Tea Rings

My grandmother Scott made tea rings, pictured below.  (Now a days, most people call them cinnamon rolls.) She gave them as gifts; she sold them at the bake table during church fundraisers.

Once upon a time, I spent Friday nights with my grandmother at her small farm and come Saturday morning would awaken to the house smelling sugar-y and cinnamon-y.  Usually, she was done making her tea rings by the time I got out of bed.  (I'm a late riser, you see.) After I ate cold cereal for breakfast, I would be assigned the cookie detail.  By the time I was ten, I could whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies like nobody's business.  But that's another story.

The photo above is how Nanny made her tea rings.  Very old school, isn't it.  I remember that she had a pair of super sharp stainless steel scissors that she used to snip the dough around the ring before baking. (You could never use those scissors for anything else other than her tea rings.)  After letting them cool, she would drizzle the ring with a little powdered sugar icing and meticulously quarter maraschino cherries to place on each semi-sliced portion.  We were not allowed to eat the maraschino cherries either because they were too expensive or so she insisted.  It was a real treat if she spared one, believe me.

I typically make mine like this: new school.  I think this style is popular right now.  Beside, it's easier.  (I don't have those stainless steel scissors to snip the dough; I have to use a serrated knife, which just isn't as precise.)

In the spirit of Nanny, we are giving the old school tea ring to the neighbors. Christmas morning we will enjoy the new school version, remembering Nanny all the while.  Merry Christmas, everyone.  

The Great Christmas Debate

To send a Christmas card? Or not send a Christmas card?

This internal debate ping-pongs around my head.

It's one more thing to do.  Stamps cost money.  Stop being stingy. It's a stamp, for crying out loud.  You already bought the cards.  Just do it. 


Then today, I get a card from a long lost friend, Meredith. Over the years and two relocations later, I lost her address.  The only time we connect is via a Christmas card.  Last year, she diligently sent me one detailing the latest happenings with her two kids and husband, but there wasn't a return address on the envelope.  So I couldn't send her one in reply.  

Sending Christmas cards is kinda old fashioned in this day and age of digital everything.  What with constant updates on Twitter and FB, e-cards and paying bills on-line, who actually mails anything anymore except credit card companies soliciting for business.

Here's an interesting perspective: most of you know that I work at a major retail bookstore (that shall remain nameless).  Ten years ago, when I first started, we had three to four tables dedicated to holiday cards during this time of year.  Now, we have just one.  Yeah, dear gentle reader, one table.  The cards are getting more expensive and the box doesn't contain as many cards either.  So sending a card is a fading custom.

Back to my point: today I open a card from our long lost friend Meredith to see the smiling faces of her two children. Simply beautiful.  I was overjoyed.  Really, I was, because old fashioned or not, Christmas cards are the one time of year where I communicate with friends long separated by distance.  Especially the friends who are not on FB.  

This time around Meredith's envelope had a return address, which I've noted in my old fashioned address book.  The debate is settled, as you can probably guess.  I'll be sending out those Christmas cards.

Happy Thanksgiving

What does home mean to you? A cottage?  A farmhouse?  A McMansion?

Certain houses from my memory evoke that feeling of "coming home."  As I crest the first hill of the long driveway and my grandmother's farmhouse comes into view, my soul floods with a sense of peace, that sense of "I'm home."

My generic townhouse on my quiet suburban street in my generic suburban town doesn't evoke that same sense of "I'm home." It's just a building with four walls and a hefty mortgage.

But what makes a house feel like a home?  Why don't I feel that "I'm home" connection the way I do with my grandmother's farmhouse?  Is it the memories associated with it?

Lately, I think I've been so preoccupied with looking elsewhere that I haven't paid attention to what I've got.  I have great neighbors, a quiet, safe street.  And even though I can't grow a garden in the backyard because of a lack of physical space and the lack of southern exposure, I can grow tomatoes in containers on the deck, which gets enough sun.  Lettuce likes shade and since I've got plenty of that, I can grow that too.

And this house has memories for Joseph and I beyond that it's our first house that we bought.  This is our boys' first home.  Wherever they end up on life's journey, their first childhood memories will be from here and they will remember it always.

So even though I still imagine myself writing in a little sunny room of an old, creaky farmhouse with a verandah, surrounded by rolling hills of pasture, what I've got ain't so bad.  I need to appreciate my house, the life I've forged with Joseph and the boys. Be grateful for what I have.  Right now.  In this moment.    

A tribute to Joseph

Once upon a time, this is where I imagined myself living.  I also imagined myself married to a big ol' farm boy who would tolerate my penchant for reading and writing but not insist that I, you know, work on the farm.

(Photo courtesy of morgueFile. Thank you.)

This is what I got instead:  a generic townhouse in a quiet neighborhood on a tree lined street.  I can't see the horizon because of the trees (which I'm grateful for.  I'd rather not see the horizon because of the trees instead of other buildings or smog or both. I digress.).

You see, I had Big Ideas and Big Plans, once upon a time (like the last century.  Think about that, dear gentle reader. The last century!). My Big Plans were to go to Frostburg State University in western Maryland, then keep on moving west after graduation. I wanted to get lost out there in the vastness of the wide open space and find myself. Or lose myself.

Then along came Joseph.

I stumbled into Joseph, who interrupted my Big Ideas, my Big Plans, at least in part.  I still graduated from FSU in western Maryland.  But that's where the Big Ideas, the Big Plans stopped.  I didn't find myself in the vastness of some not so populated state west of the Mississippi River after graduation.

Instead, I found love right where I was.  With Joseph. In Maryland. 

I can't say the exact moment I fell in love with Joseph.  It just kind of happened: a slow, stumbling into it, really.  By the time I realized I was in the thick of it, there was nothing left to do but accept it.  I'm not sure how I managed not to screw it up. Or crush it.  (Living with me ain't easy, let me tell you.)

Here's the thing I've learned over fourteen years of marriage: Yeah, it takes love, but it also takes equal parts compassion and forgiveness.  So that when our disagreements stretch into several days of not speaking to one another except to communicate about the neutral topic of our boys, Joseph and I trust that we can wade through that disagreement with compassion and forgiveness to rediscover the love that's been there the entire time.

Happy Anniversary, Joseph, my Beloved.

The Writing Life

I know I haven't been consistent about posting any entries lately.  I've been busy crocheting.  Yes, really.  Crocheting.  You see, dear gentle reader, I've got an idea about a collection of poems percolating in the back of my mind.  I keep a small composition book nearby to jot down any ideas or images that pop into my mind row after row of single crochet loops. The repetitive action, for whatever reason, seems to inspire ideas.  Or maybe it opens my mind so the ideas can move around freely to swirl together to make a clear image. These ideas are the scaffolding for these poems.  Soon, the ideas will be ripe enough to put down in poetic form.

Are you enticed, dear gentle reader?  Curious as ever?

Check back soon for more.

The Writing Life

I've always wanted to be a writer.  As a teenager, I imagined the writing life to be something like this: me hunched over a small, wooden writing desk in a cramped attic room with the weak winter sun streaming through a dingy window, dust motes floating in the air.  I would be wearing lots of bulky layers to ward off the ever present, nagging chill, a scarf draped around my neck and those funky knit gloves with the tips of the fingers missing so I could grip my pen.  I would subsist on tea and dry toast.  (Mind you, dear gentle reader, I said dry toast, not buttered toast.  It's an important distinction.)

Very Charles Dickens-esque, isn't it?  

Here's the reality:  I carry a little black journal in my purse at all times.  When an idea pops into my head, usually at odd moments,  I jot it down.  I scribble observations too.  Like the grocery store cashier who pursed and wiggled her lips like a fish as she scanned each of my items.  No doubt it was an unconscious habit.  But wouldn't that make an excellent character trait for a novel?  

I write in my journal late at night after the boys are in bed asleep (like now).  I find the hours of 10 PM and midnight to be rather productive writing hours.  I recently finished a manuscript--an entire novel--written entirely during stolen moments.   

I'm always thinking of characters, what they would say, how they would look, what they would do.  Ideas are constantly simmering away in my mind. (That's why I can be a bit absentminded.  I'm not thinking about the task at hand.  Instead, I'm thinking if a character would really say that line I just thought of.) 

Even though I dream of spending every waking hour writing, writing, writing, I don't think I would be as productive that way.  My mind works much more efficiently when I say to myself: you've got two hours--get something accomplished! 

As always, thanks for reading my posts. 

   

New Designs

So, even though I haven't added a new blog entry, I've been busy designing the blog itself.  Thank you to shabbyblog.com for sharing their beautiful designs and how-to instructions to make my blog pretty.  Bless you.  To all my friends and family: please let me know how you like the updates.  I'll be sure to add a new entry soon.  Thanks for reading.  

Because of fear

Because of fear.

Because of fear what chances did I not take for fear of the outcome?

Because of fear I regret more what I haven't done more than the things I've actually done.

It's not about creating a list of regrets, of fears.  Instead, it's the idea of what I won't do because of fear and how this insidious notion--fear--has reigned me in.  Influenced my decisions not to take chances, to close doors, so to speak.  

Because of fear.

How much time have I wasted? How many opportunities squandered?  How much power have I invested in fear instead of love?

My first job out of college

So, like, you know how you have these Big Dreams when you graduate college.  You think you can conquer the world with your Big Ideas and your Big Plans and then reality sets in way too quick.  Suddenly, you're in need of a deposit for an apartment and the fridge in said apartment is empty so you need money for food.  And gas.  And car insurance.  And beer.  And wine. When in need of money, get a JOB.

After we graduated college, Joseph and I had an agreement that the other would follow whoever between us got a job first.  In our case, Joseph got a job counseling middle schoolers at risk of failing (or dropping out, which is sad really when you think about it.  An eleven year old already to drop out of school, to give up.  At eleven.  But that's another story).  Joseph's brand spanking new counseling job was in Elkton, MD, which in the mid-1990s was podunk red neck town.  Just like the podunk red neck town of Winfield where I grew up.  At the time, I was very eager to leave that all behind. Maybe live in a place that didn't have so many large, jacked up four wheel drive trucks splattered with mud.  But there you go.  Here we are moving to Elkton, podunk, red neck town USA.

Armed with my Bachelors of Science degree in English with a minor in writing, I'm ready to take on the world.  The only job I manage to find is a temp job for $8.00 an hour at a bank in the consumer finance division.  You'll never guess what I did with my day at said consumer finance division of major corporate bank: I alphabetized documents.  Yes, you read that right, dear gentle reader, I alphabetized documents for about 6 hours a day.  Seriously.  I was actually told that because I had an English degree that I would be especially good at alphabetizing, that I would have a real grasp of that big ol' alphabet.

Being the enterprising, ambitious young woman that I am, I asked my manager for additional assignments because, you know, I feel that I can do more than just alphabetizing.  I am capable of so much more!  My manager liked my initiative and within months, I earned a permanent position within the department doing more, solving problems, doing things.  Important Things.  For example, one bright, sunny morning I walk into said corporate finance division of major corporate bank, and I'm told by my manager and his boss that the bank "misplaced" about one million dollars overnight, and would you be part of the team to find that million dollars please?

Um, sure, I guess.

Now, keep in mind that the bank didn't actually lose one million dollars the way you lose your left sock in the dryer.  All the transactions were electronic, so there was just a glitch in the software (or so they claimed) which once corrected, the money would be found. Viola.  I spent the day working with two others tracking down the missing money, fixing glitches, reassuring our clients that no, we didn't actually lose the money, we'll have it resolved by the next business day.  So much better than alphabetizing, right?

Wrong.  Here's the thing, dear gentle reader.  I hated that J.O.B.  Despised it.  It was so unimaginative.  So not creative.  I worked in a department of eight people.  One of those eight people was the manager.  Two others were supervisors. There was a rule about how many personal photographs I could have at my cubby desk.  (No more than two.)  There was a rule about how many sticky note reminders I could leave on my desk at the end of the day.  (No more than two.)  Although I didn't have to ask permission to use the bathroom, I did have to make a general announcement just in case someone else in our department was thinking the same thing and possibly risk having two people in the bathroom at the same time.   

So I hated this JOB as you can imagine.  On my drive home, typically twenty minutes or so, I would scream.  At the top of my lungs.  Scream like an ax murderer was chasing me.  I would cry.  As if my dog just died kind of cry.

Here's the thing, though.  I couldn't tell you why I reacted that way beyond a vague explanation that I didn't like my job.  I couldn't articulate that I found the job stifling, impossibly oppressive with all the rules about photographs and sticky notes, the micromanaging.  (Seriously. Was it necessary to have a manager and two supervisors for a department of eight.  Really?)  At the time, I could say none of this.  And that terrified me.  Being a writer, not being able to express myself was soul splintering.  I had published credits listed on my resume for God's sake, and all I was capable of doing at the end of the day was scream until my throat felt raw.  Then crawl in bed, hiding in shame.  Joseph was mystified.  I was stupefied into silence.  

Eventually, I left that JOB when Joseph got a teaching position at Catsonville HS and we moved back to central Maryland.  Despite the move and the change in jobs, the silence remained.  The writing silence, I mean.  Ten years later at a high school reunion, a former classmate, Carmella, asked me if I was living in a little farmhouse writing novels.  I was shocked by her question.  I had somehow forgotten that ambition.  That desire.  I wasn't even anywhere close to that.  Joseph and I lived in a suburban apartment.  I worked retail.  He was teaching.  I wrote in my journal periodically.  How quickly I let go of my Big Dreams. My Big Ideas. My Big Plans.  How sad.

Now, another ten years has slipped away.  Forty is on the horizon. It's strange how I can look at my reflection in the mirror and not know the woman staring back at me.  Oh, I recognize the features all right, but I don't know the woman.   I don't recognize who I allowed myself to become.  What do you do when you wake up and realize that your soul has a small, slow leak and that's why you feel like it's never quite filled up.

Why I hate kindergarten.

This was my life pre-kindergarten:  Sleep in until 8:30 AM with the boys snuggled around me.  We linger over breakfast.  Play.  Maybe watch some TV.  I read the newspaper.  11:00 AM rolls around and oh yeah, I guess we should get dressed and see about walking the dog.  Do you want to go to the park, I ask the boys.  Maybe spend two hours at the playground.  Maybe go to the library.  Eat lunch when our stomachs growl with hunger, not when a clock dictates that it's lunch time.

This is my life after kindergarten:  awake at 7am. (We all know I am notoriously grumpy for the first 20 to 30 minutes after I wake up.  I need time for the grogginess to dissipate.) Practically hog tie Elias and force feed him breakfast.  Everyone dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed, lunch packed including morning snack, don't forget the backpack and out the door by 8:20 to go to the bus stop.

Even though it's only been a week and a half, I've noticed a difference in Elias for the better.  He's just a little better at communicating.  He has a little more emotional control.  He's starting to behave like a big kid now.  Cooperate more easily.  Oh and to see his joyous smile when he clamors off the bus, that rush of a hug.

The above is one reason why I love kindergarten.  Here's another reason why I love it:  I feel righteously accomplished that by 9:30 AM the dog is walked and fed.  The dishwasher is emptied of clean dishes.  Ethan and I have the rest of the day to hang out. Maybe watch a little TV.  I read the newspaper.  Go to the park.  Or go to the library.  Eat lunch when our stomachs growl with hunger, not when a clock dictates that it's lunch time.  

This is the sweet life.

The First Day of Kindergarten

This is Elias on his first day, ready with Star Wars lunch box (recycled from Joseph who found it in his parents' attic during their big move a few years ago).  His backpack is Star Wars too.  He fell on the sidewalk while playing outside the night before, cutting up his elbow (you'll notice his neon green band-aid) and scraped his nose.  Poor thing.

This is Elias, my big kid, getting on the bus without even looking back at Ethan and I.  Through the tinted window, I glimpsed Elias with an anxious look on his face as he sat down next to the neighbor girl, Alora.  I pasted on a smile and waved. The bus driver closed the door and drove off.  Just like that, it was over.  My kid was off to kindergarten.

Joseph, who had off again because Baltimore County Public Schools closed again today because of power outages as a result of Hurricane Irene, took Ethan and Austen for a walk.  The other moms wandered back to their respective houses.  I walked back to our house alone to get my purse to go to work.  I didn't allow myself to cry like I wanted to because I knew Elias would be all right, trusting that he's gonna thrive in school.  And he will.  And most importantly, I was so proud of Elias for boldly climbing on that bus despite how apprehensive he felt twenty minutes earlier.

This is Elias at the end of his first day of kindergarten.  I got a big hug and a smile. "The bus ride was so awesome," he says first thing.  Enough said.

Irene interrupted kindergarten.

Hurricane Irene closed Howard County Schools today, so the first day of school has been postponed.  Elias was relieved.  He's worried about riding the bus.  He insists that I should drive him to school instead because there are no mommies on the bus.

The electricity has been restored today, so tomorrow is the first day of school.  I'm still trying to convince myself to be Ms. Enthusiasm while easing his concerns about riding the bus.  Joseph will be able to see Elias off to school with me since Baltimore County still has a lot of power outages.  I'll post pictures tomorrow, of course.

Kindergarten, here we come!

I'm not looking forward to Monday and not because it's the end of the weekend and going back to work and all of that.  Oh, no.  I'm not looking forward to Monday because Elias starts kindergarten.

Yeah, that's right.  Kindergarten.  Yikes!

This is a big deal (as many of you mothers already know).   I have to put him on the bus and hope he gets to school.  A lot of interference can happen the mile and a half to school, such as: an accident, the school bus driver forgets where she's going and winds up in Nebraska, Elias gets left on the bus, or maybe doesn't make it from the bus to the actual school building, doesn't make it to the classroom, alien abduction. (It could happen, although highly improbable, I know, I know.  Nothing is impossible, by the way, it's just a question of probability, as a former economics professor sagely advised.  Just sayin'.)

Oh, and don't bother to say he'll be fine.  (Yes, I know this.)  Don't bother to tell me I'll be fine.  (Yes, I know this.)  Putting your kid on the bus for that very first day of kindergarten isn't about what you know.   It's about what you feel.

And I feel like I'm letting go of my kid.  And that's because I am.  For Elias, it's a small step toward independence and a giant leap toward autonomy.  Every time I catch myself starting to dwell on what could I possibly be thinking by putting my five year old on a bus driven by a person I don't know from Adam (or Eve as the gender may be) and trusting this person (and the universe) that the bus driver will get my kid, along with all the other kids, to school and is it too late to home school, I tell myself to shut up.  This isn't about me or my fears.  Going to kindergarten is about Elias learning new things, like how to read, which I think he will love, and making friends.  It's Elias's day to be excited, not wondering if he should be worried because his mother is just a little bit neurotic.  

So come Monday, a new beginning for us, and especially Elias and this just a bit neurotic, spazzy mom will be Ms. Excited Pollyanna and my kid will be off on an adventure!