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. 

What Ever Happened to Bubble Gum Machines?

I spent part of my weekend appreciating art in Philadelphia.  We had breakfast about 15 miles from Center City and I was stunned and sickened to discover a most unfortunate child’s vending machine just inside the door of the restaurant.  Nestled beneath the rubber bouncing balls and to the left of the plastic aliens, small children can insert coins and purchase miniature assault weapons and grenades. Undeniable and palpable glorification of violence conveniently packaged in a plastic bubble.

Something is seriously wrong with this picture. 

I will admit that my nonviolent nature is sorely challenged when I think of the adults who have decided it is okay to sell these trinkets to our children.

 

I’ve been accused of over-sensitivity when it comes to violence.  My son was robbed at gunpoint when he was attending college in Philadelphia. Thankfully he was not physically harmed but I am acutely aware that criminals holding guns are not always this benign as they purge victims of cash and belongings.

I cannot watch most action movies without feeling discomfort in my gut.  I become physically ill and emotionally unsettled when I hear or see people arguing or fighting.  Neither can I abide violence against animals. I have had to stop reading books I was otherwise enjoying when I read about cruelty in almost any form.

So you might automatically put me in the camp of those who are too naïve to understand what is at stake. Feel free to roll your eyes, but thanks for reading and try to hear me anyway.  

While still reeling from the Sandy Hook massacre we’ve daily added insult to injury.  Just today, a ninth grader shot himself in a school restroom just outside of Tulsa.  Yesterday, a Navy Seal (regarded as one of the military’s most lethal snipers-don’t even get me started) was shot to death by an unbalanced ex-Marine. They were at a shooting range (of all places.)

One story (from thousands): Six years ago a woman named Movita Johnson-Harrell told her husband that her sons “would not become statistics on the streets of Philadelphia.” She and her husband packed up and moved their family to Lansdowne in order to get away from the gun culture for which our fair city Philadelphia is so well known. Despite her efforts, four years later she was burying her 18 year old son who was a victim of mistaken identity.  As he sat waiting for his sister in a car in East Germantown, he was shot to death. 

Maybe I’m hypersensitive, but bullets are flying and this vehemently-guarded constitutional right seems a bit out of control. 18 American families each day are choosing coffins for their children because of guns.  There were over 9,000 gun-related homicides in 2011 alone.

I’m thankful for freedom and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes (or constitutional rights) but I doubt our forefathers expected us to be ducking for cover in places like elementary classrooms and/or the front seats of our cars.  I suspect muskets and bayonets were a little easier to control.  I want to be clear.  I am NOT saying it should be illegal to own a gun.  But I do believe we need stronger regulations if we are to fairly balance someone’s right to bear arms with someone else’s right to stay alive walking down the street.

Here’s where (at the risk of making people angry) I show my hand in this deadly game of cards.  I wish the crazy-town voices in the NRA would be quiet so the moderate voices of the NRA could be heard.  Because many of the loudest opinions speaking on behalf of the NRA sound just like playground bullies.  They brandish a frightening quality that pushes and taunts and feels a lot like power. They are well-backed financially and seem frankly untouchable. But listen carefully to the way they speak.  Their words are guarded, actually coming off sounding a little paranoid.  Some seem ready to protect themselves (and their beloved collections) at the expense of anyone who might get in the way. Those “in the way” seem even to include the voices speaking for the health and safety of our nation’s children. Given the opportunity to communicate responsibly about the debacle that was the second deadliest school shooting in history, these inflexible voices suggest that each school board hire themselves a posse of armed guards.  Really?  Now there’s a vision for our educational dollars at work. It is more than a little terrifying.

Apparently there’s been some recent polling in our state.  It seems that most people now believe there should be a ban on assault weapons and high-capacity magazines.  I think this is an obvious and essential step, but sadly this is not going to solve the overarching problem since most of the people dying from gunfire are being murdered with “lesser” specimens.  The number one cause of death for African-American men and boys is NOT auto accidents, NOT childhood diseases (thank you vaccines), NOT diabetes, NOT drug abuse.  The number one cause is gun violence. Tiny bullets.  Little shells of destruction fired via the simple flick of a finger. And unfortunately it takes precious little intelligence to pull a trigger.

I will say, it does give me hope that 58% of gun-holding households back a nationwide ban of high-capacity magazines.  I know there are many responsible gun-owners and I appreciate their voices of reason in this debate.

While I’m asking impossible questions, I’ve got one more. Why are 40% of gun sales in our country accomplished through unlicensed dealers?  I hope I’m wrong but it is my understanding that someone can just show up at a gun show and make a purchase without a federal background check.  If these numbers are real, then what are we, CRAZY?!  To give perspective, there were 700,000 DENIALS in the last decade when the federal background check was done the right way.  (Making these background checks mandatory seems like a no-brainer, does it not?)

Obviously I have more questions than answers. But even to a peace-loving, let’s all just get along, rainbows, puppies and ice cream sort of personality like mine; some things just seem like common sense.

And I’d sure like to believe we can find it in our hearts to agree that bubble gum machines are a good place to start. 

 

Juror Number 21

I did my civic duty today, appearing (as summoned) for jury duty. 

No matter how many times I do it, experiencing the morning drive into Norristown is always anxiety-inducing.  I have no GPS so I painstakingly study maps.  I write instructional notes to myself in LARGE LETTERS so that my fifty year old eyes will not have to don reading glasses or strain at the Google printouts and street map books strewn willy-nilly across the passenger seat of my car.  In my hyper-primed state, I have been known to make “practice runs” to destinations I am unsure about reaching in a timely manner. (This is the part, where in case you haven’t already begun, you start feeling really sorry for my husband….) Being late stresses me out.  Especially when the government insists on printing the juror’s expected arrival time in RED and using words like contempt of court and imprisonment on their summons forms.  Since I have been beckoned to this very location three times before, (and since I actually WORKED in a different part of Norristown for over three years in the early 80s) I gave myself permission to make this morning’s drive without rehearsal. Sadly, this was a mistake as within two-tenths of one mile to the courthouse, I found myself inadvertently heading south over a one way bridge to a town sadistically called Bridgeport.  My printed notes were no use to me after all.  And to understand the state in which I arrived at the juror cloakroom, you should probably know I used every second of the extra 40 minutes with which I had padded my planned journey.  A puzzle maker would be hard-pressed to devise a more complicated maze than the circuitous route I drove to the courthouse parking garage today.  Truly, is it REALLY necessary to have so many one-way streets?!  I think not.  When I become independently wealthy, one of my first actions will be to hire a tolerant and forgiving chauffeur. 

Meanwhile, back at the courthouse….

During my prior appearances as potential juror for the county, I sat

as one sits in the Jury Marshaling Room.  By some unspoken rule, everyone leaves one seat between themselves and the poor pitiful other potential jurors on either side.  It’s as though we all know the air will become thin and stale by 4:00 in the afternoon and we don’t want to unnecessarily share our oxygen unless we have to.  This pattern of seat spacing works beautifully until the stragglers start to appear.  They too, are spaced nicely.  One arrives in a flurry about every five minutes.  They are the ones who did NOT arrive by the time marked in RED on their juror summons. As if by script, they arrive one at a time and begin speaking loudly about the parking situation, the cold weather, the injustice of the early hour, and the forgotten cuticle scissors the security guards forced them to remove from their knitting bags. (Again, an infraction clearly marked on our paperwork…)  The latecomers seem to have a shared inability to understand the questions on the juror informational questionnaire.  The check-in personnel are patient beyond imagination and I am reminded (in a rather humbling way) about my own impatience with my fellow human beings.  After dispensing the clipboard upon which the stragglers are to complete the information that was supposed to have been MAILED or COMPLETED ONLINE, the dawdlers stroll over to the remaining seats and actually SIT NEXT TO SOMEONE.  (Mind you, there are still seats available which would not interfere with anyone else’s oxygen…) This discourtesy prompts a collective (though discreet) sigh from all of the people who are seated in accordance with obvious personal space sensibilities (those who managed to arrive promptly despite the inordinate number of one-way streets.)  I mean REALLY.  Add 40 minutes to your drive time people!!!

 So I was expecting a day like the days I’d had before in this 

courthouse.  On prior trips I whiled away the hours with three main points of enjoyment.  1.)Sipping hazardously hot cocoa from flimsy paper vending machine cups 2.)People watching (a random selection of the population makes for some fascinating observation), and finally my favorite jury duty pastime: 3)Reading novels in the Jury Marshaling Room.  This reading of novels during normal work hours involves not a small amount of guilt as I can’t help but think of the onslaught my substitute nurse might be experiencing at my vacated desk. 

So much unnecessary guilt floating around in this world and I absorb it like a thirsty sponge….But that is another blog post… 

I cracked open The Midwife of Hope River and started to read, interrupted only slightly by Larry Kane, presenter of the Montgomery County Jury Service Orientation video.  (This instructional video was well done so it didn’t hurt at all.)  A very kind judge came by to visit, and we were given basic instructions.  There were to be two trials requiring jury selection today (one civil and one criminal.)  In other words, they’d be back.  Yet I was feeling fairly confident.  Confidence with the raw sort of feeling one who has never left her flimsy cocoa cup for an actual courtroom might be feeling.  We’ll need to call it naivety because two hours into my service, it was necessary to leave not just my cocoa cup but my cell phone, my packed lunch, my beloved novel, and my hopes and dreams that today would be set aside for a quiet day of reading.

Suddenly I was thrust into the occupation of Juror Number 21.  (I had my own laminated identification sign and everything.)  We were lined up by juror number and sent off to the elevator where we would lift off at a rate of 10 jurors at a time.  I don’t really care for elevators, particularly CROWDED elevators.  My 9 appropriately-sized juror associates and the guide who directed us just barely fit into that tiny little elevator. (I was trying not to breathe as the level of oxygen-sharing was OFF THE CHARTS.)  I had seen the size of some of the jurors who were chosen to arrive in the next batch of 10 and let’s just say I thanked my lucky stars to be number 21 and not number 31. 

It all felt very official and rather uncomfortable.  Eventually accompanied by 49 other unfortunates, we were ushered into the courtroom to meet some people. 

We met the judge, several lawyers, the defendant and the plaintiffs.  We were given a brief explanation of the case and the questioning began.  If the judge or one of the lawyers asked a question which resonated with us, we were to lift our laminated number card high in the air and be counted.  (Basically a way of weeding out the trouble-makers.)  The questioning went on for a much longer time than I would have imagined.  More than two hours later we were still lifting signs and groaning at Juror number 5 (who seemed to fall into every single category of complaint.)  Just dismiss her already…..At the end of the questioning, several persons asked to have a private conference with the legal teams and judge.  These were the jurors fervently hoping to be excused. Since the judge gave us a stern warning about our civic duty (framed excruciatingly in thanks for our generous and compliant service and obvious sacrifice) I felt obligated to be as cooperative as possible and did not request my own private conference.  (See that Jim, I didn’t WHINE at all!)

While these private meetings were taking place in a room just off the courtroom, we were given permission to stand up and talk to one another (though not about the case.)  Since at this point going to the restrooms required an escort, I was thankful that THIS time I had not indulged in the vending machine cocoa. I determinedly opted to ignore any symptoms that might arise.  The jurors all around me were spouting their reasons for hardship as though I were the one in position to pardon.  I’ve never heard so many good excuses to be relieved from jury duty.  College exams, aged parents who needed caretaking, spouses in the hospital, trips out of the country, hourly medications, and a whole host of other medical conditions which sounded so dire I began to fear having to resuscitate some of my fellow jurors.  (Imagine… here I had been thinking I was the only one inconvenienced.)  

Just as my blood sugar was dropping to ridiculous lows as we were not allowed to go to lunch until this portion of the jury selection was accomplished, one of the court assistants called for Juror Number 21.  I was barely paying attention by that time because I was trying to restore the blood flow to my legs after such an extensive interval of sitting. The court assistant found me toeing the perimeter of the courtroom, admiring the wood paneling and trying out some inconspicuous yoga moves on alternating feet.  (Not embarrassing AT ALL to have jurors numbered 20 and 22 yelling to me from the peanut gallery and pointing me out to the entire left side of the courtroom...)

I was ushered to a room where the judge and lawyers from both sides of the debate awaited.  They were interested in something I had written on my questionnaire.  “It says here you are a nurse.”   This was accurate.  Some questions ensued and I think it is safe to say I represented myself as more than a little UNSTABLE to both sides of the bench. 

You see, television commercials featuring greedy lawyers in search of the injured or sick make me rather ill.  Add that to the absence of a medical malpractice cap on compensatory damages in Pennsylvania and it feels to me rather like a free-for-all if someone has smooth-talking representation and the slightest intent to sue.  I’d like to believe that most medical professionals do the best they can and if something untoward occurs, it is simply a mistake. In fact in many cases, the medical professional is more distraught than the patient.   I know this is not always the situation and there are those who need to be removed from practice.  I am not sure however, that millions of dollars in compensation can adequately eradicate the problem.  But I am sure if things don't change we will run all of the decent doctors right out of our fine state because they can no longer afford the malpractice insurance. 

So on the one hand, I might be an excellent juror for the defense. 

But then came a question with perhaps a more telling answer.  “As a nurse, do you think you might be inclined to side with the physician in a case of malpractice?” To my credit, I did not laugh out loud.  But I did answer with a very strong NO.  I consider myself first and foremost an advocate for my patients.  This must have come through clearly because one of the lawyers asked, “Do you feel animosity toward physicians?!”  I told them I have no animosity whatsoever toward the defendant in the next room.  I do, however, have QUITE A BIT of animosity toward SEVERAL physicians.  The defense lawyer sounded a distinct “uh-oh” as his eyebrows hit his hairline and I’m certain I caught the judge in a grin. (I want to think he was laughing with me and not at me.)  

Though it’s way too late to make a long story short, I was given my walking papers just after lunch.

And the funny part of all is this.  I spent the month leading up to my jury duty HOPING I would not have to serve.  I spent the entire morning in Norristown praying that I would be released so I would not have to find sub nursing coverage for a minimum FIVE DAY case.  I hoped against hope they would not call my name to fill one of those chairs in the jury box (though they looked significantly more comfortable than the hard wooden benches upon which we sat during selection.)  Yet as I was walking from the courtroom in the midst of a personal celebration of my release, my prevailing thought was this.  “Why didn’t they WANT me?!”  (Don’t worry, I'm not as daft as all that. The thought was fleeting and celebration won the day.)

So there you have it. A day at the courthouse and my personal takeaways are these. I am directionally challenged, impatient with tardy humans, AND pathologically insecure. Three strikes and I was OUT!  Literally! 

But at least I don’t have to find anyone guilty, I don't have to hear 

heartbreaking stories of loss, and (oh happy day) I don’t have to 

drive to Norristown in the morning.  

It will be lovely to be back at my desk.  (Never fear, I know the way.)

Silent Night, Holy Night

All is not calm. 

We live in a world where healthcare workers giving polio immunizations to Pakistani children are shot to death as infidels. 

All is not bright.

We share this earth’s crust with anguished mothers and fathers, empty arms aching to hold stolen children.  Precious lives lost because a troubled young man had access to guns capable of firing six bullets every second. 

May those beautiful children now sleep in heavenly peace.

That first Christmas, the night was dark and we are told all was calm. Out of nowhere, the black sky ripped open and the angelic fireworks began. Ancient terrified shepherds fell to their knees on that pasture floor, quaking at the sight of glories streaming from heaven afar.

We quake as well, but an angelic chorus is not the cause. We tremble with sadness, grief clouding perspective.  It is time to close our eyes to the constant media images flashing all that hate before us. These video clips of pain and devastation playing repeatedly their loops of sadness, only serve to magnify our collective heartache. 

We long for the day our Prince of Peace will wipe away every tear.  And so we wait. In a twist of beautiful irony, this baby so long ago announced to shaking shepherds has become our shepherd.  Gathering us, leading us, holding our own shaking souls, and comforting us.

So consoled, we wait not without hope.  It is ours to find the ways in which we ourselves can be light in this dark place.  It is ours to look for the kindness and point to the light falling ever so gently on those who would stop to feel its warmth.  It is ours to wrap our hurting friends and neighbors in the kind of love and care that reminds us once again of that long-ago dawn of redeeming grace.  It tells again the story of love’s pure light.  It was (and still is) a holy night.

Memo from a Stink Bug

There was a stink bug bumbling around my office yesterday afternoon. I had no idea those things could fly. And what a feeble flight it was... The smelly little winged fellow with odd flat frame was running into things left and right, making annoying buzzing sounds as he faltered. 

I was torn, feeling sorry for his displacement -yet not at all relishing the idea of sharing office space with Sir Stink. If I were to squash him, I’d be assaulted by his malodorous scent. Worse yet, I’d be reproached by my daughter who has managed (with her extreme sensitivity to all God’s creatures) to supplant my own internal subconscious voice. Without even telling her of a bug-squashing misdeed, it is as though I hear her plainly in my mind. She’s like a constant sentinel, standing by to observe and assign guilt to all senseless (and accidental) acts of insect maltreatment and slaughter.  

I guess I could have activated the Shelly family “Catch and Release Program” initiating a covert operation at school… But he wouldn't stop MOVING and in light of the steady stream of small sick and injured patients at the door to my nurse’s office, I instead watched this pitiful bug throw himself gustily into the privacy curtain, heave himself against the wooden clothing cabinet, and methodically bombard his beetle head against the curled paper artwork adorning my walls.  It was rather pathetic.

I looked for him when I arrived at work this morning but he was gone. He failed to appear all day and I actually found myself stewing in a ridiculous concern for his wellbeing. I imagined him counting his losses behind the filing cabinet (the full futility of his escape now clear.) I wondered if perhaps he was suffering from symptoms of a severe concussion, no longer able to count backward or remember what he ate for breakfast. Or maybe his adventure had widened; he might have made it successfully out my door and was now perusing the research section of the media center to discover ways a lone halyomorpha halys can survive inside an inhospitable school building.

Fabulous. Thanks to my daughter and my own genetic bent toward caretaking (if not codependency) I have wasted more than a day’s supply of precious brain energy and empathy on a stink bug.

But that bug and I have some common tendencies. I too need to learn to be still. Had he just stopped leaning on his own ability to extract himself from the situation, he would have found himself in a much better place. Had he landed to wait for some assistance, he would have been easy to scoop up and deliver to the lovely school courtyard (or at least the grassy area by the front entrance.) How often have I gotten myself into some debacle I wish I hadn’t and spent an inordinate amount of time banging my head against a wall as I tried to backpedal? Let’s just say it is too often to count. 

Since my brain fails to adequately remember what Psalm 46 has sensibly instructed, that old stink bug was a good reminder that sometimes it is a good idea to do a little trusting while I try to be still. No head-banging required as I wait for someone greater to lift me and my struggle out of the depths.    

photo credit nopests.com 

SWEATSHIRTS AND DIGRESSIONS

Who doesn't love a sweatshirt?  Not just marvelously cozy, they are blessedly…yea… INFINITELY more forgiving than the average sleeveless summer top.  (Just wait, you lovely well-toned under 40 crowd….one day you too will be waving at a friend, maybe trying wildly to catch someone’s attention with your upper extremities when suddenly you become abysmally alert to the sound of your own arms flapping like a flying squirrel… With morbid curiosity and severe incredulity, you ask yourself, HOW does this happen?!!! Without warning, you have  suddenly become one of THEM.  The unfortunate ladies who have happily donned tank tops and collected shoulder freckles their ENTIRE LIVES, but now find themselves among the luckless who should without delay CEASE AND DESIST wearing anything remotely sleeveless.  And with pronounced and sad irony, this occurs at the very time in your life when you detest sleeves.  You detest ANY sort of wrapping or fabric constraint as your internal body temperature has intermittently and inelegantly risen to heretofore unattained heights…let’s say heights something akin to the temperature of flaming hot caramel or maybe more accurately molten lava…)  But I digress. 

Weary of wilting in the August sun and other irritating flashes of extreme temperature, I’ve had my fill of heat and humidity.  Finally, Fahrenheit degrees are tumbling and it appears there is relief in sight.   Just as I’ve been longing for sweatshirt weather, a lovely crisp breeze is actually blowing through my window this evening.  Drawn to the light in my hallway, stupid kamikaze bugs are banging their insect heads against the screen of my front door in a rather catchy rhythmic fashion. These banging heads sound too large to be mosquitos (the bane of my summer evening enjoyment and another darn good reason for sleeves…)   (Digression 2: ) You see, I’m a magnet for those maddening little phlebotomists. Apparently, my blood seems to be unnaturally delicious to the dreaded “Order of the Diptera” and I’m fairly certain all 3,000 species of mosquito have tasted me at least once this summer.  I’m itchy just thinking of it…..  Back to the sweatshirt…

 I’m rather an autumn junkie.  The approach of September and the end of lazy summertime always manage to make me a little melancholy.  It’s the time of year I actually have to go earn my keep. However, once I get over the shock of waking to an alarm, I get back into my school nurse routine.  And with the predictability of my days, I can begin once again to appreciate all the seasonal things that make me smile.   Allow me to bore you with some of them.

There is, after all, the first glass of chilled Bauman’s apple cider to consider.  There’s nothing like it.  If you have a crunchy Sweetzel’s spiced wafer to go with your cider, you are a blessed person. Don’t settle for any other brand of cider or cookie as none can compare.  (And don’t EVEN be one of those people who attempts to heat and “mull” my cider.  If I wanted potpourri in my cider, I’d throw some perfumed cinnamon mulch in there myself.  If I wanted a hot beverage, I’d drink one of the countless hot beverages historically available.  Does anyone try to heat Coca Cola?  I don’t think so.  So why are we trying to ruin my cider?

And you know what’s about to happen at the foot of my front step?  That cute little Travelocity gnome (whom Aubrey, for whatever peculiar reason, has named Xavier….) (Digression 3:) The gnome really looks much more like a Sven or a Nikolas with his red cap and white beard... Xavier makes no sense at all for a garden gnome... despite his penchant for travel...) As I was saying, dear vertically-challenged Xavier is going to get to see the whole thing.  All summer long the trimmed and patient green stems of my chrysanthemum plants have been biding their time.  Boring green stalks, giving plain backdrop to the show going on around them. They (and Xavier) have watched as the astilbe, the coneflowers and the hydrangea have boasted riots of color, shouting their undeniable moments of blooming sovereignty while the marigolds and petunias (less capable of pulling off such a grand performance) look on in awe.  But just as my sad little spent garden is drooping and turning brittle, hundreds of buds are poised to burst into stars of rich color.  There is NOTHING as festive as fall mums in bloom. 

My husband and I were married during the most beautiful week of the year, mid-October when the leaves are vibrant and the air is crisp.  It’s that spectacularly perfect time of year when it is too late for a hot day and too early for scraping ice and shoveling snow.  Our wedding was on Sweetest Day, 1983.  And it was the sweetest day. 

Have you ever stopped to truly appreciate a leaf?  They start out as blossoms in the springtime, progressing to shelter us with shade when we are wilting in the heat.  They turn amazing hues in autumn and then (if you aren’t the poor guy who has to rake them) they provide wonderful sensory activity for your ears and feet. Don’t you just LOVE the fabulously satisfying sound of leaves crunching under your shoes?  (My husband would say that I feel this way because I don’t have to rake them and HE does…) Hey, I’ve raked leaves…  A few times… When I was young and didn't have a choice....Or a  husband and children to do it.... Besides, I’ve got other important work to do…  In the house…  Important work that does not require a rake...  (Digression 4: in the form of a tip for the misunderstood pitiable rakers among us…)  Get out your push mower and drive over those pesky leaves a few dozen times until the crunch is gone and all you’ve got left is a fine mulch.  Spread evenly, it makes a lovely protection to feed your grass all winter long and doesn’t require bagging unless you have a forest for a lawn.  And if you’ve got the luxury of a self-bagging mower, is it your lucky day, or WHAT?!

And that brings us back to ENJOYING the leaves.  I do so look forward to the splendid crunching ahead.  If you would like to crunch with me, give me a call.  I’m always up for a good crunch through the park. And if my internal thermostat is cooperating, I will wear my sweatshirt for the occasion.

World's Worst Cook

I’ve had the pleasure of telling this story in the Penn View Cookbook and again in my column for Purpose.  But I didn’t want my blog friends to miss hearing about my incredible friend Kelly.  Though eager and well-intentioned, she is truly wretched in the kitchen. 

Kelly is arguably the world’s worst cook. Her meals have literally been inedible and illness-producing.  Entrees have been mistaken for inanimate objects (like rocks.) Thanksgiving Day 2004 was the pinnacle.

Pregnant with her third child, she spent weeks watching Food Network, gathering recipes, and dreaming about impressing her family. But on Wednesday evening she had not yet begun to thaw her 15 pound turkey. She placed it in the refrigerator and hoped for the best. On Thanksgiving morning, she put the bird in the oven with optimism. Her mother-in-law arrived with mashed potatoes in hand. Kelly placed these in the oven with the turkey and began mashing her very solid cranberries for fresh sauce. She’d never been told cranberries need cooking before mashing… Moving on to the fresh chestnut stuffing, she sent her husband out into the 40 degree rain and 40 mile per hour winds to grill squash. Under his umbrella, he noted that the holiday wind was effectively and repeatedly extinguishing his flame. When the poor man returned to the kitchen, Kelly asked him to retrieve the blender so she could finish the sauce for the painstakingly grilled squash. (It was at this critical juncture she discovered that boiling hot liquids should not be processed in the blender.) The ensuing explosion resulted in noteworthy burns to her husband’s arms. Not daunted, Kelly pressed on, pulling the turkey from the oven and asking her father to carve. The inside of the bird was frozen solid. She returned it to the oven and turned up the temperature (completely forgetting about the potatoes…which soon ignited.)  Poor abused husband bandaged (and smoke billowing), our tenacious cook placed the few salvageable items on the table for consumption. Kelly’s family reminisced about red can-shaped cranberry sauce and boxed stuffing. The turkey never cooked completely. The guests attempted consolation by attempting to eat the store-bought pumpkin pie, which Kelly imagined she could not ruin. But lo and behold, instructions on the box detailed BAKING prior to eating… Much much later, the starving revelers ate flaming hot pumpkin pie straight from the oven.

You’ll be relieved to know, Kelly no longer cooks Thanksgiving dinner.  And for that, her family is thankful!

But in reality, all of us need to be thankful we’ve got food of any kind on our tables. We are a privileged people, with bellies full enough to let us laugh at errors in cuisine. Would that our global family could experience the same.