Mother’s Day celebrates the art of nurture

A real estate broker, an auctioneer and a columnist walk into a bar. Not really, but the setup is similar. I was standing with two friends, a man who sells real estate and a woman who appraises art and manages auctions. The three of us have known one another and one another’s families for years.

The man immigrated to the U.S. from Central America in his late teens and has brown eyes and brown skin. The female friend has lived in the Midwest all her life and has blue eyes and ivory skin.

My male friend nodded to our mutual friend standing next to him and asked if he had ever introduced me to his mother. He clarified that she is one of his adopted mothers. She nodded yes; indeed, she was.

When he arrived in the U.S. decades ago, he took a job selling windows. She saw his talent, pulled him aside and told him he shouldn’t be selling windows—he should be selling real estate. She helped launch what would be a very successful career.

He said he sends her a card every Mother’s Day.  She said, yes, every year she receives a Mother’s Day card from this guy. Such an acknowledgment is very sweet, although if I were her, I might press him for a tract of land.

I had no idea she was his “adopted mother” and how she had turned the course of his life.

The essence of motherhood is nurturing. You don’t have to physically give birth to take a fledgling under your wing.

I knew a woman who often came home and found boys other than her own in her house. Theirs was the “go-to” house—the house with snacks, sodas, games, an open door and a warm welcome. When the house was full of teen boys in the evenings, she stayed up late ironing, just to keep watch and be available. A number of men in their mid-50s attended her funeral. They were middle-aged now, some sporting gray hair and nearly all of them choking back tears as they recalled video games, potato chips and what this woman with an open home and open heart had meant to them.

Aunts often become adopted mothers as well. I know an aunt who bought T-shirts for her young nieces that said, “I have the coolest aunt ever.” The fun is a two-way street.

Family friends, neighbors and advocates often fill the role of nurturers through relationships wallpapered with listening, laughing, playing, talking and simply being together.

Older women can serve in the role of mothers to younger women. Providence often brings adopted mothers onto the stage at the right time in the right place.

If you ever had, or have now, an adopted mother in your life, Mother’s Day might be a good time to pick up the phone and say, “Remember me? Thanks!”

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The willow is gone but we’re not weeping

When the kids were growing up, we had a giant weeping willow tree in the backyard. It was a magnificent specimen with long, graceful branches that swayed in the breeze.

It was also a magnificent mess. Not only did it dance in the wind, it seemed the tree shed constantly—every day, every week, every month of the year.

To add insult to injury, every wispy branch that didn’t shed slapped you in the face with its serrated leaves when you passed by.

Being that the tree left a constant mess in the yard, when the kids were sassy or needed some consequences, we would send them outside to pick up willow branches. This would sometimes keep them busy for days and weeks at a time.

It was win-win, a very good system until the willow began to rot and we had the tree taken down. The trunk and branches were even bigger on the ground than they were in the sky. We rented a wood splitter and our son split the salvageable wood. This kept him busy the entire summer between his freshman and sophomore year in college.

A few years ago, we lost two maples due to age (theirs not ours). Needing more shade, we planted a Heritage River Birch. Even though a river birch can sell itself on good looks and beautiful bark alone, the tag sealed the deal: “This charming tree attracts songbirds and butterflies, while its lush canopy offers cool shade, making it an excellent choice.”

What the description neglected to say is that a river birch is merely a weeping willow in disguise.

The problem now is that all the kids are grown and gone. You don’t tell your adult children, who are married and raising children of their own, to get outside and pick up sticks.

We know because we tried.

The two of us are now the ones outside picking up twigs and sticks, bending from the waist, the knees, the left side and the right side, telling each other this qualifies as aerobics.

In a recent email exchange with a reader, she mentioned that her mother used to pay her kids a penny for every stick they picked up from her yard. She said her mother’s yard was always full of grandkids trying to “make a buck” picking up sticks.

Interesting idea. But having filled another large trash bag with fallen birch twigs in under an hour, and calculating for inflation, we’re not sure we have enough set aside for retirement to cover that amount.

Beauty comes with a price and we’re now the ones paying for it.

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Big dreams with a cherry on top

One of our granddaughters announced she is going to an ice cream parlor on her honeymoon. I thought it would be good to get that on record in case she changes her mind and starts talking about a Caribbean cruise or backpacking through Europe.

She is not engaged.

She doesn’t date.

She is six.

To the best of everyone’s knowledge, she has never even had a crush, let alone a boyfriend. Frankly, some boys are afraid of her. I’m not saying they’re wrong to be afraid. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. As a matter of fact, I hope she still has that quality when she does start dating.

We don’t think she has her eye on anyone just yet, she is simply dreaming far into the future when one day she may leave her first loves: Ranger, the big black lab with a tail that can knock you across the room, Annie, the red lab that licks your face, Dusty, the hefty cat with an attitude to match, Jellybean, the lop-eared rabbit that chews clothes, bedding and romaine, and the chickens and ducks, and all the cute little mice.

Oh, and the family. She loves the family.

It would take a special power to pull her from those many loves, and apparently ice cream will be part of that pull.

Perhaps she’s been inspired by the old-fashioned ice cream parlor in town. It has magnificent vintage woodwork, big mirrors, ice cream chairs with black iron scrolls and sundaes that come in parfait tulip glasses with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

It’s good to dream at any age. Imagination is fuel for the future.

The child is what some might call a visionary, especially when it comes to wardrobe. She often pairs red cowgirl boots with a fluffy pink tutu, leggings and a unicorn pajama top. Is that Versace we hear calling?

Red cowgirl boots are a staple in her world. They’re for all seasons and all occasions. In the summer, she wears them with her swimsuit. It’s a head-turner at the neighborhood pool in the city ‘burbs where her cousins live.

Her hair is usually styled messy mode with curls swirling this way and that, sweeping across her eyes and straddling her nose. Nothing wrong with messy hair. You work with what God gives you.

Maybe one day she will find a fellow who will love and respect her, and she will love and respect him back and they’ll live happily ever after with dogs and cats and ducks and chickens and eat ice cream every day that ends in y.

Dream big.

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The intersection of bunnies, Christmas and Easter

On a cold spring day years ago, young neighbor children found a small, dead bunny in their yard. They ran inside to tell their mother about the discovery. She went outside with the children to view the pitiful sight.

When the woman’s husband came home that evening, unbeknown to the children, he disposed of the bunny. The next day, the children went outside and discovered the dead bunny was gone. They rushed inside to ask their mother what could have happened.

She told them the bunny had been resurrected.

My friend saw the circumstances as a teachable moment for Easter.

For the record, the children all grew up to be healthy well-adjusted adults who are productive members of society.

For several hundred years following the life of Christ, the major holiday on the Christian calendar was Easter. In our times, that is flipped.

Last year, Christmas netted 972 billion in sales. Easter netted 22 billion, which is paltry in comparison but enough to generate tons of chocolate bunnies and marshmallow peeps.

Christmas is buoyed not only by commercialism, but by the tender story of a baby born in a manger to a humble peasant couple. Easter is a harder and more gruesome story to teach, let alone market.

Though intense and frightening, the lessons of Easter are relevant for all ages. Suffering and sorrow touch every one of us. Even children. Who doesn’t remember tears shed over the death of a beloved pet? Grief and sorrow over the death of a family member or friend can feel unbearable.

In the biblical account, when Jesus was crucified, dead and buried, his friends and followers were crushed to the brink of despair. When Jesus died, their hope died as well.

After they laid his body in the tomb and the stone was rolled in front of it, they all sheltered together. Together in times of sorrow helps. As hopeless as things seemed, the darkness did not swallow them whole, though they may have wished it would.

On the Sunday after Jesus died, Mary Magdalene, a friend and follower who witnessed the crucifixion, went to the tomb in the early morning. The rock had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. As she stood bewildered and sobbing, Jesus appeared to her. She ran to tell the others the good news that Christ had risen from the dead and was alive. This is the origin of “good news.”

When the ever-lengthening Christmas season is over, all the gift-giving and merry-making drawn to a close, how do people often feel? Many experience sadness and melancholy. The clinical name for that is post-Christmas blues.

When Easter is over, people most often feel refreshed and joyful, imbued with the hope of new life and rebirth. When Holy Week appears darkest, light pierces the clouds. Christmas may net the most attention and money, but Christmas and Easter are integral parts of the same narrative. Christmas sets the stage—Easter is “the rest of the story.”

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Egg’scuse me, may I borrow an egg?

Our youngest daughter called the other day sounding harried. “I’m in the middle of cooking and I’m short an egg. Is it still OK to borrow an egg from a neighbor?”

I didn’t know what to say. Miss Manners never covered this one. Then again, Miss Manners probably never paid more than 75 cents for a dozen eggs.

It used to be fine to borrow an egg. An egg wasn’t a big deal. Eggs were so cheap that some people threw them at other people’s houses.

Today, if someone threw eggs at a house anyone who lived inside would run outside and try to catch them. (The eggs, not the people.)

Splat! Another one scrambled.

Eggs are so expensive I heard the Easter bunny was going all plastic this year.

“Has your neighbor ever borrowed an egg from you?” I asked our daughter.

“No,” she said.

“Hmmm. How well do you know her?”

“They moved in last fall and had their first baby a few weeks ago.”

“Get your car keys; I think you’re headed to the store. You can’t borrow an egg from a woman you haven’t known for long and who just had a baby. These days, you can only borrow eggs from close friends, family members, or people who owe you large sums of money.”

“I took her a couple of meals when the baby came.”

“Did the meals contain eggs?”

“No.”

“What if you bartered? Offer a pound of ground beef in exchange for an egg.”

The cost of eggs is so high that when you buy eggs at the store, if someone else is also standing there checking to see if any are cracked, there’s an unwritten rule that you both grumble about the cost. At the very least, you exchange looks and shake your heads. Hating on the cost of eggs is the new way to meet people and build community.

Before long, groceries won’t even keep eggs in cartons anymore. They’ll have a maître’ d come out with an egg in a velvet-lined box and ask, “Can I interest you in a down payment?”

After a brief silence, our daughter says, “I’m going to run to the store, Mom. Borrowing an egg is too big a risk—what if she or the baby is sleeping?”

Now that is truly a price too high to pay.
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Do-it-yourself plumbing is a pipe dream

There are two kinds of people in this world: Do-It-Yourself people and Hire Someone to Do-It-For-You people. Wisdom is knowing which category you fall into.We are Do-It-Yourself people. Unless it involves plumbing. Then we are Hire-Someone-to-Do-It-For-Us people.

Experience has taught us that nearly every home plumbing project can and will go wrong.

There is yet a subcategory to mention: Get-Someone-in-the-Family-to-Do-It.

You must be sensitive navigating this route, as you can wear out your welcome. We try to rotate the jobs we need done among capable family members. We wouldn’t want anyone to feel slighted.

We had a cracked bathroom sink that needed replacing recently. I mentioned the eye-popping estimates we received from two plumbing companies to our son, who built the house his family lives in.

“Don’t pay someone to do that,” he said. “I can do it for you.”

“No, no,” I said. (Yes! That’s a terrific idea!)

“When would you like me to come up?”

“Oh, you’re so busy!” (Next weekend would be good.)

“How’s Saturday?” he asks.

“I think that works.” (“He’s coming!” I mouth to the husband. We jump up and down and fist bump.)

“You’ll need to get a new sink,” he says.

“Good idea. One of the plumbers who gave an estimate told us what size to get,” I say. (On order as we speak.)

“Bring the crew,” I say. (There are lots more projects to do!)

Our son and his wife came, along with their five kids, who all went directly from potty training to power tools.

When our son removed the old sink, the metal pipe broke in his hands. This is what you expect of plumbing projects.

Our daughter-in-law made the first run to the hardware store.

An hour later, remains of the old pipe had been removed and replaced, the new faucet had been installed, the cracked sink was gone and one of the boy’s heads was popping up through the opening for the sink.

A short while later our son appeared and said, “The sink doesn’t fit. It’s too small.”

This was not a surprise. We expect things to go wrong. Plus, it could have been a whole lot worse. He could have said the water valve broke, water is flooding the upstairs bathroom and pouring through the ceiling.

We wouldn’t even have raised an eyebrow. We would have calmly said, “We expected as much. Want some coffee?”

Or, he could have said the wet drywall is caving, insulation is soaked and the water main in the front yard is spewing like Old Faithful.

This would not have been surprising either. We would have said, “Oh well, maybe we’ll just move. Here, have some banana bread.”

He wanted to come back a week later and finish the job, but we said no and backed it up. We called a professional plumber. Expensive? Yes.

But the house is still standing, and so is the family.

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Method to the basketball madness

I was one of the first to complete the family NCAA Final Four bracket this year. There’s not a chance I’ll win and I’m good with that.

Our son-in-law started the family bracket challenge, which includes his side of the family and our side, 15 years ago.

His side of the family loves sports. His dad even refereed for years.

When you love sports, you make intelligent bracket picks. When you simply like sports, making picks is like throwing pasta against the wall to see what sticks.

I throw pasta. Spaghetti, rotini, lasagna, all of it.

Here’s the kicker—I’ve somehow won the bracket twice.

I’m not sure how I won, although my husband follows a lot of sports and maybe I unconsciously gleaned a few things from him. Sure, blame the husband.

Once again, I have been reviewing my methods for guiding picks.

The Color Method involves pulling up a bracket list of the teams and selecting winners based on school colors. I choose according to color seasons—this is a palette of colors every woman knows she wears well. Summer and spring colors contain a lot yellows. I cannot wear yellow. I am a winter: black, white, jade, ruby, sapphire—all the gemstones. Teams with yellow are out.

Another strategy is the Vacation Pick. If I’ve been to the team’s state and had an enjoyable time, the team advances. Michigan and Tennessee are frequent picks.

There’s also the Our Kids and Our Money tactic. If any of our kids attended a school in the playoffs, the school automatically advances.

The Home Sweet Home method tips the ball to a team if any member of our family has ever lived there. This puts Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Oregon, Ohio, Indiana, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas and New Jersey in the pool.

Perhaps the most popular method is the Stuffie Pick. Teams are chosen based on whether a mascot would make a cuddly stuffie. We still have grands clinging to stuffies. The College of William and Mary’s griffin, a mythical creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, is an obvious no. Nor do bird mascots with sharp beaks have a high cuddly quotient. Go ahead, call “fowl” but it’s true. On the other hand, South Dakota’s Jack the Jackrabbit with big floppy ears is a slam dunk.

This year, I picked Louisville to go all the way to the Final Four. We were there recently with my brother and his wife. We stayed at the Brown Hotel, wandered through an architectural salvage place that spanned two blocks, ate breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner frequented by jockeys and took an amazing distillery tour. My gut told me Louisville was a win.

Louisville was out in the first round.

Oh, the madness of it all.

 

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Dropping the penny may make cents

I can’t call heads or tails on whether we should stop minting the penny. There are two sides to every coin, right?

Zinc and copper used to make a penny are worth almost four times the value of the coin. Bottom line: the penny is not cost-efficient. I empathize. Some days I’m not terribly cost-efficient either.

It’s hard to imagine life without pennies. Stale mints and wadded up receipts in the bottom of my purse all alone with no pennies? Ketchup packets, napkins and insurance cards crammed in the glove box with no pennies?

What about the children? What about all the piggy banks and penny banks? Then again, most of those children probably already have Venmo accounts.

Penny gumball machines faded into the past long ago. They were simple fun—dropping in a penny, turning the knob and hearing a gumball rattle down the chute.

A long time ago, a shiny penny was a decent bribe for a kid. I suppose now it would take something along the lines of a ten or twenty.

Not to carbon date myself, but I put pennies in my penny loafers as a girl. You can’t size up to a nickel in a penny loafer, you’d have to size down. The term “dime loafers” has no ring to it whatsoever.

Ask Canada (if they’re still speaking to us) what happens to prices when pennies are discontinued. Most prices were rounded up when our neighbors to the north discontinued pennies more than a decade ago. Without pennies, the cost of everything must end in a five or a zero. So much for “every penny counts.”

Would a “penny for your thoughts” retain any value? Would it remain a question of endearment or become an insult?

What happens to all the penny pinchers? Do they become plain old misers?

If the penny goes, will all the penny riddles grandkids lob our way disappear as well?

What is a penny’s favorite ice cream? Mint.

In the final analysis, we tilt pro-penny as evidenced by the vintage 5-gallon glass jar in the entryway that has accumulated pennies for years.

Nearly every child that has passed through has loved dropping pennies in, hearing the clink and seeing where they fall.

Estimates on how many pennies are in circulation in the U.S. range from 100 billion to 200 billion or more. The humble penny will not disappear anytime soon.

Maybe it is time for change.

Now, for the really bad news: It costs nearly 14 cents to make a nickel.

 

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Fridays with waffle fries and movie stars

We have just done a school pick-up; 14-year-old twins and their 12-year-old sister are in the car with us. In a unanimous decision, we head directly to Chick-fil-A because some days the main thing you get at school is hungry. Very, very hungry.

We ordered and are seated with waffle fries and ice cream, checking off vegetables and dairy for the day. A 40-something woman, an older woman and a man pass beside our table and take seats directly behind us.

One of the girls looks over her shoulder for a second look, then whispers to her sister. They nod in agreement.

“Look at the woman behind us,” one whispers to me.

“What about her?” I ask, shooting an “it’s not polite to gawk at people” look.

“Don’t you know who that is?”

“No,” I say.

“You don’t recognize her?” says the other in disbelief.

“Should I?” I ask.

“YES! It’s Reese Witherspoon!”

“That is not Reese Witherspoon.”

They adamantly disagree.

“Seriously, girls? You really think Reese Witherspoon, her mother and some man are in a Chick-fil-a in central Indiana?”

“Yeah! Incredible, isn’t it?”

They are so confident that I google Reese Witherspoon on my phone to remind myself what she looks like.

I show it to the girls who say it’s a bad picture and insist Reese is right behind them.

Just in case it is Legally Blonde, the husband raises his cell phone way above his head to take a selfie and captures “Reese Witherspoon” seated at the table behind him.

The girls are ecstatic. Grandpa now has a selfie with Reese Witherspoon.

I catch Reese’s eye and say, “Excuse me, but could you settle a debate at our table?”

“What is it?” the woman asks.

“These girls think you are Reese Witherspoon. Are you?”

She looked puzzled, then her eyes twinkled and a smile covered her entire face.

“That is so flattering!” she said, “but no, I’m not. Thank you so much for thinking I might be. Thank you. Thank you.” If the girls had asked for some of her waffle fries, I am certain she would have given them the entire box.

As not-Reese Witherspoon and her companions exited the building, one of the girls said, “Well, she might not have been Reese Witherspoon, but did you get a good look at the guy?”

“I didn’t really notice him,” I said, watching not-Reese float on a cloud of mistaken identity as she glided through the parking lot.

“I’m pretty sure the man with them is one of those guys from Duck Dynasty.”

Why not? Reese Witherspoon and a star from Duck Dynasty, together at a Chick-fil-A eating waffle fries, mid-afternoon on a Friday in Indianapolis.

When you’re 12 and 14 anything is possible.

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Menswear under lock and key

I dashed into our Walmart to pick up a few greeting cards and noticed huge glass cases lining both sides of a nearby aisle.

My first thought was they had locked up hunting guns, but this Walmart doesn’t sell firearms anymore. Then I thought maybe they locked up power tools like big box hardware stores do. Wrong again.

The merchandise locked behind glass was menswear—T-shirts, underwear and socks—high-end designer brands like Hanes, Fruit of the Loom and Jockey.

If you want to buy a pair of men’s socks, the first thing you do is press your nose to the case. The second thing is to press the button that summons an associate. Finally, you whip out your cell phone and start answering emails as you wait.

Not only are shoppers frustrated and stores losing sales, but there is the matter of discrimination. Why are men’s undergarments behind glass while women’s undergarments swing from hangers and breathe free? There’s probably a lawsuit pending somewhere.

Not that long ago, shoplifting was something parents warned kids against. Stories abounded of children being marched back to a store to apologize and return something they had taken (stolen). Many a child was scared straight by age 4 or 5. It wasn’t a bad system. I know this because everyone was able to buy socks and T-shirts without waiting for someone to unlock them.

Several years ago, our corner drugstore locked down hair products, shaving products, toothbrushes and toothpaste. Need deodorant? No sweat, you press the call button, someone eventually arrives with a key, removes the item you’d like, then carries it to the cashier as you follow behind, as though doing a shopper’s walk of shame.

The list of frequently stolen goods has grown so long it is almost hard to believe: cosmetics, small electronics, men’s underwear, packaged meat, over the counter meds, clothes, jewelry, purses, hats and baby things. Basically, anything and everything.

With the high cost of eggs, it’s surprising they’re not on the list.

Because men’s underwear locked in glass cases fell under the category of Believe It or Not, I snapped a few pix to show the husband.

When I turned around, I saw a twentysomething man not more than 10 feet away stuffing merchandise into a bag tucked under his arm.

He saw that I saw him. For a split second I thought he looked slightly embarrassed. But then he just shrugged and walked away.

He was probably headed to dairy to take a crack at the eggs.

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