EAT TO LIVE. AT LEAST FOR SIX WEEKS...

A few weeks ago, I read the book Eat to Live.  Having been told of this book by a former coworker, I was admittedly curious.  But the main reason I read the book was because I wanted to confirm my suspicion that Dr. Joel Furhman qualifies as:

1)      A man trying so hard to sell his book , he has resorted to boldface lies, and/or

2)      A pie-in-the-sky, filled with malarkey, medical QUACK 

Unfortunately, after several chapters I began to realize this guy makes some very good points.  I was so confident I’d uncover a charlatan, yet the doctor had me questioning myself by chapter 2.  

So am I a believer?  Not yet.  But I am definitely intrigued.  I’ll tell you now; I lost two pounds just READING the book.  My husband finds this amusing.  My guilt was such that on more than one occasion and before I had even finished the book, I found myself passing up chocolate and French fries.  Furhman's argument was so convincing, I actually researched recipes, went to the local produce store, and COOKED a pile of collard greens so large I had to process it in BATCHES.  (I do not recommend this.  Any of it.  Not the researching, not the buying, not the cooking.)  DO NOT buy collard greens in huge quantities.  In fact, don’t buy them at all.  Especially if you are going to try a vegetarian recipe in an attempt to coerce your daughter to help you eat them.  (Misery loves company and all that rot…) I cleaned and chopped like Mario Batali.  I blanched carefully in vegetable broth with my awesome hand carved wooden spoon.  I removed each individual leafy strip as instructed and at the precise moment between bitter and “sweet”, the color reaching a glorious spring green climax. I seasoned.  Those leaves were barely palatable warm, and one day later- those nasty greens tasted conspicuously and decidedly like rancid seaweed.  (Not that I've ever knowingly ingested seaweed…like I said, I’m more of a chocolate and French fries girl…) Maybe Paula Deen makes edible collard greens.  She adds smoked meat, red pepper sauce and butter (otherwise known as three ingredients explicitly designed to MASK the flavor of rancid seaweed….)  But I digress.

Back to the book.  Consider these outlandish claims. Dr. Furhman asserts that by following his dietary suggestions for nutritional excellence, his patients have become well enough to discontinue blood pressure medications, reverse type 2 diabetes, and unclog their nasty bypass-bound arteries.  He proclaims that the foods he suggests protect the body against several cancers.  Oh, and something that sounds entirely too good to be true, his followers allegedly reach and maintain an ideal body weight.  Without hunger. 

So today I embarked on a 6 week trial of his greens and beans plan for healthy eating.  I will save you the horror of getting a daily update on my progress and accomplish this by posting just once more in 6 weeks.  The entire painstaking process in one fell swoop.  Be assured there will be whining.  I never diet without whining.  Ask my husband. 

There will be enormous quantities of raw vegetables per day.  This includes greens. (Oh yippee...)  There will be similar amounts of cooked vegetables each day.  But not the starchy ones I so enjoy…you know, lovely fluffy potatoes, sweet corn…. (Those will be eaten too, but in a limited way.)  There will be seeds and raw nuts.  The backyard birds and I can commiserate.  There will be fruit, lots of fresh fruit.  And don’t forget the legumes.  One cup of flatulence each day with my leafy green lunch. 

What there WON’T be is anything with a nutritional label.  Nothing processed.  Nothing salty.  No sugar.  No animal proteins (except a very occasional egg.)  There will be no dairy.  No milk, NO CHEESE ! (That one was almost a deal breaker... how will I survive 6 weeks without cheddar cheese?!)  I have to say goodbye to white bread.  And pasta.  NO PASTA! (Of course what good is pasta when you can’t have cheese?!)

Are you feeling sorry for me yet?  Do you want to join me?  I've got pages of scribble on a yellow legal pad, copious notes about what I’ll eat for each meal.  I wanted to throw myself off a cliff by the time I got to the end of week three planning so in a moment of laziness, I decided I’ll give up six weeks’ worth of variety and just eat it all TWICE.

Stay tuned, you “weak of willpower” and “strong of taste buds.”  I will take one for the team and let you know at the end of October if the claims are true.  (This assumes I will still have the energy to type, that I will not have grown bunny ears and hopped off in search of Mr. McGregor's garden, and that I will not have shriveled up and died from starvation.)  

Wish me luck and DO NOT under ANY circumstances eat anything delicious in front of me. 

MY FIRST JOB

I was a couple of years shy of 15 in this picture.  That's me with the handbag, the pigtails and the patriotic shoes.  

Always trying to impress my mother, I attempted to follow in her footsteps.  I applied for my first job as a dipper of ice cream at the same Dairy for which she worked during her teen years in the mid-1950s. 

They hired my 15-year old freckled face- and with a hefty dose of Pennsylvania Dutch work ethic, I proudly donned my white uniform and punched the time-clock. 

I took my job very seriously, learning to dip perfect spheres of ice cream, mounting them on fragile cones with such great vertical precision; no unexpected wind could take them down. Dipping hard ice cream is no child’s play.  My right bicep grew by leaps and embarrassing bounds, making my teenage frame decidedly unbalanced. And it was more than just cones. I could spin a milkshake from scratch to make the staunchest critic salivate. 

Overachiever that I was, I even offered to work the Saturday morning shift with a senior citizen named Eva.  She was one of my favorite persons.  Round.  Diligent.  White-haired. No-nonsense.  She and I (in our ill-conceived white uniforms) would tag-team the weekly cleaning of the ice cream freezer cabinet. Why we didn't wear more appropriate attire, I will never know. At the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings, dear Eva and I would painstakingly carry the 30 or so three-gallon cylindrical containers of ice cream to the back freezer.  We would rip out all the huge holed freezer counters inside (the ones which held the ice cream containers in place to tempt our confection-loving customers.)  Eva would fill buckets with soapy warm water and like some kind of idiot, I would CLIMB INTO THE FREEZER and crouch down for the weekly scrubbing the cabinet abuse.  It took forever to get all the patches of dripped and gummy frozen ice cream off that cabinet.  It was cramped and REALLY cold.  And Eva was nothing if not a task master of perfection.  Her elderly eyes didn't miss a speck. Unfortunate shoppers in pursuit of an early morning bottle of milk might arrive and while peering through the glass door to see if the dairy was yet open (it was not) they would spy my sorry shape through the ice cream cabinet window, scrunched into an unrecognizable heap and plastered against the glass.  Some yet unnamed yoga pose, certainly not Warrior 2, more like BLOCK OF SENSELESS ICE.  Eva would wave them away, shouting her unsympathetic rebuke, suggesting with unmistakable gesture and voice that they actually pay attention to the OBVIOUS HOURS POSTED ON THE DOOR. Did I mention I really liked Eva?  

Most people who cheerfully enter a dairy store and pace before the freezer cabinet containing a vast selection of hand-dipped ice cream enjoy spending their time attempting to make a flavor decision.  Not me.  36 years later, I am still picturing myself INSIDE the cabinet.

But my freezer cleaning and mule-like devotion to my paycheck payed off.  Not just because learning to work hard has served me well in my school nursing career, but because two years after my hiring, a red-headed milk-man from the same dairy started regularly stopping by to observe my dipping prowess.  He and I are celebrating our 30^th wedding anniversary this year.  

SPOTTING

The night air was impossibly chilly for the first week of August; my carefully sunblocked arms almost a joke under my inadequate sweatshirt layer.  Amazing how the temperature falls with the sun in these mountains.

Tioga County is a place where my spirit is restored. With every stroke of the canoe oar, every frog refrain, I can feel those bothersome pinprick daggers of stress just draining away. It is my last slice of summertime heaven each year before the inevitable return to fulltime work. 

My husband rented an enormous red pickup truck for this year’s trek to Nauvoo.  This is his idea of great fun, driving along in a vehicle large enough to climb atop mountains and flatten innocent Volkswagens without any noticeable interruption in the rhythm of his glee or in the torturous blaring of country music on the radio. 

It was our first night at the house and I was doing my annual duty, taking a turn “driving” for deer-spotting.  (Another benefit to having a gigantic red pickup truck at our disposal is being able to stuff multiple eager bodies into the flatbed of the truck for this nightly ritual.)   I go along to drive once or twice during the week so that Jim too has the opportunity to stand precariously against the back of the truck cab, brandish the blinding light, feel the cool breeze drying out his eyeballs, and try to steer clear of the sometimes unavoidable side effect of kamikaze bugs in the teeth.  My son and daughter were with us.  And this year we’ve got the extra blessing of my daughter-in-law to be, joining us for her first foray into the wonderfully bizarre subculture of spotting for deer.  If you thought deer-spotting was just for hunters, you were wrong.  We, the bleeding heart bug-rescuing anti-hunters, are also avid fans. 

I’ve driven many a vehicle on the roads of Morris and Nauvoo over the past 22 years as my family and friends spot for deer and tally marks to our nightly animal counts.  Driving a vehicle in this manner is practically child’s play.  The mood is festive, windows open, the night is black, and other cars and trucks are an extreme rarity. The speedometer never goes above 19 miles per hour and is more likely to linger around 6.  We pretty much crawl along the roads (many of them dirt) and scan the cornfields, meadows, and wooded lots for animals.

It takes about an hour for our usual tour.  We take turns shining our incredibly bright light into the darkness of the peaceful Tioga landscape.  Great jubilation is experienced when we spy a set of beady little amber eyes, reflecting the light back to us.  Buck with racks so imposingly heavy we wonder how they can hold their heads upright.  Communities of graceful doe, flicking their sensitive ears at the annoyance of our clan’s admiring clatter while their fawn, spotted and curious, rise on their knobby uncertain knees to check us out from their carefully smashed beds of clover. 

Our spotting is not limited to the deer population. As we hope for bear sightings, we count raccoons, opossum, fox, rabbits, scraggly kittens, toads and skunks.  We’ve heard the horrible scream of bobcats but haven’t yet encountered one during spotting. Only cows and horses, captive in the fencing of local farms, are exempt from our count.

Many family memories have been born while spotting in Nauvoo.  Standing upright through the sunroof of a Saab holding the lamp with winter gloves against the extreme summer night chill.  Gripping the roof rack while seated precariously on the side window of a Volvo for a better view.  Accidentally spotting the same poor old horse year after year, finally determining we have permanently blinded him; since requiring that we greet him with “Poor thing, he’s only GOT the one good eye…”  Eerie strains of a song by Adele inexplicably and creepily emanating out of a seemingly deserted field of corn. My noble father-catching my arm at exactly the last possible moment before I fell headfirst off the back of the old spotting truck in my haste to switch seats just as driver Jim was pressing his foot on the gas…

On this particular night, things felt a bit atypical behind the steering wheel.  This was because the raised curve of the dashboard on Jim’s new red toy was about even with my eyebrows.  I felt like a kindergartner in the teacher’s chair.  It didn’t seem helpful to share the potentially disheartening information of the blind driver’s challenge with my passengers, so I kept it to myself.  In retrospect I should have circled back for one of my pillows to give myself a boost. I saw pretty much nothing of the road in front of the truck and gauged my approximate location by best guess.  At the leisurely speed I traveled, my method worked well until the final right turn - at which point several of my flatbed riders complained that the entire right portion of the overlarge truck was apparently no longer on the road at all.  Oops. (Let’s just say I don’t think Jim will be letting me take the truck into Wellsboro for shopping…)

But all was well.  Because there is something too marvelous to describe about traveling at a snail’s pace on a dark country road with the people I love in tow.  Hearing their comfortable murmuring alongside the nighttime cricket-song is a symphony.  And the remarkable barefaced stars are my witness; their twinkle unconstrained by the artificial lights of any town.  

FORMAL WEAR

 First let me say, if you know how to spell the word boutonniere without spell check, you are light-years ahead of me.

My daughter is attending a formal event this evening.  Weeks ago we stopped by the florist to order the boutonniere for her handsome date.

The Spanish Inquisition (I mean florist) started her investigation by directing the question to Aubrey. "What color is your dress?"  That was easy.  "Pink, but we just want a white rose."  "What school is this for?" We answer (though it is not really relevant) and she writes this information on the paper as though it is an important clue. Doubts began to surface as the florist's litany of questions progressed with more queries having nothing whatsoever to do with assembling a floral decoration for my daughter's date's lapel. I redirected to the task at hand and asked for a Saturday morning pick-up.  You would have thought we had asked for spit-shining and overnight delivery of the Crown Jewels.  "I can't possibly do it that early...."  (Silly me, I thought I was the paying customer and got to decide when I needed something.)  Another impatient thought flew through my racing mind (something along the lines of- this is ONE SIMPLE BOUTONNIERE, not a rolling float for the Rose Parade.) I usually manage some degree of propriety and said neither of these things out loud. Despite the uprising in my head, my outward affect remained calm.

Succumbing to pressure (I've always been an easy target for a bully) I agreed to the time Madame Florist decreed. But it made me nervous. It was only 2 hours before Aubrey would need it and already anxiety began knotting my stomach. Despite the useless witty comebacks coursing through my head, I'm a complete pushover. The florist scribbled copious notes willy-nilly on a plain sheet of paper and "filed" it by shoving it into a stack of papers (assorted sizes and shapes.) 

I began fretting the moment we walked away and could not calm the uneasy storm until I returned a week later to change the pickup time.  She saw me coming, stuck out her right leg and effectively completed the menacing posture by placing her hand firmly on the hip.  She watched me approach and I lost resolve with every step. "I need to change the time of the pickup for something I ordered."  HEAVY SIGH.  Out came the worn manila folder stuffed with papers and with little patience for my appeal, she asked for the date.  She located the paper with only a little difficulty and I had to admit I was somewhat relieved that she actually had SOME kind of system.  "I need to pick up the boutonniere a few hours earlier."  She began shaking her head in disapproval.  (Does this woman NOT want to sell flowers?  Am I on Candid Camera?)  "Why?” she asked.  Okay, now I was getting really annoyed.  Who knew what time Aubrey was going to need to leave the house and I did not want to be scrambling around at the last minute.  Additionally, I had little faith that the boutonniere would be waiting for me (and acceptable.)  I did not want to provoke unrest by voicing my distrust so I chickened out and framed my lily-livered answer. "I have to BE somewhere." She looked at me like I’d been caught in the school hallway without a pass. My stomach churned and from the Inquisition’s mouth came words which nearly brought my nonviolent generally congenial disposition to outright fisticuffs....  "Where do you have to BE?"  OH MY WORD!  I should have remembered I had feet and stomped off to another florist but while forgetting my lower limbs, at least I found my voice.  "I am NOT picking up this boutonniere on Saturday."  The florist measured me with her eyes and threw me a bone.  "I can make it on FRIDAY."  Okay, this sounded like compromise and besides, if my blood pressure went any higher I’d start lifting off the floor. I started to cave (again) and asked a question of my own. "Will it still be okay for Saturday night?" Now SHE was offended.  "Of course! (unspoken reference- DUMMY!) Just stick it in the refrigerator."

Fine. I requested the change and watched this haphazard recorder of details scratch out Saturday and pen FRIDAY on her scribbled paper. 

I like a good insurance policy and felt a little better since this gave me a window of time during which Aubrey and I could plead our case to a different more benevolent florist or heaven-forbid make our OWN homemade version of a boutonniere if things fell through.  But I still harbored a naive belief that this would not be necessary.

I guess you know where this is going. 

I stopped on my way home yesterday afternoon to pick up the stupid flower.  The florist-tyrant was mercifully missing, leaving two sweet young apprentices in her wake.  The first was a boy named Brock who claimed that the only floral task with which he felt comfortable was filling helium balloons. I told him I was there to pick up a plain white rose boutonniere for my daughter’s date.

It was Brock who dashed heroically back to the cooler to locate the order. He returned holding a clear plastic box and wearing a very concerned facial expression. “Um….. do you remember what the thing was supposed to look like?”  Clearly he could not imagine that anyone in their RIGHT MIND would have ordered the monstrosity he held in his young hands. The box was missing its usual order slip so he wasn't sure to whom it actually belonged.  I’m telling you right now, there’s NOBODY going to claim that floral nightmare once they get a look at it.  In the center were three of the tiniest white rosebuds in the history of the world. They were standing in a line and fastened with unforgiving green adhesive.  Surrounding this trio was a bonanza of ribbon. A veritable plethora of dark pink loops and swirls.  The ribbons were curling well beyond the borders of the rosebuds.  Inside the dreadful layer of dark pink ribbons was another interior section of sparkly pink ribbons, a shade unbelievably uglier than the outer rim of festivity.  It’s like someone was going all out in a contest to create the tackiest decoration EVER. It was a ribbon mum of horror. The tiny rosebuds were dwarfed by the looping mount. I don’t know what this thing was meant to be, but it was failing on all kinds of levels.

This time I was not at a loss for words.  “OH MY WORD, that can’t possibly be it!  WHY would she put all that pink ribbon on an item for a guy’s lapel?”  Elton John? Liberace?  Brock had NO IDEA and looked relieved we were not expecting some poor guy to actually wear it.  He seemed really sorry to be the cat that had dragged in the dead mouse.  With downcast eyes, he informed me that there were no other orders waiting in the cooler. Desperate for help he suggested that perhaps his coworker might have an idea. 

Enter Mandee.  Despite being roused from her break time, she was immediately sweet and accommodating. Before she even knew there was a problem she was apologizing on behalf of everyone with whom she’d ever worked. (I got the feeling she’s had to do this before…)  I explained my dilemma and she began opening and closing drawers.  I suspect she was hoping a boutonniere instruction manual and supplies would suddenly become obvious.  Neither employee knew where the Queen of Flowers kept her file of orders. Mandee made a call to another florist and spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone.  Returning, she used both hands and every reassuring gesture her face could render. “I am going to HELP you” (spoken slowly and deliberately as one would speak to a wounded dog or a person in the throes of insanity) Mandee had assembled her sweet young courage and she was going to embark on the first boutonniere-making endeavor of her life.  With hesitancy but practicality she added, “I think it will take me an hour.” I thanked her for her willingness to venture into the unknown on my behalf and told her I’d return later that evening. 

It was more like 2 hours until Aubrey’s nail appointment was finished and when Brock walked toward me THIS time bearing in both hands the new clear plastic box. He was beaming from ear to ear.  Mandee had DONE GOOD.  It was lovely.  And I was ever so grateful.

In about six hours my daughter will be attempting to pin the boutonniere to her date’s lapel.  Here are my three remaining fears. 

Number one: Based on the frustrating florist’s lack of tact, her first question to Aubrey, and the scary overabundance of pink ribbon- that ghastly floral piece actually WAS the boutonniere she intended to make for us.

Number two: The florist ignored the change of date and is (as I type) making the boutonniere we requested.  This will inevitably start a tirade of nasty calls to the house when she thinks we did not come to pick up the order. (I will beg Jim to return the call if this happens – he loves a good debate.) 

And the worst case scenario which will actually cause me to burst out laughing because it would be SO GREAT in a really sick way- Number three:  When Aubrey’s date presents the flowers to adorn her wrist, it will actually BE the “ribbons gone wild” horror I saw at the shop.  (This final fear is the reason I am waiting to post this story until AFTER the formal begins.) 

“AFTER THE ROSE” ADDENDUM:  The wrist bouquet was absolutely gorgeous and Mandee’s debut boutonniere looked great on Aaron’s lapel. 

OUTDOOR CLASSROOM OBSERVATIONS

The temperature was easily 10 degrees warmer in the dining hall. This was not necessarily a good thing since the morning humidity was suggestive of a rain forest; almost thick enough to slice and serve. 

Of the hundred fifty or so souls at Camp Men-O-Lan, I was the lucky one. While for 2+ days my coworkers battled foreign mattresses, assorted unfamiliar bedfellows (some with home sickness, some with smelly wet socks) and the creak and groan of camp buildings settling in for a dark night, I was in my cozy bed at home looking forward to the luxury of my own shower. That is not to say I enjoyed waking while the dominant hour was still an unreasonable 5. But it sure beats having to sleep at camp. 

I have, in years past, felt a little sorry for myself when it came time for Outdoor Classroom. Spending hours preparing a medical plan, packing supplies, collecting medications and tracking down forms, it is always a little anticlimactic when I watch the last of the middle-schoolers and their teachers exit the building. I am usually left on campus with the other 400 or so (smaller) scholars of Penn View. Well I've learned my lesson about feeling sorry for myself because THIS year, there were no nurse-parents available to volunteer for the longest day of camp. It seems it was easier to find a sub to cover my office for 7 hours than it was to find a medical person to spend 17 hours away from home to be on standby for a long outdoor exercise in learning. So there (a little reluctantly) I was. Be careful what you think you wish for.

Having had enough of the stifling humidity of the dining hall, I took my laptop out into the crisp air on the front porch to do some writing. This should have been an uneventful task. There were no obvious external outlets so I determined it would be necessary to send my laptop and cord out the window. Good thing Bonnie was an able assistant (and NOT just because I was too weak to manipulate the screen to an open position.) It was more significantly a "good thing" because when I asked her to hand the chubby laptop out to my waiting hands, she coolly reminded me that someone less DAFT would just unplug the computer and send out the cord. Good point. (and duh....)

On the sturdy and surprisingly comfortable wooden porch furniture, I was at certain intervals surrounded by a fleet of dedicated middle school teachers. Bedecked in sweatshirts and bandanas (the apparent traditional garb of Outdoor Classroom) they were diligently sifting through Landis Supermarket bags of damp camp journals. Giving themselves to the task, they read student entries with an enthusiasm I found inspiring for instructors who lacked a decent night of sleep.

The elusive sun made its first Thursday appearance mid-morning, pressing its warmth through newly emerged leaves, catching light on the raindrops which fell the night before. It was seriously beautiful.

But then I was assaulted.  NOT COOL.  I felt something tickling my head and lifted away a surprised brown spider with rather hairy (and unsettlingly meaty) appendages. I'm not sure which of us was more displeased to discover the other and in a rather disturbing turn of events, I had no idea where the wild flicking motion of my hand had sent him. Did I mention I hate spiders?  I took a little walk around the porch to give the ugly fellow some time to find a new head to bother. 

While on the porch, a marvelous little man stopped by for a visit.  His mother is one of our science teachers and the aforementioned adorable little man is currently her three-month-old excuse for not having to WORK. Along with premature worry lines on his tender and expressive forehead, little Ezekiel was sporting the tiniest pair of crocs ever manufactured.  Sweet Ezekiel was too agreeable for his own well-being and was abruptly swept off by another of our coworkers without complaint.  He might have loudly and wisely refused this hasty relocation had he known he was headed to the "archery area" for observation.  The business of preadolescent students displaying archery skills is a dicey proposition AT BEST and upon discovering the whereabouts of the little darling, his return to the safety of the porch was promptly manipulated by his prudent mother. 

   

LOOK AT THOSE CHICKLET-SIZED SHOES! 

Nearly missing lunch, I was pampering a student's swollen ankle. In my absence, helpful coworker Heidi assembled my black bean taco. This creation was better than camp food has any right to be.  I KNOW camp lunches were not this delicious when I was a young camper... (Of course my childhood camp food preparation was not directed by a man in an official white chef jacket as was the case at Men-O-Lan.)

By one hour after lunch I had burned through most of what was previously considered a generous supply of instant ice packs, resorting to stuffing latex exam gloves with ice cubes from the kitchen.  Desperate times call for desperate measures. The downside to having the actual school nurse accompany an outing so rife with blisters and headaches is that familiarity breeds neediness. Just like the elementary students in the hallway who feel the need to report every Band-Aid as they pass me by, middle school students see my face at Outdoor Classroom and it prompts in them an overwhelming urge to whine. Not counting medications, I received approximately 40 complaints of illness or injury during my one day "shift." (This sorry pitiful condition seems to occur when children bring their boo-boos and belly-aches to the same school nurse they've visited since age 5...) Receiving a cotton ball of Caladryl on a barely visible rash, one of these needy students proprietarily remarked, "Can I tell you how nice it is to have our "own nurse?" I realize I should be thankful I am apparently so approachable and I'll try hard to remember that while I practice a firmer Nurse Cratchet face in the mirror.

The rain held off nicely, allowing for fabulous pastimes including (but not limited to) tie-dying t-shirts, the knuckle-scraping phenomenon of the ga-ga pit, Frisbee golf, pond fishing, paddle boating, obstacle course navigating, and the actual launching of rockets made from scratch.  Given the ominous forecast, it was a bullet dodged. In fact the wettest students were the victims of plummeting water balloons rather than the precipitation so maliciously predicted by forecasters. (Such harbingers of doom.)

Middle School Students Playing Three Blind Mice

 

The elementary students are always very curious about the "big kids" who get to go to camp for school.  They can hardly wait for their turn. Two of my own children have experienced this rite of passage and though it has been twelve years since my firstborn participated I can still say with conviction that I do not envy the laundry-processing mothers of this muddy crew.

So during my very small window into the Outdoor Classroom experience, this is what I discovered. People were smiling, nature was beaming all around us, and learning was happening in a very sneaky way. Food webs and pesticides were discussed and absorbed without obvious props like desks and textbooks. Memorable classes were taking place under towering oak trees, learners too engaged to scratch at the new mosquito bites on their mud-smudged legs. It turns out my coworkers (those sleep-deprived educators pretending they are just ring-leaders of fun in the woods) are categorical charlatans. 

Well-played teachers, well-played…

Let's Play

One of the most selfless women I've ever known, my grandmother did not take kindly to losing a game of 500 Rummy. It was SERIOUS business when those worn playing cards came out of the box. The play was quick-moving and pitiless despite the carefully laden supplies my Grammy would assemble to lull us into a complacent mood of goodwill. Stale salt-free pretzels and ginger-ale; the sustenance upon which we habitually snacked as Grammy and Poppop clobbered us with four Aces and more matching royals than they can boast in the United Kingdom. 

I was a mere seventeen and dating my husband when these rambunctious card competitions took place.  Jim adored my grandmother as well.  He had been baptized by fire into my crazy family by that time, my grandmother going as far as to “bake” his work boots in her oven.  It was a rainy day and she was concerned for his welfare.  She had on previous occasions forced this 19 year old to don gallon sized plastic bags inside his shoes to keep his poor “stockinged feet” dry.  At this particular rainy juncture, she had decided his boots were too wet for the usual plastic bag treatment and she actually placed them on a cookie sheet in her oven to bake.  The look on his face when he tried to locate his shoes was one I will never forget.

Suffice it to say, my Grammy loved her grandchildren (and their boyfriends!) with a ridiculous love. She fed us, hugged us, and spouted cheesy poetry pinched from Helen Steiner Rice. When she looked at us she made us feel like we were the only thing in the world worth seeing. Some of my best memories of Grammy and her life lessons were born at her 1950s-style chrome and Formica red kitchen table. Her recipes were awesome, but what happened at her table during an evening of cards will forever spark my heart’s memory, sending my face an irrepressible smile. Her twisted arthritic fingers did nothing to diminish the speed with which she pounced to snatch up an ill-placed playing card one of us was foolish enough to discard prematurely. Seeing our error while we were still oblivious to the blunder, she’d spring to action, hollering “RUMMY!” while rearranging the burgeoning card piles with which she would bury us when the scores were totaled.

My grandfather was her card-playing partner. It was us against them and it was one of the few times they appeared to be “on the same side.” They had one of those crazy symbiotic relationships marked by adoring each other from afar yet scolding one another in PA Dutch (the family tongue) at the drop of a hat. We had little concept what words they were shouting, but the tone came through loudly and clearly. I come from a long line of stubborn people and those tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch genetics were patently evident in both of my mother’s parents. 

So there was occasional shouting and a ruthless pursuit of victory, but here’s the great thing…  The countless hours I sat at that red table were among the best I've ever spent. Grammy may have been beating us mercilessly at the game of cards, but she was showing us how to live and how to love. It was a safe and wonderful place to learn how to lose. Life isn't always sweet and sometimes no matter how marvelous a hand you are dealt, things don’t turn out quite the way you’d hoped. But knowing you are deeply loved and surrounded by people you adore, even a stale pretzel tastes pretty awesome. Let’s play. 

(Photo taken in the early 80s when Pop, Gram, Jim and I  ventured to Williamsburg, VA for a fun-filled long weekend.)

SENSIBLE FOOTWEAR

Unsurprising as it may be, I have once again been deceived.  The weather person on my favorite news channel (with his dapper tie and most convincing morning smile) repeatedly lies through his teeth. 

Today was supposed to be cloudy but warm.  The forecasters did not mention the monsoons which made their brash way through Souderton at roughly 1 pm.  (Precipitation which caused hammering buckets of moisture to pound insistently on the school’s metal roof, sounding like a village of small cobblers at work on a veritable mountain of tin shoes.) As I recall, the weather person prophesied these monsoons as a "chance of spotty showers"…. The analysts additionally failed to mention the gales of wind that played at lifting me off the bench while I sat nobly and foolishly providing medical coverage for the softball and baseball games at school this afternoon. 

65 degrees MY FOOT.  It felt like a clean 36 degrees with the added attraction of wind chill.  To think I actually packed a tube of sunblock.  Pining for my parka (or at least a decent stadium blanket), I was ill-prepared with only my Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt.  Adding insult to injury, my uncooperative hair after the final pitch was twice the size as before I walked out to the freezing tundra of our school fields. (It was a sporting look with the blue skin hue of hypothermia.)  

Shivering fashion faux pas that I was, I was NO MATCH for the amazing sight I witnessed as I spied my coworker plod across the lawn.  I could not contain my amusement or a proper sense of decorum.

My friend was wearing the most sensible and overtly ridiculous shoe-coverings I have beheld in over 30 years.  My grandfather wore the same exact model in the 1970s over his church shoes when instructed by my grandmother to place floral arrangements on newly mown gravesides.  Grammy herself wore a women's pair over her sturdy work shoes for gardening after rain.  She called them her rubbers.  (We’re not even going to GO there.)  I really had no idea these handy slip-on treasures were still being manufactured.  I cannot imagine there is much demand.  

These slick black protective shoe sleeves are Herman Munsteresque 

(without the height)  or more accurately – a stretchy strapless version of those cheap plastic shoes I would force onto the inflexible feet of my dolls in the mid-1960s.

I eventually confessed my amusement to my sensible friend (brave fashion-senseless soul that he is) and begged for a close-up shot of one of his unwieldy but well-protected feet.  You can see by the fantastic photo below, he was more than accommodating. He and his wife (at her PRUDENT request) choose to remain nameless in this post! 

However, this one photogenic viewpoint cannot do justice to the 

whole package.  You see, the rubber shoe covers were made SO much more memorable by the wearing of shorts with the ensemble.  And for that, you need the view from the back.  (see below- photo credits for this one are courtesy of a similarly amused onlooker with a better vantage point)

I do gratefully thank my coworker for providing this wonderfully necessary distraction. It was much more fun than the overzealous shivering in which I was engaged before he walked by to provide such great fodder for me. 

With a barely detectable degree of remorse from laughing so 

heartily at my poor friend’s prudent choice of shoe protection, I did finally glance down at my own feet (donned in my carpool duty rain boots) and realized I really had no business poking fun at someone else. 

I'd like to blame the weatherman for both of my 

indiscretions.