The Suit

It hangs,
months on end
     forlorn, forgotten.
          shrouded in dry-cleaner plastic,
               strangled by neckties of various hues, patterns, textures.
Like a faithful servant awaiting his master's summons,
it keeps constant vigil,
standing ready for all events deemed formal.

Purchased too many years ago to count,
     this harbinger of holidays,
            this celebrant of soirees,
sees too few occasions of service for the mistress of the house.

"I'm allergic to pants,"
is the master's excuse.
And so the master's finery
moves, once yearly,
     from hanger to luggage bag,
     from closet to cruise ship.

Until now.

What bliss these glad rags entertained
      as bride embraced his sleeve!
What sorrow this mourning coat endured
      as son bid his father farewell!
In seven brief days these faithful robes
     bore witness to
           a lifetime of such highs and lows
           a generation of joys and woes.

The feelings that one week evokes
     how can a suit attempt to cloak?

Along the Way: A Fireworks Fourth

"Mason, would you like to set off some firecrackers?" asked his dad.

"No, I'm too scarwed," was his reply.

I know what you're thinking. Teaching a seven year old to light fireworks is extremely irresponsible...blah, blah, blah. But you have to understand the culture from which my husband's family originated. In the hills of southern Missouri, fireworks on the Fourth are as American as...well...fireworks on the Fourth. One of hubby's earliest memories is of his little five year old sister placing a Lady Finger in Cousin Gary's back pocket and lighting it. (The relationship between the two remained contentious for years.) Then there was the summer when hubby devoted two months to setting up his own stand in Joplin. The proceeds of that enterprise represented a fortune to a preteen in the 60's.

So you see, it came as no surprise when Uncle Dick suggested that he and his nephew, Mitch check out the local fireworks stand at 5:00 pm on the Fourth to see if the owner was ready to "deal." They returned with enough night works for a half hour show and several bags of extra goodies.

"What's in the sacks?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Hubby winked. "Just something to keep the kids occupied until it's dark."

I knew who the biggest kid was--he had celebrated his 60th birthday this past fall. As it turned out we had a few fireworks novices in the family, and hubby was a willing teacher. Uncle Dick coaxed Mason into "helping" him light some bottle rockets,

and then quickly schooled him on the art of igniting the more touchy firecrackers.

Before long, pops and whistles filled the air in the McDonald's yard. Nieces and nephews, moms and dads, aunts and uncles delighted in blowing things up.

Just as munitions were beginning to run low, the sun finally began it's descent. Like butter on pancakes, it melted on the horizon.

Finally! It was time for the "Grand Finally."

Two of the nephews set the stage on the country highway that runs along the edge of the farm. They began with the lower ground works

then progressed to the skyworks, the starbursts, the cascades, the sizzling sparklers. All too soon, the show was over.

The lessons learned, however remain for a lifetime:

     The fuses on Black Cats are much shorter these days than they used to be.

     No matter how much your fingers are stinging, never, ever lay down a lit punk on the table holding the fireworks!

     You can't put a price tag on family.
And...
     You're never too old to enjoy blowing something up.

The Compendium of Crabby Customers

"Teach this triple truth to all: A generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are the things which renew humanity."

Buddha

Is it just me, or is the entire world on grouchy steroids lately? I’ve worked with the public for over forty years and never encountered such Maxine-like crabbiness. Mind you, I work at the same place, providing the same product and service we’ve offered for the past three years. Not much has changed except the attitude of the clientele. Everyday at least one individual comes in with a Paul Bunyan-sized chip on his/her shoulder, daring you to knock it off. I’ve been cursed at, threatened, lectured, and scolded by customers more in the past six months than in my whole career. In the words of Chicago’s cell-block matron, Mama Morton, “Whatever happened to class?”

Most evenings, I come home and my poor hubby listens to me vent for an hour. (Okay…maybe two.) On one such evening this past week, I ended with the rant, “And then he threatened to turn us over to the Better Business Bureau! I’d like to turn him over to something!”

“There ought to be a board where you could report people like that,” hubby empathized.

And thus the Crabby Customer Compendium was born. The CCC (no relation to the BBB) would be a comprehensive list of consumers whose reputations for rudeness negate their rights for courteous service. Only customer service people could join. I know at least 100 sales associates ready to sign up. “I’d pay for a membership,” endorsed my boss.

Once a Crabby Customer is placed on the Compendium he/she would forfeit all expectations of service. The CC could attain release from the Compendium by issuing sincere apologies (think groveling here) to the injured service providers. These apologies must be accompanied by copious quantities of baked goods. Works for me.

And then I began to analyze. What drives this boom of grumpiness as of late? Why has humanity suddenly become so…inhumane?

The answer is so obvious. What is driving us (and yes, I just said “us”) is plain old fear. Fear of being without. Fear of losing control. Fear of not being on top. Like the child on the playground who has had his lunch money stolen, we seek to bully the kid who is smaller, weaker. When you stop to realize what’s driving all this crabbiness you have to take pity on the crab. But it would be so much easier just to send them to the Crabby Customer Compendium. (Insert heavy sigh here.)

I was suddenly aware of just how much I had been operating as of late out of fear. The sage says, (and forgive me—I’ve forgotten which one) that we despise most in others that which we recognize in ourselves. Jesus advised his followers to not look for the splinter in another’s eye unless we can first remove the plank of wood from their own.

So…what individuals have I slighted lately with less respect than they deserve? Let’s see…there was that cashier who questioned my ad match coupon at the big box store…the mechanic who called me “Little Lady” one too many times, the new restaurant where I was quick to criticize and slow to savor. It seems that I, too, need to spend some time on the Crabby Customer Compendium. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have copious amounts of baked goods to prepare.

The Kitchen Garden Novice: Doing Time in Purgatory

When I was in college, the platitude became popular that "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours; if it doesn't, then it was never really yours to begin with." Something sappy like that. The adage appeared for years on dormitory posters, bumper stickers, and novelty items. Having spent the better part of last week hosting a garage sale, I truly hope this philosophy doesn't come back to bite me in the butt.

"What are you selling on your garage sale?" an acquaintance asked me during a break.

"Oh just stuff," I replied. "You know, years of  'things' I've acquired because I couldn't live without them--and now I've realized, I can."

"Oh!  You're purging!" she exclaimed.

Purging. What a provocative word.  My mind wandered to bodily functions like prepping for a colonoscopy...sweating out a cheeseburger and fries on the treadmill. Purging, huh?

I entered the word "purging" into my go-to reference resource, Thesaurus.com. The list of synonyms generated was staggering--words like expel, exorcise, discard, disencumber--lots of "ex" and "dis" words. I discovered the word comes from the same root as "purify." Don't you just love word forensics? When I followed other words derived from the same root, my path lead directly to...purgatory.

Ah yes, Purgatory, that all-souls' waiting room for heaven. The concept of Purgatory, popularly attributed to the Roman Catholic Church, actually germinated centuries before in Judaism and ancient Greece. The philosophy developed that the deceased could not enter the hereafter without an atonement for their many worldly sins, a shackle to this worldly plane. Purgatory was the holding cell for those souls in need of a bit of a makeover. What a bunch of bologna!

And yet...hadn't I been embracing the same philosophy? I had spent weeks, preparing, clearing out the clutter, unlocking my shackle to "things," all in the attempt to simplify. At first it was hard to part with stuff. Each item placed on the sale tables left me feeling bereft, a bit like that scene in Cast Away where Tom Hanks watches Wilson float away with the waves. But then I started to notice an unexpected release. I turned downright ruthless in my selection of discards. As each piece of junk treasure left my garage last weekend, I felt one ounce lighter. I was floating toward enlightenment, one step closer to my true divinity. (Yeah, right.)

We cleared a garage full of clutter out in three short days, in exchange for three month's grocery cash. As tight as money has been this past year, the total earnings represented a tremendous cushion. Saturday as we closed the doors and kicked our feet up to relax we congratulated ourselves on our success. And then, we turned on the television. The screen filled with images from the tsunami ravaged villages of Japan. Stories of families with no earthly possessions but the clothes on their backs left us silent, pensive. The Universe was whispering to us.

"I want to help those people," I murmured. "It just makes me so ashamed that I'm hesitant out of fear for our own needs." 

"Maybe we can't send the entire bankroll," said hubby. "But I think we can at least send part of it."

And so we tithed the proceeds from our tag sale to The Red Cross for disaster relief to Japan. Hardly the widow's last mite, but it was a start.  Purgatory?  Oh yes, I've been spending time there. It's not such a bad place. There's room to grow there, and the door is always open. Now, if I can just keep from visiting my neighbors' garage sales and a prolonged stay in heaven's waiting room, all will be well.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Shares the Love

I will be the first to admit that I am a bit of a procrastinator under the best of conditions. Throw in a few valid obstacles and I can elevate procrastination to an Olympic caliber event. This past week produced its fair share of delays, crises, and stumbling blocks. A flirting dalliance with a head cold mixed with a frantic work schedule were producing the perfect storm of last-minute lunacy on the horizon.  So it was that on my one day off I found myself scrambling to get valentines in the mail to the kids in time for the big day.

I spent the morning putting the finishing touches on puzzle-cards for my granddaughters, cutting an envelope for my daughter's card, and crafting a rather lame valentine for my son. Since I planned to mail a few things to the girls with their puzzles, I placed the valentines in a mailing box, along with a roll of  packing tape to seal it at the post office and my address book. I spent a full hour wandering around K-Mart in a fog, looking for Valentine's Day chocolates, books, and stuffed critters. It might have proven a whole lot easier to make up my mind had I not been dealing with a massive Nyquil hangover. But, in my fuzzy-muzzled stupor, choosing two beanie babies for two sisters became a judgment to stump Solomon.

I finally made my choices and headed for the parking lot. Retrieving the mailing box from the back seat, I threw the candy and plush toys into the carton. I ran the packing tape over the edges, thoroughly sealing all opened ends. All that remained was to address the box for the post office. Now where did I put my address book?

It dawned on me. The address book was in the bottom of the mailing box. So...I pulled the tape back off the cardboard and found my address book. Once again, I taped the mailing carton shut and used a marker to post the box to my son's home. Wait a minute...wasn't there something else I was taking to the post office? Right--my daughter's valentine!  What had become of it? I retraced my movements, backtracking right to the moment when I had placed baby girl's card...in the box, with the rest of the valentines.  Erghhh!!!

I gingerly pulled the packing tape off, taking care not to disturb the address I'd marked on the top flap. Sifting to the bottom of the box's contents, I unearthed the daughter's card, then resealed the edges. Done! Finished! To the post office! Now where were my car keys. Dig as I might to the bottom of my vastly cavernous hobo bag they were not to be found. I checked the back seat. I checked the door panel. I checked the back seat...again. My gaze wandered over to the dreaded box. No!  It couldn't be!

This time, I rippppppped the tape off the top of the box and wadded it into a spiteful blob. I rummaged in a zombie-driven quest through the contents of that wretched carton and found...nothing! Nada!  No keys! I pounded the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and heard...a familiar rattle. There, hanging from the ignition, were those cursed keys.

And that, my friends, is what happens when you don't think outside of the box.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Scraps Happy

So I've started my New Year's project to craft/scrap/stamp cards for Operation Write Home.  This was to be my outlet for creative flow this year. But...I've discovered something in the process. (Surprise, surprise.) It seems that I'm better at creating if I have a target recipient. I've been so accustomed to crafting each card with a specific individual in mind, that I found myself...well... stuck. What kind of greeting card would connect with a service man/woman deployed overseas enough for him/her to send to loved ones back home? What sort of individual might choose one of my little pieces of scrap art to keep in touch with friends and family? 

See what I mean about stuck? I was so seriously hung up on "who" I couldn't even begin to move on to "what."  We're talking serious creative constipation here. And that lead to even more introspective angst. Who was I to even presume that my little tokens of glib greeting card garbage might resonate with a soldier, a sailor, an airman, a marine?

Then I thought of the three kids I know who are serving in active duty. I thought of one of my daughter's friends, a marine in Afghanistan.  I thought of my nephew who is anticipating his first deployment in May.  And then I thought of my nephew, Nick, a lifer, in the Army Air Force. His specialty is training helicopter pilots. That's when my creative juice started bubbling spontaneously. It percolated as I rummaged through my stash to find long forgotten "flight" themed dazzles. It came to a full boil as I remembered the "just flying by" stamp I'd purchased ages ago. It simmered as I chose papers and complementary punch. And just that simply, my mojo was back. I was cookin'.

Will my next foray into card construction be as angst riddled? Probably. But I'll trust the Universe and my military models to motivate and guide me through.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Goes to Seed

Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

Robert Louis Stevenson

I awoke at 4:45 am this morning with my brain firing like a pyrotechnic star burst. Maybe that's the wrong analogy. That makes it sound awe-inspiring. Not so much. The Universe had reprogrammed my brain during the night to "random shuffle." I hate it when that happens. I have so many ideas streaming through my consciousness; I don't know where to focus my attention.

Sleep? Forget it. I finally gave up at 6:00 and resigned myself to a scattered, albeit tired day ahead. Two cups of coffee later, my mind was still flitting from one project or intent to another. Should I start that new card for Operation Write Home? Or maybe begin a page in my heritage scrapbook?  I haven't touched it in months.  And I've been meaning to experiment with nutritional yeast to see if I can concoct a passable (and palatable) vegan cheese substitute.  So many ideas...such a short day. Maybe a walk with the dog would help to clear my mind.

Puppy and I set out on a marathon stroll. I began to softly sing as I wandered; Karen Drucker's soulful mantra became mine. "I am so blessed... I am so blessed... I am so grateful for all that I have..."

One hour later, as I unlocked the front door and dropped the keys on the kitchen table, my eye caught sight of the basil plant I have been tending and harvesting for the past year. All that remains of 2010's new years kitchen garden is one lonely stalk of basil. I reaped the rest for pesto and pasta dishes. Yet,  that one brave little stem stood tall with what appeared to be new growth. I looked closer. To my delight I realized the fragrant jewel was starting to flower. A year had passed, and this living creation had grown to maturity. She was ready to bear seed.

At that moment, a peculiar comfort struck me. It occurred to me I am a bit like that basil plant--gone to seed. I am blessed...to bear lots of seed, as evidenced by the stream of ideas and projects that called to me this morning. Yet unlike my brave little herb, I worry and stress over what to do with that seed. For the basil it is enough to create the seeds. She leaves their destiny to Mother Nature. It seems I could learn a few things from my sweet basil.

It matters not what seeds of creativity I choose to cultivate today; indeed, it matters not if I choose to cultivate any seeds at all. Should I die tomorrow, all of "my" creative energy would return to the Source, the Creator from which it was born. Nothing is lost. And that, my friends, is a life lesson from one living creature to another.

Anyone can cut an apple open and count the number of seeds.

But, who can look at a single seed and count the trees and apples?

Dottie Walters