YOU KNOW IT’S A GOOD DAY WHEN . . .

·         You go shopping and find your favorite parking spot is ready and waiting.

·         You get inside and your cart is the one without the squeak. (I’ve heard there’s one in every store, but not sure that’s a reliable statement.)

·         The items on your list are all available . . . . in the size you want, the quantity you need, and at the price you expected to pay. Even, sometimes, on sale!

·         You get the cashier you like best—chat while you go through the check-out process, exchange smiles—leave the store with your attitude well preserved.

·         You get home in less time than usual, put away your purchases, and discover you have leisure to drink a cup of coffee before heading out to your next event.

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If you don’t have the above good fortune, don’t immediately conclude that it’s going to be a Bad Day. Unh-unh. Nope. Nada. Even one good thing happening can steer your mood in the bright direction.

Another point to consider—if there’s even one baddie in your day, that doesn’t color the whole 24 hours. Forget the saying about one bad apple spoils the whole barrel—just toss the bad apple and let the others breathe.

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My recent experiences on a Good Day, included the above shopping, knitting with my friend, a trip to the library, and visiting with my daughter on her supper break.

While we knitted, my friend told me about movies she and her family had watched over the weekend. One was Max, about the dog of a Marine who is killed. It sounded like my kind of movie, so when I went to the library, I asked about it. Yes, they have it but it’s checked out; may I put you on the list? Of course you may.

I’d returned two novels to the library, then rummaged through the fiction shelves for two other authors (not read before): William Kent Krueger, who wrote a much-acclaimed coming-of-age novel called Ordinary Grace; and Dennis Lehane, who writes a PI series set in Boston that I haven’t read. Found both, picked out the first of the Lehane series, and went down to the circulation desk. Next thing I knew, there was a third book on my stack—a new arrival that I’d put on hold had come in. Serendipity! I now had three big unread books to tide me over during the snow/cold/wind to come the next few days.

After my supper, I gathered up some magazines for my daughter and her friends at work and drove to Butler, about 12 miles away. We had a good visit. I found out the state of her broken ankle and toe—healing but not quite there yet—and learned she can now be on her feet longer per hour. Before I left to come home, she gave me a little storage box of cream of celery soup she had made. (I ate it yesterday for lunch. Wow! Good stuff!)

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Yes, definitely a Good Day.

Yesterday we got dumped on with a heavy wet snow plus freezing rain, all enhanced by strong winds gusting up to unbelievable miles-per-hour. I poked my head outside twice—to put a birthday card out for a friend of mine and to get the mail after the delivery. I was entertained by library books, a sewing project for another daughter’s birthday, the blog of William Kent Krueger, and writing about Tuesday.

We may not get the Plus days as often as we’d like. We can celebrate like crazy when we do. We may not have rainbows and and butterflies and flowers. But I know for a fact that birds are out singing in the early morning (also an event  on Tuesday). 

(And remember, don’t let the Minus days get the better of you. There’s likely to be a kernel of good in there somewhere. Look for it.)

 Today's more of the snowing, blowing, winter advisory stuff. So? It's winter! Spring is coming, so hold that thought while you hole up in your den with a good book.

HOUSES – Part II

In the first 10 years of my life, I lived in five “houses.” [Details in Thursday’s Child post, February 3.] I use quotation marks around the word houses because one of them wasn’t a house as we usually define it.

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After school was over the year I was in fifth grade, my stepsister went back to California to live with her mother.

The rest of us—my mother, stepfather, and me—packed up and moved to southern Missouri, where we lived on a red-clay hilly farm eleven miles from the Arkansas border. The landscape was lovely, though unsuited for farming as we knew it in Illinois, and our location in the foothills of the Ozarks meant we had hills and hollers, winding roads, and a small mountain (remember, I’m still about 10 years old then) behind our house, just across a creek.

We also had a variety of poisonous snakes: rattlers, water moccasins, and copperheads. I had two experiences with snakes. Once a humongous snake slithered through the yard and went right under our house. (Adult knowledge says it was a harmless black snake, but I was still 10 years old.) I had nightmares for weeks, waiting for that big old snake to come up through the floor into the house. (It didn’t.) Another time, I was sent to the hen house to gather eggs. As I went out the door, Mom reminded me, “Look before you put your hand into the nest, there might be a snake there.” That time I almost didn’t look first, and snatched my hand back just in time to avoid an unfortunate meeting with a you-know-what. I dropped the egg bucket and fled screaming to the house.

I attended another one-room school, eight grades, maybe sixteen students. Being from the north, my accent was “funny” to the other kids. But I had books to read, and a library in a nearby town, only four or five mile as the crow flew, but by road. . . .

After southern Missouri, we moved to Wichita, Kansas—and that was much less stressful. (No snakes.) Even though Wichita was the largest city I’d ever lived in—300,000 in the early 1950s—I knew about streets, traffic lights, and noise. I walked to school, sometimes with my neighbor across the street, sometimes alone. We lived in half of the downstairs of a two-story house—two apartments on the ground floor, sleeping rooms on the second floor, and the landlord’s apartment in the basement. About all I remember of that year is that I liked seventh grade—different rooms and teachers for every subject; I learned to love art—made a marionette for the show we put on and was chosen to be the voice of Beauty in “Beauty and the Beast.”

The only downside of that year in Wichita came in the spring when my mother got sick. She felt bad enough to go to a doctor, unusual in our family. Only later did I learn that her health was part of the reason we left Wichita and moved back east, nearer home.

The next year, our little family split up. For eighth grade, I lived with my dad and stepmother in Charleston. Mom and my stepfather moved to St. Louis where they got jobs in a factory.

Eighth grade was rather fun. I was once again in my hometown, and I recognized kids I’d known in third and fourth grades at Lincoln School. We lived in one of many small ranch-style houses my dad built in Charleston, and I rode a bike all over the south side of town near the college. Dad bought a television set that first summer, and I got my first taste of game shows and soap operas. They were all right, but my real love was listening to Cubs games on the radio.

Then school was out, my mom and stepfather returned to Illinois, and I went to live with them in a small town called Lerna, population about 300, located several miles southwest of Charleston. As soon as school began in the fall, I met a girl a year ahead of me; we rode the school bus together to Charleston High School, and became great friends. I often spent time at her house, partly because she was one of five kids, the only girl, and was needed to help her mom with cooking, laundry, ironing, and cleaning. The other part of spending time with her was so I could experience what it was like to live in a big family, have older brothers who teased, and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere. Her house was old and run-down, but I don’t recall ever thinking that was a bad thing. Just different.

Our two-story house was the former Methodist parsonage which we lived in rent-free in exchange for janitorial duties at the church next door. For the first time I had an upstairs bedroom from which I could look out over the little town and make up stories about the people who lived there.

We lived there all my freshman year in high school and part of my sophomore year, until Mom was diagnosed with cancer and had to have major surgery. In the mid-‘50s, hospital stays could be quite long. She was in Decatur a few weeks, then transferred to Charleston Hospital. By the time she returned to Charleston in October, I was told her illness was fatal and she wouldn’t live very much longer. She died the end of April 1956.

During Mom’s hospitalization and after her death, I lived with my dad and stepmother in various houses. Dad would buy an old house for us to live in, build another next door, move into the new one, tear down the old one. Repeat. I don’t know how many times we went through that cycle, build—sell—build another.

Our last abode was a big trailer, or mobile home, perched on a narrow lot above a deep ravine at the edge of town. I didn’t sleep much while we lived there. Central Illinois is in the heart of Tornado Alley—high winds from the west made the mobile home rock. I became a worrier par excellence during those two years “on the edge.”

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Houses—of whatever type—have always meant a lot to me. I’ve lived in so many that I no longer have an image of the ideal home. But in my heart, I recognize that any house can be a home if the people there love each other, or have love to share. I now live alone, without a dog to talk to (though I often talk to myself, another story there), but I’m not lonely. The love that sustained me through the years of living in many houses is still with me.

Today I celebrate the love that keeps a house from being merely a place to go to when it’s time to eat or sleep. May you have that kind of love in your life.

Ozark Foothills Landscape

HOUSES – Part I

     You have many houses,

       One for every season . . . .

Judy Collins published and sang that song in 1975. She might have been writing it for me.

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My first house was the one in which I was born. My father built it—dug the basement, laid the cement-block foundation, then built a garage that he and my mother lived in it while he completed the rest of the house. When it was finished, they moved in and I joined them.

I recall living in that house—fragments of memory: eating my mother’s potato soup at a small counter built into a recess between kitchen and living room; playing records on the phonograph by myself (I was about three years old then); and my strongest memory, shaking my crib because that other baby was in it (my cousin Mike, who had come to visit with his mom, Aunt Virginia, and who had needed a nap; he was younger than I was, but by gum, he was in my bed).

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Next came a rental house on Third Street in Charleston, two doors down from Uncle Tom and Aunt Flossie. That’s the first place I recall getting into trouble—a group of neighborhood kids was fooling around, finding minnows (this is hard to believe, even now) in the flooded street, and deciding to roast them on a fire. I ran back to the house, hollering that I’d bring the matches—only to meet my mother, stern of face, who said, virtually, “You’ll do no such thing.”

A great memory from that time, though, is going to see Aunt Flossie. She always had jelly beans. I loved jelly beans! And almost better—certainly right up there in my estimation—she sewed! On a sewing machine! I could sit for hours watching her stitch two pieces of fabric together. Sometimes she gave me little pieces that were left over. That’s what I call ecstasy!

But our tenure in that house was short-lived. My dad was building a new type of house, a flat-top—four-square, one story, with a flat roof. Quite modern for 1946. The basement was a walk-out type, also new at the time; I recall playing there—the smooth concrete floor made a wonderful skating rink.

While living in that house, I first went to school—Clearspring School, one room, one teacher, eight grades. Reading, writing, arithmetic, social studies (with the big kids), recess, treasure hunts, Christmas play (I was one of Santa’s helpers—my first stage appearance), end-of-school picnic and school trip to the movies. I think we saw Gone with the Wind, but that’s such a long film that it might have been something else. Memory doesn't always latch onto some details.

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At that point in my life, many things changed. My parents divorced, and I lived with my mother. We left the flat-top house and moved into Charleston, where I’d been born, to live in a converted gas station. Piecing things together in later years, I decided the living quarters went with my mom’s waitressing job at the truck stop next door.

I attended town school, grades 3 and 4; learned to write stories, sing two-part harmony, play with other kids (I was never good at games, not did I ever succeed very much at social interaction), and continued to entertain myself with books (libraries are wonderful treasure troves, in case I’ve not mentioned it recently).

Another life change: My mother remarried. We moved to a town several miles west of Charleston to live for a few weeks with my new step-grandmother, then settled into a rental house just a block away. The town was larger, and a little frightening. City buses became part of the scene. Downtown was a long ways off (to my 10-year-old eyes).

And another unforeseen thing happened—my step-sister Janet came to live with us for the school year. She was three years older, in eighth grade. I was thrilled to have my very own sister! It was for me a storybook come true—I irritated her, she had little time for me because she wanted to be with her older friends. But we shared a room with long windows and high ceilings, and slept in two white-painted wood-framed beds. I couldn't have written a better story.

In that house I had scarlet fever and measles—not at the same time, thank heaven—and learned from my adult cousin Eula how to draw women’s hats. While I recuperated from all my illnesses, I drew hats galore, and then branched out into copying cartoon figures from my comic books. Actually did a pretty good job with Donald Duck and his cronies.

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Those were my first five “houses”—in my first 10 years. Not quite one for every season, but definitely one for each new season of my life.

After my step-sister left to return to her mother, our lives changed again and we left Illinois to live in other states in the Midwest. More seasons of life unfolded.

MIDWINTER

We’re approaching the time—five days from now—when we celebrate Ground Hog Day. It’s a fun holiday, in which we all agree to believe that a rodent in Pennsylvania can predict how much longer winter will be around.

By now you must’ve figured out that the “6 more weeks of winter” is, if you look at the calendar, almost exactly correct. March 20^th or 21^st is right around six weeks from February 2^nd.

At the same time I’m looking at the calendar, and not really believing that this is the 28^th day of the first month, with only three more days to go, and then one-twelfth of 2016 will be over—while all that is going on in my mind, I’m experiencing a midwinter blah. Or, better yet, Midwinter Blah.

I can’t really call it depression, because I have things to do that interest me, life goes on with its usual classes, events, and things to look forward to. My days are filled with reading, writing, sewing and quilting, knitting. Making a big pot of soup to freeze in meal-size servings is always fun. And delicious.

No, I don’t believe it’s a midwinter depression. It’s more like a period of hibernation. Going outside my house is a chore. Waking up rested and warm insures I’ll be able to get to whatever is on that day’s schedule. But waking up cold and tired? Skip it; that day might as well be X-ed off the calendar so we can warm up for the next.

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After years of fighting the hibernation thing, I’ve decided this is the year to change my approach. Fighting has never helped. So—try embracing it. (This is what all the advice givers tell us, right?—embrace your pain/grief/disappointment/anger/yada-yada?)

Okay. I’ll try that. What does it mean, exactly, to embrace something I don’t like? (I don’t like snakes and mosquitoes, but I’ll be danged if I try to embrace them.)

Here’s one suggestion: “Sit with it.” Uh-huh. The aforementioned snakes and mosquitoes not being part of this activity, I can sit with whatever. Tiredness? Shoot, I not only sit with it, I lie down with it, burrow under three covers (head and all) with it, and let sleep overtake me. And it.

Cold? Same thing—put on heavy sweats and thick socks, jack the thermostat up a few notches, burrow under the covers. . . .

Inertia? Lack of ambition? Piece o’ cake.

Another suggestion: “Try something new.” If I can get past the inertia, I might entertain something new. Try a new quilt pattern. Read a new author. (I’ve started this already in 2016, by the way.) Visit a different coffee shop. Have lunch in a different place. I like the suggestion—I just have to get motivated to go out.

Or: “Share your feelings with a friend who will listen.” Always a good thing to do. If, that is, the friend isn’t going through the same thing herself/himself. If she/he is, write about it in a journal. Or make up a story about it. Write it in a letter—but maybe not send it; other people may think what we write is of the “cast in stone” variety, not wastebasket fodder.

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I’ve come up with my own solution, using the “embrace it” idea.

It’s winter—sometimes the cold and wind are too much for me and I end up overtired from being out in it. Instead, I’ll practice being a recluse. (This is very easy for me, and way too appealing.) Only for a short time, though. The cold and wind can’t last forever; in fact, we have some high-40s predicted within the next few days.

While I’m practicing, I’ll sample the new authors I said I’d try in my post on Good Intentions a few weeks ago. The library is full of new books, new authors, and old authors I’ve never read.

Another activity: Get a small box and fill it with books to give away. I now know of three venues for used books: a book exchange downtown; the public library for its monthly sale; and a medical clinic with books (“bring one, take one”). I chose a small box so I can fill it easily; there’s always another small box hanging around eager to be filled as well.

And a third activity (one of my Good Intentions for 2016): Practice kindness and forgiveness as often as possible. You’ve already guessed that these intentions may be exclusive of being a recluse, but even a recluse can write letters, send little cards to say “Hi” to someone who’s far away, or even make a phone call. Forgiveness? You’re on your own with that one. It’s an individual need.

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I hope your Midwinter is going well. In five more days we’ll be halfway through winter for this year. (Yes, I’m aware that the weather may be winter-ish for a long while beyond March 20^th.) Halfway is good, though. Each day gets a little brighter (a minute here, a minute there). Flower bulbs and seed packets will be appearing any moment now. We have holidays to look forward to—Valentine’s Day, Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays, Easter—and pretty soon the stores will be stocking—you guessed it—swim suits!

Celebrate the day, whatever it is. Ours started out sunny. Hope yours does, too!

These guys always cheer me up!

OUTSTANDING PEOPLE

We recently honored the late Martin Luther King, Jr. with a day of his own. Next month we’ll celebrate the birthday-observances of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington.

Today I’d like to honor some folks who don’t have their own day carved out of the calendars we all hang on our walls, but who are, just the same, outstanding. I’ll give them aliases so they won’t be embarrassed if they find out they’ve been discovered.

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My mother’s first job outside the home was in a truck stop as waitress. She was perfect for the job—friendly, big smile, hard-working, full of good will. So my first outstanding person is a waitress I'll call Margo. Margo reminds me a lot of my mom: short blond hair, blue eyes, confidence in herself and her ability to do the work, personality-plus. I eat at the restaurant where Margo works about twice a month, more often in good weather. I always sit at one of “her tables” so we can chat. She knows what I like, even though my tastes change from time to time. She remembers little things, like salad dressing on the side, no croutons-no onion, on my salads.

A couple of times I ate at that restaurant when Margo was on vacation or it wasn’t her day to work. The other servers were good at their job, but I discovered I had to work harder to get my meal the way I wanted—Margo’s memory helps mine so much I don’t have to strain my brain.

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My favorite clerk at the pharmacy where I pick up prescriptions is Jenn. She’s nearing retirement, and I’ll hate to see her go. We’ve had a rapport from Day One—she remembers my name (I’m not there often enough to be considered a “regular”), always smiles; if I see her out in the store, away from the prescription counter, we always take a moment to chat. The other day I was at the pharmacy in the cold-cold weather, and we agreed we didn’t have cabin fever yet. She said, “I wouldn’t get cabin fever anyway! I always have plenty to do—reading, stitching, cooking . . . .” Sounded like something I’d say.

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The Post Office clerk I liked best was Pat, who has now retired. I saw her one day at Walmart and almost didn’t recognize her—she’s let her hair grow long. But she’s still outgoing and we recognized each other. Her knowledge of her job was wonderful; if you had a question, she could answer it. If you wanted to know the quickest way to get your package delivered, but didn’t want to mortgage the ranch to pay for it, she could provide possibilities—usually more than one. She always wished the postal patrons a good day when they left. I definitely miss her.

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So far I’m not worried about my family doctor (whom they now call the primary care physician) retiring soon. She’s the age of my son, about 10 days younger, so I can always estimate just how long she’ll probably be practicing. Naturally I continue to seek her advice because she’s good at her job—not just caring and compassionate, but intelligent and willing to work with a patient who refuses to take another pill (moi) or go to physical therapy again (also moi). 

But there's a plus-side to our visits, such as: what brings me there that day (usually 5-7 minutes on that one); how my writing is going (she writes books about anecdotes from her practice, a la James Herriott); how her writing is going; or if not writing, her current involvement in a triathalon, marathon, family wedding, or trip to a developing country with medical students. I leave her office feeling healed in spirit, as well as in body.

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Finally, I want to lift up three teachers who touched my life so that the ripples of their knowledge, their teaching, and their caring for their students are still opening out.

First was Miss Kincaid. (I've written about her before.) Ercel Kincaid taught fourth grade at Lincoln Elementary School in Charleston, Illinois. She was gentle and kind. She never humiliated a student. She encouraged talent. In her class I wrote my very first fiction story—I think it might have covered the front and back of one page of lined notebook paper. I fell in love with writing because of Miss Ercel Kincaid.

As a college undergraduate in English, I stressed over every darned paper I had to write. The problem wasn’t getting an idea—it was presenting all the information I needed to make the point. A three-page or five-page paper presented little problem; I could get my head around that size. But a 10-pager? Or 20?! I had the good sense to enroll in Advanced Rhetoric—which as we all know sounds like the dullest of the dull. But in the capable hands of Hank Sparapani, a recent IU Ph.D. recipient, the course was a joy to go to. I fell in love with writing all over again, all because Dr. Sparapani said to me, “You have great ideas. You just need to learn how to organize them into essays.” Nobody had ever told me I had great ideas. I nearly wept with joy. And I did, indeed, learn how to organize my ideas into essays.

The third teacher was Professor Steven Hollander, another English Department instructor, who taught several of the graduate level classes I took for my Master’s. This was another case of instant rapport—we had a similar sense of humor, liked the same music, read the same authors; we became friends, as well as teacher and student. When I taught comp classes in the department, Steve was the comp director. From him I learned how to teach—not because he gave lessons, but because I observed him in his classes and recognized his methods would suit me also. 

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Do you have outstanding people in your life? Of course you do. The connections we form with folks we meet often, or seldom, do a lot for us: lifting us up, teaching us something about ourselves, and treating us as if we’re important to them, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if we are.

CABIN FEVER

I’ve never been a pioneer wife, stuck in a log cabin out west or up north, where wind and snow pile up to the roof and my life is contained within the four walls. (I’ve read about it, though.)

But I’ve come close.

Since a week ago when I wrote here, I’ve been out only three times. Once to go to my Heart & Hands knitting/sewing group at church. Once for coffee (home within an hour). And once to the grocery store (also home within an hour). Unless you count sticking my nose out to check the mailbox (attached to the wall of the house) and trundling the trash bin to the curb and back again hours later, I’ve been, basically, within my four walls all week.

Now a seven-room house has more than four walls. Every room in the place has four walls. But all seven rooms have become very, very familiar. I know where every draft comes in. Where the light is best for reading or sewing. How many books I’m going to have to sort and box up and remove because they’re no longer necessary for my healthy psyche. I’ll let someone else have the joy of reading them. And how much music—sheet and book—has accumulated over the years of playing the organ and piano, and must now be sorted, culled . . . .

The reason for this self-imposed staying at home is—you guessed it—weather. We had snow a few days ago. Not much, one to three inches. But those one-to-three didn’t stay in place—the wind came along and hustled thousands of flakes around. When that was finished, the wind picked up speed and just huffed and puffed and blew in through any cracks it could find. Then to make the point even more clear, the temp dropped. Do you know what happens to 14 degrees when the wind roars around at 10-20 mph, gusting to 30? If you live in the Midwest or Northeast or Up North, I’m sure you do.

I will say one thing for staying inside—a lot of things get done. Well, let me rephrase that: They have the potential for getting done. I did clean my house (and no company was expected). I finished all but one of the Christmas gifts that had to be abandoned in December due to exhaustion and running out of time; the last gift is now nearly done. Read one book and am now engrossed in Gray Mountain, a 2014 John Grisham novel.

Life could be a lot worse.

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Cabin fever is probably not a good way to describe being cooped up in the house most of the time. I’ve experienced no climbing the walls or desperate attempts to go somewhere, anywhere! I cancelled two appointments a couple of days ago and was comfortable doing that. Yesterday I even admired the snow as it fell.

Today I plan to go out (already made it to the Y for a walk): Tai chi meets at 10, then knitting with my young friend during her lunch hour. Then home for a well-deserved nap, followed by a cup of tea and another go at finishing the little quilt I want to get mailed to my great-grandson in Ohio.

I’m quite content not to be a pioneer wife, stuck in a log cabin out on the plains. Or back in the woods. Reading about that life can be illuminating, but I’ll take the time and place I occupy right now.

Hope you can celebrate your own Here-and-Now.

WHAT HAPPENS IN JANUARY?

January 2014

January 2015

Snow, sometimes. 




But not this year, 2016.

So far it's been a Green Christmas, and a Green January.

The little snow we did get covered the tops of cars, roofs, and settled into the grass. Gone in a day.

Mostly what happens in January in my family is Happy Birthday Time.

I saw three of the January birthday girls (besides myself) on January 2nd when we had our family Christmas get-together in Ohio. The other two, both guys, weren't there when I arrived.

My stock of greeting cards had to be replenished in November and December so I'd be ready for the January onslaught. The USPS ought to be real happy with the Palmer Family.

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My own approach to January is to ease into a quieter life after several weeks of (1) preparing holiday music and playing church services, (2) sewing and knitting gifts (some of which didn't get finished in time for gift-giving), (3) dealing with sinusitis and sleeping a lot, which seemed to be a required part of the cure, and (4) preparing the house for two of the children who came from Arizona and Minnesota to celebrate Christmas with their mom and the other two sibs.

The visit of my four offspring was the highlight of the holiday season. I could let go of my disappointment that some gifts didn't get delivered, and focus on seeing all my children together. We shared a big pot of chicken-vegetable soup and made sandwiches, drank tea and coffee, munched on chips with salsa, and devoured (inhaled is a better word) pumpkin muffins one of the girls brought.

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This first week of the new year I hung up my new calendars (dogs, lighthouses, barns, pathways, more dogs) around the house. My very favorite is the family calendar made by my oldest daughter with photos she collects from members of the family, uploads to a website, and then prints out. This year's theme is Throwback--boy, did we adults look young! And some of us were babes in arms. 

Another project was rearranging the sewing area so I can finish a quilt to mail to Ohio. Once that's done, the living room will look more like itself again, and folding tables will be folded up once more and stored away.

"Another year over, and a new one just begun." John Lennon sings that on one of my CDs. 

Hope your new year, just begun, turns into one you want to remember.