Column

We don’t have two nickels to rub together.

Seriously.

We don’t even have one nickel.

We are among the growing number of people finding themselves change-challenged. Blame the pandemic. Businesses shut down, people stopped going to coin laundries, restaurants closed and piles of change often left with tips disappeared. For a brief time, even the mint than makes 17 percent of all coins shut down.

To make matters worse we are spending less and, when we do spend, we tend to use credit cards or mobile devices.

Many of us have stopped using bills and coins because they can spread germs. Just try getting Lincoln to wear a little face mask on the penny. Won’t work. The loops won’t go around his big ears.

The Federal Reserve calls this coin change shortage the “slowing of circulation.” Slowing of circulation used to be something that happened exclusively to the elderly. Now it is happening to everyone. We may finally have found our common denominator as Americans.

I love change—the kind that rattles at the bottom of my purse.

I just checked the bottom of my purse and there’s no change there either. Three pieces of gum, two cough drops and the inner workings of a ballpoint pen, but no change.

The low tire pressure warning came on in the car the other day. We stopped at an air pressure machine but didn’t have six quarters between us to start it. Everybody knows money doesn’t grow on trees, which is why we shook down four grandkids in the back of the vehicle. They didn’t have any either, although two of them said they had full piggy banks at home and would gladly share.

The other two were strangely silent. They’ll do well one day as venture capitalists.

Naturally, the next step was to look under the floor mats, dig deep in the back pockets behind the driver’s seat and the passenger seat and search through the glove box. Nothing. Not one red cent. Not one thin dime.

The clerk inside the gas station was reluctant to give the husband quarters for his dollar bills, but mercifully relented.

We were not only out of change; we were close to being out of air.

A bank system in Wisconsin was so desperate for change that it offered customers a $5 bonus for every $100 in coins they brought in to exchange at a branch. That’s a 5 percent return on your money. Try finding a CD that pays that much. The program was so successful, the bank suspended it after only a week.

My parents used to keep money in the freezer for emergencies. You could always count on them for hard, cold cash.

The other day we were driving along and the husband said, “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Make that sentiment a cash offer and I’ll share them with you,” I said.

I was thinking there is a reason money is called dough.

We all knead it.

Two years ago, our daughter, son-in-law and their three small children moved in with us for seven months while they were between houses. We were feeding seven a day.

Now our son, daughter-in-law and their five children have moved in with us while they are between houses and we are feeding nine a day. I try to look at it as a promotion.

Some children pick at their food and others shove it around on their plates. These children are not that sort. They enjoy food and appreciate food.

Mid-morning they want to know what’s for lunch. When they’re eating lunch, they want to know what will be for dinner, and after dinner, when they are bathed and ready for bed, they ask what will be for breakfast.

When I scramble eggs for breakfast it’s a dozen and a half at a time.

We need chickens. Free range would be good. They’d complement the free-range children.

They are also heavy drinkers. If I bought enough milk to last all week, there’d be no room for anything else in the ‘fridge.

How did women a generation or two ago feed families this size and larger?  I should have paid more attention to my grandmothers. And they did it without the aid of freezers, microwave ovens, dishwashers and grocery stores minutes away.

As I grow accustomed to routinely cooking for a larger crowd, I find my inner domestic diva has died. She has gone to a better place, one where the kitchen gleams, the refrigerator door does not have crud on the handles and kitchen windows are not covered with greasy hand prints.

That said, sometimes a faint echo of Martha Stewart is still in my head saying snide things when I make sandwiches for lunch and serve them right off the cutting board.

Yesterday, feeling guilty about presentation, I put a piece of parchment on the cutting board before throwing on the sandwiches. Two of the kids asked if company was coming.

There was a time I served melon in wedges with uniformly cut pieces nesting in the rinds. Now I chunk up a melon, dump the pieces in a bowl, throw down some toothpicks and tell them to spear what they want. Victory goes to the swift. So does the melon.

Somedays I’m so weary that I use paper plates. I feel guilty using paper plates with the waste and all, but I rationalize that feeling guilty is better than feeling dead.

I am concerned that my standards are now so low that I am a poor role model. We celebrated a family birthday the other morning with 11 cousins and donuts on the patio. I took out a large bowl filled with water and a roll of paper towels, announcing it was a finger bowl. Two kids immediately dipped their fingers and you could no longer see the bottom of the bowl.

When they were finished eating, I heard one of our daughters tell her kids to just dip their faces in the finger bowl.

I’m so ashamed.

But I’m alive.

Once again, we were working on the house our son and daughter-in-law are building and must have ready in two weeks for inspections. We are not skilled construction workers. We are not even semi-skilled. We are below low-skill and just above no-skill but our rates are reasonable. Free.

I looked up from a doorknob I had finished installing perfectly—perfectly backward—and saw our daughter-in-law’s father pass by wearing a fully loaded tool belt. It had three tiers to it, countless pockets, assorted clips and buckles. The man was a walking hardware store with hammers, drills, a crowbar, screwdrivers, wrenches, ropes, squares, measuring tapes and a jigsaw tucked in pockets and swinging from hooks. He could go anywhere on the site and have whatever tool he needed within seconds.

In some ways a tool belt is like a purse, but a tool belt makes no pretense of fashion; it is completely utilitarian, existing for the sole purpose of getting the job done. The real perk of a tool belt is that you don’t set it down and walk away, leave it in the car, or at a friend’s house because it is attached to you.

A domestic tool belt could be an incredible step-saving, time-saving asset in the home.

The first tier of pockets on my domestic tool belt would hold the ever-essential cell phone, charging cord, reading glasses, backup pair of reading glasses for when I lose my primary pair, and ugly shoes with orthotic inserts for when my cute shoes hurt. You don’t want shoes near other things so I would probably bag them and let them swing from a clip-on hook.

Note to self: Don’t speed walk like you usually do or the swinging shoes on a hook will gain momentum and whack your backside.The next tier would be kitchen utensils: large whisk, small whisk, spatula, wooden spoons, measuring spoons, measuring cups, hot pads, dish towels, micro grater, vegetable peeler, paring knife and kitchen scissors.

Note to self: Be careful about bending over with sharp points nestled next to your stomach.

Because cleaning causes thousands of extra steps, I would also strap on a collapsible broom, dustpan, small wet mop, furniture polish, dust mitt, window cleaner and roll of paper towels. Naturally, implements that collect dirt and dust should be kept separately, so they’ll be clipped to hooks on the back of my tool belt.

Note to self: Be wary of overstretching to reach cleaning supplies behind you.

The more I think about this, the more I like it. As long as I don’t bruise my backside with swinging shoes, bend over and puncture vital organs or dislocate my shoulder reaching for window cleaner, it’s going to be a great system.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Hopefully, not from an urgent care clinic.

When our two daughters were 10 and 12, they spent hours during the winter in a closet next to the furnace making detailed plans for hosting a summer camp. They invited children for whom they babysat, and the backyard summer camp filled up every year for two weeks a year for the next nine years.

My role was supervising bathroom traffic and being available in event of an emergency, which we fortunately never had. Of course, no one would do such a thing today without liability waivers and umbrella insurance policies, but that was then and this is now.

Camp often ended with the girls bickering over which one was being bossy and who needed to clean up what and then they both collapsed in exhaustion on the sofa.

Now, some 18 years later, with pandemic concerns still floating and many summer camps cancelled, the girls rebooted the backyard summer camp.

Together they have six preschool and elementary school children. They also invited a friend who grew up down the block to bring her elementary school-age daughter.

Camper screenings this time around were not about asthma or food allergies, but math computations on how many people each camper and their family had been exposed to, multiplied by the number of people the other campers and their families had been around. The results were a satisfactory small number and camp commenced.

Camp followed the old format: welcome activities, songs, story time, craft project, science project, lunch, all followed by changing into swimsuits and water play.

Two of the three moms, er, camp directors, have worked as teachers and the third as a physician assistant in cardiology. One of the teachers did a science project each day and the other a craft, both outdoing themselves with years of experience and resources, while the physician assistant provided snacks and was on standby for first aid.

Science time was over the top with lessons and activities on chromatography, centrifuge, sound waves and plant parts.

But science was overshadowed by a relay race where campers passed a cup of water overhead, often spilling it on someone else’s head.

The crafts were clever, cute, and creative, but they were eclipsed by a contest where players dunked a sponge in water, ran it to a bucket and squeezed it out. The first team to fill the bucket won.

Every craft, science project, story and song evaporated under the heat of the summer sun next to the glee of dumping entire buckets of water on each other’s heads. You want water? You got water!

The ultimate hits were water balloons and a pinata on the last day, which was followed by spraying each other down with the hose and more buckets of water.

All that to say, if you’ve missed summer camp this year, turn the kids loose with a garden hose and it will be time for school to restart before you know it.

Some things never change.

Oh, and the really good news—the camp directors didn’t bicker this time around, although they did collapse in exhaustion after the last day.

It has happened again – another blob of spaghetti stuck to the kitchen wall. Same location—in the corner next to the highchair. Same suspect—round face, great smile, chubby legs, chubby cheeks, 18 months-old.

The abstract art on the wall escaped notice for the better part of a week and fossilized. We should probably put a frame around it and title it “Family Dinners.”

The real puzzle is how it stuck and that a mound that size did not fall to the floor. Gravity has failed us.

We had a book when our kids where young titled, “Teaching Children Manners in 10 Minutes.” It overestimated their attention span by nine minutes.

Now, with nearly a dozen grandkids often around the table, we are taking a second run at teaching manners, periodically reviewing basic rules of courtesy so that mealtime is not a three-ring circus.

For starters, no clowns in little cars circling the table and no trying to lift a cousin in a kitchen chair over your head.

Furthermore, all the interesting things you found outside stay in your pockets. That goes double if the interesting things in your pockets are still alive.

Please remember that the small lighted candles in the center of the table are not so much for ambiance, but to discourage you form lunging across the table for food you want.

When eyeing the last portion of something on a serving plate, ask if anyone else would like it. No sulking when someone says yes and offers to share it with you.

Please laugh at the little kids’ knock-knock jokes, even if you heard them before, and don’t blurt out the punchline.

Note that only the babies eat with their hands, everybody else uses a fork. The same goes for rubbing food in your hair. Babies only.

If you don’t like it, don’t say you “hate it” — it is ­ “not one of your favorites.”

Try one bite. Please. Thank you.

No yelling, screaming, shouting or name calling at the table. This is mealtime, not a political rally.

Don’t forget you earn extra points for saying, “Grandma is a good cook,” and taking your dirty dishes to the sink without being told.

Naturally, to encourage thoughtfulness, we practice thoughtfulness. We don’t buy orange juice with pulp — or “hairs” as they say, and we don’t give them sandwiches on bread that “crunches” (12-grain).

We make sure there is always chocolate syrup to go in the milk and promise Grandma will make cinnamon rolls for the morning when they stay overnight.

A small brood was here recently when I hopped up from the table to retrieve a dish by the stove. When I returned the kids were sitting quietly and one said, “Did you notice, Grandma?”

“Notice what?”

“We waited until you sat down and took a bite before any of us took a bite. You told us it’s polite to wait for the hostess to take the first bite.”

Ice cream for everyone!

While the pandemic is flattening in some areas and surging in others, the fundamental caution remains in place: Do not touch your face.

The bad news is that the world is divided into two sorts of people—those who constantly touch their faces and those who do not.

I am a face toucher.

My face and hands were made for each other. My chin nestles into my palm and my hand stretches out like a soft, comfy recliner custom-built for the side of my face.

Other times I touch the sides of my face rubbing my temples attempting to awaken brain cells. It hasn’t worked so far, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying.

Sometimes I touch my face brushing away stray hairs, pushing my glasses up or pulling at a glob of mascara on my eyelashes.

Then there is the itching. My eyebrows itch, my eyes itch, my ears itch, my nose itches, and sometimes I imagine things crawling on the back of my neck.

This morning, I tried removing a semi-colon from a sentence three times before I realized it was a tiny ant parked on my computer screen. Now I feel like the ant, although no longer with us, is crawling across my feet and circling my ankles making them itch, too.

I am a face-toucher itching from head to toe.

Of course, you know what happens to people who touch their faces when they put on face masks. They contort their eyes and wrinkle their noses attempting to scratch an itch and even rub the sides of their faces on their shoulders.

Most itching is caused by cold air, dry air, heat, outside air, inside air, allergens, pollens, dust mites and dry skin.

Two other things cause skin to itch as well – hand sanitizers and excessive hand washing, both of which happen to be extremely popular global pastimes these days.

I have often wondered if face touching and itching are contagious and was pleased to learn that scientists are researching what they call “contagious itch,” an itch that is visually transmitted, much like yawning.

My skin has been itching like mad this week. Now since I know that itching can be visually transmitted, I can blame it on others.

A good friend developed a terrible dermatitis of an unknown origin on her torso, arms and legs. Every time I hear about it, my arms and legs itch, too.

Then one of our sons-in-law developed an allergy to sunscreen. He has a terrible rash on his neck and arms that keeps recurring, swelling and itching and making him miserable. I call to see if he’s improving, get a report, hang up and immediately begin scratching my arms and neck. Then I wash my hands for the 345th time of the day and dry my skin even more.

You’re feeling it, too, aren’t you? Back of the neck. Left side. A little lower. There you go.

 

To vacation or not to vacation, that is the question.

Some say “go” and some say “stay.” People are divided-and not just by 6-feet, which is the current social distancing guideline.

Many are making travel decisions based on distance. How far can we go without stopping to use a public restroom? Some can make a five-hour car trip to see family without stopping and some can’t. Who knew bladder control would one day be a key factor in summer travel plans?

One summer we drove 750 miles to a seaside rental with our son-in-law at the wheel. He is a great son-in-law, a wonderful husband to our daughter and fabulous father to our grandchildren-but he also considers stopping on a long-distance drive a sign of weakness.

I sat in the far backseat with a GPS app open on my cell phone whispering to it, “Find a restroom near me.”

Fortunately, one of the kids asked to stop before I had to. That third bottle of water I gave her did the trick.

With many vacation rentals iffy and vacation hot spots telling tourists to stay home, some are choosing to extend their three-month staycations and utilize nearby resources like timeshare programs. Might I suggest that these incentives can sometimes dampen your holiday spirits as you’d be investing all your capital and time on it. So, before you opt for such plans, consider doing a bit of research like reading up blogs or reviews on best timeshare exit companies, consulting experts, and more.

Also, planes are obviously out of the question at the moment. Something about cramming yourself into a long metal tube full of other people doesn’t really scream Covid-safe. That’s probably why most planes are grounded. Your only real option if you want to fly safely right now is to use a private jet. Jettly and similar services offer private jets for hire, but you should be checking travel restrictions in your area and at your destination too. You don’t want to be caught out!

A neighborhood pool sent an email to homeowners announcing the pool would open but people must wear masks. Then they sent out second email clarifying that people should not wear masks while swimming.

At least one public park has sprayed white circles on their grounds to enforce distancing. It looks like aliens have used giant cookie cutters on the lawns. Other parks require groups be limited to 10. What happens when a family of five meets up with a family of six?

The rules are constantly changing and sometimes confusing.

The X spot feature is utilized everywhere-groceries, post office, hardware stores. An X on the ground or floor shows where you should stand. It seems to work well, but I’m not sure that would work at popular tourist spots. Mark Xs on the beach and the tide washes them away. You could carve Xs for distancing on mountain trails and in national parks but bears and buffalos have never been big on following the rules.

Some families are adding special features to their backyards to make them more attractive for at-home vacations. Sales of above-ground pools are making a huge splash. Some families are adding outdoor projectors. If the kids don’t get enough time inside sitting watching screens, they can now go outside and be sedentary. Something is so wrong.

Experts say if you do travel and stay in a rental or a hotel, you should clean and disinfect all high-touch surfaces including tables, doorknobs, light switches, countertops, handles, desks, phones, remote controls, toilets and sink faucets.

That’s what I’ve been doing at home for the past three months. It hardly sounds like a vacation. be checking travel restrictions in your area and at your destination too. You don’t want to be caught out!

A neighborhood pool sent an email to homeowners announcing the pool would open but people must wear masks. Then they sent out second email clarifying that people should not wear masks while swimming.

At least one public park has sprayed white circles on their grounds to enforce distancing. It looks like aliens have used giant cookie cutters on the lawns. Other parks require groups be limited to 10. What happens when a family of five meets up with a family of six?

The rules are constantly changing and sometimes confusing.

The X spot feature is utilized everywhere-groceries, post office, hardware stores. An X on the ground or floor shows where you should stand. It seems to work well, but I’m not sure that would work at popular tourist spots. Mark Xs on the beach and the tide washes them away. You could carve Xs for distancing on mountain trails and in national parks but bears and buffalos have never been big on following the rules.

Some families are adding special features to their backyards to make them more attractive for at-home vacations. Sales of above-ground pools are making a huge splash. Some families are adding outdoor projectors. If the kids don’t get enough time inside sitting watching screens, they can now go outside and be sedentary. Something is so wrong.

Experts say if you do travel and stay in a rental or a hotel, you should clean and disinfect all high-touch surfaces including tables, doorknobs, light switches, countertops, handles, desks, phones, remote controls, toilets and sink faucets.

That’s what I’ve been doing at home for the past three months. It hardly sounds like a vacation.

A cousin sent an email saying she had been out mowing for two hours in the hot Nebraska sun and the smell of new mown hay was in her nostrils. She said it reminded her of her dad “alone in a hayloft, waiting for the next hayrack full to be ‘dropped’ on him to scatter.

“Not a breath of air in there, work shirt buttoned at the neck and cuffs, unbearable for all the crew but Dad. At lunch break, Dad would have a couple of sandwiches and skip the iced tea. He’d have creamed coffee right out of a glass jar wrapped in a tea towel. That was my hero, my life example . . . my Daddy – loyal, very, very hard-working, so wonderful. Funny what a whiff of new mown hay does.”

Her dad and my dad were brothers. There were five boys and four girls in the family. The boys were cut from the same cloth. Every one of them enjoyed hard work. I have an idea they took after their dad. He died shortly after I was born, but the stories still live.

It wasn’t easy raising a large family during the Depression, yet their farm was the first one for miles around to have electricity. Their dad cobbled a small power station together using batteries. Resourcefulness was second nature.

When my parents married, they had a card table and two orange crates for furniture. When they got a dog, Dad built a doghouse from scrap lumber using the only tool they owned – an ax. Nobody claimed it was pretty but it did the job and the dog never complained.

I think of my dad when I see a charcoal grill flame. He loved to grill. Burgers, dogs, steak, ribs. For years, he and Mom hosted a huge Fourth of July brunch and he’d grill pancakes and sausage before the neighborhood parade.

He loved grilling out most of all when the temperatures soared – 90 was good, even 100 wasn’t daunting. That was also his favorite time to mow. He and all of his brothers were most comfortable outside. It came from the farm imprint, spring planting, summers in the fields and fall harvest.

At my dad’s retirement party (they used to have such things), at a large university where he had worked his way up to purchasing director, he was standing by himself, looking at the crowd, having a good time when he chuckled and said, “I never did want a desk job.”

I don’t think I realized until that moment how much our dad had loved us. Oh, he had enjoyed his career and the people he worked with, but ‘til the day he died there was nothing as beautiful as a stand of wheat or a field of corn.

Here’s to dads everywhere who work hard and do what needs to be done for the love of family.

Now somebody light the grill.

There’s a new addition under consideration for the endangered species list – the middle child.

Researchers who track such things say that more couples are having fewer children, often stopping with one or two. Middle children are disappearing, to which middle children everywhere respond, “We’re surprised anybody noticed!”

Middle children will tell you that theirs is the most forlorn place in a family. Squished in the middle, theirs is the birthday Mom is frequently confused on, the one for which Grandma forgot to send a card.

They claim nobody notices that they even exist. Or gradually cease to exist in this case.

There’s even a movement to formally recognize Middle Children Day. For a group that claims to be overlooked, they do a good job grabbing the spotlight.

When our middle child said she felt invisible, we told her that being the middle child was special—like being the filling in a sandwich. Her siblings were simply the bread on either side. Which would she rather be—the yummy filling or plain ol’ bread? We told her not to tell her siblings we had referred to them as plain ol’ bread.

We told our oldest that he had a special place in our hearts because he was our first, the first baby we held in our arms, our first tiny miracle. We also told him to keep that to himself and that, no, he could not put a sign on his bedroom door that said, “A Miracle Lives Here.”

We told our youngest that her older siblings were like the first pancakes—test pancakes because you’ve got the skillet too hot or not hot enough. But by the third pancake, you’ve got it down to a perfect golden brown. She smiled knowingly. On weekends she’d ask for pancakes and turn up her nose at the first two.

I come from a family of two children and am the firstborn, the proverbial bossy big sister, three years older than my brother. I had some size on him and gladly wielded my power over him for a few brief fleeting years. They were good years as I recall. Then he shot up, grew to be a good foot taller, a great deal larger, and is still paying me back.

Middle children help shape a family in a unique way. They keep life off balance. When there are three or more children in a family, kids learn how to scramble for a window seat in the car. Singles and pairs never get that opportunity. They grow up thinking everybody gets a window seat. Life is setting them up for disappointment.

Three or more siblings learn how to form alliances. One day you side with an older sibling, the next day you may team with a younger sibling. It’s great training for the business world or a career in politics.

My sister-in-law grew up in a family of eight children. She has amazing coping skills, quick reflexes and is fearless—all of which she learned sandwiched smack in the middle of four brothers.

Never underestimate the value of the middle.

In a time of crisis, it is helpful to review the basics.

The most trustworthy basic I know is the Golden Rule. An expert in the law heard Jesus debating in public, admired his answers and so asked, “Of all the commandments, which is the greatest?”

Jesus answered, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. ’The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.”

It sounds so easy; but we all know it’s hard.

For starters, we’re terribly busy these days. That “love the Lord your God” business gets pushed down further and further on the To Do list.

Then there are our “hearts and souls” shriveling from poor nutrition and outright neglect.

Our “minds” are occupied with social media, browsing the net, online shopping, and streaming Netflix.

“Strength?” It sounds so, well, tiring. Maybe someone will make an app for it.

Moderns have put a spin on “love your neighbor as yourself,” claiming the verse is actually a command to love yourself first because you can’t love others until you love yourself. That might be true for a few but, for most of us, love of self comes naturally. Often, too naturally. Dangerously naturally. It is our loving others that needs cultivation and examination.

C.S. Lewis, author “The Chronicles of Narnia,” once wrote, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal . . . ”  It’s a shocking claim on the surface, but the reason there are no ordinary people is that we have been created in the image of God.

Lewis went on to say that our greatest joys in life come from relationships between people who take one another seriously with no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption—relationships in which people think before they act or speak. If only. Yet, things impossible to man are possible with God.

There is one more “basic” that keeps running though my head. It is the prayer that never fails. It was told to me by an older gentleman, a former Marine thrust into World War II as a young man with brief preparation. He and his fellow Marines were basically abandoned on the battle-entrenched island of Guadalcanal. They were sick with dysentery and malaria, surviving on meager rations. When one of them threatened mutiny, he knew he had to act quickly, so he prayed the prayer that never fails, “Lord, help.”

A fine prayer then and a fine prayer now.