses of wine or punch scattered about the house. There will be loads of dishes to be washed and leftovers galore, jam-packed into the frig.

As you crash on the sofa after everyone is gone, let the muddy footprints be a sign that you have a family that loves you and loves to spend time with you.

I thank God for all the muddy footprints in my life.

This post was requested by a friend - who needed some inspiration as she gets ready for Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

The Secret Ingredient

My husband’s mother is mother to more than just him. She has six other children, a whole mess of grand and great-grandchildren, and has been married for over fifty years . Several years ago, she partnered with her husband running a 500 cow dairy farm in western Wisconsin. This brings me in a round-about way to the subject today.

First, I must elaborate a little more.

She has always cooked for a big family. She has always cooked for a table full of hired farm hands, plus her seven children and grand children. She cooked in quantity - seemingly effortlessly. On the farm, meat and potatoes were plentiful, a staple of the meal. She used a pressure cooker to tenderize less desirable cuts of meat. She served fresh vegetables from her garden. Yes, dinner was in the oven while she was milking cows.

My mother-in-law collects cookbooks. She cuts recipes out of magazines and newspapers. Her recipe cupboard is filled to the brim, the doors bursting at the seams – propped shut with a ruler slid between the pulls. My mother-in-law loves to get ideas from the recipes she collects.

She just doesn’t like to follow the recipes.

I remember one time there was an insurance salesman at the house. She offered him a slice of fresh peach pie. He loved it. He asked her for her recipe. She just laughed and changed the subject.

After he left, she told me that she added the morning’s leftover pancake batter in with the pie crust dough.

Yes, she adds this, and leaves that out. She doubles this and substitutes that. She doesn’t measure, she just knows.

And it all turns out. And even though we know this, we still ask her for her recipe. And she can’t give it to us, because she didn’t use one … exactly, anyway. But still we ask.

The subject today – the secret ingredient.

In preparing the turkey for our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to get the same delicious results that I’ve had eating turkey dinner that my mother-in-law has cooked. So I boldly asked her for her recipe, confident that whatever she told me would be good enough for me.

“I stuff the bird with chopped up carrots, onions and celery. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I must admit, it turned out delicious. But I didn’t write it down.

The next fall I called her again, pleading “Could you please give me that recipe again for turkey? I promise I’ll write it down this time.”

She is more than willing to share with me. “I stuff the bird with apples and dried apricots. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I finally figured it out. It really doesn’t matter how you cook it. As long as you use the secret ingredient, that is. Maple syrup.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage happens very gradually. It migrated in its entirety to me about five years ago.

When I was first married, which was in fact, ages ago, all I needed to do was show up for Thanksgiving Dinner at my mom and dad’s house. My grandmother was there, and her and my mom could be found bustling around getting that turkey ready for us to devour.

Gradually, and unbeknownst to me the rite of passage began.

Relish tray. “Could you bring a relish tray this year?” I could do that! After all, cutting up carrots and celery was virtually foolproof.

Jell-o. During the little-kids-under-my-feet years, the relish tray became my sister’s job and I was assigned jell-o. “Would you like to bring a bowl of jell-o this year?” Of course, I excitedly obliged. I had to go and buy a bowl first, though.

Scalloped corn. As the years flew by, I moved on to scalloped corn. This was my opportunity to try a few new recipes and really blossom in the creativeness category.

Pumpkin pie. My grandmother always brought the pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving Dinner. But after she passed away, Mom asked me “Would you bring the pumpkin pie this year?” I baked two pumpkin pies, thinking of Grandma as I checked to see if they were done, putting a knife into the center of each, making sure it came out clean.

As my mother grew older, somehow my sister and I just knew it was time.

Turkey time, that is.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage took place. Over the span of thirty years.

You will find me baking turkey again this Thanksgiving. And with my sister and brother's help, everything that goes along with it. Almost everything - except the jell-o.

My nineteen year old niece is bringing that.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.

The 8 x 10

I held the 8 x 10 in my hands, turning to her dad with a puzzled look and asked, “Where in the world does she get her beautiful looks from?” He agreed, and thought for a second. In a very politically correct manner he said, “I think she’s got a mixture of both of us.”

Mickey is a beautiful, almost 14 year old girl. She has a very sweet personality. Her sense of humor makes us laugh. And she is smart.

She was born 13 years after her brother, taking away his spot as the youngest. When people look at me with the “why did you have a child so late in life” look, I simply add, “She’s the icing on the cake.”

Because she is so sweet.

I had a piece of Mickey’s heart from the minute I knew she existed. Likewise, I know she has a piece of mine.

And now she wants to share the 8 x 10 with her friend. Her friend who is a boy.

It won’t be long and some boy will want to share her heart as well. And I know that I will have to let him.

But not the 8 x 10. That’s mine.

All That Remains

“They took everything but the kitchen sink.” No. That’s gone too. All that remains of my old kitchen stands here in this spot. The hot and cold water pipes.

Everything we own that was in our kitchen is boxed up, shelved, and otherwise scattered throughout the house. I feel like I am living in a pile of stuff. The milk is in the frig in the basement, down a flight of steps and sixty feet from where it is supposed to be. The cereal is on a shelf in the hallway next to the disposable bowls and spoons. The toaster is on a cart in the living room. It’s a challenge to eat breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter.

The picture of my new kitchen is engrained in my brain – and I call upon it frequently to keep my sanity.

Like last night when I was scraping the dried joint compound off the old floor to prep for the new floor. My back and feet were aching. My husband helped me carry a few things out of the room. Then he looked at me and said, “I think I’ll go hunting for awhile.”

Thank goodness I didn’t have a hammer in my hand or I would have killed him. Well, not literally …

He paced around the room for a minute. I whined for some more help. Then he made the mistake of opening his mouth one more time.

“Well, this was all your idea,” he said sort-of-under-his-breath as he walked into the living room.

Again, I have no hammer.

Deep breath …

I finished sweeping up the joint compound crumbs.

For those of you who are dying to know, did my husband go hunting?

No.

Twenty minutes later the electrician showed up and he helped him fish a couple wires up through the wall.

Then I handed him a hammer …

So he could take a couple staples out of the old floor that he missed the other night - when the light was too dim, and the old set of eyes he has had already checked out for the night.