She was anxious. The baby had to be taken by emergency c-section, so she hadn’t held her yet.
“I’m her mom…I want to hold my baby!”
“Be patient”, said her daddy – my husband. “Your will have that girl for another 18 years.”
“Only 18?” I asked. “Seriously?” They all laughed, because right now one of our 24 year old boomerang children is living with us. Being a parent is a lifetime commitment…one we all gladly take on. And now as grandparents, we had another precious life to treasure.
This latest granddaughter was born premature. Her sweet, little body was hooked up to oxygen. But she was perfect. She was beautiful. And I knew in my heart she would be just fine.
Amidst all the hectic energy in the hospital, I was able to find some alone time with this beautiful bundle of magical innocence. I put my finger down next to her hand and she grabbed it tightly in her tiny fist. I breathed a prayer, and silently watched her as I sent peaceful and loving thoughts and energy her way. Her laborious breathing competed with the beeping of the monitors. I only had a few minutes with her, so then and there I vowed to always watch out for her.
Her mommy was strong. She would not physically need my help raising her daughter. No, what I was offering was a gift of pure and honest (yet selfish) love. The love only that of a grandparent can offer. In my short and silent offering, I promised her cookies before dinner, piggy back rides, staying up late with me to watch princess movies, shopping for clothes that weren’t logical (bought purely for their cuteness factor), roller coaster rides, tea parties, pink painted toenails and long talks whenever they were wanted, wished for or required. I vowed to be her silent guardian – one of the many that will love her with all their might.
I am not trying to compete. I am not trying to be the favorite. This little agreement is just between the two of us…nobody else has to know. The important thing is that I know – and someday so will she. It is quite simple really: it is the undying and indescribable love that comes from a grandparent. A person never really knows this feeling until that magical moment arrives. And it doesn’t matter how many grandchildren one has…they all will take your breath away and leave you feeling like you really did accomplish something wonderful during your time on this earth.
She’s only been on this earth a few short hours. I was only able to see her for a few short moments. But the short time was precious and it gave me a glimpse of the future moments and what a treasure they will be. Each and every moment with her will be a gift I look forward to.
Even though they are only “ours” for a short while, our own kids are leaving us with legacies that last a lifetime: the gift of their own children. And when we look in our grandchildren’s eyes and see our own babies, and the unconditional love that we had for them when they were born, it makes the circle of life even sweeter. And that certainly makes the 18 (or 24) years they were with us totally worthwhile.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Brown Crock Pot
I am losing my mind – I am totally losing my mind.
Yesterday I spent 10 minutes looking for my brown crock pot. Finally, I asked my husband.
“Where is the brown crock pot?”
“The what?”
“The brown crock pot – you know, the thingy I cook chili in….”
“Ah, I am pretty sure we don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Sure we do – I made pot roast in it last winter. You didn’t give it away to the Goodwill with all the other stuff did you? You know I use it all the time. I swear I love that thing – if you gave…..”
“I did not give it away. We don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Then what did I make the pot roast in, hot shot? Hmmmm?”
“Come with me.”
He took me into the laundry room where we store our unused and at times unwanted appliances. (That is where you will find my bread maker, pasta maker, large Cuisinart, and rice steamer. It’s like the ‘Island of Misfit Toys’ from the cartoon Rudolf, only the misfits here are all appliances.)
Anyway, he showed me the shelves. No brown crock pot.
“What did you do with it then?” I accused.
“Nothing – we don’t OWN a brown crock pot.”
“Oh please...now are you going to tell me I’m losing my mind?”
“Here, is this what you are looking for?” He had rooted around past the vegetable steamer and salad spinner, and found it. A blue crock pot.
“Ah…” For once in my life I was speechless.
I realized, amongst my tirade, that we didn’t own a brown crock pot. That crock pot was a wedding gift from my previous marriage, and I haven’t owned since, well, my previous marriage. My husband has mentioned that I look for things like a teenage boy, and grudgingly, I guess sometimes I do. But only sometimes. Now excuse me while I search for the chicken I bought to put in the brown, er, blue crock put. I swear I put it in the freezer just last week. It has to be in there…hidden right behind my mind that I really do think I am losing.
Yesterday I spent 10 minutes looking for my brown crock pot. Finally, I asked my husband.
“Where is the brown crock pot?”
“The what?”
“The brown crock pot – you know, the thingy I cook chili in….”
“Ah, I am pretty sure we don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Sure we do – I made pot roast in it last winter. You didn’t give it away to the Goodwill with all the other stuff did you? You know I use it all the time. I swear I love that thing – if you gave…..”
“I did not give it away. We don’t own a brown crock pot.”
“Then what did I make the pot roast in, hot shot? Hmmmm?”
“Come with me.”
He took me into the laundry room where we store our unused and at times unwanted appliances. (That is where you will find my bread maker, pasta maker, large Cuisinart, and rice steamer. It’s like the ‘Island of Misfit Toys’ from the cartoon Rudolf, only the misfits here are all appliances.)
Anyway, he showed me the shelves. No brown crock pot.
“What did you do with it then?” I accused.
“Nothing – we don’t OWN a brown crock pot.”
“Oh please...now are you going to tell me I’m losing my mind?”
“Here, is this what you are looking for?” He had rooted around past the vegetable steamer and salad spinner, and found it. A blue crock pot.
“Ah…” For once in my life I was speechless.
I realized, amongst my tirade, that we didn’t own a brown crock pot. That crock pot was a wedding gift from my previous marriage, and I haven’t owned since, well, my previous marriage. My husband has mentioned that I look for things like a teenage boy, and grudgingly, I guess sometimes I do. But only sometimes. Now excuse me while I search for the chicken I bought to put in the brown, er, blue crock put. I swear I put it in the freezer just last week. It has to be in there…hidden right behind my mind that I really do think I am losing.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
In Moderation, dang it
Ok, so I guess it’s “crunch” time. And I’m not talking about abs – although I probably should be. It’s that time of year where I have a choice to make: diet to lose weight for the holidays or wear big sweaters and enjoy the wonderful food coming my way.
It’s such a challenge – I mean how important is to for me to look good in my dress for New Years versus all the wonderful goodies that I only get once a year. Everywhere I read the buzz words seem to be “in-moderation”. Those that know me realize there is nothing “moderate” about me – but I guess it’s never too late to learn. But it’s so tough – I mean from here on out, I run into many chances for an eating frenzy – and the boundaries and self-appointed guidelines I try to give myself.
I start with Halloween. Do I eat the candy corn, Butterfingers and caramel apples – or skip the candy corn so I can have a Snickers Bar? Do I indulge in the party fare that includes extra chili with cheese and garlic bread and hot apple cider? With every bite, I vow I will walk an extra mile. (At some point in my life, anyway.)
Once Halloween is over, Thanksgiving is around the corner and I have to prepare – I mean it’s my job to sample menu items, and try out new recipes all of which contain sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin pie and apple pie. And that is just the sample menu. After Thanksgiving come the leftovers. And just when I think I may be sick of Turkey, the Christmas parties arrive and there is an array of cookies, cakes and homemade candies. I start salivating over potential Christmas Eve dinners and even try out a few ahead of time. I mean what is Christmas without baked ham, more turkey and mashed potatoes, homemade dumplings and noodles. Again with the pumpkin pie and apple pie and add now the pecan pie with whipped cream and even pumpkin cake and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing.
This time of year is not quite as pressing as the few months before summer and swimsuit time. And the fact that big sweaters and large coats are the norm during the winter months helps. The fact that it’s dark when I come home from work and immediately don my sweatpants doesn’t help…it’s the elastic waistband curse.
Reality is such that whatever I gain during the holidays will be the price I pay in March and April. My goal is moderation. Moderate sized sweat pants, moderate big sweaters and a moderate amount of Butterfingers, pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes. Add that to the moderate amount of times I think about exercising and “Presto”, I’ve got that magical “in-moderation” key everyone is talking about down pat. So for now, it’s only 2 bite-size Snickers bars for me…I still have to save some for the kids Trick-or-Treating. Or maybe it’s time they started learning about this “in-moderation” thing too.
It’s such a challenge – I mean how important is to for me to look good in my dress for New Years versus all the wonderful goodies that I only get once a year. Everywhere I read the buzz words seem to be “in-moderation”. Those that know me realize there is nothing “moderate” about me – but I guess it’s never too late to learn. But it’s so tough – I mean from here on out, I run into many chances for an eating frenzy – and the boundaries and self-appointed guidelines I try to give myself.
I start with Halloween. Do I eat the candy corn, Butterfingers and caramel apples – or skip the candy corn so I can have a Snickers Bar? Do I indulge in the party fare that includes extra chili with cheese and garlic bread and hot apple cider? With every bite, I vow I will walk an extra mile. (At some point in my life, anyway.)
Once Halloween is over, Thanksgiving is around the corner and I have to prepare – I mean it’s my job to sample menu items, and try out new recipes all of which contain sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin pie and apple pie. And that is just the sample menu. After Thanksgiving come the leftovers. And just when I think I may be sick of Turkey, the Christmas parties arrive and there is an array of cookies, cakes and homemade candies. I start salivating over potential Christmas Eve dinners and even try out a few ahead of time. I mean what is Christmas without baked ham, more turkey and mashed potatoes, homemade dumplings and noodles. Again with the pumpkin pie and apple pie and add now the pecan pie with whipped cream and even pumpkin cake and pumpkin muffins and pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing.
This time of year is not quite as pressing as the few months before summer and swimsuit time. And the fact that big sweaters and large coats are the norm during the winter months helps. The fact that it’s dark when I come home from work and immediately don my sweatpants doesn’t help…it’s the elastic waistband curse.
Reality is such that whatever I gain during the holidays will be the price I pay in March and April. My goal is moderation. Moderate sized sweat pants, moderate big sweaters and a moderate amount of Butterfingers, pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes. Add that to the moderate amount of times I think about exercising and “Presto”, I’ve got that magical “in-moderation” key everyone is talking about down pat. So for now, it’s only 2 bite-size Snickers bars for me…I still have to save some for the kids Trick-or-Treating. Or maybe it’s time they started learning about this “in-moderation” thing too.
The Mind can Trick the Body
“Be careful, don’t hurt yourself. You aren’t 25 anymore, you know.”
This was from my (older) husband as we were hiking in the woods a few days ago, and I was climbing up a fairly rocky hill. I was holding on tightly to the dog’s leash, praying he’d pull me up the steep incline. Instead he kept waiting for me to lead the way – it’s the first time he’s ever actually “heeled” in his life - and for once I didn’t want him to. We got up to the top of the hill safely with no injuries except to my ego, and then and there I wondered what happened to my sense of adventure. I am never afraid of getting hurt. I’ve always loved climbing steep hills and rocks, jumping across streams and running through leaves. True, I’ve spent my share of times with an ice pack or ace bandage, but I never feared getting hurt. It wasn’t until my husband reminded me of my old age that I even considered I could sprain an ankle, hurt my hip or do something to a knee.
It’s funny, but even though my body does at times remind me that I am not 25 anymore, and haven’t been for, well, 25 years, I have quite a few moments in life that I just forget how old I am. I often wonder if I did not know my birth year, and if someone hadn’t invented mirrors, how old would I really be? The mind is such a powerful thing. And my mind still thinks it’s in its’ 30’s.
When I go clothes shopping, I automatically go to the section of clothes that are meant for someone 20 years younger. It’s like I am stuck in that strange middle-world: wanting to be young, but needing to grow up, and truly wondering how far I can push the envelope. You know - that fine line of dressing youthful versus looking like a grandmother that raided her teenaged granddaughter’s closet.
Luckily I don’t over-analyze the getting old thing, and I do still feel healthy. But because my mind doesn’t dwell on my “true age”, I do surprise sometimes myself when I look in the mirror. I’ve decided that the mirror will be my friend no matter what, even if the reflection isn’t exactly what I had assumed I would see. The torture times are when I use the magnifying mirrors. They were invented to show women over 40 all their flaws. The hair where there wasn’t any, the freckles that have changed to age spots and the tiny wrinkles that aren’t so tiny anymore. I normally would refuse to use the dang thing, except I need to be able to see to put my makeup on.
I am not ready to give up my adventuresome soul, and at times I do need to sit and have a chat with my body. Here is an example of my dialogues:
“Look, I know you are 51. I know you have a few issues with me doing things that may cause a pain or two. I know you really don’t want me to wear anything sleeveless. I understand that after I work out or dance the muscles are going to hurt. Let’s just start saying that this isn’t because we are getting old. Let’s just say it’s because we are living, and using and enjoying this body, and pushing it to limits that will remind us we are alive, and we can still climb and dance and wear clothes that don’t look like our grandmothers.
Life is good at any age. We just have to remind our body that the mind really is in control. And when your mind is only 30, there sure is a whole lot of living left to do – and there is no telling what it may wear, say or do. Ben-Gay anyone?
This was from my (older) husband as we were hiking in the woods a few days ago, and I was climbing up a fairly rocky hill. I was holding on tightly to the dog’s leash, praying he’d pull me up the steep incline. Instead he kept waiting for me to lead the way – it’s the first time he’s ever actually “heeled” in his life - and for once I didn’t want him to. We got up to the top of the hill safely with no injuries except to my ego, and then and there I wondered what happened to my sense of adventure. I am never afraid of getting hurt. I’ve always loved climbing steep hills and rocks, jumping across streams and running through leaves. True, I’ve spent my share of times with an ice pack or ace bandage, but I never feared getting hurt. It wasn’t until my husband reminded me of my old age that I even considered I could sprain an ankle, hurt my hip or do something to a knee.
It’s funny, but even though my body does at times remind me that I am not 25 anymore, and haven’t been for, well, 25 years, I have quite a few moments in life that I just forget how old I am. I often wonder if I did not know my birth year, and if someone hadn’t invented mirrors, how old would I really be? The mind is such a powerful thing. And my mind still thinks it’s in its’ 30’s.
When I go clothes shopping, I automatically go to the section of clothes that are meant for someone 20 years younger. It’s like I am stuck in that strange middle-world: wanting to be young, but needing to grow up, and truly wondering how far I can push the envelope. You know - that fine line of dressing youthful versus looking like a grandmother that raided her teenaged granddaughter’s closet.
Luckily I don’t over-analyze the getting old thing, and I do still feel healthy. But because my mind doesn’t dwell on my “true age”, I do surprise sometimes myself when I look in the mirror. I’ve decided that the mirror will be my friend no matter what, even if the reflection isn’t exactly what I had assumed I would see. The torture times are when I use the magnifying mirrors. They were invented to show women over 40 all their flaws. The hair where there wasn’t any, the freckles that have changed to age spots and the tiny wrinkles that aren’t so tiny anymore. I normally would refuse to use the dang thing, except I need to be able to see to put my makeup on.
I am not ready to give up my adventuresome soul, and at times I do need to sit and have a chat with my body. Here is an example of my dialogues:
“Look, I know you are 51. I know you have a few issues with me doing things that may cause a pain or two. I know you really don’t want me to wear anything sleeveless. I understand that after I work out or dance the muscles are going to hurt. Let’s just start saying that this isn’t because we are getting old. Let’s just say it’s because we are living, and using and enjoying this body, and pushing it to limits that will remind us we are alive, and we can still climb and dance and wear clothes that don’t look like our grandmothers.
Life is good at any age. We just have to remind our body that the mind really is in control. And when your mind is only 30, there sure is a whole lot of living left to do – and there is no telling what it may wear, say or do. Ben-Gay anyone?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Blending the Technologies
Ok all you whippersnapper, genius kids. All you technological gurus. All you young computer and phone junkies. I am here to tell you that you can teach an old dog new tricks. I actually prefer to use the words mature and worldly woman, but I don’t like to hear you snicker.
Even though you believe you own the world of up and coming technological stuff, those of us that are in our fourth and fifth decades and beyond have infiltrated your seemingly private world.
“How could that happen?” you may ask. Of course you would say “How cud that hapN ”. Well, believe it or not, those of us that are in that “sandwich-tween generation” – the ones that are still raising you and your kids, and are helping our parents too – actually can multi-task.
I don’t really want to show off, but my life is a combination of the best of both worlds. Stuff I learned in school and stuff I am learning from present day life. For example, I can actually use a calculator to perform a math problem – not Google the answer. I can figure out the tip of a check in my head – and not have to look on my phone for the “tip calculator app.” I can spell. (Well, most of the time – I am human after all). Oh, I can text too. Ask my kids. However when I hand in a memo at work it doesn’t say: ‘Hay, gr8 job, ty. C U L8r.” I have, however, figured out your secret code, and language. It was fun for awhile, but I realized my brain was getting mushy, and have gone back to the old-fashioned way of writing.
I have also gone the Facebook route, and am slowly winding down; tiring of the daily diatribe and dribble of the best friends I’ve never met. I will keep in contact with those I care about, and use it as a platform for uplifting information . I have a Twitter account too – but I forgot my password, which is fine – since I don’t really care if someone is grocery shopping or getting their car washed. I do, however on occasion pick up my phone and call my friends and family. No texting. Just wonder when the last time all of you under 25 did that? It’s a lost art, but those of us in the ancient inner circle have a whole lot of desire to keep the art alive.
I have a smart phone, a laptop, and a desktop that of course has Word, with spell check (thank goodness). But I also have a notebook pad with a pencil, a dictionary and an eraser. My smart phone has a GPS that I am thankful for, but I can (believe it or not) read a map.
I can bowl in a real alley, not just with my Wii game. I can strum a guitar…without the “Hero” part. I read books with real pages, and take my real dog for a real walk outside in the real world.
I’m not saying that I don’t like the new technology. I am just saying that I like being able to blend both worlds…and yes, live in whichever one suits me at that moment. “Lyf iz gr8” in both my worlds. Just don’t make me chose one!
Even though you believe you own the world of up and coming technological stuff, those of us that are in our fourth and fifth decades and beyond have infiltrated your seemingly private world.
“How could that happen?” you may ask. Of course you would say “How cud that hapN ”. Well, believe it or not, those of us that are in that “sandwich-tween generation” – the ones that are still raising you and your kids, and are helping our parents too – actually can multi-task.
I don’t really want to show off, but my life is a combination of the best of both worlds. Stuff I learned in school and stuff I am learning from present day life. For example, I can actually use a calculator to perform a math problem – not Google the answer. I can figure out the tip of a check in my head – and not have to look on my phone for the “tip calculator app.” I can spell. (Well, most of the time – I am human after all). Oh, I can text too. Ask my kids. However when I hand in a memo at work it doesn’t say: ‘Hay, gr8 job, ty. C U L8r.” I have, however, figured out your secret code, and language. It was fun for awhile, but I realized my brain was getting mushy, and have gone back to the old-fashioned way of writing.
I have also gone the Facebook route, and am slowly winding down; tiring of the daily diatribe and dribble of the best friends I’ve never met. I will keep in contact with those I care about, and use it as a platform for uplifting information . I have a Twitter account too – but I forgot my password, which is fine – since I don’t really care if someone is grocery shopping or getting their car washed. I do, however on occasion pick up my phone and call my friends and family. No texting. Just wonder when the last time all of you under 25 did that? It’s a lost art, but those of us in the ancient inner circle have a whole lot of desire to keep the art alive.
I have a smart phone, a laptop, and a desktop that of course has Word, with spell check (thank goodness). But I also have a notebook pad with a pencil, a dictionary and an eraser. My smart phone has a GPS that I am thankful for, but I can (believe it or not) read a map.
I can bowl in a real alley, not just with my Wii game. I can strum a guitar…without the “Hero” part. I read books with real pages, and take my real dog for a real walk outside in the real world.
I’m not saying that I don’t like the new technology. I am just saying that I like being able to blend both worlds…and yes, live in whichever one suits me at that moment. “Lyf iz gr8” in both my worlds. Just don’t make me chose one!
My Halloween Alter-Ego
I could be a devil…you know, go against my apparently angelic personality. Or how about Snow White? I have never been Snow White….although I have, at some point or another in my life, been Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey and Grumpy. I am quite fond of princesses, also – and have been called that a time or two (a compliment, no doubt…) – so that isn’t really a stretch.
I am looking for an out of the box costume for Halloween. A homerun. A combination of cute, funny, fun, sexy and glamorous. Is that even possible? I mean, I don’t want to be predictable. (Why start now?)
There are a million costumes…it just is a challenge to find the right one. Google “Halloween costumes for women” and you get – you guessed it – angels, devils, maids, fairies, pirates and bunnies. Go figure. I want to be something much more memorable. Maybe Mommy Dearest or Sweet Baby Jane. Ok, so that is bringing out my dark side. But it is Halloween. Or I could go as one or more of my alter egos…such as Mary Poppins or Julie from the Love Boat. Or maybe Pepper Anderson from Policewoman. Even better, Betty White from anything she ever did. I also think I would make a great “Miss Kitty”, and maybe I could even pull off Cleopatra or a Geisha dancer, with the right wig.
Halloween is something that transcends the generations. Adults have fun being kids for a night. After all, we really do know how to have fun – it’s just that a few things have changed. I love haunted hayrides – the only difference is now I really shouldn’t drink a lot of liquid before I scream or laugh. If I choose to be a sexy nurse, I am going to have to wear the slimming “shapewear” underneath the fishnet hose. If I am going to be a clown, I will have to wear face primer so the make-up doesn’t get caught in my wrinkles. A ghost with a white sheet is sounding better all the time.
But I will keep pondering, hoping the perfect costume will materialize out of thin air (sorry, no witches, either). In the meantime, I will carve my pumpkins and decorate my front porch with scarecrows and a skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone”, and I will eat candy corn while scanning the websites for my perfect alter-ego. After all, tricks and treats aren’t just for kids, are they?
I am looking for an out of the box costume for Halloween. A homerun. A combination of cute, funny, fun, sexy and glamorous. Is that even possible? I mean, I don’t want to be predictable. (Why start now?)
There are a million costumes…it just is a challenge to find the right one. Google “Halloween costumes for women” and you get – you guessed it – angels, devils, maids, fairies, pirates and bunnies. Go figure. I want to be something much more memorable. Maybe Mommy Dearest or Sweet Baby Jane. Ok, so that is bringing out my dark side. But it is Halloween. Or I could go as one or more of my alter egos…such as Mary Poppins or Julie from the Love Boat. Or maybe Pepper Anderson from Policewoman. Even better, Betty White from anything she ever did. I also think I would make a great “Miss Kitty”, and maybe I could even pull off Cleopatra or a Geisha dancer, with the right wig.
Halloween is something that transcends the generations. Adults have fun being kids for a night. After all, we really do know how to have fun – it’s just that a few things have changed. I love haunted hayrides – the only difference is now I really shouldn’t drink a lot of liquid before I scream or laugh. If I choose to be a sexy nurse, I am going to have to wear the slimming “shapewear” underneath the fishnet hose. If I am going to be a clown, I will have to wear face primer so the make-up doesn’t get caught in my wrinkles. A ghost with a white sheet is sounding better all the time.
But I will keep pondering, hoping the perfect costume will materialize out of thin air (sorry, no witches, either). In the meantime, I will carve my pumpkins and decorate my front porch with scarecrows and a skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone”, and I will eat candy corn while scanning the websites for my perfect alter-ego. After all, tricks and treats aren’t just for kids, are they?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
And the winner is.....
Well, my unofficial poll is complete. Everyone I asked has told me that fall is their favorite time of year.
Those of us that live in the southern most northern part of the mid-west probably think of fall as our reward for the humid dog days of summer and the freezing chill of winter. I think actually that fall is pretty sneaky, and has a good sense of humor. Like for instance how to dress during this in-between season.
I will never forget when I was growing up I could not wait to wear my new back-to-school clothes; especially my Bobbie Brook pants and avocado green poncho – accessorized of course by my new clogs and macramé purse. My mother would warn me that by noon I’d be hot, and of course she was right. But I would go ahead sweat under that poncho, knowing I looked very Marsha Brady-ish.
I think maybe fall plays tricks on us to get us back because it seems like we are forgetting about it. Christmas decorations are already up for sale; each year it seems they get put out earlier and earlier. Who really buys Christmas decorations in June, anyway? Fall seems to be pushed aside…Christmas overshadowing Halloween, poinsettias and fruitcakes trumping pumpkins and miniature Snickers bars. The Halloween costume stores seem to go up and back down in the flash of a few weeks. I need more time than that to decide if I should be the good fairy or the bad fairy.
There are some sure things about fall that I know we can depend on: hot apple cider with rum (it’s good, try it) and squirrels doing gymnastics in my chestnut trees. Bright colored mums, large orange pumpkins and beautiful red apples still greet us at the market. The crock pot calls my name, and the grill is soon to be a distant memory. It’s time to switch to my russet and dark green and deep red throw pillows. The summer scents and flowers get replaced with gourds and cinnamon candles and the skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone.”
Fall, we have not forgotten you. Go ahead and take your time handing over the baton to winter. Let your amazingly beautiful leaves linger just a little bit longer before I have to jump-start the leaf blower. Keep giving us your gentle breezes, clear, crisp mornings and bright, starry nights. Let us plan our hayrides and bon fires and eat extra candy corn. We are begging you to stay as long as you want. So for now, the mittens and ice scrapers will just have to wait.
Those of us that live in the southern most northern part of the mid-west probably think of fall as our reward for the humid dog days of summer and the freezing chill of winter. I think actually that fall is pretty sneaky, and has a good sense of humor. Like for instance how to dress during this in-between season.
I will never forget when I was growing up I could not wait to wear my new back-to-school clothes; especially my Bobbie Brook pants and avocado green poncho – accessorized of course by my new clogs and macramé purse. My mother would warn me that by noon I’d be hot, and of course she was right. But I would go ahead sweat under that poncho, knowing I looked very Marsha Brady-ish.
I think maybe fall plays tricks on us to get us back because it seems like we are forgetting about it. Christmas decorations are already up for sale; each year it seems they get put out earlier and earlier. Who really buys Christmas decorations in June, anyway? Fall seems to be pushed aside…Christmas overshadowing Halloween, poinsettias and fruitcakes trumping pumpkins and miniature Snickers bars. The Halloween costume stores seem to go up and back down in the flash of a few weeks. I need more time than that to decide if I should be the good fairy or the bad fairy.
There are some sure things about fall that I know we can depend on: hot apple cider with rum (it’s good, try it) and squirrels doing gymnastics in my chestnut trees. Bright colored mums, large orange pumpkins and beautiful red apples still greet us at the market. The crock pot calls my name, and the grill is soon to be a distant memory. It’s time to switch to my russet and dark green and deep red throw pillows. The summer scents and flowers get replaced with gourds and cinnamon candles and the skeleton that sings “Bad to the Bone.”
Fall, we have not forgotten you. Go ahead and take your time handing over the baton to winter. Let your amazingly beautiful leaves linger just a little bit longer before I have to jump-start the leaf blower. Keep giving us your gentle breezes, clear, crisp mornings and bright, starry nights. Let us plan our hayrides and bon fires and eat extra candy corn. We are begging you to stay as long as you want. So for now, the mittens and ice scrapers will just have to wait.
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