Mom’s Little Helper

Throughout my school years, I was always one of the oldest kids in my class. It started with my missing the fall birthday deadline for kindergarten. Actually, it started with being born in January.

I attended the morning kindergarten class and have memories of walking the ½ block alley to and from school. I don’t remember if I walked alone, with someone else, or if my mom walked with me. But, considering she had three tykes (that’s what she called them) home with her at the time, the chances are fairly good I did NOT get a family escort.  

My typical school day routine included kindergarten, walking home, lunch, and then a nap. There was no negotiating about taking a nap. Everybody took a nap, including my mom who may have needed it more than or as much as we did.

With all my older siblings at school, that made me the oldest at home and also my mom’s little helper (or maybe her little shadow). I remember two ‘helper’ situations that occurred when my mom needed to take a phone call and I’m pretty sure both were for my dad’s insurance business.

In the years before answering machines, call waiting, and voicemail, phones used to ring… and ring… and ring. And they would ring (with one distinctive sound – no choosing a special ring tone) until the phone was answered, or the caller gave up trying and hung up. On this particular day the phone rang, and before my mom left to grab it, I was given the task to stir the scrambled eggs for lunch.

We had a little metal pan with a wooden handle that my mom used for making lunch-sized or smaller amounts of food. This pan was being used that day and I’m fairly certain I needed to stand on a chair to be at the right height to stir the eggs. I don’t remember if I knew how to turn off the gas stove, or if I did, if I understood that once it was off, the eggs would stop cooking. I just remember not wanting the scrambled eggs to burn (this might even have been part of my mom’s hurried instructions to me).

When the eggs were done, I took the pan off the stove and scanned the kitchen for a place to set it down. The pan was small enough for me to handle, but it was also very hot. From my age six perspective, I found the perfect spot at the perfect height. I chose one of the chrome kitchen chairs…to be more exact, the cushioned seat of the chair. Oh yeah, these chairs had plastic or vinyl covered cushions. I have a vague memory that as I set the pan down, it seemed to gently settle into the seat cushion. There also must have been a burning or melting plastic smell when I did this, but that isn’t part of my memory.

What I remember is my mom coming back into the kitchen and asking me, ‘Where are the scrambled eggs?”

I pointed to the chair. My horrified mom quickly went to retrieve the pan, and as she lifted the pan by the handle, a perfect melted circle of cushion came with it, leaving a perfect matching pan-sized circle hole in the chair. It was a chair we weren’t able to use again, until my dad re-cushioned it.

Another time, my mother was feeding butterscotch pudding (I remember the color and we only made the cooked variety) to my baby sister in her highchair. Again the phone rang. My mom handed me the bowl of butterscotch pudding to continue feeding my sister. With the bowl and spoon came strict instructions to spoon from underneath the pudding film or coating so that my sister wouldn’t choke. I had seen my mother do it many times, so I carefully followed her spoon instructions, scooping the pudding from the bowl to my sister, who kind of resembled a hungry little bird waiting anxiously for every spoonful. Only as I continued feeding her, it got more difficult for me to scoop from under the pudding and then I got a great idea. What if I stirred it all together? Wouldn’t that make everything all smooth? Well, of course I did it and of course, after only a few mouthfuls of pudding, my sister started choking. Again my mom was quick to the rescue.

A highlight of my kindergarten year was being chosen by one of the high school girls from the home economics class to model one of her sewn outfits in the high school fashion show. My very modest mother hadn’t thought to ask what I would be wearing when she gave her okay. She almost had a heart attack when I came parading down the runway in baby doll pajamas. After the show, I remember Mom saying something like, ‘What was she thinking letting a little girl show that much skin?”

I wish I had a picture of me in those baby doll pajamas, or at least a school picture from when I was in kindergarten, but I was sick on picture day. I know this because it’s the only time I remember the doctor coming to our house when I was sick. I remember him holding his black bag and standing next to the couch telling my mom I was too sick to go to school. Two things possibly happened after that – I cried and I was given 7up. The first one is a given. The second was our favorite sick remedy and the only time we got soda/pop – except for weddings and the yearly Lady Forester picnics. I’ll have to write about those two events another time.

Tangled in the Web of Spider Solitaire

In my basement, is a 2002 Dell dinosaur of a computer that has reached its memory and software limits. Of the seven or so factory-loaded game options on my computer, I have only one game loaded and that is Spider Solitaire.

I have often prided myself that I only play it when I am waiting…

• For some water to boil
• For my dinner vegetables to finish cooking in the microwave
• For the dryer to buzz when it finishes tumbling some clothes
• For the washer to fill with water
• For my little Pampered Chef timer to tell me the 5 minutes and 37 seconds I had allotted myself to play a QUICK game have ended.

This morning, I decided to play a couple of games of Spider Solitaire while I waited for my coffee to finish brewing. Out of the blue, I decided to check my game stats to see how many times I had played since the last time I had out of the blue decided to check (and clear) my stats.

I clicked on the stats option and the little stat box listed the number of games I had won and the number of games I had lost, with the total number of games I had played at 1069 games. What?! Never mind how many games I won or how many games I lost. Although, I’ll admit the second number was larger than the first one. The only number kicking me in the pants was 1069. That’s a lot of water boiling, vegetables cooking, dryer buzzing, waiting, don’t you think?

So while my coffee got cold, I decided to grab my calculator and do some number crunching. I should probably add a disclaimer, but I think (hope) you’ll be able to follow my calculations.

1069 X 5 (I guesstimated 5 minutes for the average game) = 5345 minutes

5345 divided by 60 (minutes in an hour – I so hope I did it right) = 89 hours

89 divided by 24 = 3.9 (24-hour) DAYS!

Only get this, it gets better (or worse). I decided to think of it as vacation days from work. If I were logging it that way, I’d be listing it as 8 hours per day. So when I divided 3.9 days (or 89 hours) by 8, I got 11.125 VACATION DAYS! That’s A LOT of vacation days!

Can you believe it? I can almost feel my life slipping away as I type these revealing words. Just think – these 3.9 days of being tangled in the web of Spider Solitaire only represent the time played since the last time I cleared my stats. Prior to today, I hadn’t thought to note the time span between my stat checking (not that I even want to or will ever do it), but with this post, I now have a starting point.

Here’s the deal. I seriously don’t have time to do all the things I want and need to do in my life. Sound familiar? Oftentimes, when people ask me when my next book is coming out, I wonder to myself when the heck I can possibly fit writing and illustrating and publishing another book into my life. I know all too well how all-encompassing it was to complete my first book, The House that Wanted a Family. And although every moment spent tweaking the words and finalizing the drawings was absolutely pure joy, it was also time-consuming and exhausting. Almost every non-working moment and activity of my life needed to be rearranged or paused for months.

Life is all about choices. I love playing games and think it is time well spent, especially when I get to play games with other people. I think online games serve a purpose too.

• They can be fun and relaxing.
• They can keep us mentally challenged and stimulated, and help our brain stay engaged and healthy.
• They can be played with another person via some super whiz technology that is available today.
• They can be part of some competition we have with friends, co-workers, or loved ones.
• They might even be keeping us from some other vice or bad habit.

But, the question I am asking myself is, “What else could I be doing with this time?

I can’t get those 5345 minutes back, but I am resolving to use my future minutes more wisely – like really engaging with my loved ones or working on my next book or maybe taking action with some of my good intentions. And let’s face it; I’m also going to spend it playing a game or two or three of Spider Solitaire.  

That’s all for now; I have some real springtime cleaning and cobweb removal to do today. How about you?

Things to do this Week

Don’t Squeeze the Bread!

Growing up in a small town almost smack dab in the middle of Wisconsin, back in the late 50’s through the 60’s meant for the most part, my family and I lived a fairly quiet and almost ‘Leave-it-to-Beaver’ kind of life. And although our mother did not wear pearls and heels around the house, she did wear a dress and an apron almost every single day.

Every once in a while, exciting and out-of-the-ordinary things happened, like the time the circus came to town and set up their big tent in the school playground less than a block from our house. My siblings and I spent every possible minute we could watching the circus crew and performers while they setup the various tents, practiced their stunts and routines, and fed and trained the animals. We stood along the chain link fence that bordered the playground and whenever possible, got as near to the tent opening as they would allow us, peering at the happenings in absolute awe and wonder. Someone from the circus asked us if we would be going to the show. We told them no, we didn’t have money for the tickets. The exact details after that are somewhat foggy; I just remember someone from the circus ended up giving us tickets to the show. And to us, it was without a doubt, the greatest show on earth.

Thunder and lightning storms always brought their own kind of excitement too, and part of the excitement was when the lights went out. One night when this happened, our whole family (after pulling the blankets off our beds) camped out on the living room floor with candles in big metal pots as our only light, while our mom made popcorn…lots of popcorn.  

Along with bad storms, came our routine of heading to the basement with our mom. Once in the basement, we would stay there until the storm passed. For some reason, bad weather and storms always seemed to happen when our dad was at work or not home. I’m not sure everyone else felt the same way that I did, but to me, surrounded by my mom and siblings, I always felt safe.

One particular storm memory is when a tornado just barely missed our town. Shortly before the storm, my mom had sent me on an errand to Miller’s Bakery on Main Street to get 4 loaves of bread. After being given the money, she also gave me her standard instructions, “Now remember, don’t squeeze the bread.”

Besides the obvious heavenly aromas and dozens of beautifully baked temptations to drool over, I loved this errand and I also happened to be good at it. Now, I had figured out exactly how to hold and carry the bag securely without squeezing the contents. The latter was very important, as my mom HATED squeezed and misshaped bread.

On this particular visit, I remember having the hairnet-wearing clerk ask me as she handed me the brown paper bag of bread, “Little girl, do you have far to go? There is going to be a bad storm.”

I told her no, I just lived over the railroad tracks. Picture in your mind a roughly 3 block distance; don’t picture the 3 or 4 rows of railroad tracks that I had to cross at about the age of 8 years old. It was a shortcut and saved me from having to walk an extra block home. It was the route my siblings and I took all the time.

As I left the bakery, I must have been oblivious to any dark threatening clouds or the scary pre-storm stillness. I just remember as I safely crossed the railroad tracks and the road, with a little less than 2 blocks until home, the sky opened up and I was pelted with the heaviest rain of my life (to this day). Along with the rain came hail, followed by a fierce and intense wind that almost blew me off my feet. It made walking very difficult and all around me the wind was blowing tree branches and leaves and assorted debris everywhere.

As I pushed myself in the direction of home, I kept telling myself over and over again, ‘Don’t squeeze the bread!” But, somewhere along the way, I thought I’d get in bigger trouble if I let the bag fly away and got home with no bread, so I decided to hold on to that bag…for dear life. As I got half way down the block, while passing the elementary school, out of nowhere I was lifted up… into the arms of one of the janitors. He ran with me to the school, where the other janitor was waiting safely inside. They recognized me as one of the Spence kids. I was drenched and scared, and of course I was crying. I had squeezed the bread.

After the storm passed, one of them drove me home and walked me to the door. My frantic mother answered the door and pulled me into her arms and held me there. All I remember is crying.

Through tears I both confessed and apologized that I had squeezed the bread. I’m guessing when my mom saw the state of the weather beaten bag; she already knew what the contents looked like. I just know it was the only time I remember her not seeming to care that every loaf of bread and probably every slice was squeezed beyond recognition. Later my older sister told me, somewhat disgustedly, that they had been down in the basement praying for me and my safety for what seemed like hours.

It wasn’t until years after our mother had died, when our aunt from Ireland came to visit and told us our mom had always been terrified of storms. Mom had never told us and we had never known. We had learned firsthand that there is safety in numbers and true comfort in being together.

I think she’d be pleased to know that none of us kids are afraid of storms. And I think she might get a kick out of knowing that I grew up to be pretty picky about my bread… and my produce.

Childhood Memories

Isn’t it fascinating the things we remember and the things we don’t. Growing up in a large family, it is safe to say most of my childhood memories and photographs include at least one family member. Actually, most if not all of my childhood photographs (and there aren’t many of them), include A LOT more than just one family member.

My Oldest Sister and Me (18 Months – Same Day as Family Photo)

My earliest memory is from when I was less than 2 years old. I’ve heard that an extremely traumatic or painful experience can help cement a memory, and in my case, pain was involved. I would have never known my age, except after sharing this story with my older sisters, they were able to piece together the timing based on some of the details I had remembered. They figured out that it happened when my younger brother was born and the two of us happen to be exactly 18 months apart. It was also the only time they remembered our grandmother (we called her Granny) staying with us when one of ‘the babies’ was born. In our family birth order, I’m 8^th and this baby brother would later be followed by the last two siblings, a boy and a girl.

Family Photo w/me at 18 Months

My memory is of me running along with my siblings, from the one bathroom in our house to our parents’ bedroom closet. As soon as my siblings made it to either of these two places, they would immediately slam the door. For some reason, I’m betting it had something to do with the fact that I was running while wearing a diaper, I never seemed to get to either location in time before the door closed. I remember there was a lot of commotion and noise, along with a lot of laughing. Interestingly enough, that would actually still describe a typical Spence gathering to this day. Anyway, the door would fly open and they would all bolt out. The whole process would repeat all over again, from bathroom to closet and from closet to bathroom. Only here’s the part that made it a lifelong memory. I know I was too young to strategize, so I’m thinking, I probably was far enough from the door when it closed, that when the running progressed, I just turned around and started running with the pack. I finally made it to the closet, just in time to have the door slam closed … on my little fingers. The next thing I remember is sitting up high (on the kitchen counter) with Granny standing right in front of me. And standing next to Granny on both sides are my somber-faced siblings. That’s about all I remember. Although I am very happy to report that to this day, I still have all my fingers and they all work perfectly.

Now fast forward to when I was about 4 or 5 years old. Our family belonged to the one Catholic Church in our town and it was at most about a mile from our house. Back then, we had a big yellow station wagon and we would travel to and from places all packed inside. Based on my age, there would have been 12 of us, including my mom and dad, as the baby of the family hadn’t been born yet. It was summer. I remember I was wearing my favorite yellow dress, with no jacket or sweater. On this particular Sunday after Mass, my parents were standing on the sidewalk talking to some people and I am guessing my siblings were scattered talking or playing with friends or each other. I was kind of a dreamy little kid. I remember being in the grassy field next to the church and just meandering and taking in my little corner of the world. I was looking at the flowers that were growing in somewhat wild abandon along the side of the brick church…daisies, I think. One minute the street was filled with cars and the sidewalk with people, and the next minute they all were gone, except for one car and one couple. The couple noticed me standing all alone. They recognized me as one of the Spence kids and offered to give me a ride home. Only, I did NOT recognize them; to me they were strangers. I knew I was not allowed to ever take a ride with strangers – period. And that is exactly what I told them. They must have talked for a few moments. Because instead of getting a ride, I walked the whole way home, with them trailing alongside me in their car, driving … at… a… snail’s… pace. When I got home, my mom had either just realized I hadn’t made it home or maybe she had never even noticed I was gone. Heck, she had 10 kids and I wasn’t one of the noisy ones. I just remember when I showed up at the door, along with my new stranger friends in tow, getting hugged by my mom…tight.

One thing I don’t remember is being scarred or traumatized from my being left behind. Maybe my birth order had something to do with it or maybe my guardian angel was working overtime that day. Whatever the reason, I just remember being very happy and grateful to be home.

In My Favorite Yellow Dress

Carrying Serenity

My word for today is serenity. This word caught my attention in the wee hours of the morning yesterday, as I was reading Simple Abundance. Tucked in the middle of a paragraph were the words …we carry our serenity with us.

It’s been an awful week of news and this is just a small reporting of it. While the United States has yet to heal from the Sandy Hook Shootings and all the previous shootings before that, on Monday we were hit with the heartbreaking horror at the Boston Marathon. On Wednesday, there was the earth shattering devastation from a fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas. And for weeks now, North Korea’s leader has been threatening his nuclear muscle power and far too many wars are still ravaging throughout parts of the world. While nature wreaked havoc with earthquakes and floods and spring blizzards all across the globe, we were all reminded yet again, how fragile and vulnerable life can be.

I’m thinking serenity is a good word to ponder and carry with us this weekend. Even the synonyms for serenity (per Merriam-Webster) are powerful and beautiful words.

• Calmness
• Hush
• Peace
• Peacefulness
• Placidity
• Quiet
• Repose
• Restfulness
• Calm
• Still
• Tranquility

While catastrophic accidents and the aftermath of natural disasters can leave us broken and battered, when a fellow human being senselessly decides to randomly destroy innocent lives, it is beyond our ability to comprehend.

I am always grateful and proud to be an American. This week had me standing taller and prouder and feeling more united, along with 315+ million others, than ever before. The name, our name, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA seemed to resonate in my thoughts and throughout these days. I am once again renewed and reminded what these amazing and simple words truly mean.

I was with many of you this week, holding my breath (often through tears) watching the news, and later waiting for the police and FBI agents to find the suspects in the Boston Marathon bombings. Thanks to their valiant efforts and courage, along with watchful citizens, sheltered in place, they were able to finally apprehend Suspect Number 2.

As this case unfolds, we will wait to see if we ever find out why these young men did such cowardly and horrific acts of violence. Did someone or some group train them or put them up to these acts? What class or lesson or rule did Suspect 1 and 2 miss, not learn, or decide to ignore? Why couldn’t they have chosen serenity and love and empathy, instead of choosing to carry bombs in their backpacks? How did they miss the message to love one another?

My heart breaks for everyone who is left to pick up the pieces of their lives, be they from Boston, or Texas, or miles and oceans away.

Bullying has become just one of the many hot topics we hear and read about every day. Schools and teachers and administrators are under fire to stop children from bullying. Parents are encouraged and reminded to teach their children appropriate behavior and to stress the rules, including or maybe especially the GOLDEN RULE – to treat others the way you want to be treated.

Isn’t that the key?  If everyone practiced or lived by this simple rule, wouldn’t it be a different world? I firmly believe each and every human being on the planet has the potential to make a difference in the world. And it doesn’t take big action or a lot of time to make a difference in someone’s life today; it is just making a choice to do it.

• Maybe it will be your smile that makes the difference for someone.
• Maybe it will be you simply saying, ‘hello, or please, or thank you, or excuse me, or I’m sorry.’
• Maybe it will be some simple random act of kindness – like waving someone into your lane of traffic, cleaning up after yourself whether at home or out in the world, or treating a waitress/barista/grocery clerk/hotel maid/bus driver/cleaning person/babysitter/postal worker/stranger you meet along your way, or even a neighbor, family member, or co-worker, with kindness and respect.
• Maybe it will be in the prayers you say for all of humanity.
• Maybe it will be in the serenity that you carry with you and share with others.
• Maybe we could do these things every day.

The world, especially the world right where we are at this very moment in time, can be a different place…one hand holding moment, one word of gratitude, one act of kindness, one wave, one hug, or one smile at a time.

And just maybe there is someone, or a lot of some ones needing a reminder of the basic rules for being human. I did a little digging and found these saved words by Dr. Chérie Carter-Scott. I thought they were worth sharing.

The Rules for Being Human

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire period of this time around.
2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called Life. Each day in this school you will have the opportunity to learn lessons. You may like the lessons or think them irrelevant or stupid.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial and error: Experimentation. The “failed” experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiment that ultimately “works”.
4. A lesson is repeated until learned. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can then go on to the next lesson.
5. Learning lessons does not end. There is no part of life that does not contain its lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.
6. “There” is no better than “here.” When your “there” has become a “here,” you will simply obtain another “there” that will again look better than “here.”
7. Others are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects something you love or hate about yourself.
8. What you make of your life is up to you. You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.
9. Your answers lie inside you. The answers to Life’s questions lie inside you. All you need to do is look, listen and trust.
10. You will forget all of this.  

Dr. Chérie Carter-Scott

Precious Fan Mail

Yesterday I received some hand-delivered, book-related fan mail. And, I have to tell you that anytime I receive something related to my book, The House that Wanted a Family, even if it is just the words that a child enjoyed or loved my story; my heart melts a little bit.

Back in December I blogged about being a ‘Words of Affirmation’ person, and I shared some of the acknowledging and sweet words that I had received since publishing my story. Since then, I have been intending to put together a blog post with some of the letters and drawings I have also received over the past year. But good intentions and actions don’t always coincide. I’m thinking you may be able to relate. Only today, I am taking action. Today, I’d like to share a few of these heart melters with you.

This first one is what I was given yesterday. It is from a very precocious 5 year old girl named, Emily. I happen to work with her grandmother and Emily’s home school assignment was to write about being 100 years old. Her sweet handwritten words got me all choked up.

When I am 100 Years Old by Emily

Next are three gems I received from first graders who wrote a thank you and drew a picture of my house and another one of my town on the hill. As Charles Caleb Colton said, ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” I am most definitely flattered. To see a little someone use my book or illustrations for their inspiration…well, I hardly can put it into words. I received these from one of the first grade classes at Jefferson Lighthouse Elementary School in Racine, Wisconsin, after I donated a signed copy of my book to their library.

Thank You I Love the Book

A 6 Year Old View of my House

First Grade Drawing of THTWAF Hill

Finally, this beautifully illustrated note of congratulations came from my very talented and creative sister, Ann. I truly wish every one of you had a sister like Ann. I also wish that everyone in the world could get some type of precious fan mail. Now, wouldn’t that be something? Just know that as long as it continues to come my way, I promise to share it with you at some future date. Until then, stay well and stay tuned.

Congrats Art by Ann Spence

One Year Anniversary

Today is the one year anniversary of when my book, The House that Wanted a Family, was published and became available online. So much has happened and I have learned so much over the course of this year, I can scarcely take it in. I have been blogging and tweeting on Twitter and writing on Facebook since November 2012. And although I haven’t quite made the NY Times bestseller list, yet (alright, I’m not even close), I still continue to dream big dreams.

I’d like to thank all of you for joining me on this journey so far. Today I received an update of all the views on my blog from day one, by country. I was amazed and humbled to see that people in 28 different countries around the world have checked in at least once. I thought you might enjoy seeing all the different countries too.

Blog Views by Country

Please continue to check in and stay connected. And feel free to write a comment, or even a review if you ever feel inclined to do so. Being a words of affirmation person, I love hearing from you. And until then, here’s to the next year!

Fish Stick Fridays

I recently had an opportunity to return to the Catholic grade school where I spent first through sixth grade. Not surprisingly, in the several decades since I last walked the halls, some things have changed. The walls are now painted a much brighter hue and much of the décor has been redone. But let me tell you, as soon as I found myself in the stairwells, I felt a strong urge to immediately get in a line along the railing and stop talking. Keeping quiet, ‘no talking’ and using inside voices were all hard and fast rules in every grade.

Lunch time in the school cafeteria or gym was just one of the many places we were supposed to sit quietly. The gym did double duty as the cafeteria and the lunch times were divided with the lower grades eating first and by the time they headed out to recess, the higher grades were coming down for lunch.

So just a few weeks ago, as I sat at what I recall being the second grade section of tables in the cafeteria, on one of the same cold metal folding chairs I had sat on countless times as a child, surrounded by all my siblings, as well as my daughter and son-in-law, a flood gate opened up and a wave of memories of being in this same place washed over me.

I remember…

Our hairnet wearing cafeteria cooks who made us hot lunch every day. They were local moms, some who lived in town and some from area farms, but all were great cooks. The only one I remember by name was Molly. She was always kind and it felt like she was everyone’s grandma. I was somewhat of a picky eater back then. Although I know a couple of friends who when reading this post might question, “back then?” Anyway, I lived in dread of lunches that consisted of chili, chili con carne hot dish, strange vegetables, Spanish rice, macaroni and cheese, and grilled cheese sandwiches.

These last two options were only served on Fridays and were basically part of a 3-week rotation. This was back in the day when Catholics could not eat meat on Fridays. One week we’d have macaroni and cheese, the next week would be grilled cheese sandwiches, and the next was my absolute favorite – fish sticks. Fish sticks were always served with two half slices of buttered homemade bread (I’d make a sandwich) and applesauce. I’m not sure what else we got, but I remember always eating everything on my plate on Fish Stick Fridays. Other favorite menu items of mine were fried Spam and buttered homemade bread (I always made a sandwich), turkey and gravy over real honest to goodness mashed potatoes, glorified rice (with crushed pineapple and whipped cream), hot cross buns, and my favorite cake on the planet (at least in grade school), Molly’s Cake. I didn’t know what it was called back then, I only knew it was super moist and had dates, chocolate chips, and nuts on top. I loved that cake. I could usually gauge if I was going to like a meal or not by the distinctive aromas that started making their way into our class rooms shortly before lunch time. To this day, certain food smells can still trigger all sorts of memories for me. Some of them are definitely better than others.

I also remember…

The school had a lady janitor (who I will refrain from naming, although her German last name had about 16 syllables) who doubled as the plate scraper (probably not the official job title) and every single kid lived in fear of her, or maybe just the picky eaters like me, because nothing escaped her. She did not hesitate to send you back to the table to finish what was on your plate. So if you couldn’t eat it or trade it, you had better get creative about how you were going to get rid of it before returning to her table with your tray.

As a first grader, I hadn’t learned all the ropes yet, so either I wasn’t real good about trading food or I didn’t even know it was a possibility. I remember that of all the days in the week, I came to dread Fridays. I quickly learned that a child-sized serving of macaroni and cheese fit almost perfectly in a milk carton. And either I got really good at it or the plate scraper got really busy, but I never got caught hiding my macaroni and cheese in my milk carton.

On grilled cheese sandwich day I had a whole different solution for getting rid of it. I always wore a sweater with pockets and I’d take a couple of extra napkins. I would secretly transport the wrapped sandwich to the girls’ bathroom where I would break it apart and flush it down the toilet. Or at least that was what I did until I realized grilled cheese sandwiches don’t flush well. I only learned this after all the first grade girls had to lineup and one at a time go out into the hallway and answer Sister Marie Antoine’s question of who had flushed a grilled cheese sandwich down the toilet. I lied. I know. Both of those sins (the flushing and the lying about it) were a part of my first heartfelt confession in 2^nd grade. They were also part of my second confession, and my third confession, and my fourth confession. That is until the priest assured me God had forgiven me long before. Things get a little foggy after that. I can’t remember if I started trading or giving away my sandwiches, but I’m thinking there is a pretty good chance until that happened, I threw them away. I remember always being really fond of sweaters with pockets…even to this day.

Fast forward to a number of years later, when I was in between my freshmen and sophomore years of college and during the winter lay off from my mobile home factory job; this was the school where I offered to volunteer. The principal jumped at my offer to help and had me there basically full time throughout the 4 – 5 months I was off work. I became the Physical Education teacher for all 8 grades (I’m not making that up), 2^nd grade reading tutor, 5^th grade math tutor (even that is funny) and noon hour recess supervisor. You might ask what I got out of the bargain. Well, I’ll tell you – I got a free lunch. I also got to eat in the teacher’s lounge (forbidden territory when I was a kid), which was also the school library except at lunch time.

The same plate scraper/janitor was still working there. And so was Molly, my favorite cook. I remember loving the adult freedom of now being able to take what I wanted to eat, instead of automatically being given it. The teachers brought their trays directly back to the kitchen, which means I also avoided the plate scraper. And even after all the years, fish sticks still were a hit and I still made a sandwich with them.

Writing this has made me realize I have a lot more stories to write about from grade school. I could write about the nuns, and first crushes, and school plays, and picture day, and sick days, and sleep overs, and recess, and jumping rope, and riding the bus, and pagan babies and heathens (what my mother called us when we started eating before praying or what she termed people – some Catholics we knew – who ate meat on no-meat Fridays). But, those stories will have to wait for another time.

Like all volunteering, you don’t get paid for your time or services. But for me besides the free lunch, I got to spend some special moments with my nieces who were students at the time, and I also made some great friends with the teachers, school staff, and other volunteers. My experiences there made me realize I wanted to go back to school and get my teaching degree, something I later did. And Molly was tickled to hear how much I had enjoyed her and her cooking talents when I was young. She happily shared her recipes for Westhaven Cake and Hot Cross Buns. And to me, all of that was payment enough.

Molly’s Recipes

Recipe Note: I accidentally missed including the back information from the Hot Cross Buns recipe.
Side 2: Should make 4 dozen. Just before baking, you can cut a cross in the top of each bun or just ice the cross. No temperature was given, but I’m guessing 350 would do it.
Note from me: I haven’t made this recipe, but I remember they were WONDERFUL!

Struggling with the Words

Remember me? I know I’ve been away from blogging for a while and although I’ve been jotting down my thoughts, I’ve also been struggling with the words. Not only what to say, but also having the time and the energy to say or share them. About a week ago, I caught some type of bug that has had me down for the count. I’m happy to report that I’m on the mend and feeling unbelievably better, thanks to some miracle drugs; one that is curing my infection and one that is helping me sleep without coughing.

But there is another reason for my word lapse. Earlier this month, there was a death in my family. One of my brother-in-laws died unexpectedly and I’m still having a hard time believing he is gone.

He had been a huge part of our family for more than 50 years, and many of my memories include him. Family was important to him, especially the family he shared with my sister, whom he loved and cherished in a way few people ever get to realize. Together they raised seven lovely daughters, who over the years added five amazing men to their numbers, and also nine grandchildren.

It was the first time in nine years that all my siblings were together. The last time had been for a funeral too. So we came together from across the miles, along with hundreds of extended family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers to celebrate my brother-in-law’s life. We also came to share our love and condolences, and to reminisce. We told many hilarious stories of his practical jokes and antics, his ability to drive people crazy, as well as his ability to fix just about anything. He was a one-of-kind character and I can’t imagine there ever being anyone like him. As you can imagine, the weekend was full of hugging, and laughter, and tears.

Although our family is rather large by anyone’s standards, when one person dies, it leaves a gaping hole that isn’t easily mended and one that cannot be replaced. I think that it is true in any size family.

When I was young and my mother died, I didn’t understand all the laughter and joy that I saw people experiencing at her funeral. I couldn’t understand how people seemed to be going on with their lives, seemingly oblivious to the pain and brokenness that my siblings and I were experiencing. But that is exactly what happens. The world keeps on spinning and people, especially those not directly impacted by the loss; go on with the business of living. Even those who are grieving need to go on. Even when it seems impossible and when the future looks so different than what had been imagined.  

And although it isn’t often a topic people want to discuss, death is something we all share and something we’ll all experience firsthand someday. An unexpected death should remind us all that we truly do not know the day, or the hour when it will be our time to say good bye. Hopefully, we’ll get a chance to say goodbye. But that often is not the case, as it was with my brother-in-law. Death should also remind us not to hold back. Say the words. Whatever words you’ve been meaning to say. Say them. Speak your words of love and forgiveness and affection. Speak them often. Take the time. Make the call. Send the note. And know that you too are important in the fabric of your family. We all are.

A Lover of Words

For as long as I can remember, I have been a collector and lover of words.

As a young child, I remember sitting captivated at my dad’s feet as he read to my siblings and me the book, Casey at the Bat. It wasn’t so much the story, as much as it was hearing his deep voice reading the beautiful poetry of the words to us that left me mesmerized.

My grandfather was a wonderful storyteller, as was my granny too. I could listen to them and my parents for hours, as they told and retold stories from their childhoods and their lives. But it was my grandfather who would have us on the edge of our seats as he told us exciting and amazing adventure stories from growing up in Poland, emigrating to America at 17, becoming a lumberjack in Northern Wisconsin when the once prolific giant white pines covered the north woods, marrying my granny, clearing rocky formidable land and turning it into farmland, surviving the Great Depression, raising a family of 7 children, and so many more stories from his life. Such a rich and lasting legacy they each left me and my entire family with these stories and their words.

Along with this love of words came a love for reading too. A favorite childhood memory is spending hours at my town’s public library, generally on a Saturday afternoon when morning chores were done. I can still remember breathing in that distinctive one-of-a-kind library and book smell, and how I would take my time carefully choosing the books I would carry home for the week. Oftentimes I would choose the same treasured books over and over again.

Words continued to captivate me in high school. No surprise that anything English was always a favorite subject of mine. I recently discovered a gift from a friend in a basement box. It was a book of quotes and poetry, and was perfectly entitled: The Treasure Chest, edited by Charles L. Wallis. It contained a plethora of thought-provoking and beautiful words that gifted me with hours of reading enjoyment.

Still to this day I collect words. I save —

• Extra special cards and letters that have been sent to me.
• Emails that have touched me.
• Texts that have made me laugh or cry or just feel loved.
• Voicemails that have warmed my heart.
• Words that have been torn out and maybe tucked or buried in a drawer, a folder, a box, or a paper pile waiting for the right moment or person or reason to do something with them.

I just realized that in every room of my house, I have words. Come on, I’ll take you on a tour and share some of them with you.

Irish Blessing from Beaver Island

• In the kitchen, I have a framed print in my coffee bar area that reads: FRESH ROASTED COFFEE SERVED HERE. On my bookshelf is a boxed reminder to LIVE SIMPLY and my Scrabble refrigerator magnets spell out the word EUCHARISTEO.
• My chalkboard door still has the scribbled words of love my daughter left the last time she was home. They remind me daily of her love.
• In my living room is the word, LAUGH. A sparkly WISH sits on my piano and a framed PEACE TO ALL WHO ENTER HERE greets visitors who come in the front door.
• Above the hallway bookshelf are framed words from a sisters’ weekend gift exchange, FAITH FAMILY FRIENDS.
• Even in my bathroom there is a sister gift of window tiles that spell out: LOVE.
• In my bedroom, a wooden Irish blessing hangs over my bed. Above my closet is the word, PEACE. It is the first word that greets me every morning when I wake up, and next to my dresser is a favorite reminder word and goal, SIMPLIFY.
• Not surprisingly, my studio has the most words. Besides the countless bound versions of both my words and others’, I have words that are framed and engraved on mugs and tacked onto my bulletin board. Other favorite words and verses I have hand lettered, mostly on post-it notes and I have them posted along the window frame. These words continue to inspire and encourage and motivate me. They also remind me to smile or take myself less seriously, and sometimes can even make me laugh out loud. A brick with the word GRACE sits quietly on the bookshelf.

As you can see, I really am a lover of words. I’m thinking there’s a pretty good chance that you are one too. And although the list above is a pretty good sampling of some of my favorite words, there just isn’t enough space or time to list all of them. So for now, I’ll just share a few of them with you…HUGS, BLESSINGS, and PEACE.

Hallmark Peace by Marjorlein Bastin