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Last week I planned 24 trips. Sure, 15 were for grocery pickups, but 9 were on VRBO.

Travel planning is my latest pushback against pandemic-induced claustrophobia. We may not be leaving home, but that doesn’t mean we can’t dream of leaving home.

I’ve never covered so many miles on so little fuel.

If it’s cold outside, I view beach houses. Bright tropical palettes and palm trees swaying in the breeze call, “Come!” I can even visualize myself on the beach—tall, tanned and so incredibly thin that passersby yell, “Put some meat on those bones, lady!”

I punch in travel dates and receive a message that says 30-day minimum stay required. So much the better. It is beyond my control. They demand I stay for a month!

If it is snowing, I’m browsing majestic ski lodges made of huge timbers. That’s me by the outdoor fire pit cradling a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, all decked out in my sporty ski jacket with coordinating ski pants. I don’t have a ski outfit, but when I dream I like to include wardrobe. (And weight loss. See above paragraph.)

A lot of my travel is food-inspired. We have Italian for dinner and I’m back online teetering between Sicily, Florence and Rome. So few clicks; so many choices. Seaside escape or rolling hills of Tuscany? Do we want the villa that comes with the winery tour or the villa without?

I’m jetting around the globe with absolutely no concern that my passport is out of date.

Steaks on the grill? Say hello, dude ranch. Put me down for a dry and dusty cattle drive, mending fences and sleeping under the stars. Now checking the box for “authentic western ranch experience that comes with high-end amenities.” So you really can have it all.

If a history book puts me to sleep, I create a trip board for the place where the history happened. Why read when you can tour?

If only I could earn frequent flier miles and hotel points for sitting in front of the computer. If only vacation therapy was covered by our health insurance. “Doctor, doctor, I need some vitamin See!”

I’m not the only one doing vicarious vacation therapy. On VRBO nearly every place I’ve saved to one of my 3,000 travel boards has been viewed by 289 others in the past few hours.

Nobody’s booking, but everybody’s looking.  Much of the world now works from home and travels from home.

There are two sides to these vicarious vacations. The downside of not actually leaving home is not leaving home.

The upside of not actually leaving home is that we avoid long car trips, airport security and struggling to cram a bag that won’t quite fit into overhead storage.

That said, it would be nice to go somewhere.

I miss the little soaps.

We may soon apply for “Historic Preservation” designation.

I was making coffee the morning after some of the grands spent the night, when one asked, “What’s that thing in your hand?”

“It’s a coffee filter,” I said. “I’m making coffee.”

“That’s not how my dad makes coffee.”

I know that’s not how her dad makes coffee. He uses a machine where you drop in a pod, puncture it, and seconds later get coffee that puts hair on your chest like King Kong.

Known for tact (at least two or three times a year), I kindly tell her there are many ways to make coffee.

She gives me a skeptical look, then says, “Those white things in your hand are what we use for crafts.”

She thinks I’m pulling a fast one. Who can blame her? Drip-coffee makers are nearly before her time. She is growing up in the age of K-Cup, Nespresso and drive-through designer coffees.

I am not pulling a fast one and she is correct, we have soaked coffee filters in water, dropped food coloring on them and molded them into flowers when they dried.

I cautiously explain the role of a filter in a slow-drip coffee maker, but she remains unconvinced. I should have taken a video of the conversation. It could have gone viral like videos of millennials trying to use rotary dial phones. They keep lifting the receiver and setting it back down attempting to reset the phone.

Fortunately, we have the rotary dial phone covered. The husband was given an ancient rotary dial phone, spray painted gold, by co-workers years ago in honor of all the long-distance calls we made to each other before we were married.

The grands all know how to dial a number on the rotary phone but would probably jump out of their skin should the thing ever be connected and let out a shrill b-r-r-r-r-ring, b-r-r-r-r-ring.

There is something endearing about explaining old technology to the young, watching their faces light up and understand how something was done before we all lived on screens. Likewise, we marvel as they explain the on/off button on the icemaker in the refrigerator and the program function on the thermostat.

The other day I overheard the husband asking one of the grands if she knew what a party line was. She was no doubt thinking along the lines of doing the Baby Shark dance with friends; he was referring to shared telephone lines once common in rural areas eons ago. I intervened saying we will explain history, but not ancient history.

I’m pulling for Historic Preservation designation, not Dinosaur Dig.

I take a final run at explaining that coffee filters had a utilitarian function long before they became a popular crafting material on Pinterest. She remains leery and stands her ground. I stand mine, too. Morning blend.

One day when she is my age, she can tell the story to her grands about how her grandma used to make coffee with craft supplies.

We closed out a bank account we once used for direct deposit and no longer need. Yes, it’s a sad day when your direct deposits cease to exist. A moment of silence, please.

We went in person to the bank to close the account. For the record, it is the only time either of us have entered a bank wearing masks.

It took some time. There was a flurry of activity behind the counter as several people consulted with one another and a bank manager was sought to sign off on things. Finally, we filled out the necessary paperwork, withdrew the remainder in the account, said our goodbyes, and left the bank with two new ballpoint pens.

Several weeks later, we received an envelope in the mail, four pages in all, one piece of paper completely blank, notifying us of a balance in the closed account.

One cent.

This is our version of a “get-rich-quick.”

I voted for leaving the penny just to see if it would magically spawn more pennies, but the husband said we should withdraw the “funds” if for no other reason than to spare the bank the expense of maintaining an inactive account. Agreed.

He volunteered to go to the bank to resolve the matter. Also agreed.

He was gone a very long time. The bank lobby was now closed due to an uptick in Covid cases. All transactions were conducted in the drive-through lanes with large video screens. It takes a lot longer to find the necessary people, and return to the video screen with each one, to clarify matters, as opposed to shuffling people behind a counter.

He finally returned home. Without the penny.

This was a disappointment, as I was visualizing polishing it and displaying it in a place of prominence. The bank could not release the penny to the husband because I was the one who had opened the account.

It’s intoxicating to wield such power.

I would be the one to make the withdrawal and (again) close the account.

Let’s see, three trips to the bank, four miles round trip, at government rate of 57.5 cents per mile, the penny was now worth $6.90 plus one cent face value. We were what you would call heavily invested.

We returned to the bank several days later, but not without doing hair and makeup first, knowing we would be on video—a video no doubt broadcast to the employee breakroom once word was out that the couple was back for their one cent.

The transaction was completed, the staff was sincerely apologetic, but most importantly the lighting in the drive-through was filtered and flattering, which is important when you’re on screen. Plus, if there was laughing in the background it was thoughtfully muted.

Senator Everett Dirksen is remembered for saying, “A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.”

That’s us. Working our way toward real money, one penny at a time.

Others apparently see us more clearly than we see ourselves, which is why we are often the recipients of free advice.

When our oldest daughter was living at home before she got married, she had so much advice for us that she designated herself our life coach. Because our life coach was engaged and about to marry, she was reading book after book on marriage and relationships. She had not yet been in a marriage, but she was a near expert on the subject.

The husband was often the subject of insights and tips offered by our life coach. He took it well, meaning he would look up, acknowledge her, shake his head and go back to what he had been doing before being interrupted.

Our life coach is now married and extremely busy coaching a family of her own. She doesn’t have much time for coaching us, but one of her daughters recently assumed that responsibility. The mantle has been passed, a very small mantle to a child who still sleeps with a stuffed bunny rabbit.

The child is concerned that her grandpa sleeps late many days. She is too young to have read any books on flexible schedules being one of the great perks of retirement and believes my husband and I need to keep the same schedule.

I explain that her grandpa and I have different circadian rhythms. She asks what cicadas have to do with sleep. I explain that a cicada is a locust, while circadian refers to patterns of sleep and wakefulness in relationship to light and darkness.

He has always been a night owl and I have always been an early morning person. If the day comes that I am not up by 5, I am probably seriously ill. Or —as I recently read in someone’s obituary— “not able to do lunch.”

Mini-coach also has it in her head that I should get her grandpa on the same schedule I am on. I did not tell her there are some who believe slightly different schedules may be the key to a happy marriage for fear she would report me to her mother, our former life coach.

Mini-coach has advised me to set every clock in the house ahead by one minute so Grandpa will think it is later than it is and get up earlier.

“Then each week, you should set every clock ahead by another minute,” she says.

Mini-coach has not done the math, because using that method, it could take four years to bring his schedule into sync with mine.

“What do I do when the clocks say it is nighttime, but it is still daylight outside?” I ask.

“Pull all the shades and keep them pulled!”

She says this with the same exasperation her mother exhibited years ago, frustrated that I am unable to reach the obvious solution to the problem.

We take our coaching under consideration; happy someone takes an interest in us and even happier that we don’t have to pay for free advice.

So long, 2020. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Once was enough on this one. Absolutely nobody is saying, “That was fun. Let’s do this again.”

The passing year morphed into a time warp. Memories of when events happened are jumbled, out of focus and out of sequence. The benchmarks have vanished. Cancel culture cancelled life.

If someone told me that we are actually in March and St. Patrick’s Day is around the corner, I might believe them.

That will be me pinching people in January for not wearing green.

The isolation, the anxiety and the uncertainty have taken a toll.

But what if? What if 2020 wasn’t completely rotten?

What if we take the things we have learned and pull them forward?

Our neighborhood transformed under lockdown. People were out walking from the first gleam of sunrise to the last shadows of evenings. On pleasant days, the four-way stop at the corner was pedestrian congestion.

“You go first.”

“No, you go first.”

We were kind and deferential to one other. The election was still a ways off.

Stangers stopped to talk. I met a couple in their 40s who bought a house a few blocks over. They beamed announcing that they were first-time homeowners.

Kids and families rode bicycles and grown-ups and kids played ball together. There were outdoor concerts in backyards and green spaces.

Medical and emergency personnel, utility workers, trash collectors, law enforcement and grocery clerks became the heroes among us, larger than life.

Thank you. A million times, thank you.

People in every corner tried to make the best of a bad situation—there were movie nights in driveways with projectors aimed at garage doors, neighborhood scavenger hunts on social media, chalk art on sidewalks and generous tips for food service workers when restaurants reopened. At times, American ingenuity was on full display.

Granted, the year was difficult, but it wasn’t the Germans blitzing England during WWII. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. And maybe, just maybe, we gained a little perspective on the things that matter most.

I’ll never again take a welcoming hug or small soft hand in mine for granted.

I’ll never again drive by a hospital or nursing home without saying a silent prayer for all those inside.

We attended two graveside funeral services this year. We saw the grieving weeping, their hearts breaking into a thousand pieces. Every fiber of their beings longed for comfort and every fiber of our beings yearned to give it, but one cannot extend genuine human comfort from a distance of 6 feet away. When the virus is finally laid to rest, I may do a hug tour.

Far too many are grieving for loved ones. Others have lost income, jobs, businesses, homes and their futures. Many wonder if those things will ever come back.

As a young photojournalist working in Oregon years ago, I covered the explosion of Mt. St. Helens. Sprawling stands of forest that covered the mountain were stripped bare and flattened like toothpicks. Experts said the clouds of gas that exploded from the volcano and the thick layer of ash meant nothing would ever grow on the mountain again.

The following spring small green shoots peeked through the snow.

The mountain came back.

We will, too.

I am at the “Making Things Even” stage of Christmas. It is a family tradition.

When I was a kid, my mother sent me to retrieve something from her wallet and I discovered a scrap of paper with a handwritten list of Christmas gifts and what they cost. She was making a list and checking it twice, making sure there’d be no strife.

Was such attention to equitable distribution necessary? Probably not in our minds, but it was in hers.

Now, here I sit before an open computer file analyzing spending. If only my mother had known about Excel. The tallies between families are within equitable margins. My long-range goal is balanced giving and a proportionate spread of good cheer. When did Christmas become the language of brokers and investors?

A lot of tweaking is happening. As a result, Amazon has worn a path to our front door, FedEx sends texts about deliveries and Kohl’s dings my cell letting me know a pickup order is waiting.

Yet there are still gaps and I rack my brain. What to give? What to give?

It has been said we give gifts we’d like to receive. Better judgment tells me infused olive oil and vinegars will not excite our son or our sons-in-law. Why can’t I channel my inner outdoorsman, distance runner or power tool expert?

What to give? What to give?

The interests of the grands span a wide arc from dolls and art to robotics, books, Nerf Blasters and fossils. There is no one-size-fits all. So the hard work of thinking what to give continues.

Then it comes to me. Scotch Tape!

I said we try to be equitable; I didn’t say we were lavish. They love tape. They’re always asking for tape. I don’t even ask why any longer, I just peel it off the windows and doors and kitchen table and chairs after they leave.

People keep asking, “Are you ready for the holidays?” In large part, they are asking if all the shopping is finished. Giving adds wonder and excitement to the season, but no matter how hard we rack our brains for that something special for that special someone, the most eye-popping, jaw-dropping gift has already been given — the babe in a manger.

Talk about lavish. Who among us would give up a child for the good of others?

It was the most astounding gift with a most humble delivery. There was no panel truck arriving, no cell phone alert, just a young peasant girl, far from home, in a strange place, on a bed of straw. The anguish of labor, the exhaustion of delivery, the first cry of new life and that new babe now breathing on his own.

Surely there were a few moments of stillness, a span of sacred quiet in which they absorbed the mystery and the miracle. Then it began. The celestial explosion, stars blazing, angels proclaiming, shepherds arriving.

Whoever said it is better to give than to receive surely wasn’t talking about Christmas. The driving question during this season isn’t truly, “What do we give?” but “What do we receive?”

Merry Christmas.

 

And now a few small gifts for you, my readers. You are so kind and encouraging. Your comments and emails are always appreciated. They are gifts to me. So here are a couple of gifts for you.

If you haven’t seen this sweet video . . . well, grab a tissue.

Finally, a favorite quote from Lloyd John Ogilvie that grows  more relevant each passing day . . .

“Christmas is a festival of hope. And there is nothing our world needs more desperately than authentic hope. We have placed our hope in all the wrong things. The false gods of human progress, inventive genius, the future, armed power, financial security, governmental effectiveness, movements, great leaders, political parties, negotiation –all have fallen from their thrones. True hope is inadvertent. It does not come from searching for hope. It grows out of two basic convictions: that God is in charge and that He intervenes. This is why a true experience of Christmas gives us lasting hope.”

It has been said that if you don’t have a good meal on a holiday, you probably have a good story.

I was in a fowl mood before Thanksgiving. Tired of cooking turkey, I opted for Cornish hens. The recipe I was using finished off the hens by cooking juices from the roasting pan with white wine.

Turns out the hens could have finished off the family.

We began eating and it was obvious the hens were undercooked. Not one to overreact, I yelled, “DON’T ANYBODY EAT THE CORNISH HENS!” and lunged for plates on the table.

The husband stuffed a roll sopped in the sauce into his mouth and said, “Bud id daste dood.” I grabbed for his plate. He blocked me with his shoulder and dragged the roll through sauce a second time. I grabbed his arm to keep the bread from entering his mouth. One of the girls swept in from the side and pried his plate from his grasp.

The hens returned to the oven and we returned to a disheveled table. There was still sausage and sage stuffing. The top was burnt black because someone cranked the oven to 400 to finish off a pie crust. The stuffing was “good, but tough.” The green bean casserole, now cold and short on liquids, had congealed.

We’d eaten some of the sweet potatoes earlier in the week, having forgotten they were for the holiday. There was only one for Thanksgiving dinner. I sliced it thin and garnished it heavily, but it still looked alone and afraid on the plate.

The crescent rolls were good. I hadn’t made those.

The hens were finally fully cooked, but I no longer trusted them. As they had foiled me, I foiled them and dumped them in the trash.

Meanwhile, the husband texted everyone a picture of our turkey from last year. It had been bacon wrapped in a basket weave.

He said he was trying to remind everyone of tastier times. He also asked if he had eaten sauce with undercooked juices, how long before he’d be feeling the effects?

Ina Garten, cook extraordinaire and host of her own cooking show, tells of a friend who put a turkey in the oven, then went for a walk. She came back and went to check on the turkey, but the oven door was locked. She had set the oven to clean.

I’d like the story better if it happened to Ina.

A home economist and extension agent in Ohio received a call from a gentleman wanting to know how long a frozen turkey could be safely used. The extension agent said a turkey that has been continuously frozen can safely be used indefinitely, but the taste could be affected. “Oh, I don’t care how it tastes,” the man said. “I don’t like these people anyway.”

I like my people. And I’ve left a bad taste in their mouths. Literally.

It will just be the two of us for Christmas. We’re having ham.

 

I sent an email to our girls and our daughter-in-law a few weeks ago saying it might not be a bad idea to stock up on staples again.

Crickets. Not a single response.

Late that evening, I received a text from our oldest daughter saying, “Now I get it! I thought you meant staples, like paper clips and rubber bands. I thought, why would we need those?”

Unreal, I thought. And I thought it out loud.

I asked her sister if she got my email about staples and what she thought it had meant. She, too, thought I meant staples for a stapler but didn’t want to say anything because she figured I was having a “Mom Moment.”

First of all, I didn’t know they talk about me having “Mom Moments.” Secondly, why would a “Mom Moment” constitute going to Staples to buy staples?

They’re bright girls. You’ll have to take my word on that.

It’s not them. It’s me. It’s always me. I’m out of date.

Dude.

That’s out of date, too.

Yo!

Archaic words and phrases make for a steep and slippery slope. Help! I’m falling and I can’t get up.

I have a browser tab set to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary and not just so I can waste time repeatedly taking vocab quizzes until I can place in the top 10 percent. M-W.com is highly educational. Awhile back, they featured words that are no longer used. Among them were britches, gallivant, slacks, smitten and swell.

I still use gallivant and smitten and I’m going to keep using them. They’re staples. To my hipster credit, I quit wearing slacks years ago and switched to pants, although you wouldn’t know because they look exactly the same.

I’ve always enjoyed colloquial sayings as well. A college roommate from Kentucky used to say our apartment looked like “the wrath of the whoop-de-doo.” I’ve used that for years and will continue to use “wrath of the whoop-de-doo.” I still can’t define it—but I know it when I see it.

I have a friend with so many idioms I keep a computer file on her. She says things like, “I tell you what, that man has more money than Quaker has oats.”

Wouldn’t it be swell to know someone like that? You could gallivant around the world.

If there is unpleasant business ahead, she’ll say, “I’d rather have a spankin’.”

She might, but she should hike up her britches and keep moving.

A friend’s father talks about people “getting all fizzed up.” That’s a good one, too. He got it from his father. The man still using the phrase turns 96 this month.

The girls now understand that I meant pantry supplies (worked in another oldie), not office supplies, when I mentioned staples. I told them not to get all fizzed up about it.

When it comes to antiquated word choice, I’m as independent as a hog on ice, and I plan to remain as independent as a hog on ice.

Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.

The husband regards expiration dates on food as a mix of sheer fantasy and mathematical improbabilities.

The man has a hard time believing any food ever truly goes bad.

He’s from the “Waste Not, Want Not School,” which is why we have a tiny takeout container holding two tablespoons of honey mustard salad dressing that accompanied half of a salad I got in a takeout order, a small bowl housing four strands of spaghetti with a smattering of marinara from a long ago dinner, one leftover barbecue rib that is so old I have no memory of when we last had ribs and a box of cottage cheese that expired four days ago.

The husband interprets, “Use By” to mean somebody wants you to buy more of something sooner than you need to. From your wallet into theirs.

He considers “Use Before” to be the random guess of some number cruncher lounging behind a desk.

He reads “Best Before” and takes it as a personal challenge to throw caution to the wind.

Unfortunately for me, he is often more right than wrong. Many of those stamped dates are more guesstimates than anything. Still, as the willy-nilly in the house—and being from the “I Don’t Want to Get Food Poisoning School of Fear”— I’m more likely to believe the guesstimates than to challenge them.

The husband has been known to throw his body between me and expired food when I attempt to clean out the ‘fridge.

“What are you doing?” he says. “That’s still good!”

He doesn’t even know which remnants of food are in my hands, but his clairvoyant food expiration powers tell him they are still good.

Often times, he’s not even in the same room or within view of what I’m doing—it’s simply an auto response when he hears the refrigerator door open or sees the little light go on in his peripheral vision.

“Don’t throw that out! I’m going to eat it tomorrow!” he calls, glued to his computer screen.

Like he has a detailed schedule of the foods he plans on eating over the next few days.

“I’m changing the water filter,” I say. “You’re going to eat this, too?”

Even when the man does think something may have gone bad, he will need at least one and possibly a second confirmation before he can throw something away.

“This might smell funny,” he says, waving a gallon of milk under his nose.

Then he says, “Here, you smell it.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say.

One of the kids stops by and he says, “Hey, smell this milk, would you?”

But wait. It gets better.

Sometimes he’ll take a drink of the milk and say, “Yep, I think it’s going bad. Here, you taste it.”

I don’t want to sniff it. I don’t want to taste it.  I just want to pitch it.

When in doubt, throw it out!

Dear Family and Friends,

As you recall, the big concern at Thanksgiving last year was someone blowing up the holiday by talking politics. This year, the big concern is breathing.

We’re weighing our options and welcome your input. From a distance.

If we opt for a small indoor gathering, per our state guidelines, we must trim the number of you invited. After painful and lengthy deliberation (60 seconds), we have decided to issue invitations based on the food you bring.

You cheeseball, pecan pie and homemade crescent roll people are in. Perhaps we could see you overcooked broccoli and gummy stuffing people another time. Easter, maybe?

Naturally, if we do go with an indoor gathering, it will be B.Y.O. B.  Bring Your Own Blanket. To improve ventilation, we will cut the furnace and open all the doors and windows. The first one to whine will be put on disinfectant wipe duty responsible for wiping down light switches, bathroom faucets and toilet handles as well as stray cell phones.

There will be no ambiance with flickering pumpkin spice votives as the smell of bleach will overpower everything this Thanksgiving. Perhaps even the rest of the year.

I’ll be simplifying things, including the centerpiece.  In lieu of pine cones, adorable acorns and white pumpkins on a bed of pine branches, I’m going with a large pump bottle of hand sanitizer with turkey feathers hot glued to the back. No, it’s not on Pinterest. But it should be.

Yes, you can play board games after the meal, but with modifications. Each player will isolate in a separate room, take a turn, sanitize the game board and all related game pieces, then deliver them to the next player. Monopoly and Scrabble should wind up sometime mid-December.

Please don’t sulk if you are on the “not invited” list, as we have not ruled out the possibility of an outdoor gathering. Outdoors would mean less food but more people. Decisions, decisions.

We could do a fire pit Thanksgiving, six feet apart, roasting raw turkey and sweet potato kebabs on skewers over an open flame and finish it off with s’mores. It might not be good, but it would be memorable.

If it happens to snow while we’re all outside, so much the better. We all mask, hold our breath, huddle together for two seconds, take a quick group selfie and have this year’s Christmas card. Winner, winner! Turkey dinner!

Yet a third possibility is a progressive dinner and I don’t mean dinner at Bernie’s. Why not go from house to house and leave courses on the front step?

Appetizers at the first stop, main course at the next, sides in two different counties, and dessert at the last stop. It lacks the togetherness component, but when we’re finished going door-to-door, eating cold food in cold cars, we can all go home, join up for a massive Zoom call and watch one another nap.

Just throwing out ideas. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Who’s excited about Christmas?