Musings
Happy Mother's Day! Here's a bouquet picked especially for you from my mom's flower garden, plus a little advice from her:
"This is what you love... enjoy it."
Enjoy whatever your "this" is on Mother's Day!
(Plus a little something extra from my Mom's cookbook, easy pizza dough.)
My sister and her husband are home builders, and she excels at staging homes and enticing prospective buyers with simple, crisp decor -- much like the decor in those home magazines and stores that rattle my cage. (Yes, the Shabby-Chic-Practical candle is still in the wire basket in the corner of my kitchen.) Despite seeing my sister’s work and knowing the tricks of her trade, I have yet again been drawn into the staging at a home store, where no one actually sleeps on the beds. Our bedroom is decorated in a blue that reminds me of the ocean with a contrasting chocolate brown that reminds me of… well… chocolate. This bedroom is new; it was part of the addition we put on our house two years ago. However, the color scheme is old: I based it on the curtains, bedspread, and pillows we had for several years in our old bedroom.
The old bedspread was tired and worn out in the new room. I unleashed shopping angels at every home store as I went through the bedding departments, on the hunt for a combination of ocean and chocolate. I passed over many options: No flowers, no paisleys, no extra accent colors.
Finally, a simple, crisp bedspread popped: Ocean & chocolate with a big, fresh, cream square in the middle. Stunning. Were the boys old enough that I could have a big square of bright cream on my bedspread? Yes. At home the colors were perfect. I threw away the price tags. I made the bed & covered a couple of the old pillows with new covers that were included in the set. It was pristine, calmness.
Until we slept in the bed.
To keep it pristine on a daily basis, Bill and I would need to spend five minutes making the bed together, gently tugging back and forth on the bedspread to center the square. We do not.
We do not have a staged square in the middle of our bed. We have a square-ish quadrangle that floats on our bed like a jellyfish with its soft edges and middle rippling along in the ocean current.
Some afternoons I might give it a tug here or there, but mostly I’m thankful for a husband that usually makes the bed on his own in the morning without comment on my decorating choices. However, on mornings when I make the bed, I occasionally get fed up and change the décor a bit.
Yes, it’s reversible, or at least I think it is.
By the way, did you see those pillows that do double duty as window treatments at night? Not planned, but so very practical.
(The easy-going practicality of a simple summer vacation is refreshing after all that comforter flipping.)
My experience with making my own salad dressing has been dicey. Even with a written recipe for a delicious salad dressing our Midwest cooking club friends once made, I botched it. Somehow not emulsifying the oil quickly or slowly enough with the vinegar. A few years ago, I made it for a test run and served it to two couples over for dinner one evening. My two girl friends looked at one another questioningly. "Interesting," one said as she poured the separated salad dressing -- oil only -- on her salad. After that memorable incident, I moved to putting a couple store bought dressings on the table, plus the option of a nice extra virgin olive oil and good quality white balsamic. And the pepper grinder. With this, my guests had complete control over how much pure oil went on their salads. However, with a few years of practice under my belt, I've worked out the secret to an emulsified salad dressing.
In our house, we have two sons two years apart: an older brother and a younger brother. They get along pretty well but often times need their own space. To keep rooted in each other's world, we need a bit of glue to hold them together. The word "brother" is that glue. Plus, they need something they both enjoy, a common interest -- Minecraft perhaps. And they need a dash of input from Mom and Dad. And occasionally, they need things shaken up a bit so as not to drop into routines and become complacent or take one another for granted. That's it:
One house One big brother One little brother A little glue A common interest A dash from Dad A dash from Mom An occasional shake up
And that is the recipe for my salad dressing. Clear as emulsified oil & vinegar?
More to the point...
One pint Ball jar with a lid 3/4 c. extra virgin olive oil 1/4 c. your favorite vinegar (I like white balsamic) 1 tsp. whole grain mustard (or Dijon if you want a little kick) 1 garlic clove, minced to tiny bits A dash of salt A dash of pepper
In the jar, put all the ingredients, screw on the lid, and shake like heck until the oil and vinegar becomes emulsified salad dressing.
If I don't have the mustard, I don't even try making salad dressing from scratch. It's the glue for my oil and vinegar.
During the five days of spring cleaning/purging/organizing while Liam had strep throat, I missed my hair color-adjustment appointment. I rescheduled for yesterday. After the adjustment and the blow-out, the stylist added the final touch to my new-do: hair spray. I do not own hair spray. With the forces of wind and sweat always nearby, it’s not practical for me. Squinching my eyes closed as she sprays away, I silently hope my eyelashes don’t get stuck together. The noise of the spray leaves me waiting for that astringent aerosol smell from the days of highly feathered sides. The early 80’s. But we are in a new century. And this spray is a natural combination of lavender, bergamot, palmarosa, and vetiver. No idea what most of those are, but I smell clean and crisp.
As I’m paying, a hostess entices me over to the Chakra demonstration area. I indulge in this experiment. I close my eyes and each time she touches my shoulder, I inhale from a bottle she is holding under my nose. I pick my favorite: Chakra #1 – Grounded. Balance. Energy. Security. Health. There is something familiar about this wisp of aroma under my nose. Barely there. If I spray this in the air, the aroma will help me stay grounded. Balanced. Energized. Secure. Healthy. “Can I use it as a body mist?” Of course. Well, who couldn’t use a little balance, right? I found the tester bottle and gave myself a couple good squirts.
Then, I couldn’t get away from myself.
“You, Grandma, are riding in the trunk on the way home!” Yes, I had just pulled a Grandma Murphy at the perfume counter in Younkers. I don’t remember if Grandma ever actually bought expensive perfume, but she could test the hell out of it walking through a department store. A spray on the inside of either wrist. The outside of either wrist. And on her neck for good measure. Five spots. And… five different perfumes. The ride back to the home place was a good 20 miles. Hence the threat of the trunk.
My head reeled. To the combination of lavender, bergamot, palmarosa, and vetiver, I had just added olibanum, organic patchouli and… more vetiver! Perhaps it was the double-dose of vetiver that sent me over the edge?
I couldn’t put myself in the trunk. I drive a mini-van. But I did drive 8 miles down the highway at 65 mph with the windows rolled down.
Completely unbalanced.
(Have you met Grandma Murphy yet?)
Spring. It bounces on springs.
The lull of winter is gone, and we are left chasing the boing of spring. Before soccer and baseball start, we are wrapping up gymnastics, Pinewood Derby for scouts, the Science Fair project, and a visit from Flat Stanley. And learning the ins and outs of roasting a chicken.
Today's Hump Day Short is mostly in pictures of this surge to a warm spring.
The annual Pinewood Derby Car Build. Other than the wet white space shuttle falling on the dark stained wood floor in the kitchen necessitating moving like lightening to scrub up the acrylic white paint before it set -- all went well. Great camaraderie between Bill and the boys. And within the Pack: Having won and gone to districts for two years, the boy that won in Will's den stepped down and let the 2nd place finisher go to districts. Yes, the sweetness of that gesture made a few of us moms tear up.
Will completed his science fair project independently this year. Just as well, I don't think the dining room table would have held me. Actually, this is just the presentation preparation after the experiment: How much weight can eggs hold? Four eggs didn't even crack under the weight of 25 pounds of books.
It's always a pleasure to have Flat Stanley visit us. For some reason, teachers in Iowa include Flat Stanley books in their very early spring curriculum. Nevertheless, Stanley and I made it to a beach and picked up some shells for my niece. My fingers took longer than his to thaw.
Liam and I wrapped up a cool, windy, rainy spring afternoon with the preparation of a roast chicken. That boy likes to cook! I nearly killed the moment when I started in on a story about how we used to help Grandma butcher chickens. He had chosen the word "butcher" for his vocabulary the week before. The student dictionary's definition was something to the effect of "to prepare meat and sell it." I soon curbed my version. Some day he'll read the real story.
(Have your read the real Fowl Story?)
If you need a taste of summer, I suggest going to the Lobster Pool. Why? Sigh…
Eat a great dinner and watch thesunset from the Lobster Pool. It sits on Folly’s Cove, which conveniently cuts into the land making it westward facing over the water. Living in the Northeast, this is a gem.
Throw an old blanket in the trunk in case the picnic tables are full. Bundle up for 10+ degrees cooler than inland.
Plan for lunch or dinner at an odd time, between 2 and 5 p.m., if waiting drives you a little buggy.
Order something off this lobster shack’s menu for you – lobster, steamers, mussel, or clams – as well as kid-friendly fare – burgers or chicken strips.
Grab a cup of chowder as an appetizer; ask to have it right away, before your main meal is ready. With a smile, plea for extra crackers for the kids.
Ask if you can hold a lobster and have a family picture taken with it.
Find a table inside if it’s too blustery and cool to eat outside. Then reserve it with your cooler or your blanket. Or Mom.
Climb on the boulders outside while you wait for your number to be called. Take Band-aids. Someone will trip on a rock and skin a knee or an elbow.
Make S'mores at dusk. Roast marshmallows over the stovepipe stemming from the fire on the boulders along the ocean’s edge. (S’mores are Friday – Sunday, weather permitting.) The early sunsets of spring and fall make staying up for the fire & S’mores easier on kids. And adults.
Mmmm… I just might see you there.
(Want to catch your own fish? Here's my attempt at deep-sea fishing: A Reel Hairy Tale.)
Our home’s basic décor is… Who am I kidding? There is no basic décor in our house. We like what we like, or we keep what we had. Maybe that is shabby-chic-practical. Daydream I do in Pottery Barn catalogs and other magazines with highly-stylized photos – where there is never a power cord displayed. Odds are they snip off cords before snapping the photo.
I’m lulled into the magic of interior decorating when I go into Pottery Barn. The simplicity of layers: a dazzling flat glass bowl, filled with beautiful sienna green glass marbles and three breezy papa bear/mama bear/baby bear sienna candles rightfully anchored in the middle. And do you know what I do? I buy the papa bear sienna candle.
At home, I set that big cool green candle on my counter, and it’s then I realize my kitchen counter and living room walls are warm colors. I have made the biggest element of that Pottery Barn centerpiece mine. And there it sits. No glass bowl and no green marbles. No mama bear/baby bear companions. It's no longer Pottery Barn. It's an awkward candle sitting on a gold counter.
I could add it to the fireplace mantel, but I already have three candles grouped together. This won’t work because of that funny but true rule about grouping sets of odd numbers, not evens. And, it's too chunky to join the mantel decor.
I glance to the corner of the kitchen where a wire basket holds some of my favorite heart-shaped beach rocks, an unbroken bottleneck from the beach, broken chocolate agates from the boys, rose quartz and gypsum from South Dakota. Plus, my oh-so-smooth white rock from Greece. And the heart rock my mom gave me one Mother’s Day. The basket is nestled between the ceramic lantern and cork trivet I found in Portugal. And anchored on either end by empty Ball jars that held canned tomatoes two days prior. Liking the candle just as much as all this other stuff, I plunk it in the middle as a focal point.
Oh, alright… I couldn’t leave Sienna in the middle of my working counter space; I needed a quick place for it -- just as I did for the jars. The candle doesn’t have the home it had in the store, but it is on a stage with much more character. Welcome, Sienna, to shabby-chic-practical-nostalgic.
(Throwing practicality to the wind, I combined chocolate, cream, and the ocean in my Bedroom Decor.)
Last week my Microplaner broke in two. I loved that thing. For much of my 30’s, I bought specialty kitchen products from traveling cookware shows. Now, if I buy a tool for the kitchen, I want it to have a couple purposes: like a big bowl I could use for mixing and for serving... small bowls for individual fruit servings or to serve condiments with main courses.
But I loved that Microplaner. I used it for zesting fruit over a bowl. That’s it. A Microplaner does not fit my current kitchen multi-purpose mantra; plus, I still have my box grater standing at attention in the back corner of the cupboard. It would do the job, so I didn't need to replace the Microplaner, but I really wanted to.
Part of the allure of this tool is its history: It was originally used by wood workers. With a sturdy handle and a long, narrow, fine grater the width of a ruler, it was designed for delicate jobs – comparable to getting only the zest and no white pith off citrus fruit.
A new shopping complex opened up near us; surely either Pottery Barn or Williams-Sonoma would carry a replacement Microplaner. It was a good excuse to have a look around. I parked between both home stores, and another store caught my eye. J. Crew. Never been in one, so I decided to take a look. Lovely, lovely clothes. I moved to the middle of the store thinking there might be more sizes above 0 – 6 farther back. And there were! I found two XL vest tops for summer. I tried them on and realized I had made it to the size 12 section. No, my wardrobe at the present time would not be seeing J.Crew additions.
Sold on the idea of something new for spring, I decided to go to a store where I was sure to find something that would fit. Gorgeous spring colors dressed the windows of the shop across the way. Again, everything was lovely in this store too! I made a circle throughout the whole store and zig-zagged through the displays in the center of the store. I soaked up every spring hue of baby-chick yellow, bunny pink, lilac purple and mint green.
Then, sure enough, I found just the thing. The Microplaner in Williams-Sonoma fit my hand like a glove. I nearly bought the mini-whisk too, but the cashier said it shouldn't go in the dishwasher. At least I found one thing that fit me.
When the hump on Hump Day is a big one and sits squarely on top of me...
...the short of it comes on Thursday...
Coming upon moray eels while scuba diving, well, they give you a start. Their green heads jut out from rocky, coral reef bottoms. Wide-eyed creatures, their mouths open and close ominously. (Need a picture? Check this one out. Pretty intense, huh?) Rarely moving in the daytime, their bodies are tucked away among the rocks, leaving their true length to the imagination: a big head means a long serpent-like body wound into its hide-out. In reality, they are shy creatures. Their mouths open and close to help them breathe; that movement increases water flow over their gills.
Over the last several days, I’ve thought a lot about those eels. I’ve imitated their daytime movement. To unclench my teeth. When I feel a shooting pain go up my neck and into my head, I breathe like an eel. I loosen my jaw, open my mouth, and take in air. I detach my shoulders from my ears, unfurl the protective hunch, and lift up my head.
The stress over making tough decisions – not over life-threatening issues but “first world problems” that we are so lucky to have – lives very physically in my perfectionist body. But then there’s the thing called “relativity” – after all, they are our tough decisions. The trick is to find that subjective, tedious balance between the two realms of thought.
One would think after that year of cancer, I would hold perspective a bit better, but this week I’m caught under that humpy animal and breathing like an eel.
In my first ski lesson with Bill 25 years ago, he taught me the importance of traversing. When the slope down the mountain looks too steep, look across the mountain and ski to the other side. I thought our evening out snow shoeing from the top of Sterling Mountain at Smuggler's Notch in Vermont would include traversing leisurely down a mountain. At the bottom of Sterling Mountain, we grabbed snow shoes and gracefully boarded the chair lift. In addition to his snow shoes, Bill carried the small knapsack with our bottle of wine for dinner. The winds howled as we crawled above the mountain to its top. I kept thinking that the ride up is always the worst part of skiing: high above the slopes where there is no protection from the wind. This would be the most unpleasant part of the evening.
At the top, we exited the chairlift and met another couple who had been on this expedition several times. They led us to the warming hut where we would be having dinner. We had a good laugh before our guides garnered our attention just before dusk to give us the evening’s itinerary. We would put our snow shoes on now and leave them on for the rest of the night until we were at the bottom of the mountain. The women’s facili-trees were out the door down a snowy path to the right. The men’s were anywhere they felt comfortable. I am confident that none of us women fully cloaked in snow shoes ever used the trees.
Before dinner we were invited to go on a short, scenic hike to get used to our snow shoes. Sounded like a grand idea. I was all for it.
Bill and I, together with our newly found friends from NYC, were probably the most mature people there. Consequently, we hung back and let those more youthful folks knock down the snowy path that hadn’t been traveled for over a week. It was dark. The white snow was interrupted with black trees and the contour of the path could only be seen by watching the lump of a human move in front of you.
The path went up and down, curved right and left. On the first hill up, we were like baby calves finding our new legs. I ventured too far to the left and my leg disappeared into 18 inches of snow. Simultaneously, a guide in the back called out, “Just walk like a duck to get up the hill!” Well, my duck legs were stuck, so I could only flap my wings. Which I did. Then my laugh muscles sucked all the power from every other muscle in my body. I soon sobered as I realized I had closed the path for 10 to 15 people behind me. Tightening my core -- thank goodness I went to pilates two days before -- I heaved my leg up and back onto the path. Then came the downhill. Just as ridiculous. I skated between trees following the guy in front of me who was cussing. Short and scenic are not how many of us would describe this hike. We ended up on a frozen pond that was covered with deep snow. Now, Bill and I knew the extreme benefits of lagging behind and letting the others tamp down the snow.
We trudged across the pond, trooped up a hill, and stopped momentarily to see the lights of Stowe over the top of the mountain. What was even more beautiful was the sight of the warming hut – until we opened the door. It was a sauna in there. I removed all the layers I could on the top. One more layer and I’d be down to my black bra. The snow pants weren’t going anywhere as they were anchored on by snow shoes.
Dinner was delicious; however, we couldn’t see anything but outlines and gray masses of what we were eating. The warming hut had no electricity. This was a true candlelit dinner. While I really enjoyed the dinner, I realized how much I rely on my eyes to create the full gastronomic, gourmet effect.
After dessert in the dark, we started our hike down. The first part was very steep, but I was confident that we would soon turn and it would get easier. Downhill was hard work, and I was overheating. I pulled my ski goggles off and gave them to Bill. Then my gloves. I kept waiting to traverse through woodlands where the decline would even out. My knees screamed at me.
“OK, we are going to try to slide here!” called a guide. “Walkers to the left, sliders to the right!” The idea was to turn turtle, hold your snow-shoed feet up off the ground in table-top position, and slide down the mountain. I watched thinking it might be a good alternative for my howling body parts, but no one could slide: there was too much snow on the slope. I took off my coat and tied it around my waist. Then my sweater. My hip joints were raw. I started to side-step every few feet to relieve the pain.
I can’t tell you how long it took to get down the mountain – whether it really was the 40-minute trip it had been billed to be. I knew my face was beet red. I kept thinking that thought I’ve had so many times flying when my boys were crying, “I will never see these people again.” No, I did not take a picture of the aftermath. Imagine your own version of a red-faced 47-year-old woman.
I wish I could say the landscape was beautiful. I’m sure it was.
I wish I could say that I can’t wait to do that again. I’m sure I won’t.
Sometimes my romantic expectations do not meet with reality. The morning after this adventure, I mustered one line in my journal: “My thighs have been used as punching bags by fierce mountain gnomes.”
While I won't be going snow shoeing down a mountain again, we will definitely be going back to Smuggler's Notch for another family ski trip! Skiing Smuggler's Notch, VT
Well, the weather is always a good fallback for conversation. It’s safe and you can normally find agreement on it from folks without too much negotiation or conflict. So, I start there today. Spring is on its way. So close. Even if we have a couple good 12 – 18” snowfalls – which would brighten up the dirty, tall, icy piles around here – it won’t last for weeks. Yes, if that gray sky would just drop flakes, I would happily take it. Or if those clouds would just ship out and make way for some sun, the rest of the population in snow country would also feel a bit better.
Some people, Bill being one of them, are more desperate about the need for 90-degree weather. Driving through a local neighborhood, I saw a very desperate guy (not Bill) in need of sun and warmth. He stood next to the curb, a smile on his face, and his rigid arm and thumb extending, pleading for a lift.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was holding a sign that made me smile when I passed him. I had to have another look. I circled the block and pulled over to the curb a few feet away from him. I know what moms say about hitchhikers, but he looked harmless enough: I had to stop and take his picture.
He wanted a lift to paradise, but I told him he would need more than just a car ride on a snow-, ice-, slush-lined street to get there. He didn't reply, but he did let me take his picture.
(See the glory of 50 Inches of Snow in Pictures!)
I wrote at the beginning of our 5-day trip to Smuggler's Notch; now for posterity’s sake, a recap. Day 3, we tried one long green run as a family. I finally sent them ahead. It’s too daunting to watch their little statures flying down the mountain. That anxiety nearly knocks me over. Put me on my own little green run and meet me at the end of the day. That’s the ski equivalent of fingers in the ears singing “la-la-la” when you don’t want to hear what’s going on around you. Worried about me, Bill called to see if I was OK. “Going at my own pace.” I like to ski alone. If for some reason I can’t make it down a slope, I have confidence that all those instructors of 4-year-olds on my green run will get the ski patrol involved.
We will probably need to hire someone to ski with Will on those double- and triple-blacks he wants to ski in the future. Bill skied hard on blues and blacks with Will. Bill concedes that Will can pretty much out-ski him. The kid thrives on challenge and calculated (hopefully) risk-taking.
Liam exhibited control over apparent chaos. The last day of class was a Saturday. Parents collected at the bottom of the hill waiting for their kids to return from lessons. While waiting, I noticed that too many Saturday parents were waiting 10-deep directly in front of the lesson starting points which were also the finishing points. Thinking that was a little dangerous for the kids, I shrugged that thought off and tried to remember what the goggled skier I was waiting for looked like.
Ah, yes. There he was in a blue and green coat and a dark blue helmet – with bright orange goggles that confirmed he was mine. Cranky, he was going fast. And he didn’t slow on approach. And… he’s heading right toward all those parents! I waited for the crash. Instead, Liam disappeared into the crowd, and I watched as parents’ heads jerked upward like bunny heads popping out of holes. Liam zig-zagged through the crowd, full throttle. “Hi, Mom,” he said casually, innocently as he stopped 18 inches away from me. Liam had seen my purple and pink plaid coat and skied to it. With absolutely no idea of the chaos he had created in the crowd. Liam will always ski from Point A to Point B, no matter how many classes he takes. Making only as many turns as necessary.
Did Instructor Snow teach Liam everything he needed to know? I see a kinship in those smiles.
Have you seen my "shredder" look?
Outdoors is an equalizer. If you do the outdoors, your body sweats and your hair is a mess. This is Smuggler’s Notch, not Vail. These are outdoor families and people that feel real. I like places like this and people who are comfortable being like this. Dog walkers in Breakheart; bare-boaters sailing independently & living on a boat; scuba divers vacationing to dive all day & night; skiers on green runs; snow shoe-ers descending a mountain in the dark.
This is my outdoors persona this week:
I liken my look to Olympic “shredders” – even though I’m gliding my skis on gentle greens. I know. I’m taking extreme liberties in borrowing that term. I’m 47. I don’t snowboard. But I do like pulling off the balaclava and knowing that massive hat head is OK here.
Much like Spring’s Gate Girl.
This is February school break week, and we are skiing at Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont. I booked the trip in early fall, superseding Bill’s trip to China this week. He will make that trip early March instead. Good material for writing, but everyone in my family is within ten feet of me this Tuesday afternoon, so I’m writing in sentences. Not stories. Not even paragraphs. Perhaps more fragments than sentences.
We skied in the northernmost part of winter storm Rex today. Rex sat on top of the highest mountain here for most of the morning, looking like a gray mountain on top of the mountain upon which he cast his shadow. That’s the mountain where Will and Bill skied.
I can be openly happy about snow here. It’s a ski resort. Happiness is snow.
There was no line at the entrance for the magic carpet (aka: conveyor belt up the bunny hill), so I skied the bunny hill after putting Liam in lessons. Lessons that would take him halfway up the mountain with Rex howling. I felt a little guilty about that.
I nearly fell over once, making my premiere entrance on the magic carpet.
After five or six times down the bunny hill, I nearly cleared out a class of 4-year-olds. I felt a little guilty about that. I crossed over to the chair lift.
New stress: Please, don’t let me wipe out my chair mate when I get off the chair. I didn’t. Manhattan and I rode up together twice. His wife was on the same big mountain as Bill, and their 8-year-old son was in lessons. We agreed skiing green runs is relaxing. And this green was lovely and gentle.
I fell over once, tripped up the steps going to the condo to get my phone. Ski boots work best in skis, not on narrow stairs.
Red-cheeked Liam was waiting with his instructor after my second and last run of the day. Gloves off, Liam was eating snow. This child has been eating snow since his first winter in the U.S., 2007. I joined him last snowfall; I had forgotten how a big mouthful of fresh, white snow makes a snowball in your mouth. Liam lies dazed on the ground sucking these as if they are the sweetest candy ever concocted. While asleep, his vision of sugar plums must be pure white.
More fragmented thoughts from now, Wednesday morning. At the dinner table last night, we shared highlights of our day. Liam only ate snow after ski lessons; his group of 13 worked on turns, particularly j-turns which bring you to a stop if you are going too fast. No, I did not make a special request to the instructor for Liam’s lesson.
Will skied through trees and needs poles. He skied through the “glades” where you aren’t allowed to go unless there are three of you. He knows triple-black diamonds are out of the question because there also need to be three people skiing together to go down those. I don’t think he’s worked out why “three” is the magic number. I just did. Ski math.
Tonight, Bill and I are taking a chairlift to the top of Sterling Mountain and having dinner in a cabin with no power – a candlelit dinner heated with propane burners. Then, we will snow shoe down the mountain. 40 minutes in the dark with floppy shoes. I will find time and place to write that story.
Take a look at my "shredder" persona in Glamour Aside & the Recap of Smuggler's Notch.
When you were 5 years old, what did you say when someone gave you a sticker book? I loved sticker books: Pulling off stickers and finding the right page where that particular shape needed to be stuck. Stickers as rewards weren’t in fashion yet. Now, the dentist’s office, grocery store, and school have stickers galore which are handed out for grand accomplishments: Didn’t cry at the dentist’s office. Didn’t melt down in the check-out lane. Didn’t disrupt the class. To the Malcolm boys, reward stickers are not effective.
Neither Will nor Liam like stickers. They are sensitive to the adhesive, finding it down right offensive. However, neither mind getting their hands sticky – just not having adhesive things stuck to their hands. No burning through Sponge Bob Band-Aids in this house.
Both have adapted to our sticker-infested society. Pointing to his chest, Liam says, “Sure, put it right here on my shirt.” The sticker dealer is left to maneuver the adhesive. Will takes the sticker, and graciously says, “Thank you”; then walks out with the sticker backing intact. After one such occasion, to Will I said, “Honey, you don’t have to take it. Just say ‘no thanks.’”
Then, I started paying attention to how obsessed sticker dealers are with making sure at least one sticker goes home with my children. “You don’t want one? Are you sure?? Here, take a couple! Really, it’s OK – you can have them!!” The boys have worked out one general solution: Take a sticker or two, and the sticker dealer relents; then the sticker is ditched in the van. Or it goes with the shirt into the washer.
Yes, stickers are a bit like a picnic with ants. We don’t want the ants, but sometimes it’s easier to leave them be rather than to continually flick them off of our favorite quilt on a hot summer’s day.
Growing up as the oldest of four on a dairy farm, I held down the fort in the house while Mom milked cows morning and night. Dad worked second shift at a meat processing plant so that we could survive on the farm, which usually left Mom with the twice-daily milking of our small Holstein herd. Watching my siblings must have been uneventful, or I’ve just mentally blocked that part of my life, since I don’t have any significant memories of those days. Well, except for two incidents involving wild animals in the house. And on the farm, any animal in the house was wild because animals lived outside. All of them, including cats and dogs.
The first incident was when I was around 10 years old. One evening, my sister and I saw a mouse run along a wall in the kitchen. Post high-pitched screaming, we decided to take care of it before Mom came in from milking the cows, for we couldn’t stand the thought of it running around for another hour. We found a snap-trap, put some cheese on it, set it, and pushed it near the mouse-path. We moved to the mouse-free living room and waited – half hoping nothing would happen until Mom come into the house. But there it was… SNAP! We flew to the kitchen and immediately hopped on chairs and screamed, watching the mouse flop around in the trap. My story ends here; I continued screaming apparently with my eyes closed. I don’t know if my sister, or Mom, or perhaps even my baby brothers, scooped the trap into the dustpan and launched it outside the back door. I only remember the noise of the incident – our screams and the snap – and my approximate size relative to the chair I was standing on.
One winter evening, when I was around the same size, a larger rodent disrupted the house while Mom was milking. The faint smell of a skunk grew so intensely and so quickly, I was absolutely positive the animal was in the house spraying. Panicked, I got coats on my sister and my brothers and hustled them out the back door, around the corner of the house, and 30 yards across the barnyard toward the warm lights of the barn. I popped open the upper and lower barn doors and the warmth of the cows washed over us.
Ahhh, safety. Surprising Mom with bundled up kids, I explained about the skunk in the house. Mom’s incredulous look spoke to me before her voice. The strong smell had taken my imagination to a place of undeniable realism. Standing in the barn, it dawned on me that there had never been a skunk in the house before this. And, that I had just taken my sister and brothers ever so close to the skunk’s path by trudging them to the barn.
I learned from those lessons. Similar events have taken place in our current house with Bill and me. I take care of the mice; they are still cute creatures to Bill. Getting his American citizenship didn’t change his feelings toward mice. He’s still English through and through when it comes to rodents and spiders (aka: scoop and save).
The one time we both thought there was a skunk inside the house, I took the kids upstairs to our bedrooms and sent Bill in search of skunks in the basement. On second thought, it may have just been me that was convinced there was a skunk in the basement. Convinced that our basement door must have been left open. Yeah... pretty sure that was just me.
Yet, Bill took the helm and went scouting for skunks. And came back without rabies.
(Bill is an Englishman; we had very different childhoods -- Uncovering the Real England: Spiders paints one picture of the way we view life, particularly bugs.)
The last batch in my kitchen has a 50-50 chance of burning. Cookies... pancakes... bacon. I don’t cook bacon on the stovetop, too messy. If I plan well enough in advance, I like to bake it in the oven. Otherwise, I microwave it. I’ve microwaved bacon often enough to usually get that nice, brown, crispy state on the left side of the plate. The right side of the plate is when I thought it needed to be just a bit crispier, so I pushed the 2-minute button on my way to the eggs in the skillet. It was the last batch of bacon. I nearly swooned when I opened the microwave. Simultaneously, the smell of Grandma Murphy’s farm kitchen whooshed over me and Granddad Mills' words rolled triumphantly off my lips, “When it’s brown it’s cooking, and when it’s black it’s done!” A vision of Grandma’s black iron skillet on the stove followed. Then the microwave plate landed on the counter next to Liam.
“I’m not eating that. And black is not done. It's burnt.”
“You’re not eating that: I am. And black bacon is just crunchy; it’s not burnt.”
And it's a delicacy on bread with lots of catsup.
And you would never say ‘I’m not eating that’ to Grandma.
And you would sit next to Granddad and eat blackened food, happily crunching away, just like he did. Fully thankful for the hands that prepared it.
My memory often lapses, but smells and tastes can take me to places in the past over and over again.
(So...Would you eat the bacon on the right? By the way, have you met my grandparents? Memories of them still keep my life in perspective. And, just for kicks, here's an old bacon story.)
Skiing. Less than an hour from our house we can ski hills. Under two hours we can ski foothills. Over two hours we can ski mountains. For you New Englanders reading, this is not scientific measurement, just a Midwesterner’s flat wisdom of a few slopes. We are under two hours away from Crotched Mountain – which we all agree was a very unfortunate name. We are pronouncing it Crotch-ED Mountain. An expiring timeshare led to a quickly planned weekend ski trip where accommodation space was available.
With a still tender back and little confidence, I held down the fort in the cafeteria as Bill skied alternately with Will and Liam all weekend. Will has become an adventurous skier with little fear of falls and with lofty goals of skiing all the runs on every mountain. As Bill said, “Thank goodness there are no double-blacks at Crotch-ED Mountain.” When Will came back Sunday morning and gave the low-down on the terrain park jumps he landed, I looked wide-eyed, questioningly at Bill. “No, I didn’t do them; my body can’t take that any more.”
After lunch on Sunday, it was Liam’s turn to ski with Dad. Being a visual person, Liam starts at Point A (the top) and skis to Point B (the bottom). Horribly tough to watch for me, he points the skis downhill and takes off like a terror, edging the skis to a slice of pizza only to stop at the bottom. Bill tried to point out the virtues of taking longer swoops around curves, but Liam successfully skied his path, so why would he do it any differently?
Liam and Bill gathered their equipment and headed out, leaving Will and I to the art of cutting out intricate paper snowflakes and playing Set. An hour later, Bill brought Liam back to swap skiers. Looking straight at me, a red-cheeked Bill says, “Are my goggles here?” Crumbs, I (equipment girl) may have swept them onto a chair before lunch. I rummage through the bag and find nothing. I look back to Bill and in his silhouette I see his goggles on his helmet. More specifically, backwards on his helmet so the lenses are looking behind him.
With a question in my voice, I say, “They are on your helmet…?” “But I asked Liam and he said they weren’t there.” Liam had been looking at Bill’s face when he answered, and the black goggle strap blended seamlessly with the black helmet. The back of the black helmet.
We now know that Bill’s helmet is – apparently – completely reversible.
This morning, before going to weather.com to check the day’s forecast, I checked the vista from my dining room windows. The massive rhododendron growing against the house is our privacy screen, protecting the room from drivers’ gazes as they zip down the hill. Sprawling out eight feet and up ten feet, she is my crown jewel. Landscapers want to give her a good trim, but I can’t bring myself to interrupt that big ball of green that erupts in purply-pink blossoms around Mother’s Day.
Today what I see is the Rhododendron Droop, and I know it’s below freezing. Her leaves curl in on themselves and hang frigidly, yet the blossoms awaiting spring stand stoically, tightly clenched in the cold. How can she withstand days like this and bloom majestically in a few months?
The Rhododendron Droop means bundling up when I go out and appreciating the warmth when I come in. The Rhododendron Droop reminds me to take a few moments to be still, mindful of the day and what I will do. Knowing in stillness there is strength.
(Eager for spring? Check out English Garden Inspiration.)
Who sits at your table? Whether they know one another or not, you have a host of people who regularly gather around your power table. Who makes you laugh? Who listens well? Who best gives feedback? Who is kind? Who can give you a swift kick when you need it?
One of the women regularly at my table is Julie Henszey, a friend from college, an entrepreneur, and -- might I add -- a tri-athlete and a summiteer of Mt. Kilimanjaro. As a one-to-one life coach, Julie leads people in achieving personal goals and career goals.
Here, practical and positive, Julie shares four strategies for creating a growth mindset. Check them out... and go grow!
Four Ways to Develop a Growth Mindset (Guest Post by Julie Henszey)
Do you ever feel like you’re just not cut out to do something well? It could be bowling, public speaking, crossword puzzles, working with spreadsheets, getting places on time, or a million other things. What do you tell yourself when you perform poorly?
Our mindset makes all the difference in whether we achieve success when the going gets tough. Research suggests we have a choice between two mindsets: a fixed mindset and a growth mindset.
Fixed Mindset: The belief that your abilities are fixed, that you are born with a set amount of intelligence that doesn't change, and that the world is just a series of tests that prove either how capable or incapable you are.
Growth Mindset: The belief that you are capable of learning and therefore enhancing skills and expertise, that success comes through effort, and that the world is full of interesting challenges that can help you learn and grow.
Here are four ways we can develop and stay in a growth mindset so we can move forward and achieve our goals.
1) Learn from your past and put it aside. Don't dwell on past mistakes and let them consume you. Ruminating in this way often reflects and reinforces a belief that we can't change. Don't let your mistakes define you. I distinctly remember a time when I embarrassed myself horribly in a group situation and was really hard on myself about it. Then I realized that I had a choice. I could either believe I was an idiot or I could say, You know what, I just used incredibly bad judgment and it's something that happens to all of us once in a while.
2) Seek constructive feedback. When we have a fixed mindset, we don't want to hear criticism because it might just prove that we're not intelligent or capable. Being exposed is harsh and we want to avoid it. If we do get feedback, we're likely to defend ourselves unnecessarily. We hear the other person saying I'm just trying to help but we feel attacked.
With a growth mindset, we want to hear criticism. We want to know where we can improve.
3) Stick to a difficult task. A big problem in the United States is that when media allows us to see every slam dunk in the NBA or every Donald Trump underling, we tend to think Wow, I wish I could be that good. We can’t see the years of blood, sweat, and tears behind the success. Even Beyonce hits a wall now and then. Every successful person is tenacious.
So don't give up when the journey is long and tedious. Stay engaged.
4) Be curious. When you face roadblocks on your path to success, be curious about how to address the problem. Don't just look for obvious solutions and then give up when they don't work. Instead, ask yourself, If I were looking at this situation as a complete stranger, perhaps an alien from another planet, what would I see? What would I ask myself? Bold innovations don’t happen when people think conventionally.
Attack your next goal with a growth mindset and see how it works. I'm positive it's going to put new wind in your sails!
(Get inspired! Visit Julie Henszey's website: Next Step Goals & specifically her One-to-One Coaching page. Julie has a growth mindset -- check it out and leave the Baggage behind.)
