Jaci Dawn

Christmas? Already!? But My Birthday…

October 30, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

*The is yet another challenge I presented my friends on Facebook. It is actually two suggestions combined: “Christmas from the heart” and Christmas too soon on the shelves. I skipped one suggestion (recycled glass art) because 1) that subject belongs on my other post and 2) I need to gather photos. 🙂

I no longer get as worked up about Christmas before Hallowe’en as I used to, which either means I’m a frog in the pot of water or I’ve mellowed with age. Both, probably.

Oh, you’ve never heard of the frog in the pot of water? I don’t know if it is true, but there’s a parable that goes around along the lines of this: you can put a frog in a pan of water on the stove and slowly increase the heat. The frog doesn’t realize the water is getting hotter because the increase is so gradual (seems unlikely, but…). The frog does not attempt to get out of the water and slowly cooks to death. The parable is used as an allegory of how we grow accustomed to things like violence on television, graphic photos during the evening news, and Christmas displays before Hallowe’en.

Pretty soon, we accept it as normal and by then, we’re already cooked and dead.

I will never be accustomed to violence on television, in movies, or in real life. And graphic photos during the evening news make me ill.

I am not fond of Christmas before Hallowe’en, but as long as they don’t actually start playing Carols, I think I can stomach it. But if I hear “Up on the Roof Top” or “Silver Bells” before my birthday, I’m going to come unglued.

Hey, there’s a MAJOR HOLIDAY between October First and the 3rd of December. Two, actually, if I’m gracious: My birthday and my brother’s birthday. Mine is more important and does not fall in the month of December when all bets are off. Sucks to have a December birthday.

For the record (mostly because my birthday comes first), I don’t usually purchase any Christmas presents before November 2. Then there’s Thanksgiving and I have to get the food out of the way, so I don’t usually purchase Christmas presents before we play a round of Mexican Train on the kitchen table and stuff ourselves to the gills with dinner, pie, and as many olives as you can fit on the ends of your fingers. The day after Thanksgiving is reserved for the annual “get a tree” trip.

This day used to involve putting the hand saw into the rig, heating up a thermos of hot cocoa, making sandwiches, and finding the box with knit beanies and gloves. The last couple of years, we have resorted to purchasing a pre-cut Noble Fir from the Catholic charity at the local Catholic school. It was easier to go cut a wild noble (nasty things are difficult to locate and harder to kill) when we had Young Blood with us. Or we were young. Not that Arwen or Levi were ever very helpful when it came to hauling a tree out of a steep ravine or off a dangerous cliff, but they were at least entertaining to bring with us. The years that Sam, our son-in-law, went with us were the best: Sam loves that kind of exercise.

The weekend following Christmas is always a flurry of decorating, hanging lights, and fretting. No one gets into this spirit better than I do and I guess my family learned to dive for cover when Mom was in a Christmas mood, because I never seemed to get a lot of help. Or maybe it was because I have this OCD thing about how the tree is decorated and I would rearrange everything after the kids were finished with their decorating. I blame that on my father who would stand and supervise us while we hung the aluminum tinsel on the tree, strand by strand, and *never* in a clump. Thanks, Dad.

This year, I have been thinking about my compulsion from a different angle. My new supervisor at work is a Brahman and she has been very diligent in introducing us to her many and varied celebrations. I have been struck at how the Hindi love color, love to decorate, and love to center their celebrations around food. Of course, I get that there is a lot of idolatry involved, but… isn’t my celebration of Christmas a lot of idolatry, too? My Santa collection, my snowmen, my different Nativity sets, all the tinsel and lights and porcelain?

Ouch. Don’t you love it when your fingers point back at you?

Not that it will stop me. My compulsion has less to do with the spirit of Christmas in a religious sense and more to do with the spirit of Christmas as a way to keep in touch with the magic I once felt as a ten year old girl still hoping for a horse hidden in the garage. I knew Santa Claus wasn’t real, but that year the snow slid off of the tin roof of our house in a pattern that looked just like a sleigh had actually landed up there in the night and my older brother pointed it out to us girls, “Hey, look: Santa came last night! he *is* real!”

We knew he was lying and he knew he was lying, but we all three wanted to believe it really was true.

I put up the lights, the various collections, hang the ornaments and the stockings – all because I want to recapture a smidgeon of that childish amazement when I looked around the house I grew up in (or houses, as it were) and felt that tingle of excitement run down my spine.

There are certain rituals that we write into our lives. For many people, Christmas is simply a time of hard times and they do not want to be reminded of the poverty they live in, the inability to provide the gifts their children ask for, or the loved ones that have passed away. I understand that, and it is also a driving force behind my compulsion to decorate, decorate, decorate.

The years have commenced and we have added to our family, but at the same time, the family has begun to divide and separate. Marriages and births brought in family, but they also took away family. Careers and the expected migration of the young away from the parental abode has done its work to divide and separate. Where once we celebrated Christmas as just the two of us, Donald and Jaci, young and in love – we will, once again, celebrate it as just the two of us, Donald and Jaci, still young and in love, but blessed by so many lives behind us. Grandchildren have added a dimension to Christmas that I don’t quite have a grasp on yet. My traditions will die with me, and when they die – a part of my mother and my grandmother will die.

I decorate the way I do, in part, to keep them alive. The baking and the cookies, the stockings, the tinsel and lights. Three generations of Melrose women. There are rituals in my decorating that remind me of my paternal gramps and my granny. My little sister lives on in the homemade things and the Nativity displays because she &I would haul out all the stuffed animals on Christmas Eve to make our own make-shift stuffed animal celebration. Cutting the tree reminds me of my dad – and my husband, who picks trees out that my father would have loved. It also reminds me of my brother and the tree we propped up in the living room with string (the one that “smelled like cat piss” according to my mother, who was less than impressed with our father’s choice of trees that year).

Writing this, I realize that Christmas – and Christmas from the heart – often has less to do with the actual religious holiday it is supposed to represent than it has to do with the rites and rituals of generations.

If I want to simply celebrate Christmas as it is meant to be celebrated: a welcoming of the birth of Jesus Christ – well, then all I need is to go to a candlelight church service and hold my lit candle in the air with all of the other believers, singing “O Holy Night”. The religious aspect of Christmas is encapsulated fully in that moment, no tinsel, no flashing lights, nothing more than the lifting of a thousand voices and candles lighting a room and all the faces there in. Christmas from the heart.

***this post took longer than I expected and I did have to pare it down in the end as I exceeded 1500 words. Final version: 1438. And it could still be edited down.***

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Christmas from the heart, writing challenge Christmas before Hallowe'en | 1 Comment »

Trying Something New

October 27, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

*This is in response to a FaceBook question I posed to my friends. Give me a subject and see if I can write about it in 1500 words or less. The actual challenge was: “Tfying something new…feeling fear and doing it anyway” (she apologized for the typo – :D)

Trying something new for me always seems to revolve around animals. I can be pretty bold at acting, entering new situations, going places alone – or at least I can fake it pretty well. Animals can see beyond the faking it. They smell fear. However, I draw the line at dare-devil activities like zip lines. I have always been a huge chicken when it comes to putting my body out there into a situation I do not have complete control over.

I think that eventually I would get on a zip line. I’d have to walk back and forth awhile. I’d go out when no one else was there and sit and contemplate it. I’d read up on all the “how to” articles: how to hold myself, how to plant my feet, how to trust the damn thing to slow down at the end – how to trust the line not to break. This is something that dates back to me as an infant: I preferred to sit and absorb the situation before I moved in and tried something. My little sister jumped in with both feet and my brother encouraged her. They had far more boisterous adventures than I ever had, but I am quite comfortable with that.The last time I faced any sort of debilitating fear of walking into a new situation was in 2000. I’d been a stay-at-home-mom for years. My children were attaining self-sufficiency. The oldest had a driver’s license and could motor back and forth from the community college to home. We were still homeschooling, but my role as a parent had greatly diminished as the kids discovered they could take courses at the community college or study on their own.My friend called one day. Did I know anyone who needed a job? Anyone? Her receptionist quit and she was having to handle the front desk and her own job, alone.I suggested another friend, a friend who was always complaining about how she did not have enough money to make ends meet. As soon as I hung up, I had that unsettling feeling that I had just missed the boat.The story goes that there was a huge flood in the land. The water was rising rapidly. (I always picture the Mississippi River basin when I hear this parable.) A very religious man stood on his porch, watching the water rise. Some neigghbors paddled up in their boat and told him to get in so they could save him. “Nope,” he said. “God is going to save me. He promised.”The water continued to rise, pushing the man up to the roof of his house. There he sat, watching the local livestock wash away. A helicopter came by and a ladder was dropped. The EMT climbed down and told the man to grab ahold and climb out. “Nope,” he said. “God is going to save me. He promised.”The house broke free from its foundation and floated down the river. The man succumbed to the cold and wet and slipped into the water where he drowned. He rose up to the Pearly Gates where Saint Peter met him and he was admitted. Upon admittance, he stood before the Throne of God and he railed in anger: “Where were You? You promised me you would save me! But here I am! My house is gone, my farm is washed away, and I am dead! How could You!?”And God said, “Well, I sent you a boat and then I sent you a helicopter. What else did you want?”Silently, I prayed: “God if I just missed the boat, You’ll send a helicopter, right?”Two weeks later, my friend called back, more desperate than before. She needed help right away and I was the only person she could think of to call and ask for prayer. Could I think of *anyone* who could use a job?HELICOPTER.I hesitated. “Well, I guess God is telling me that I could use a job. But I don’t have a resume and I haven’t worked in years and…””OH THANK YOU GOD!” she exclaimed.So I spent the rest of the evening piecing together a resume and trying to put my past experience as a front office person into relative terms for the present. And the following day, I picked out my best clothes (limited, again, due to my years as a homeschooler) and I drove in for the interview.It went terribly. I got back into my Jeep and drove slowly back home, thinking that at least I had not ignored the hope that it was a helicopter come to save us from a rising flood of inflation. I didn’t get the job, but I stepped out there and tried. When I walked into the house, I was convinced it was not meant to be.My husband looked up and said, “Oh, you had a phone call. She wants you to be there at 8AM tomorrow morning. I told her you could do that and that you were probably on your way home just now.”I have been with the company for 13 years this month. There have been other moves, lateral moves, that have been almost as scary. I was offered the position of office manager after two years and I went in and cleaned up a branch office, organizing it from A-Z. I moved from office manager to closing coordinator with no accounting experience, only the encouragement of the original friend and the man who was then CFO. It was a good move from homeschooling stay-at-home-mom to full time employee. Scary, but good. I am glad I did not turn down the helicopter.(I hope the challenge my friend faced this Sunday went as smoothly as my transition from SAHM/homeschooler to employee went. Hers was a similar move.) 999 words. 🙂

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a Comment »

ObamaCare

October 27, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

*This is in response to a challenge on Facebook that I put up to my friends. Give me a subject and I’ll write 1500 words or less on it. 1500 words is a lot of words. I should have limited myself to 1,000 words or – better yet – 500. 500 is challenging.

I try to avoid political hot potatoes. It isn’t because I am afraid of the responses or even that I am afraid that I might offend someone. I was raised that my political opinion belongs to me and is really no one’s business. That’s the underlying theory of the secret ballot, a luxury we have been given in the United States of America. Who I vote for and why belongs solely to me. It isn’t anyone’s business. When I want to opine on something, I will do so with like-minded souls, or souls who can listen objectively. In today’s current climate, there is very little objectivity and a lot of subjectivity. We opine emotionally without taking into consideration all facets of an argument, or the facet that we could be wrong in our opinion.

ObamaCare is one of those subjects. I don’t mind calling the Affordable Care Act “ObamaCare” – I do not think it reflects negatively on the subject as much as it was intended to. The sting went out of the monicker when President Barak Obama embraced it during a debate against Mitt Romney in the 2012 elections. The President said he rather liked the nick-name, diffusing its detractors with a humored smile. We can call it the ACA, The Affordable Care Act, or ObamaCare, and it is all one and the same: it is an attempt to bring affordable health care to every American.

Of course, I have an opinion. That does not make me 1) right or 2) informed. I am still in the process of understanding it all. I am of the opinion (and I believe, rightly so) that we should have someone who can guide us through the quagmire, much like I have an independent insurance agent through The Fournier Group that helps me choose the best car/home insurance based on rates & deductibles for my area. She does the research and she lets me know when it is a good time to change. I don’t pay her for this service: she gets paid by the Fournier Group which is funded by insurance companies vying to do business with the general public. It’s a win/win for me. I would love to have that kind of informed advice when I approach the CoverOregon website.

I’m confused by all the options. I have a lot of questions about the Federal subsidies, what is covered, what the deductibles are, and about how much prescriptions are covered. I am not in the target demographic (young and healthy), but I am of an age where I bring a number of pre-existing conditions to the table, some of which require expensive medications. I am old enough to sit around with my cronies and gripe about the grippe. I need good coverage that is not going to eat into my retirement nest egg.

I wanted some sort of universal health care to pass. I’m not certain we took the right steps when we modeled ours after the Massachusetts model rather than the Canadian model. I find it amusing that the former governor of MA campaigns against the ACA. Fining people for not participating is definitely on my “I do not agree with” list. It should be optional – let’s get past the “Nanny State” enforcement. If some people choose to go without health care insurance, let them.

I love that we can cover our 22 year old daughter who has no health insurance coverage of her own and who is not enrolled in school (part time or full time). It is about time that we modeled some kind of security to young people struggling to find themselves at a time when their choices might just put them in the hospital. Before the law passed and we could re-add her to our insurance, she had to take advantage of the local ER’s charity program. That became a bill footed by the tax-payer dollar (and the private charity which the hospital taps into to cover such indigent cases). I do not believe anyone should ever be turned away from a hospital, an ER, an Urgent Care, or even a doctor’s office when it is a life-threatening situation. The ACA was created, in part, to stop that kind of discrimination.

What can we do now? The law has been passed. The deadlines are drawing near to enroll. There will be tax fines if you opt out. The websites – including CareOregon – are not ready, cannot handle the volume, and do not operate anywhere near the capacity they should.

If I were to make any point, it would be that we can tweak the law as we go since it has already been passed and we have to live with it. Being for- or against- it does little good once the thing has been signed into law. I agree with the Democratic leaders who are now calling upon the President to push the deadline for enrollment to March of 2014. Heck, make it the same deadline given small businesses: January 2015. Spend that time making certain the websites work, the options are clear, and that the volume can be handled. In other words: get the ducks in order.

I would urge Congress to repeal the fine. Why should we care if there remain individuals who do not care to enroll or who cannot enroll (indigents)? Sure, they run the cost up for the rest of us, but that is what a free economy incurs as a cost of being free. Making it mandatory only places the onus of enforcement on another government agency. It is our duty as human beings to support those who cannot support themselves. It’s called charity. (And that is an opinion only. Opinions are subject to a lot of things, including change.) Personally, I do not like the government threatening me with a “do this or else” mandate. It flies in the very face of freedom.

I am not quite sitting on the fence on this. I don’t like the way the law was written and I don’t like the way it will be enforced. I do like parts of it, and those parts are very good. It is law now. The only thing we can do now is to work together to make it work the way we all dreamed it should – and that may require for the advocates to give up some of their cherished parts of the law. It may also require those of us in my camp (the anti-ObamaCare camp) to give up a little of our opinion in order to give the law a fair shake at working. We all need to get off of our soap boxes and start having an actual dialogue about the subject.

Meanwhile, if you have already signed up and you have found that the premiums and high deductible are acceptable, I would like to hear from you. I still have time to make a decision whether to go with my insurance at work or to try out ObamaCare – regardless of my opinion of it.

Word count: 1234. I could cut out 234 words and still say the same thing. I fail at this exercise by my own standards.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged ObamaCare, Opinion | Leave a Comment »

Unschooling Myself

October 26, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

*I put this out on Facebook: Give me a subject to blog about. Under 1500 words. This is the first topic.

In 2009, the last of my children left home. I became my own student. If you have no one else to guide or direct, you have yourself. Regardless of the paths my children would choose (theirs entirely, and none of my own interference), I have my own path to follow.

Here is what I have taught myself since 2009.

1. How to let go. There is no perfect parenting guide out there. There is only life. Children will leave angry, say angry things. They will make terrible mistakes. They will marry and have their own children. They will get involved in bad relationships. Rule #1 of parenting an adult is: do not judge. You were there first. You made the same stupid mistakes. Dated the same kind of abusive boyfriends. Paid the same kinds of bad debts. Needed a loan. Therefore: do not judge your children, loan when you can and write it off as soon as possible. Help daughter move out every time she asks because she is more important than the questions you want to ask (and she will tell you when you don’t ask).

2. How to love a dog. I have always had a dog in my life, but never one that was entirely dependent on me for love and companionship and training. I learned that a dog is not very different than a horse. and since I fear both horses and dogs and I know I have overcome most of the fear of horses, I could overcome fear of dogs. The difference between herd and pack animal is minimal. A horse can hurt you simply because it is a herd animal in a hierarchy in which you do not display dominance. A dog can hurt you simply because it is a pack animal and you don’t display dominance. Display dominance and you have the animal’s undying love and devotion, horse or dog.

3. I started reading the classics. I presented them to my children but we did not make them required reading. Some books were required reading in high school, but somehow the only Dickens we read was “A Christmas Story” and “Oliver Twist” so when I opened up “Great Expectations” I expected another dreary Industrial Revolution tale. I was mildly surprised by Dickens’ sense of humor.

4. Politics. I have learned that politics are entirely subjective. There are people who identify only with their “party”, but most people are willing to look at all sides of a subject. Most people being entirely subjective to my friends’ list on Facebook. I do have friends who would die if you spoke evil against their political party, but they aren’t very open to listening to the other side to begin with.

5. Travel. I have been to Colorado Springs twice. I learned I could drive long distances by myself. I could even remember how to pump gas.

6. Estate planning and Trusts. Hard lesson learned, but my dad did it right. I also learned that beloved nephews can be little money-sucking jerks. Not a very happy lesson to learn.

7. Antidepressants. I learned that is is entirely acceptable to go back on to antidepressants. And to tell your children.

8. Mediterranean Diet. That isn’t entirely the truth: I learned that I love the man I married. Upside down, sidewayd, every which way. I love him. I know more about atrial fibrillation than I would like to know.

9. Hematoma. Or Hemangioma. I will blog more on this when I get the pathology report back.

10. Accounting Software. I am in the unique position of learning an entirely new (to me) accounting software program. How cool is that?

11. relying on God when the job goes south. Or you think it went south. Mine went south – or so I thought – but I held on to God and stayed steady. It is working out and I am making new friends. That is huge. You never lose your ability to make new friends.

12. Indian culture. One of my new friends is from the southern part of India and I am learning about the east Indian culture, especially as it is specific to the southern portion of India. My new acquaintance is Brahman and I am learning about Brahmans. This coincided with reading Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. It also coincides with a lot of Indian cuisine.

There is so much more, the point is: life is about learning. i wanted to instill that in my children: that life is always about learning. As I watch them make their way in life, i am blessed to see they have the tools they need to face the curves that are thrown them. It isn’t what they thought I expected oput of life for them, but they are willing to call me and talk about it. I am blessed that way, because I don’t have the answers. I’m still researching the answers.

I have a lot of things I want to learn more about:

bees

horticulture

oil painting

painting technique

About That Bumper You Sold Me…

October 20, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

My favorite Facebook post: “Soooooo How’s that bumper-testing job going?” – Mike

My new ride:

Seats 8. Satellite radio. Leather seats. Over-kill.

My new license plate:

No, I did *not* move to Florida.

My old “new” bumper (on my car since May 2013):

Want to see that again?

Two bumpers for the price of…

Yeah, this one needs to be replaced, too. And the radiator.

I may be driving that Town & Country with the Florida plates for a couple of weeks.

The human injuries:

Ooops. Wrong photo. I think that’s the Hallowe’en photo,

My right leg on Thursday, a few hours after the Lo-Jack that is installed under my front seat came forward at 10-20 mph and nailed me. It immediately retracted back into place upon the second impact, leaving me dazed and confused as to how I got that bruise on my leg.

Then I remembered the Lo-Jack. It’s a rather weighty anti-theft device installed under the front seat of my car.

My new tattoo as of tonight:

Yeah, the blood is starting to pool around my ankles…

I spent Friday making and answering phone calls to insurance companies and limping my way, stiffly, to the DMV office nearest to make my accident report.

I’d like to thank the First Responders who jumped out of their fire truck with a large bag of kitty litter. They by-passed the three of us who were standing there and applied emergency treatment to the radiator fluid pouring out onto the cold asphalt from my car’s front end. Then they checked on the humans and assured the 3rd car involved that she could leave since we had adequately exchanged proper information. She drove off in the full-size pick-up one that took out my radiator.

I’d like to thank the First Responders who pulled up with sirens blasting and jumped out of their truck with fire extinguishers. They said, “Cell phone reporters. they said you had a car fire.”

Nope: steam from the radiator, maybe. Then we told them how they had already been there. We pointed to the kitty litter as evidence. Deja Vu.

Thank you, Second Fire Truck guys for having a sense of humor and “getting” the dry humor of the slightly shaken up and very much still in shock.

I’d like to thank the State Police Officer who final;ly arrived and made a police report. He advised us to all make certain we filed our own DMV accident report and he did not give the other driver a citation.

I’d like to thank Driver #1. Not for hitting me, but for being a Gentleman and a Knight. He called AAA on his own card. He stayed with me until the tow truck driver could rescue my car. He collected all the information and helped the officer write the police report. He has wonderful insurance (I hope his rates don’t sky-rocket too much since he was such a stand-up guy).

I’d like to thank J&M Body Shop for the first bumper. And the second and third, since they are going to get to do those, too. Even if the owner told me I didn’t get a warranty on that bumper he sold me back in May.

And I’d like to thank the insurance company that is not mine: they are paying for the rear-end of my car, the front end of my car, and the rear-end of the #3 pick-up. And they are footing the bill for the mini van.

Last, I’d like to THANK GOD that it was no worse than it was. Because I nearly broke down and cried. Except the Lexapro wouldn’t let me cry and God wouldn’t let me behead Driver #1. Which is good, since he took the brunt of the financial responsibility.

I hope to never again play Human Accordion. Take care out there, people.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged car accident, new bumper, rental car | 1 Comment »

Jaci’s Blogging Space

October 13, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

I got the idea for this from my friend, Dee, over at Tea With Dee.

She blogged about a contest put out by Blogelina – a contest of sorts for the best (or worst) blogging spot.

I don’t know if I will actually enter said contest, but I am rather snoopy & I think it is fun to see where everyone blogs from. I will take my cue from Dee to say that only one photo is necessary for the contest, but I took several, trying to get the best angle.

The simple close-up. I have a small collection of band-tailed pigeon feathers floating on the base of the lamp, gifts left in the lawn for me by the pigeons when they raid the feeder. A stone marble. A trio of candles that I rarely light. My faun horns hanging off the side of the monitor. Kindle charging and address book arop that. My notepaper in the decorative box. A pair of 18″ rulers lurking to the side because I also occasionally lay out artwork on my desk.

The long view shows some of the things I have hanging on my wall – things I enjoy looking at, from the curio cabinet to the pair of Unknown Artist paintings in a single frame. Memorabilia I brought home from my dad’s house when he passed away two years ago: a banner from my host Lions’ Club in Sapporo, Hokkaido, Japan (I spent six weeks with a wonderful host family there). Attached to the banner is the pin my dad handed out when he ran for Nevada State Senate (and lost): BACK JACK.

My blogging space is in a corner in the upstairs non-bedroom that I turned into my studio when my last fledgling flew from home.

It is where I pay bills, so the little writer’s desk/bureau to the left is essential for organization. It is also full of stationery and cards. My walking stick that I made the year my mother died, titled Two Crow Feather Woman. Two calendars – one for the birds and one to write birthdays down on. A funky decopupage item that my youngest gave me for Christmas that shows a Wookie crossing the desert in front of a startled wild horse. I believe it is titled “The Original Bigfoot” and I love it.

My space is in a tiny corner of the second floor of our Cape Cod, hence the slanting ceilings. I painted the walls two shades of blue when I moved up here. It gives a sort of cloudy blue skies feel to the room, which makes me feel calm.

I’d love more room, but I do with what I can – hence the cords on the floor leading to my scanner. The printer is a wireless one & is downstairs. And, yes, I have boxes shoved under my desk – CD-Roms and genealogy notes.

And that is my space.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged blogging space | Leave a Comment »

Biscuits & Gravy

October 12, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

My husband is newly retired. This means he can spend time watching public television cooking programs.

My husband is a good cook. It’s why I married him. Well, OK, it isn’t why I married him, but it certainly has been a perk of having married him. I don’t particularly care for cooking (baking and canning – yes, cooking – no) and I am not particularly skilled at it. But I can make biscuits. (OK, that’s baking and I just said I like to bake.)

Don has been watching how to make perfect biscuits, specifically buttermilk biscuits. I do not believe I have ever made buttermilk biscuits as my fall-back recipe is always Baking Powder Biscuits which are incredibly simple:

preheat oven to 450 degrees F.

2 C flour

3 tsp Baking Powder

1 tsp salt

Cut in 6 T shortening

Stir in 2/3 cup milk.

Roll, cut, bake for 10-12 minutes.

Don wanted biscuits & gravy for dinner tonight, which is also a really simple meal to make if you don’t have a culinary degree. I didn’t ask him (and he didn’t offer) whether or not he wanted some of those fancy biscuits & gravy he watched some chef prepare on PBS. In fact, I didn’t know he had watched someone make them.

Now, normally, I chase everyone out of the kitchen when I am cooking. I simply prefer to cook alone. But tonight, I had an observer who watched me as I mixed the first batch of biscuits. I say “first” because it turned out that my shortening was rancid and I had to toss the dough out (and the nearly-empty shortening container). Fortunately, I had new shortening on hand, so all was not lost.

“You don’t measure exactly?” he inquired as I made a guess on the salt content.

“Accuracy in baking only counts in cakes and pie crusts,” I replied. “Besides, it reminds me of my 7th grade Home Ec teacher. She nearly had heart failure when she caught my girlfriend & I using out hands to measure a teaspoon. I mean, she had a serious conniption and yelled at us. We were totally baffled – both of us had been baking since we were ten and we knew how much a teaspoon was in the palm of our hands…”

“My grandmother measured that way,” he said.

“And it’s perfectly fine if you aren’t baking a cake.” What I didn’t tell him was that Trudi and I walked out of the class, looked at each other, and started to laugh. Miss Ring (that was her name) had no clue about real baking. She wouldn’t acknowledge that any of us had prior experience (and, indeed, most of the 6th grade class had never baked), but between the pair of us, we had been baking since we were at least 10 years old, perhaps earlier. To be sure, some of it was in an Easy Bake Oven, but not all of it. In 5th Grade, Trudi showed me how to make a wonderfully delicious chocolate cake using mayonnaise. The recipe was on the label.

“I heard you don’t over blend the ingredients,” Don went on to say.

“Nope. You mix just until it sticks together. Then you roll it out.” I don’t usually bother with rolling biscuit dough – you can flatten it with your hands and cut it.

The biscuits went into the over and I started the sausage in the cast iron.

“So, do you remove the meat before you start the gravy?”

Is he an alien? “No, why would I do that?”

“Well, this one chef I watched” (a graduate of a culinary school and a better cook than moi) “removed the meat and then started the gravy. But he also fried bacon to put into the gravy.”

“Well, bacon puts out a lot of grease. Sausage doesn’t usually have much grease.” But I was thinking: bacon in your sausage & biscuits? I may have to try that sometime, but it isn’t exactly down-home cooking.

Then I pulled out a can of evaporated milk. To be fair, I use evaporated milk in lieu of regular milk for a variety of reasons. When we had children living at home, they drank a lot of milk. Milk costs more than evaporated milk. I can take a can and cut it half-and-half with water for the same milk consistency for most recipes (cakes excepted). Evaporated milk is perfect for gravy making.

When the sausage was cooked through, I dumped approximately a half cup of flour onto the crumbles, then I slowly poured the milk into the mix, stirring until the roux was smooth. Then I added more milk & water & cooked it down to a thick gravy. Oh, and salt & pepper to taste.

The gravy was ready just a minute before the biscuits.

“I can do that,” my husband said. “Do you always use the same recipe?”

“Yeah, about that – if I make them often, I remember it. But when it’s not so often, Betty Crocker comes to the rescue. And I like the ‘richer biscuits’ recipe.”

Now, about cakes… You really need to measure the ingredients exactly. Use fresh baking soda or powder (if it is called for). Blend the ingredients until they are smooth. And blend another minute. Cakes are really, really picky. I have made my share of box-cakes, but I prefer “scratch” cakes, and they are really picky about the oven temperature, the mix of ingredients, the exact measurements.

No Culinary Degree Required.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Baking Powder Biscuits, biscuits & gravy, cooking lesson | Leave a Comment »

Splat! Went the Lunch Box

October 7, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

I seem to be on a roll of confessing stupid things. Every body does them. Not everybody admits to them. There are some stories I will never confess. You know the stories: wetting your pants on the walk home from school because you didn’t feel the need to go when you left school, but halfway home…

Or maybe you don’t know that feeling. I do know that once I knocked on someone’s door and told them I needed to use the bathroom and they let me in. Small town. Everyone knows everyone. I was ever so grateful. Because usually, I managed to just wet myself and that was incredibly uncomfortable and embarrassing.

I was a picked on kid in elementary school. My weak bladder probably had something to do with it (a lot, even), but also my innate shyness. When I was very little, my natural introversion manifested in shyness. I could be a blabbermouth around people I knew and trusted, like my closest friends and my parents’ closest friends, but in a public school setting, I died in increments.

In 5th Grade, I had a teacher who refused to let anyone out of the room to use the bathroom and I had an “accident” in class. It was horrifying. I told no one about it, but every kid – especially the sharks – knew about it. My brother eventually got wind of the story and told my parents. My parents then surprised even me: they confronted the school principal to ask why they had not been notified? That meeting led to a confrontation with the 5th grade teacher, a young idealistic woman who thought she had learned it all in Normal School. After meeting with my parents, no one was ever again denied a pass to the restroom during classroom hours. And in that moment, I received my first affirmation that I was not only loved, but that I could stand up to a bully.

There were many more lessons along that theme in 6th grade. 6th grade was in the new junior high. I inherited a veteran teacher by the name of Mrs. Haskell. Mrs. Haskell could not pronounce the word “alfalfa” – a word which reflected one of the core economic bases of our community: she said “Alfa-alfa” which made most of us giggle with delight. She was strong on history, especially Nevada State history and a smidgeon of World History. She was also very astute in social matters and when she noticed that I missed more school days than attended, she began to watch what happened on the playground.

I brought cupcakes to the class Valentine’s Day party. Standing in line, this kid (who I shall refer to as Dipstick in order to avoid any lawsuits) turned and “accidentally” bumped my tray of treats, sending several cupcakes into the air. They landed icing down in the gravel. Dipstick did not know Mrs Haskell saw the whole thing. My friend, Trudi, and some other girls in the Un-Cool Clique, helped me pick up the ruined treats.

In the classroom, Mrs. Haskell helped me save the best of the cupcakes, but she insisted I leave the one with the most gravel in the frosting on the platter. When it came time to hand out the treats, she instructed me to place that cupcake on Dipstick’s desk.

His hand shot up in the air. “Mrs. Haskell! She gave me a cupcake with gravel in it!!”

“Really, Dipstick? Isn’t that the one you tossed on the ground outside? I think it is the one you deserve.”

The class erupted in giggles and Dipstick was forced to face his ruined cupcake. Happy Valentine’s Day.

I do not connect that event with the next one. I think they were months apart. Bullying is an ongoing problem and I was an ongoing victim. This day would be the first of the last of the days anyone would try to bully me. I weighed in at about 65# and stood shorter than 4’6″. I was a mite of a thing, bow-legged with thin, mousy hair.

I was walking home with a sort-of girlfriend named Debbie. I remember her whole name, but she was never a very close friend. She was just another loser like myself who needed someone to walk home with to ward off the bullies.

We were close to the city park when Dipstick and a follower came upon us. They were riding bicycles, wielding chains and taunts. Debbie ran. I continued to walk and was surrounded by the pair. They circled me, waving the chains and taunts in the air with threats of physical damage and hurt.

I can’t really tell you what went through my mind. I was a middle sister and routinely defended myself from a brother. Mrs. Haskell had empowered me. I knew my parents loved me. I carried an old-fashioned black lunch box (totally uncool in it’s coal miner look) with a real thermos in it. I had books I needed for homework. I needed to go home.

I lifted the arm holding my lunch box. All I wanted was for the boys to stop circling me, to stop the damn taunting, to Just. Go. Away.

And Dipstick rode straight into my lunch box.

Splat. His face met black steel and thermos. He crumpled sideways in a groan of agony. I turned and ran up the street to catch up with Debbie, wheezing out hysterical laughter: I HIT Dipstick and laid him out in the park!

She seemed doubtful. I was elated. I walked on clouds all the way home. I bragged at the dinner table. I had bonked the bully!

Ah, but the true taste of victory was yet to come. I arrived at school the following day and was swarmed by the “popular” girls, the girls who worked hard to make my life miserable.

“I heard you ran away from Dipstick in tears yesterday,” they suggested.

I burst out in laughter. “TEARS? I was LAUGHING. HAVE you seen his FACE? Yeah, *I* did that.”

I hadn’t seen his face. I would see it later. His eyes were black and blue. He had been in a fight that he lost – a fight with a motionless lunch box.

The bullying didn’t stop there, not right away. But it was the first step toward respect that I ever took, and it felt delicious.

And best of all? Dipstick’s parents never inquired as to who double-blacked their son’s eyes. My parents were impressed. Mrd. Haskell probably knew what happened, but never let a word slip edgewise out of her mouth. The bullying continued for a couple more years, but it had a certain lack of enthusiasm behind it. An enthusiasm that certainly went downhill when (in 7th grade) I turned in the hall and pronounced to the Big.Fat.Girl who had just said something nasty to me, “Just because you are a big fat bitch…”

My friend, Trudi, nearly died. “YOU SAID BITCH?”

And I said, calmly, “Well, she *is* one, isn’t she?”

Every time I read about a bullied child taking her/his life, I thank God I had: my parents, Mrs. Haskell. a few close friends, and an innate gut reaction that said: FIGHT BACK. Because everyone is worthy. Because bullies die into oblivion and lose any internet identity. Because bullies marry into abusive relationships and end up just as hurt and miserable as the ones they hurt in school. Eventually, we’re all on equal ground and you have to feel sorry for the person who made your life miserable.

Bullies hurt as much as the bullied, but you will never know that until you splat your lunch pail into their face.

Proudest Moment of My Life.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged bullies, bullying | Leave a Comment »

The Fight – A Camping Story

October 6, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

My son asked several friends & family members to write down memories of him (he claims he can’t remember anything, but I really think he just wants to know how we remember things vs, how he remembers them). There are quite a few stories that are classics, like the year we took some of those air “pillows” they use for insulating breakables in shipping cartons and wrapped them in pretty Christmas paper. We put them in my son’s stocking with a straw and “Air Head Refill Instructions”.

He was not amused.

This story falls under “he was not amused” also, but in the retelling, it is funny.

The year was 1999 or maybe it was 2000. I think 1999, because my sister’s recent death did not haunt my memory and because I think we made the drive down to Ely in 2000 to see how my dad was coping in the wake of the loss of my sister. I also think it was 1999 because I am fairly certain my oldest was 15. She was enroute to Mexico for a missions trip with our church’s youth group. It was the first big trip out of country for her and the first family vacation without her presence.

Levi was still at the age when he asked me everything and conversations in the truck went:

“Mom. You know what, Mom? Mom. You know what, Mom? Mom. Mom.” We took to answering him with the same questions.

One night, we camped in a draw just outside of Bend, not far from the highway but hidden to the world. Sitting in the draw, we watched a big airplane fly over, headed south from PDX, at approximately the time our oldest would have been enroute. We waved, pretending it was Arwen.

Another night, we drove up to Glass Butte, just west of Riley, Oregon. We’d been there before but with Arwen. Glass Butte is a volcanic hill comprised of molten rock, obsidian of every hue, dust, pumice, sagebrush and low junipers. It is a favorite rock-hounding destination: you can easily dig several varieties of obsidian in varying degrees of quality. There are pits next to the road where rock hound have scored large rocks or collected enough to make their own arrowheads for events like Rendezvous. It’s a haul-your-own-water in, no amenties, public lands destination that is close enough to Burns to also invite the keggers, parties, and covens.

The average tourist rarely encounters those events as the locals know when the desert is empty and when the tourists are likely to be there.

We parked on the northern slope after a grueling search for a good place to rock hound that also had plenty of shade. The roads that wind around up there are jeep trails for the most part and ungraded. Shade is provided by junipers with low hanging branches. Open range Hereford-Angus mix cattle graze in the sagebrush and fight for the shade, so there are also plenty of dried cow patties, ticks (in season), and grumpy range bulls eager to take on citified dogs that try to chase them.

My husband is more obsessed about rocks than I will ever be, and I have a bit of an obsession about them. I pocket agates and pick up small rocks, always adding to a collection that will be eventually left behind the next time we move. He picks up rocks that fill the pound quota per person. I think (I could be wrong) that the pound quota is something like 50#s per person? Donald has been known to haul a 50# rock home “just because”.

It was easily a hundred degrees farenheit. The cattle hugged the junipers in the draw. We worried about the ice in our cooler melting although we could refill it the following day in Burns. We had not discussed where we would put up our tent should we decide to camp on Glass Butte (where nothing is flat – or soft).

Donald and Levi hopped out of the truck, eager to get to the business of digging rocks (well, I think Levi just wanted out of the truck and was sort of interested in watching his father toil in the hot sun). The dog and I were more reluctant. I was not going to toil in the sun. This is where my obsession with rocks does not equal that of my partner’s. I had a good book, my journal, and a lawn chair. I intended to make as much use of the shade of the California juniper we were parked under as possible.

Except that I heard this noise. And I looked under the truck. And I observed water – very hot water – streaming out of the engine.

“Don. Don – we have a leak.”

And in what will be remembered as a classic “ignore your wife at your own peril” move, Don waved me off. “Im digging,” he replied – or something to that effect.

“But…” I started.

And he gave me this irritated gesture, a shrug of the shoulder, a “go away, you’re bothering me” turn of the back. Levi was too busy looking for lizards on the hot rocks to care.

I thought about getting mad. I considered storming over there and getting in my husband’s face. I considered several alternatives. But I was very, very angry at being ignored and I took my book, my lawn chair, and my glass of iced tea to the shady side of the tree where I could look down on the highway far below and watch semi trucks roll on past. Several hours passed. Okay, maybe two hours, three on the outside. My husband retrieved a lawn chair and made iced tea for himself. Levi pulled out a chair and a juice drink.

“I think the radiator has a leak,” I said, casually.

“WHAT??”

As it was, the radiator was empty, water and antifreeze poured out into the desert, steaming and evaporating away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” my dear husband stormed.

“But I did,” I recalled, calmly. I told him how I had called out to him and he had shrugged me off. And he remembered.

We were stuck. We had to unload the camper while Don searched for antifreeze to put into the tanks and a temporary fix to the hole in the radiator. The temperature rose and the shade got shorter.

Levi threw up his hands and took his day pack. “I’m going to go get help,” he declared.

“The highway is five miles or more away,” we said.

“I don’t care. I’m walking out.”

The dog sat on her haunches and watched him go. We pulled out lawn chairs, poured another iced tea, and watched him hike down the draw, following the road, shooing red Hereford cows and calves out of his way. The big range bull sounded a mournful “Muh-muh-muhuh” at him but was reluctant to leave his shade. Levi climbed the opposite ridge and stopped. He looked down at the still very distant highway and the ant-sized truck and trailer units that rarely occasioned it. He scratched at the sweat on his neck.

And he turned back, silently trudging down and up again.

“It’s too far.”

In the end, Don put some temporary plug in the hole and we waited for sunset and the cool of night. We reloaded the truck. We ate dinner. And when it was finally dark and all we could see of traffic below was the headlights, we headed out. We made it to Riley. It was deep black out and we had to pay for a gravel campsite where we put up the tent for a few short hours of sleep.

We were up before the sun, loading the truck and heading to Burns, hoping the temporary fix would hold long enough for us to make this outback town where we would wait for the hardware store to open. And there, in an empty parking lot, Don soldered the radiator tank and we refilled it with more water and antifreeze. And we continued our vacation secure with the knowledge that Levi was ready to walk out on us and he was not impressed with marital spats.

We did have a lot more fun – just this was more fun.

I just Tagged this “listen to your wife”. HAHAHA

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged listen to your wife | 2 Comments »

I Hope She Still Loves Me

October 2, 2013 by Jaci Dawn

This one falls under Stupid Things I have Done. It is a classic tale told around the world by different authors and, unfortunately, in this tale, I am the author.

We lived in a little trailer park with a gravel road. Seven trailers, all small children about the same age. I was the stay-at-home mom to several of the working mothers. This did not involve babysitting in so many words and I want to quantify this with my opinion on leaving young children at home alone.

I was a latch-key child in the 1960’s, before “latch-key child” was a buzz phrase. It was not cool for mothers to work outside the home and nearly all of my friends had stay-at-home mothers. My parents agreed that my mother could work outside the home. She was light years ahead of her time and probably one of Gloria Steinem’s most ardent supporters (sans burning bras) back in the day. My brother was usually “in charge” but he was not always home, so my sister and I were basically on our own from the time I was eleven. I mean, my brother had a life and he was entering his teen age years! Before that, however, he was the one in charge – he became our primary babysitter when he was 10, when our parents came home to find the paid babysitter snoring on the sofa and my brother sitting up with her, bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

We got into trouble but our parents rarely found out.

That said, I could not judge my neighbors for the similar situations they found themselves in. Older siblings “watched” younger siblings and the stay-at-home moms (there were two of us in the ‘hood) were sort of a back-up in case something really terrible happened, like Darrel was running through the house, fell on a table, and broke his front teeth out. (Older sibling, Sharon, put the teeth in a glass of milk and I made repeated phone calls to the place my friend was employed, trying to get someone to pick up the phone during the busy lunch hour rush. All’s well that ends well, I guess, but I think Darrel lost his teeth permanently because the fast food joint where my friend slaved would not allow employees to answer the phone during the lunch hour rush.)

But I digress (do you see a pattern here?). There were 13 kids in the little isolated trailer park. They ranged in age from teenager to toddler. Four had mothers who were at home. I tended to be the mom the kids came to if they had a question, a weird bug to look up, a snake to show off, a razor cut to bandage (and hide from their parents). I was often the mom who was outside because I hate being indoors and the other stay at home mom actually worked nights with her husband, so kept rather odd hours.

My best friend lived in the single-wide next to me with her youngest daughter, who is the same age as my oldest. The girls went to Kindergarten together. That was in a different part of town and a different time. Now we were neighbors and the girls were in 3rd grade.

All of the children over the age of 6 owned and rode bicycles. All of them except for my best friend’s daughter, who owned, but could not ride, her bicycle. She was 8.

To understand this story better, I need to tell you about a little boy and a little girl, generations apart. The little girl grew up in the 1960’s and she was deathly afraid of everything and anything, especially of something that might cause pain. She pushed her bike around, following the older kids in the neighborhood. Even her younger sister mastered the two-wheeler before she could. She had a beautiful blue girl’s Hawthorne bike. It was blue and she named it Blue Ribbon. But she could not bring herself to get onto it and attempt to master the needed balancing act to ride the thing. At least, not when there was an audience. She finally got on it and rode it when none of the other kids was there to laugh at her and poke fun at her wobbly style. She was 8 years old when she taught herself to ride, practicing where no other children could see her and egg her on, or laugh at her when she wrecked, or otherwise see what she was trying to accomplish.

The little boy was just 3 and was gifted his first tiny blue bike with training wheels. It was 1990, in the spring. The older children in the apartment complex ran around, pushing their bikes or ignoring them – a generation that could not understand the thrill of a two wheeler. But not that little boy. He tootled around the cul-de-sac, happily unaware that his training wheels were not touching the ground on either side. His mother observed, however (she being the girl who had only mastered bicycle riding on her own in 1964).

“Don’t you think we could take the training wheels off?” she asked her husband. He looked, observed, and agreed. So the training wheels came off. And the little boy was set free.

All of the older children in the apartment complex rushed to master a two-wheeler, eager to not be undone by this 3-year old apparent bicycle prodigy.

Now this woman was in her late 30’s, her prodigy was competing with the other children in daring down-hill rides, and she could see her best friend’s daughter bravely pushing her bike around to keep up with the children who had mastered that fine art of balance. I watched out my window as the other children were up and down the hil five times and this little girl bravely pushed her bike along the side, one time down, one time up, smiling as the others passed her and taunted her to get on and ride.

So.

I offered my services. I promised to be gentle. to be kind, to remember how it felt to be the 8 year old afraid of riding a bike because falling off of it could be painful. I was entirely empathetic. And she grasped at the offer.

“Promise not to let go?”

“I PROMISE” Famous last words. You know where this story goes. Everyone knows where this story goes. It goes downhill.

We were aimed downhill. She was wobbling in her seat. I held her back as we went, and then she found her balance. She was pedaling. She was pulling away, perfectly balanced.

And . I. Let. Go.

OOPS.

For thirty beautiful feet, ten long yards, she was as graceful and even as an adult hawk, skimming the meadow in search of a mouse. The four or five neighborhood children who were gathered to watch cheered as she came even with them, her eyes wide. The front wheel began to wobble. She was going too fast. She couldn’t remember how to brake. The tire twisted, the momentum pushed her over the handlebars and she executed a somersault that wasn’t a somersault, but more of a face-splat. It was probably painful (she reminds me of this sometimes when we reminisce). It would, ultimately, cover her body with bruises. But I was in the moment and we had a neighbor hood of observers (many of them calculating the greatness of the wreck: how many times did her body collide with the earth? Was it a three-pointer or a six-pointer? Each collision with ground was a point.

She was crying, but not the heaving sobs of a truly injured child, only the sniffles of a bruised ego. I hugged her, brushed the gravel from her knees, promised her she would be all right. And then I did the Unforgivable. To this day, I cannot believe I did this. Not with my own memories of hiding and practicing and perfecting my own skill on a bicycle, ashamed if someone would have seen me wobble or wreck.

T told her to get back on.

Yes. I said that. Visions of my best friend’s wrath had not yet caught up with me. I was only hearing the voice of every cowboy who has been bucked off” “Get back on the horse or you’ll never ride again.” It’s true, by the way.

That little girl did what I told her to do. She got back on. And I let go, again. And the joy in her face as she balanced, pedaled, and braked was priceless. She spent the rest of the day riding with the other kids, keeping up with them and laughing with them.

Meanwhile, I ran back into the house and with shaking hands, called my best friend at work to confess what I had done and to assure her that no stitches were required or bones were broken. I hoped she still loved me.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged teaching a child how to ride a bicycle | 2 Comments »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »