Award-Winning Book Is an Adventure for Readers
“Who is your favorite author?” and “What is your favorite book?”
Ordinarily, I answer that I have several favorites, but I especially like reading Willa Cather’s books, particularly the ones about Nebraska.
But on this day, I told the students at my book-publishing presentation that at our house we had just finished reading “Shiloh,” by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor.
All the children perked up. Their teacher was reading the same book to them. “How does it turn out?” someone asked.
“Shiloh” is the recipient of the John Newberry Medal, which according to the shiny gold seal affixed to the book, is awarded “for the Most Distinguished Contribution to American Literature for Children.”
We try to read a couple chapters from a novel aloud to our four youngest children each night. Our reading time comes after the homework is completed, the book bags are organized for school, and the children are ready for bed.
Some nights the reading time gets pushed later and later because the guys are acting up. On these nights I threaten not to read because it is getting too late, but I always give in and read a least a few minutes. Mostly because I want to see what happens next in the story.
Especially in “Shiloh.” None of us wanted to put the book down. One evening I was tempted to read on silently after the boys had gone to bed.
“Shiloh” is a story about a boy and a dog, not his dog but the dog he wishes was his. It is also about doing the right thing, human nature, courage and telling the truth.
But mostly it’s about an 11-year old boy, Marty Preston, and Shiloh, the mistreated beagle. It is a love story. My boys would laugh if they heard me say that because they think of love stories as having lots of kissing.
Marty came from a very loving family, which made it natural for him to love Shiloh. Judd Travers, the mean owner of Shiloh, remembers his youth as a time of violence and abuse. He didn’t know how to love and be kind.
We all started loving Shiloh too. One of my favorite parts was when Marty tells about bringing Shiloh into the house for the first time:
“Bring him down the hill to the house, feed him the heels off of a loaf of new bread, all the leftover sausage from breakfast, and a bowl of milk. Then let him lick the oatmeal pan.
“Show him every one of our four rooms, hold him in my lap on the porch swing, and laugh when he tries to stand up on the seat himself while the swing’s moving. I let him smell the couch where I sleep and crawl under the front steps to sniff out the mole who lives under there, follow him all over creation when he takes out after a rabbit.”
Each time we’d read, the boys would make sure our dog, Maggie would come in and listen too. They would have Maggie climb up on the bed with us and pet her the whole time we were reading. It was like they were thinking if they were gentle with Maggie, it would make Judd Travers be nice to Shiloh in the book.
I was able to interview the author, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, by telephone. I told her how much my family had enjoyed reading “Shiloh.” She sounded as kind and gentle as I expected her to be.
Mrs. Naylor said she has written more than 70 books and numerous children’s chapter books such as “Shiloh.”
In reply to my question as to how she started writing books, she said, “My parents read to me as a child all the time. I always have loved books.”
I don’t know whether any of my children will be writing award-winning books as a result of their parents reading to them, but I know after reading “Shiloh” that they can have many wonderful adventures in reading books.
April 7, 1992
Long and Short of It: Census Takes a Little Time
That was the longest 43 minutes I have ever spent. If I had the Census Bureau’s ability to stretch time, I would have a lucrative income to report on line 32-A.
Can you tell I have just filled out my census form?
The Census Bureau estimates that for the average household, this form (appropriately called the long form) should take 43 minutes to complete.
Our household is not average-sized. Even if the time allotment were doubled, I wouldn’t have had enough time to complete the form.
I bet I spent 86 minutes on Question 29-B, trying to figure out my most important duties.
If you haven’t seen the long-form holder lately it is not surprising. I’m sure he is busy calculating how long it took him to get to work last week and deciding if swearing in French qualifies as speaking a second language in the home. (I suppose the answer to that depends on how much swearing you do).
Even the short form is long. My neighbor though she had the long form because she had to count the number of rooms in her house and estimate her house’s resale value.
Apparently, the Census Bureau doesn’t care if my neighborhood has a stove and a flush toilet. The Bureau wants to know that stuff about my household, plus a lot of other things I would rather not think about.
I started the project with a positive attitude. The day I received the form, I decided I would complete it right away. I sat down at the table and scanned the form. I had heard on the news that one out of six households would receive a long form. I wasn’t surprised when I realized we were among the lucky ones.
I asked myself: “What happens to you if you toss this out or bury it in a heap of papers on the kitchen counter?”
I found my answer in the instruction booklet: A census-taker will be sent to collect the information.
I didn’t want that to happen, so I began filling out the form.
Question 1-A asked for the names of the people in our household – all 10 of us. I begin writing. I turned the page and discovered that there was space for only seven individuals. I didn’t know what to do about persons Nos. 8, 9 and 10. I forged ahead successfully until I got to the questions about yearly expenses for electricity, gas, water, oil, wood, and kerosene.
I skipped those questions because they required some research.
The next segment concerned real estate taxes and homeowner’s insurance. I don’t like to think about these expenses when I pay them. Looking them up would certainly be no fun either.
I was about to give up the census for the evening when Patrick came around and asked: “What are you doing?”
When I explained the census, my son asked to look at the form.
“There’s a whole section for you to fill out,” I told him. Anyone born before April 1, 1975, has to answer the same questions as adults.
Patrick thought filling out the form would be more fun than doing his homework so he did his part.
The next day, I persuaded Colleen to complete her section. Then I suggested that she enter the information for the rest of the family.
She refused. “They’re your kids. It’s about time you counted then.”
I didn’t finish the form by April 1. I didn’t finish adding my electricity bills until April 6.
It didn’t seem like we were given much time to complete the form. The Census Bureau probably figured some folks would get the form in on time no matter what and others would get the form in late no matter what.
My philosophy: It’s better late than never. I’m still doing my patriotic duty.
I thought I was keeping a census-taker away from my doorstep, but I was wrong.
I completed the final question, closed the booklet and, before I could sigh in relief, noticed a footnote.
A census-taker apparently will call me to get the information about the individuals on lines 8, 9 and 10 in Question 1-A.
Some people have all the luck.
April 10, 1990
Actions, Not Intentions, Finally get Tax Forms Done
This year was going to be different. I wasn’t going to be overwhelmed searching for receipts, 1099s and bank statements, all things essential to fill out the 1040A and 1040 tax forms.
This year I was going to be organized. I wasn’t going to let the first two weeks of April rush past me faster than you can say “Schedule 1” as I played the beat-the-clock with Wednesday’s deadline for my income tax filing.
But my good intentions didn’t organize my charitable contributions; they didn’t wade through my receipts searching for my car tax statements; and as well-intended as they might have been, these good intentions didn’t add up my medical bills and subtract the insurance payments.
As is their custom, good intentions don’t amount to a deduction on any line between 6a through 24c. Actions usually garner a better return just like 401k. So I took action.
After the beginning of 1992 I began collection all the mail which indicated it had something to do with the Internal Revenue Service.
I used a box that was left over from transporting my groceries from a warehouse store to house the mail stamped “important – save for income taxes.”
The box was wide and long and I could easily fling into it all the W-2s, 1099s and deductible interest statements our family racked up in 1991. I sat on the floor of my office accumulating papers.
Every time I sat down to do some work I felt a kinship to the princess who had the problem sleeping on the pea. The job of reconciling last year’s spending hung undone in the air surrounding me, and I couldn’t relax. Although, I wonder if the source of her anxiety was not the pea but that she was anxious to marry the prince because most royalty doesn’t have to file tax returns.
Finally, it was time to face the music – although I’m not sure what melody the IRS plays. I imagine a dirge would be appropriate. I went through all the checks we wrote in 1991. I put them in a pile. Then I decided to be fancy and I entered into the computer each check according to category, payee and amount. It seemed an efficient system, but it was taking too long.
I eliminated all the car repair bills when my accountant told me they weren’t deductible. I argued that they should be especially when the most expensive damage occurred while I was driving to do volunteer work. I didn’t want to be late so I ignored telltale warning lights, which I now know indicate imminent catastrophe. Apparently, stupidity isn’t deductible either. Too bad.
How about expenses incurred while undergoing temporary insanity? I had a lot of those. For example, what about the night we made two orders of takeout Chinese food. Shouldn’t one of these dinners for 10 be deducible? I think we were working on the 1990’s taxes that night and not intellectually engaged.
What about the disastrous clothing purchases? Shouldn’t the outfit I bought for my girls for Christmas that were worn just long enough to make me happy and worn too long to be returned be deductible?
OK how about a deduction for the new clothes I bought for myself? A girl’s got to have something nice to wear in case she’s called in for an audit. Right?
April 14, 1992
Mice in the House Are Driving Mistress Batty
If you have a squeamish stomach it might be good to stop reading right now. If I didn’t need to go through a catharsis by talking about it, I wouldn’t.
We have caught 16 mice. Cinderella’s only friends were mice and in children’s stories, mice often are the heroes. I like those books, but I am terrified of mice in my house.
This house de-mousing has been going on for more than two weeks. They hang out in the drawer beneath my cook top.
We realized we had mice when our cat’s natural instinct prevailed and he presented us with the evidence. I thought. “Good, the cat got the mouse.”
The next day my heartbeat escalated when I was emptying the dishwasher and discovered a mouse that had not survived the pot-and-pan cycle. I almost didn’t survive that incident; I mistook the mouse’s well washed insides for mashed bananas and cleaned them out with my fingers.
Colleen bought traps, but I was afraid I’d snap my fingers off while I was spreading on the peanut butter. Colleen’s friend, Sara, offered to set them for me.
I went to bed that night believing I lived in a mouseless house or that the mouse was houseless. It was a short-lived feeling. In the morning, the trap we had set was empty. It had no mouse and no bait.
I can’t empty or dispose of the traps once they’ve done their jobs. I can’t even check the drawer to see if the traps have worked. The job has been delegated to anyone I can persuade to do it.
Ten-year-old John is the designated de-mouser. After a few days of this icky job, he said he is not sure he wants to be “the man of the house.” Maureen’s friend, Bridget, who helped baby sit one night, has emptied a trap.
Amy, my college-aged helper, came in one morning, looked in the drawer and confirmed the mouse’s presence. But she said unloading traps wasn’t in her job description.
The plumber did and rest the trap for another catch.
When Machaela and I were returning from an errand Amy yelled from my bedroom window “Kate, watch out,. The cat is chasing a mouse around the family room.”
I hurried in with the idea of dodging the cat-and-mouse game and running right upstairs. En route I had to confront the two of them as the mouse scampered into the dining room, where I was planning to entertain that evening.
Our weekend house guest, Bill, got involved. He set the traps to catch three mice in the two days he was here. Our count was up to eight. I was convinced that had to be the last of them.
My life has been consumed with these mice. A paper fluttered off the counter onto the floor and I flinched because I thought it was a mouse passing by. I got the dictionary to look up a word and opened the book to “capybara,” a 4-foot-long rodent. There even was a picture of it. It looked like a huge mouse.
I couldn’t sleep without dreaming of a mouse invasion or, worse yet, a capybara invasion.
Finally, I thought I had been liberated of them. But once again my celebration ended as quickly as a good mousetrap springs into action.
We couldn’t catch anything in the traps. I summoned all my courage and cleverness to bait the traps. I put the peanut butter on heavily, on lightly, only on the top of the trigger and then only on the bottom.
I called an exterminator. He suggested wadding up a cotton ball with peanut butter on it. I did and it hooked it onto the trap so securely I thought the mouse would never get it off, bit it did every time.
The exterminator also suggested a different brand of trap. I bought five. They worked. I bought eight more the next morning.
I have six left. There are two set in the drawer and four in a bag on the counter. If we use all of these traps I’ll surrender and consider taking mice, mouse traps and peanut butter as income tax deductions next year.
April 16, 1991
Sweat Pants, T-Shirts Beat PJ’s Any Day
Mike was getting ready for a slumber party. He was excited because he had never stayed overnight at a friend’s house before. I was helping him pack his gear.
“Why don’t you take these Chinese pajamas”? I asked, holding up the freshly laundered and folded pair.
“No I don’t want to.”
“How about the dinosaur ones? They should still fit,” I said digging in the drawer.
“Mom, Do you know where those cut-off sweat pants and my Turtle T-shirt are? I’ll take them to sleep in,” my son responded.
“Don’t you think you should take pajamas?” I asked
“Why?”
Why, indeed, I said to myself. He never wears pajamas at home; neither do his brothers. They sleep in T-shirts and shorts in warm weather and sweat suits in the winter.
If most households are like ours, and I imagine a lot of them are, the pj industry for the size 6 and above set must be in a recession. But again, maybe it’s not. There are still mothers like me who keep tradition and buy pj’s even though they are never or seldom worn.
Sometimes, my guys will put on their pajamas after their evening showers. The boys look so nice and fresh and neat. But most of the time, they scrounge around looking for something well-worn and comfortable to sleep in.
I guess this is OK as long as they don’t reach for the dirty clothes they just took off.
I read a parenting article in which an expert on children suggested that parents let children wear the same knit clothing to school as they wore to bed the night before.
If we did that, we would have to find something else to argue about in the morning.
My guys can’t understand why I won’t let them wear the clothes they’ve worn continuously since school let out on Friday to church on Sunday. They also don’t understand why they have to take showers when they just took them three days earlier.
I usually win this argument when I point out that the tomato sauce stains on their shirts Sunday morning came from the pizza we had Friday night.
My guys like to stay up until they drop or I start having a fit because they are still awake (which ever happens first). They fop into bed after performing minimalistic hygiene rituals in the bathroom.
Their sense of style does save money, since I never feel tempted to purchase a cute ensemble displayed in a store window.
Mike and John’s favorite tops for playing and sleeping are the sweat shirts I bought for them last fall from a vendor a the loading dock of the ferry for the Statue of Liberty in New York City. It was the end of the day, and he was slashing prices.
Pete alternates wearing his two elves sweat shirts, which were made to promote my book, “I Can’t Sleep With Those Elves Watching Me.”
Matt likes his purple or black sweat shirt.
They all wear sweat pants with holes in the knees. I’ve been gradually cutting off the sweat pants to make shorts, but not without protest. They argue that if I cut off too many sweat pants, they won’t have anything to wear after school on cool days.
I guess the boys like to keep their ankles warm, even if their knees can feel the evening breezes.
When my older kids were little, I was embarrassed if they were seen dressed like that. My standards have lowered – dramatically. Now, it doesn’t really matter what they wear when they’re asleep or awake I always tell them, “You are cute and that’s what is important.”
April 23, 1991
Safety Nut’ Sounds Smoke-Detector Warning
It was Good Friday, late in the evening. I was sitting in the family room of my childhood home, talking wity my sister, Sheila.
She was trying to coax her little one, Ned, into bed but he wasn’t interested. He had more important business: ripping, tossing, and stuffing newspapers which had been piled on the coffee table.
Just when we thought we were the only ones awake, we were startled by a loud, wailing noise.
“Isn’t that the smoke alarm?” I asked Sheila.
“It sounds like it,” she answered.
The alarm stopped as abruptly as it started. I decided to pinpoint the reason. Just then, my Dad walked into the room. He was wearing his pajamas and carrying a pole.
“Did I scare you?” he asked, smiling sheepishly.
“Was that the smoke detector?” I asked.
“Yes, I was testing it to make sure the batteries were good.” (That was the purpose of the pole. He used it to reach the testing button.)
He had intended to test the alarms before his family had arrived for the Easter weekend.
I was just about to go to bed when I remembered and decided I had better do it now. Otherwise, I’d wake up at 2 a.m. and wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep until I tested the batteries.
My father and I think alike. Last summer, before my husband and I took our older kids to Europe, I tested the smoke alarms at our house.
We installed new batteries and tested each smoke detector to make sure the batteries weren’t duds.
Two detectors lack testing buttons, so we had to improvise by lighting a candle and blowing it out so that the smoke would waft toward the sensor.
When the alarm sounded, I hastily fanned the smoke with a folded newspaper.
We took these steps because I didn’t want to become panicked on our trip if it occurred to me that more than half of my children were thousands of miles away, asleep in a house equipped with non-functional smoke detectors.
My main floor detector used to go off every time I used the broiler. Each time, I considered it a good signal for me to blow off steam.
I recently retested all the smoke detectors in our home, with Maureen’s help. She thought it was fun. I thought it was noisy.
When I was young – before smoke detectors were invented – my dad conducted fire drills. My older sister and I were supposed to get the littler girls and climb out a window onto the porch roof.
Smoke detectors are my thing. A while ago, Grandma Cavanaugh invited the grandchildren to her house for a slumber party. (Grandma loves to entertain the kids by making leprechauns dance on the walls and cooking pancakes.)
As I drove the children to Grandma’s house, I thought, “This is quite a crowd for Grandma but they should get along fine if everyone is in good spirits and the big kids help with the little kids.”
I decided to stop en route and buy a new battery and tested the alarm with a lighted candle.
My mother-in-law thanked me. The kids called me a “safety nut.”
The next day, I read a heartbreaking newspaper story about a fire which could have been avoided if the house had had a smoke detector in working order.
Ordinarily, I don’t use this space as a soap box. But smoke detectors save lives. I think every residence – including college dorm rooms and apartments – should be equipped with working smoke detectors.
If you have a smoke detector, test the battery. If the battery is dead, replace it immediately.
If you don’t have a smoke detector, buy one. They are inexpensive. I’ll sleep a lot better if I know you are safe.
Baby’s Birth Adds to Count of Blessings
When the telephone rang, I was arranging flowers, my mother was wrapping silverware and my dad was marinating the meat for the evening’s festivities.
I left what I was doing and went to pick up the receiver. At first I didn’t recognize the voice, but when I did, I was excited.
“Did you have the baby?” I hurriedly asked my sister, Sheila. When she answered that she did, I screeched and my mother came running and Dad stopped what he was doing at the stove.
“Sheila had the baby,” I told my parents.
“Boy or girl? And when?” I asked.
“A boy born about an hour ago?” I repeated into the phone.
“How is he? How are you? How’s Ken (my sister’s husband)?”
“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,” my sister answered to all three questions. “We are calling him William Ned.”
It was time to rejoice – as it always was when a new and healthy life makes its debut into our world. But our family had even more reason to be excited, pleased and thankful with the new son, grandson, nephew and cousin.
Sheila and Ken lost a baby 14 months ago. The baby was an almost full-term stillborn girl. We were heartbroken when it happened. They named her Sheila Maureen.
My family is used to good things happening; so when the baby died it seemed lik one of our expected blessings was denied.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was sand and hard to accept. But life continues and so did Sheila, Ken and Max, their 2-year-old son.
At the summer get-together at the lake, Ken won the Bert Johnson Invitational, the family’s 8-mile run to Lake Geneva City. And at a talent show organized by the children, Sheila, Ken and Max performed in a goofy skit as the king, queen and price of Hungie Bungie.
Then the good news came. A new baby was expected in early April.
The happy anticipation began and continued as Sheila’s due date approached and passed.
Also on the agenda was the celebration party from my book , to which I had invited my parents. Sheila and my parents live in the Chicago area. Mom and Dad wanted to come but also wanted to be on hand to help with Max in case Sheila gave birth.
Another sister, Bonnie, interceded and went to stay with my sister and Ken. I had my party, Sheila had the baby the same day, and the happiness filled the air.
That is the way life is supposed to be.
The joy little William Ned’s birth has given our family would be no less if we had not lost his sister last year. But because we did , our joy is so much more abundant.
Both occasions have reminded us of the fragility of the gifts we continually receive. Life, love, family and friendship are the treasures of the world.
We never will forget Sheila Maureen and the missed opportunity to know her. Her memory has blessed all the Barretts with renewed joy and faith as we welcome her brother.
And on the Cavanaugh side of the family, the blessing are overflowing. We celebrated the November 5 birth of Claire Irene Boyer, the March 30 birth of Bertilla Bernadette Cavanaugh and await the impending June birth of Baby Amdor.
The flowers of spring are blooming; and the garden is beautiful.
April 24, 1989
Loads of Luck In Washer Flood
Let me set the scene – it’s one of the calm before the storm – meaning the downpour in my entry hall. I was upstairs getting my little guys ready for bed. I said I would read to them, but first I wanted to put the school uniforms in the washer, which is upstairs near the bedrooms. I started the machine and then went to Pete and Matt’s room to read.
Then the phone rang. I went downstairs to the kitchen phone because the caller was giving me information I needed to write on the calendar. While I was talking I heard the rushing sound of water. I peered into the entry hall and saw water pouring out of the ceiling light fixture.
I ended my call and ran upstairs to the laundry room, where the water already was an inch deep and rising fast.
I quickly turned off the machine thinking that would stop the flow. It didn’t. Instead, it continued to squirt out wildly from the washer hose. The water was very hot, and the laundry area was like a steam room at an athletic club.
I knew I had to get behind the dryer to shut off the faucets. First, I thought, I should unplug the dryer, but I didn’t want to be electrocuted. I climbed atop the washer to pull out the dryer’s cord from the outlet.
By this time, the kids had arrived on the scene to see what was going on. I was trying to shut off the water at the faucet, but the hot water was making the faucet too hot to handle. I had Maureen hold a towel on the leaking hose so I could do it, but even that didn’t help. The water kept shooting out around the towel and through it.
Meanwhile, as Maureen and I were getting our clothes soaked and our hair curled from the steam bath, Machaela, Mike and Johnny were putting pans and towers on the entry hall floor.
I decided I would have to turn off the water for the house. One time, my dad showed me where the shut off faucets were should something like this happen. Now I couldn’t remember if the shutoffs were behind the furnace, under the sink or by the water meter. All I knew is that they were in the basement.
I ran from faucet to faucet trying to figure it out. Every time I tried one I yelled to Pete, who was waiting at the top of the basement stairs so he could yell to Maureen who was still holding the towel to see if I found the right one. Finally, she said the water was subsiding. I ran back upstairs and was able to get the other faucets turned off.
What a mess! Every towel, plus the load of clean laundry I had set on the floor with the intention of folding right after I read to the boys, as soaked. The school uniforms were sitting in the filled washing machine tub. After I turned the water back on I had to rinse them in the bath tub, wring them out and hang them to dry because they needed to be worn to school the next morning.
After everything calmed down again Mike said, “that was fun.”
The next day when the plumber came to fix the damaged hose, he told us how lucky we were.
“It could have been a lot worse. If you weren’t home to get the water turned off you would really have had a disaster,” he said.
As I looked at the water-soaked and stained entry hall-ceiling, the shorted-out light fixture and piles of soaked laundry, I thought, “Boy, I guess I’m just one of those people with all the luck.”
April 27, 1993
Trash Bag Must Suffice as Easter-Trip Luggage
Pete arranged his clothes on his bed as we prepared for our Easter trip to Illinois to see Grandpa and Grandma. He was bring several pairs of sweat pants, some with holes in the knees, and his good pair to wear if he went somewhere.
He packed short-sleeved shirts and not any “sleeved” shirts, which is what he calls long-sleeved shirts and that he won’t wear because he doesn’t like his arms to be confined. He told me I was in charge of packing his Easter clothes and he wondered whether he would be able to change right after church.
When Pete, who is 7, asked for a suitcase for his clothes, I told him to get a trash bag and we would pack his and Matt’s clothes in it. That idea didn’t go over with him.
“How come I always have to use a trash bag for my stuff?” he asked.
“You do?” I asked.
“When we went to Grand Island to see the Sandhill Cranes, I did,” he told me.
His older brothers, John and Mike, found an Army duffel bag for their clothes, and Pete wanted to use something similar. I began searching around for some other kind of bag for Pete. But we seem to be in a suitcase downturn. The girls had already laid claims on what was available that didn’t have broken zippers or latches.
Pete said it is embarrassing to bring his clothes in a trash bag. Colleen tried to influence otherwise.
“No one will even see it,” she told him. “When we arrive it will be dark. I’ll carry it in for you, and besides, a trash-bag suitcase takes up less space in the car because it is soft and fits in smaller spaces.”
I resorted to bribery.
“If you use the trash bag this time, I’ll get you a suitcase of your own to use for your next trip.”
I’m not sure whether he believed me, but the weekend passed with no more discussion about his travel bags.
Pete didn’t need to wear his “sweat pants for going places.” Most of our Chicago sightseeing trips were canceled because of what they were referring to in Chicago as “da flood” caused by “da hole.”
In case you missed it, before Easter weekend the basements of Chicago’s Loop were flooded by Chicago river water gushing into a series of tunnels under the downtown area. Electricity and water were also turned off.
Matt had hoped to make his first trip to the top of the Sears Tower. For my guys, everything in life is compared to the Sears Tower, a tall person, a Lego block construction, or an airplane flying overhead they wonder hot it compare in height to the Sears Tower. Making that long elevator ride to the top of the Sears Tower is the Mount Everest climbing challenge of Matt’s 5-year-old life, but he had to put it off until his next visit.
When it was time to pack up to drive home to Omaha, I wondered why we brought so much stuff we didn’t need or use. I think we could have easily put everything our whole family needed into one trash bag – but it’s a good thing we didn’t because I left Pete’s traveling trash bag behind.
As convenient as it is to use a trash bag as a suitcase, there is one drawback. It can easily be thought to contain what it was intended to contain: trash.
As we packed up, I had the kids set our stuff by the back door of my parents’ home. Pete’s trash bag was put on top of the recycling basket by the back door. I thought it was filled with empty pop cans, so we left it there, but I thought wrong. I should have recognized it not as a trash bag at all but one piece from the matched set of luggage stored in the cardboard box under my kitchen sink.
Grandpa discovered our oversight after we departed. Now I’m wondering how a trash-bag suitcase will travel by mail.
April 28, 1992
Barnyard Balm Soothes Hands In an Odd Way
It’s rubber-glove season again. As soon as the outdoor temperature drops, I start wearing rubber gloves to wash dishes and scour the sinks.
From April through November, I usually can plunge my bare hands into any sink full of dirty dishes with no difficulty. (Except at my mother-in-law’s house; she uses hotter water to wash dishes than she uses to make tea.) But when the house has to be closed up for the winter, the cracks on my hands open up and I suffer.
So, I wear rubber gloves to avoid dishpan hands so sore that even Madge on the Palmolive dish-washing detergent commercials can’t cure them.
Most winters, I go through a couple of pairs of rubber gloves. A gloved finger will spring a leak after a fork pierces it, or one glove will get lost in the abyss under the kitchen sink.
On occasions when I’ve been desperate to clean the kitchen and I haven’t been able to locate a non-leaking pair of gloves, I’ve worn a right-handed glove on my left hand. This works fine as long as I’m washing stew kettles and not crystal stemware.
I will wear leaky gloves, if that’s all I can find. I would rather have water seep through a little tear than plunge my hands into a sink full of hot water. However, it does give me the creeps to stick my hands into soggy gloves.
I don’t really like wearing rubber gloves. My fingernails get cleaner without them. At least that’s what I tell my kids when I want them to do the dishes.
I take a lot of physical and verbal grief over my winter hand condition. When I was young, my mother made me put glycerin on my hands and sleep wearing little, white-cotton church gloves.
When I was in high school, my Dad got involved. He was worried about my chapped feet. (I insisted on walking to school wearing shoes and nylon stockings.) He got some pork tallow from a butcher and had me lather my feet with the tallow before I went to bed.
The next morning, my feet were nice and soft but they smelled like pig fat - which is not the way a high school girl attracts dates.
I don’t have chapped feet anymore. And I don’t soothe my hands with glycerin. Instead, I lather up at night with bag balm, which is used to soften the udders of milking cows. (Another barnyard remedy; however, this one doesn’t smell). I cover my hands with knee-high athletic socks and climb in bed.
I may look odd, but it doesn’t matter – except on nights I have to exert authority. One night, I stormed from bed to the top of the basement stairs with the intention of lecturing a rowdy throng of teen-agers gathered below.
As I completed my “That’s enough carrying on for tonight” speech and turned around, clad in my pink flannel nightgown, I heard one of the teens ask incredulously, “Does your mom have socks on her hands?”
They can make fun of me if they choose, but this treatment does work. I just have to remember when I get up in the morning to walk on my feet instead of my hands.
December 3, 1991
Noses Wrinkle At Bean Soup
The bean soup is gone. I just finished washing the pot.
My husband, John, made the soup, and despite contradictory remarks from other family members, it was delicious.
John soaked the beans overnight in a pot of water.
The next morning, he chopped an onion so pungent that it brought tears to the eyes of everyone eating breakfast in the kitchen.
After adding other ingredients such as whole tomatoes and ham hocks, John placed the pot of soup on the stove to simmer.
This last step means that first you bring what you are cooking to a boil and then you reduce the heat. John thought otherwise but my opinion prevailed.
John left for the office and I was left in charge of baby-sitting his soup.
My instructions were to stir the soup occasionally until 3 p.m., at which time I was to remove the pot from the burner, let it cool and then place it in the refrigerator.
The recipe recommended refrigerating the soup overnight before reheating. We took a shortcut because we wanted to serve the soup that evening.
While running errands, I bumped into a neighbor who is an excellent cook. I told her about the soup-making effort and asked her advice: “What do you do with ham hocks?”
I shared my friend’s advice with John: “You should take the ham hocks out of the soup to cool, remove the meat from the bones, and break the tomatoes into pieces.”
When dinnertime arrived, we were set for a delicious meal. We had our soup, warm bread and a salad.
But there was a missing ingredient: hungry mouths. Five of our eight children were out for the evening. One of them left when he heard what was on the menu.
This left us with three little guys to share soup, which none was eager to try, despite my exclamatory remarks.
Mike succumbed to testing it after I bribed him with a box of candy canes. The other two guys ate the bread and I ate their soup.
There was enough leftover soup to be served the next evening with a spaghetti dish I had prepared.
Here’s a sampling of the commentary:
John: “This soup is savoir faire.” He kissed his finger tips.
Maureen: “What’s that supposed to mean?”
John: “It means it’s an old family recipe handed down from the cabinets.”
Machaela: “It is? I thought you got the recipe off the back of the bag of beans.”
Me: “It’s time to eat. Everyone come to the table. We’re having Dad’s bean soup.”
Pete: “I already had my bean soup last night.”
John: “There are several people here tonight who weren’t home last night to get some soup.”
Mike: “That’s right. They should get the most.”
Colleen: “This bean soup is good but how come you put so many beans in it?”
Me: “I’ll take everyone’s leftovers buy you have to at least try the soup before you can have another crescent role.”
Later, as I washed the bean pot, Pete came up to me. I asked’
“How did you like the soup?”
“Fine,” he said, “But I didn’t eat much. I didn’t like the leaves in the soup.”
“You mean the parsley?”
“They’re gross. Can I have something good to eat now, Like Teen-Age Mutant Ninja Turtle cereal?”
Pete is our connoisseur of fine dining.
December 4,1989
Decking the Halls Tests Survival Of Holiday Spirit
The outdoor Christmas decorations are up. Its not a winter wonderland out there, but it does look nice.
I wanted to hang evergreen garland to frame that front door and put lights and red ribbons on it. I’ve seen that done at other homes. It looks so pretty, but we couldn’t figure out how to hang the garland.
The molding around the door is metal and the house is stone; therefore, it isn’t easy to find a place to hammer a nail. I wasn’t going to let something like a stonewall keep me from creating the look I had in mind, but it did.
My next idea was to hang the greens around the garage doors, but the garland was too short. So, I opted for the living room windows. Patrick hung it and placed a wreath in the middle. I loved how it looked but thought I needed to make the house appear more symmetrical.
“We should do the same thing over the dining room windows.” I told my son, who also is my assistant.
“We should,” he agreed. “Why don’t you buy some more greens, and you might as well get some more lights. I can’t get those others to work.”
That was easy for him to suggest since we weren’t spending his money. I went to the nursery and ordered the length of garland I needed for the dinning room windows.
“Can you use a few more feet of greens?” the salesperson inquired.
“It’s more reasonable per foot to buy it by the roll.”
“Sure, why not. I’ll find a use for it.” I replied. I also purchased wreaths, the lights and yards of wide red ribbon to make bows. I thought the pre-made bows were too expensive, and I could save a couple of dollars by making my own. Of course, that was before I tried to make them.
I did find a use for the roll of greens. It was much more than I needed for the dining room so I put it over the garage doors, which left the dining room windows looking neglected. I hung one of the wreaths over the windows. It looks OK but still needs garland around it.
I hung the new lights over the garage door. I wanted to light up the wreath, too, but I was out of lights that worked. So I sat down on the floor near an electric outlet and tested the bulbs until I found the culprit that was keeping the whole strand from lighting.
As we worked, I was bothered that there were so many leaves still in our bushes and flower gardens. I wanted to get a rake and clean them out, but Patrick tried to discourage me. I think he was afraid I would make him do it.
I got the rakes anyway and while we raked I reminded him, “We haven’t put the lights in the oak tree yet.”
“That’s Dad’s job,” Patrick said. “He likes to get out here with a ladder and stick the lights way up on the branches. He always picks the coldest day to do it and he has me help him.”
“Well, it’s all part of getting into the Christmas spirit,” I told him.
“So is roasting chestnuts on an open fire. When do we get to do that?”
“Just as soon as we finish decorating,” I answered. “Now do you think we can run an extension cord out to the mailbox and set up those computerized bells that play Christmas carols?”
December 11,1989
A Brush With History… Spirit of Christmas Spreads All Across Eastern Europe
It’s Christmas, and there is hope in the world.
I experienced some of this hope last summer when my husband, John, and I took a trip to Europe to celebrate our wedding anniversary. We were married in Frankfurt, Germany, and wanted to go back to where it all began. We took along our two oldest children, Patrick and Colleen.
As we were planning the trip, each of us had different ideas about where we should go.
Patrick, for instance, wanted to go to Berlin. My husband said if we were traveling to Berlin, we might as well continue on to Czechoslovakia. He always had wanted to see Prague.
I balked at the itinerary. It seemed like too much trouble to get visas and train reservations for Eastern Europe.
Today, my worries seem insignificant. I’m glad we took the trouble.
We traveled by train from Frankfurt to West Berlin, where the atmosphere was lively. Big stores were stocked with expensive merchandise; streets were jammed with luxury cars; elegant hotels, restraints and nightclubs were everywhere; and people were fashionably dressed.
From West Berlin, we entered East Berlin and traveled by train to Prague. Our timing was propitious. We saw what life was like behind the Iron Curtain months before the curtain was lifted and a new act in the theater of life began.
It was a short subway ride from West Berlin to East Berlin, but the contrast in cities couldn’t have been greater.
After a border check, we explored the city. Few people were on the streets; stores seemed to carry little merchandise; restaurants, hotels and cars were scarce; historic buildings were in a state of decay.
And the Berlin Wall was heavily guarded.
I was filled with sadness.
Colleen kept asking, “How can people live like this?”
When we boarded the train for Prague, we found our sleeping car had only three beds. I suggested we double up; I didn’t want my family to be separated. The conductor decided otherwise and sent Patrick promptly off to find a seat in a third-class car.
Several times throughout the night, our passports and visas were thoroughly examined; our pictures were compared to our faces by authorities who shined flashlights into our eyes.
We arrived in Prague in the early morning, relieved to meet up Patrick.
He had spent the night comparing lifestyles and playing cards with some young East German men. They were impressed that Patrick had a driver’s license and that he wore his Chicago Bears hat backward.
Prague was beautiful. It had more energy than East Berlin, but it was communist and life didn’t look easy.
A few months after our trip, East Germans began fleeing their homeland. Then restrictions on their travel were lifted.
At first, I thought I would want out, too. Then reality hit. As difficult as life was in East Germany, it was home to its people.
The answer was the wall – it had to crumble. When it did, there was dancing in the streets. This jubilation was followed by dramatic political reforms in Czechoslovakia.
Our trip and the subsequent political events in Eastern Europe have made me realize that there always will be struggle, injustice, pain and suffering in the world.
But if we strive to improve from within and rise to the occasion, as the Czechs did in Prague, our search for truth and beauty will keep us on the trail blazed at the birth of Christ.
The spirit of Christmas brings joy to the world. This year, it is taking a step closer in the direction of peace on earth and good will toward men.
December 25, 1989
Family of Believers...Behold the Spirit of Christmas
Christmas Eve, 1991.
Conversations around our house lately have been about the existence of Santa Clause.
When you think about it, Santa Clause is not a very plausible concept, especially the part about him crisscrossing the country with a team of flying reindeer and sliding down chimneys. That chimney part worried me as a child.
When I was growing up, we always had a fire in the fireplace on winter evenings. I would ask my Dad not to light a fire on Christmas Eve so Santa wouldn’t get scorched. Dad would tell me it was OK because Santa was like magic and a fire wouldn’t bother him. That made sense to me.
My little guys rationalize Santa’s inconsistencies with blind faith. After all, love is blind and Santa certainly is someone who inspires love.
My sons wonder why some of their friends don’t believe in Santa Clause. I think my sons have come to the conclusion that these nonbelievers are going to be sorry.
My children aren’t taking any chances. They are not doubting Santa’s existence. They want Santa to believe in them, too.
Mike asked if we could buy film for the camera. If it shows, he wants to take pictures of the tracks Santa’s reindeer leave on the roof.
Johnny suggested setting up the video camera to record everything that happened after he went to bed. Then he reconsidered. “There’s probably not a videotape long enough to last the whole night,” he said.
My children are believers. So is my husband. So am I.
I’ve always been a believer. Once I saw the real Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Honest. I was 8 years old. I was in the bedroom I shared with my sisters. We were supposed to be asleep, but we were too excited.
Suddenly, my brother, John, who was the oldest, ran into our room and said, “You better get to sleep. Santa’s coming. He won’t stop at our house if you are still awake, and I just heard him. He’s over at the Sorensen’s house.”
We all ran to the window, and a couple of seconds later I saw Santa and his reindeer fly across our front lawn. And just as quickly, I jumped back into bed and went to sleep.
It was very exciting. It is something that happens only on a magical night such as this.
It’s Christmas Eve. Everything looks different, somehow. The stoplights and the gas stations on the corner, and the parks and the street in front of our house all look different. These places aren’t even decorated for Christmas, yet they have a special look.
The Christ Child envisioned a peaceful world filled with joy, kindness and unconditional love. Sometimes we depart from Jesus’ path for us. Believing in Santa Claus is like believing in ourselves. To believe, we have to forget skepticism and cynicism and have dreams of hope, love and sharing.
That’s the spirit of Christmas as Jesus intended.
December 24, 1991
Counting Blessings at Christmastime
Six-year-old Matt was following me around the house asking questions about bad luck. I was replying to his queries – “How do you get bad luck?” and “What is bad luck?” –with half-attentive responses. I was preoccupied with hanging some Christmas garland.
Finally he said, “Do you wonder why I’m asking about bad luck?”
I hadn’t really wondered, but now that he asked me I was quite interested. I stopped what I was doing and said, “Why are you asking about bad luck?”
“I think I’m going to have some bad luck,” Matt told me. “I walked under a ladder (which was set up in the house to decorate the Christmas tree). That’s why I’m carrying around these.” He showed me two four-leaf clover paperweights he had in the pocket of his sweat pants.
I told him he probably wouldn’t have bad luck just from walking under a ladder. That was just a superstition and he shouldn’t worry about it, I said. But then I told him it wouldn’t hurt to carry the four-leaf clovers just in case.
Of course, Matt doesn’t understand about superstitions and neither do I. Even though I don’t really believe in superstitions I’m also afraid not to. I’ve never wanted to tempt fate.
For example, I’ve always wondered why I am so lucky. I don’t mean at cards or at the races but lucky in life. But I’m too superstitious to try to figure it out.
Happiness and good fortunes are a powerful burden to carry. As opposed to someone who doesn’t have any good things in life and therefore nothing to lose, I have so much and also so much to lose. I, of course, prefer the latter set of circumstances, but it is frightening.
At the Christmas season it is appropriate to extend wishes to others that only good things come of them. It also is a time to do something to make good things come to others who need our help. There are so many people who need more than a four-leaf clover paperweight to ward off bad luck.
The greatest joy in life is my family and friends. The happiness they give me each day fills my heart in a way I’m sure nothing else could ever begin to do.
I love my children so intensely and so unconditionally that I sometimes surprise myself at my ability to do so. It is fulfilling and joyous sensation that can be described only as a Blessing. So when I think of God giving us Jesus, His Son I am in awe of the magnitude of that gift. It was a gift of the greatest love to others.
The Christmas season is a time for giving of many types. We have a lot of loot stashed around our house to be put under the tree on Christmas Eve. Every year I think we overdo it. But I guess that is part of the season. It is fun to delight others with presents. I think it is also fun to be the recipient of a few gifts. The other part of Christmas is remembering the spiritual gifts we have been given and to spread them all around the place.
One of my favorite songs is sung during the Liturgy of the Eucharist during the Mass. The congregation joins in singing what we Catholics call the “Holy, Holy, Holy.” The last line is “Blessed is me that means that if we do all in the name of the Lord the spirit of Christmas will be forever with us.
My second favorite song is one Matt learned two years ago at preschool: “It must be Santa Claus.”
December 22,1992
Introduction: Grandma Hardt Was Really Something
Introduction
Grandma Hardt Was Really Something
Grandma lived with us. She moved in after I was born to help out my mom. I was the third child born in as many years. Well, she stayed until she died. Maybe it was because the next ten years
brought five more babies into our house or maybe it was because we loved her and she loved us and we needed each other. After all, she was our grandma and we were her grandchildren.
The last time I saw Grandma she was in the hospital. I don't even remember what was wrong with her but I do remember that the medicine was making her act goofy. I had just got engaged and was home for Easter vacation to share the good news. She knew John and was very fond of him.
What was to be our last conversation was about him. She wondered aloud if John knew what was in store for him. When I asked her why she thought that, she groggily replied, "Well, you're
so silly."
I shook my head in dismay, kissed her good-bye, and left the hospital. The most pressing thing on my mind was choosing between two wedding china patterns. She died a week after I
returned to school. I was very shocked It never occurred to me that she was going to die. That was ten years ago this month. I think of her all the time. She was really something. Her name was Della Hardt. I often called her Della. She thought that was OK. When I think about her, I mostly think of all the fun times we had, because she was a fun person. But sometimes I think about how little I really related to her life. It makes me feel sad and guilty, although Grandma would never want me to. Maybe it was because I was young; I hope it wasn't because I wasn't interested.
Her life was difficult, even tragic. Two of her babies died as toddlers and when she was about thirty-eight my grandfather died, leaving her on the fann to raise my mother and two sons alone. Even though she was a young woman when this happened, she never remarried. Around her 70th year, in confession, a priest asked why, to which she replied, "No one ever asked me."
Her life during the Depression was probably pretty trying, but the only story she ever related about it was one about getting a permanent - or should I say a marcel, the permanent wave of the '30s. They would yank her hair so much hooking it up to the curling machine that when they were through she had such a headache she had to retire to bed. By the time she recovered, the hairdo was ruined.
I loved that story. She used to tell it to Bonnie (my sister) and me as we walked her home through the snow from Mrs. Morris' beauty shop. She had a standing appointment on Thursday for a shampoo and pin curl set.
Bonnie and I did a lot of things with Grandma. She took us to the movies and out to dinner and we laughed a lot. Della had great insight into human nature, especially our neighbors. They were great story material.
One of the best is about Grandma's new car. She always had a car. As she was taking it out for a drive she asked Marian, a kittycornered neighbor who was working in her rose garden, if she wouldn't like to ride along. Marian declined. "No, Della, I can't. I think I'm going to die tonight."
''That's OK, I'll have you back in plenty of time," Grandma said, "I don't like to drive after dark."
Grandma sewed for us. She also mended things, took them in, let them out, and in the era of the miniskirt she did a lot of shortening. She never raised her eyebrows at the diminishing skirts. All she ever said was, "Just mark the hem, I'll make them as short as you want. You're the one running around half dressed, not me."
Making a nice appearance was important to Grandma. Whenever she was going out she'd like to be reassured that she looked nice. "Is my dress all right?" "What about my necklace, does it match?" I'd always offer the appropriate reassurance and at the same time wonder what difference it made ... In my world, if you were over 30 you were over the hill and should no longer concern yourself about appearances.
Grandma was right. I was silly and she'd be glad to know that I am still silly, but now I'm mature, too. Unfortunately, she's not here to see that John has been able to put up with me. She would be happy for me and she would love to hold all my babies. And she would be happy that now I know that she wasn't just a Grandma, but a person, too.
Why did it take so long?
May 3, 1979
Life's Little Headaches Are Put in Perspective
Things weren't going well that day. The air conditioning wasn't working and the house was humid enough to grow exotic flowers. The upstairs shower was leaking into the kitchen, the ceiling was on the verge of caving in, and my toes still hurt from having Machaela drop the church kneeler on my foot.
I would have liked to run away. But I had no car; it was at the gas station for a new battery. I certainly would have no money after I paid my repair bills.
Then I got into a conversation with one of the repairmen. Sevenmonth- old Michael was sitting on the floor and the plumber commented on how cute he was. "He reminds me of one of my boys," he said. "He was a chubby baby, too, but he could really get around. He walked when he was only nine months."
He went on to tell me about his grandchildren but his thoughts returned to his son who resembled Michael . . . "We lost him." I expressed my sympathy and asked when it happened. "Two years ago at age 28 he died of cancer."
As he stood there telling me this, he was looking at Michael, and yet he seemed to be seeing his own son. His face filled with sadness. It was a look every parent hopes never to experience.
All of a sudden a hot house, a dead battery, a leaky ceiling and a sore foot lost significance on the list of life's problems. What instantly seemed important was my beautiful healthy baby and his equally beautiful and healthy brothers and sisters.
I decided that next time when instead of getting ready for bed Maureen and Machaela run up and down the hall naked saying they have sexy legs while Johnny chases them with a toilet plunger stuck to his stomach, I'm going to think it's funny instead of being frustrated that they are still up.
As a matter of fact, I've been laughing more when the house is a mess. I was only cheerful when the house was clean and when it was a mess, watch out. I decided I didn't want my children growing up thinking their mom liked a clean house more than I liked them.
Before long this philosophical attitude will probably wear off but when it does, something else will happen to shake up my perspective. For my sake, I hope it does because when I think back on these years, I want to smile.
September 21, 1983
Rustling of Mice Makes a Strong Mother Feel Trapped Like a Rat
I had thought of myself as a modern woman who is capable, self sufficient, independent, smart – all in all a wonderful person. Someone who faces a crisis and manages.
That thought is no longer necessarily true. My self-image was destroyed the morning a mouse ran across my kitchen floor.
I know, I know. The poor little mouse is more afraid of me. After all, I'm quite a bit bigger.
But I can't help it. Having a mouse, or as it turned out, mice, in the house caused me to fall apart.
The day after the intruder made his presence known, my husband went out of town on business. I thought he should have canceled the trip.
I could handle the seven children, a jammed disposal, a dead car battery - all the usual things that happen when husbands aren't available - but I couldn't handle mice.
After spending a day in denial, I decided to take action and quizzed everyone for a solution to mice. I was told that if I used traps set with peanut butter, the extermination would be a snap (pun intended).
After spending a day in denial, I decided to take action and quizzed everyone for a solution to mice. I was told that if I used traps set with peanut butter, the extermination would be a snap (pun intended).
After purchasing the traps, my involvement ceased. I gave them to Patrick, my 12-year-old, and had him set one in the bread drawer. That appeared to be the mouse's headquarters, judging from the gnawed plastic bread bags and chewed pieces of bread.
The next few mornings, before I went downstairs, I had the kids check the drawer to see whether the coast was clear. Waking up to a recently departed mouse trapped in my bread drawer was an experience I preferred to miss.
Before the bread-drawer visitor was evicted, however, the theory that there's never just one mouse in the house proved correct. One evening as I was getting the kids ready for bed, we discovered what became known as the upstairs mouse.
He had a long tail. This fact became significant a few days later, when I was traveling from room to room collecting dirty clothes.
I tossed the clothes on the floor of the laundry room, ran down the hall to tuck the girls in bed, and then came back a moment later. I scooped up the clothes only to have a mouse jump out of the pile. My reaction could most likely be described as an excellent cardiovascular workout. After this incident, "jumpy" would best describe my frame of mind. I never knew when I would be face to face or toe to tail with a mouse.
One morning, I was leaning over making Johnny's bed when I felt a rustling along the cuff of my pant leg. It was a mouse. He ran out of the room, and I jumped on top of the bed.
We set a trap under the bed.
The next day I stepped on it.
Opening drawers in the kitchen and doing laundry involved a major mustering of courage. I never got out of bed until I put on my slippers.
After I endured several days of the heebie-jeebies, the peanut butter lure proved effective. One morning the kids ran upstairs all excited to report that we had won the battle of the bread drawer. Once Patrick disposed of the evidence, I went downstairs.
The next morning, my young exterminators gave me a good news-bad news story.
The next morning, my young exterminators gave me a good news-bad news story.
The good news was the capture of the upstairs mouse. The bad news was that he had a short tail. The washing-machine coast was still not clear.
Well, all-out trap setting continued until I felt assured that all the residents of our house were named Cavanaugh.
Despite my aversion to sharing my home with mice, the whole experience made me feel bad.
I wish I could have been more hospitable; after all, it was cold outside, and the little mice just wanted to be warm. It seems extreme that killing them is the only way they get the message that they aren't welcome.
Maybe if they had better manners ... and didn't chew up our bread ... and weren't always darting out of closets or out from under cabinets scaring me . . . I might let them stay.
Well, all-out trap setting continued until I felt assured that all the residents of our house were named Cavanaugh.
Despite my aversion to sharing my home with mice, the whole experience made me feel bad.
I wish I could have been more hospitable; after all, it was cold outside, and the little mice just wanted to be warm. It seems extreme that killing them is the only way they get the message that they aren't welcome.
Maybe if they had better manners ... and didn't chew up our bread ... and weren't always darting out of closets or out from under cabinets scaring me . . . I might let them stay.
On the other hand, it is my house!
April 17, 1985
April 17, 1985
Sleepless Night Hits High Gear
Last night was one of those nights.
I couldn't sleep. My mind was entered in the Indianapolis 500 of bedtime. It was racing down the road of wakefulness, making pit stops at any and every possible line of thought.
When this occurs, I completely exhaust one subject before the wheels of the cerebral cavity peel out and are off to a new one. One thought leads to another.
I could be in bed thinking that tomorrow I'm going to the library
but realize that first I have to find the books. Then I think, a page in
one book got ripped. I'll have to repair it first.
I wonder if we have any tape. Probably not any that I can find. I
can never find anything when I need it. I still haven't found a nail clippers, and the boys' fingernails are filthy.
And their hair is so long. I've got to get them in to have haircuts. I wonder if long hair on boys will come back in style?
I wonder if I should let my hair grow long. I saw someone in a movie with a hairdo I liked. I also liked an outfit the movie star was wearing. I'd like to find one similar to it but in a different color. Periodically there's a lull on the midnight run when I look at the clock, shudder, flip over on my other side, kick a leg out from under the covers and flop it on top of the quilt, grab my hair at the roots with one hand and drop the other arm across my forehead, all the while muttering, "I've got to get some sleep or tomorrow I'll be as useful as an abandoned and cracked-up stock car." This lecture to myself doesn't do any good, other than to give the computer disc of the mind another file to call up and inventory.
Usually the thoughts of the night aren't useful for any purpose other than keeping me awake. One night I spent what seemed like hours mentally remodeling and reorganizing a department store in Walworth, WI. Although I have absolutely nothing to do with the store except to occasionally shop there when I visit Wisconsin, that night I felt compelled to revamp the business.
When I finished, I had mentally spent thousands of dollars facelifting the exterior of the building and showcasing the store's interior.
I had arranged a gigantic sidewalk sale to eliminate all their existing merchandise, and hired a new team of buyers and sent them off to buy new merchandise at what I considered more with-it clothing markets.
This scenario unfolded as my late night scanner was reviewing all the bargains I had ever purchased, and I was wondering why no one ever wore the bathing suit I bought at that store's "buy one at regular price and get the second one for a dollar" sale.
Most of my wheel-spinning is not so imaginative. Lots of it is an express train through my finances, about the lots of money I spend and lots of money I need to pay lots of my bills. Or even more frequently, my wakefulness is a roller coaster ride covering the ups and downs of child rearing.
As tiring as a night of mental road running is, it is even worse when one of my children has this problem, because none of them will want to be alone. Usually I'll be comfortably knocked out with not a dream in my head when I sense someone entering my sleep zone.
“Mom, Mom," the voice says. I'm dreaming, I tell myself. I'm not going to move and it will be over.
It isn't. A hand is felt tapping on my shoulder. "Mom, I can't sleep," the voice that goes with that hand says to me.
"Go back to your room and count sheep," I tell the voice.
"I tried doing that. I counted to the highest number I know andI'm still awake."
The child continues, "I keep thinking what it would be like to have dinosaurs as next-door neighbors. Would we play with their kid dinosaurs and would they go to school with us?"
"Probably you'd do both," I mumble. "Go back to bed."
Just as I'm sinking blissfully back into a deep sleep, the tapping hand is back. "Mom, I still can't sleep. I keep wondering if for my birthday we could get a space shuttle launch pad built in the backyard."
"Your birthday is not for five months," I answer. "Go back to bed and say the rosary."
Usually this works, but it is too late because now I'm awake and thinking,
"What would it be like to have dinosaurs for neighbors?"
September 14, 1988
Frantic Mom Dressed to Kill
"Mom," Maureen said, "How come you always write about everyone's fits but you never say anything about the way you act?"
"That's because I'm perfect," I answered. "Does someone who's perfect go storming up and down the hall, wearing a slip, holding a curling iron, slamming doors and yelling,
'Why do things like this always happen?' "
"Oh, that? I was nervous."
"It looked like a fit to me," Maureen responded.
"Yeah," Colleen, the actress, joined in. "If I put on a performance like that, you'd accuse me of thinking I was on stage. You can throw a fit as good or even better than Machaela."
"I'm not a big fit-thrower at all - compared to John," Machaela
added.
It is true I was on a rampage that morning, but I was beyond even my wit's end. I had been invited to speak at the mother-son Mass and breakfast for Patrick's school, Creighton Prep. I was honored to be asked but a bit apprehensive about what to say to such a large group of young men and their moms.
This engagement was scheduled after an unusually tumultuous week. I was living for the moment. And as each moment presented itself, if I was ready I handled it, and if I wasn't, I'd panic first, then somehow get through it.
On the morning of my speech, I felt "sort of' in control.
I had retrieved and collected my thoughts from the various dumping sites in my mind. I had figured out what I should wear and it was even back from the cleaners, and I had the kids all situated.
I had Patrick out of bed and had picked out clothes for him that I thought would be appropriate for the occasion.
All I had to do was get myself dressed. I was feeling almost relaxed.
"Chances are good that I'm going to get through this," I thought. No such luck.
My hair, which had looked fine and dandy for my previous day's events, probably also would have passed a grooming test if that morning it could have been touched up with my electric rollers. Otherwise, I would look as if I just removed the nylon stocking from over my head after an all-night spree of gas station holdups.
The fit began when I ran to Colleen's room and woke her up. "Colleen, you've got to help me. My electric curlers won't heat up and my hair looks horrible."
"Your hair doesn't look bad," she said, but she didn't even have
her eyes open.
"How can you tell? It's half set with hot curlers except they
aren't hot. Get the curling iron and come to my room."
"Calm down, Mom, and put on your dress while this thing heats up," Colleen said as she plugged in the curling iron.
"I can't calm down. I'm going to look awful and everyone will see me because I'm the speaker."
As I continued my ranting and raving, several little folks appeared in my room to see what was going on. Maureen ushered them out, saying, "Mom has a problem with her head."
In the meantime, Colleen was trying to curl my hair but it wasn't working. I had too much hair and too little time. Then Patrick came in half-dressed.
"How come you are not ready? You make me so mad," I said to him with blood-vessel-breaking gusto. "Gee, that is not a very nice way to talk to your son right before we go to a mom-son thing."
"Get out of here," I screamed.
"Dad's shirt you want me to wear is too small."
"What?" I flew over to the dad's closet, the curling iron flew out of Colleen's hand, and another shirt flew through the air to Patrick. "Make this one fit."
Later that day, when the speech was over and I was back at home breathing a sigh of relief, Maureen asked one of Patrick's friends who was at the breakfast how I did.
When he said I did fine, she wondered out loud: "Did anyone say
anything about her hair?"
November 2, 1988
Writing a Column is Better Than Being Ann Landers
When a couple of Colleen's friends were over, we started talking about the search for Ann Landers' successor.
It seems Ann is doing some newspaper hopping. She took her column from the Chicago Sun-Times to the Chicago Tribune, so the Sun-Times is searching for a new advice columnist to fill Ann's space.
"You should get her job," one of the girls suggested to me. "You already are good at giving advice," another friend added.
"That's for sure," Colleen said. "You are always telling me what I should do."
I shook my head no to these suggestions. I wouldn't accept Ann Landers' job at the Sun-Times - although it hasn't been offered to me - because I don't want to hear about other peoples' problems.
I have enough problems of my own. I want people to listen to my problems. That's the benefit of writing this column. I get to air all my gripes under the guise of somewhat clever storytelling. I'm always composing letters in my mind that I could write to Ann Landers but never do. How do you think all my friends to whom I owe letters would feel if they thought I'd taken the time to write to Ann Landers instead of dropping them a friendly line?
If I did write to Ann, this is what I would say, and since I have been a constant reader of Ann Landers, I think I can safely guess how she would respond:
Dear Ann Landers,
I'm a busy woman who is always trying to do two things at once.
When I leave the house to go someplace, I don't have time to comb my hair and put on lipstick.
I use stop signs and stop lights en route as occasions to groom myself, but there's always some impatient oaf, Usually a man, who honks his horn because the light has changed and I haven't driven off. This startles me and I get rattled and smear my lipstick.
Signed, What's a Girl to Do?
I bet Ann couldn't give me an answer for that one because she probably is perfectly groomed at all times and doesn't do touchups in her car. So I'll answer the letter.
Dear What's,
Throw the car into reverse and step on the gas. A guy who
doesn't appreciate a woman's basic needs should have his fenders altered.
Dear Ann,
My 14-year-old son's favorite pair of tennis shoes is completely torn up, yet he insists on wearing them. He can't possibly walk comfortably in them. Do you think that's why he's always sitting around watching TV and eating bowls of cereal?
Signed, Mother of Shoe Worn
Dear Mom,
That boy needs counseling and you need to quit buying cereal. You are only feeding his weakness.
Dear Ann Landers,
Ask your experts if there is a spray I can spray on my garbage on trash day so the four-legged ones will find it too disgusting to tip
over and rip up.
Signed, Trashed Up Yard
Dear Trashed,
I don't answer such trashy questions.
Dear Ann,
Last night I dreamed I wasn't aging gracefully. Do you think I should start using Oil of Olay?
Signed, Wrinkles Pending
Dear Wrinkles,
You need counseling. Oil of Olay won't do anything for your guilty conscience.
Dear Ann Landers,
How come getting up early to work is considered admirable, but staying up late to do the same thing is considered decadent?
Signed, Wondering
Dear Wondering,
I'm wondering why you wonder such things. You should write a letter to that friend you have been neglecting. Maybe she'll have some answers for you.
April 22, 1987
It seems Ann is doing some newspaper hopping. She took her column from the Chicago Sun-Times to the Chicago Tribune, so the Sun-Times is searching for a new advice columnist to fill Ann's space.
"You should get her job," one of the girls suggested to me. "You already are good at giving advice," another friend added.
"That's for sure," Colleen said. "You are always telling me what I should do."
I shook my head no to these suggestions. I wouldn't accept Ann Landers' job at the Sun-Times - although it hasn't been offered to me - because I don't want to hear about other peoples' problems.
I have enough problems of my own. I want people to listen to my problems. That's the benefit of writing this column. I get to air all my gripes under the guise of somewhat clever storytelling. I'm always composing letters in my mind that I could write to Ann Landers but never do. How do you think all my friends to whom I owe letters would feel if they thought I'd taken the time to write to Ann Landers instead of dropping them a friendly line?
If I did write to Ann, this is what I would say, and since I have been a constant reader of Ann Landers, I think I can safely guess how she would respond:
Dear Ann Landers,
I'm a busy woman who is always trying to do two things at once.
When I leave the house to go someplace, I don't have time to comb my hair and put on lipstick.
I use stop signs and stop lights en route as occasions to groom myself, but there's always some impatient oaf, Usually a man, who honks his horn because the light has changed and I haven't driven off. This startles me and I get rattled and smear my lipstick.
Signed, What's a Girl to Do?
I bet Ann couldn't give me an answer for that one because she probably is perfectly groomed at all times and doesn't do touchups in her car. So I'll answer the letter.
Dear What's,
Throw the car into reverse and step on the gas. A guy who
doesn't appreciate a woman's basic needs should have his fenders altered.
Dear Ann,
My 14-year-old son's favorite pair of tennis shoes is completely torn up, yet he insists on wearing them. He can't possibly walk comfortably in them. Do you think that's why he's always sitting around watching TV and eating bowls of cereal?
Signed, Mother of Shoe Worn
Dear Mom,
That boy needs counseling and you need to quit buying cereal. You are only feeding his weakness.
Dear Ann Landers,
Ask your experts if there is a spray I can spray on my garbage on trash day so the four-legged ones will find it too disgusting to tip
over and rip up.
Signed, Trashed Up Yard
Dear Trashed,
I don't answer such trashy questions.
Dear Ann,
Last night I dreamed I wasn't aging gracefully. Do you think I should start using Oil of Olay?
Signed, Wrinkles Pending
Dear Wrinkles,
You need counseling. Oil of Olay won't do anything for your guilty conscience.
Dear Ann Landers,
How come getting up early to work is considered admirable, but staying up late to do the same thing is considered decadent?
Signed, Wondering
Dear Wondering,
I'm wondering why you wonder such things. You should write a letter to that friend you have been neglecting. Maybe she'll have some answers for you.
April 22, 1987
Fashion is Nice, But a Good Bargain is Better
"Kelly and her mom have a preppy style," Colleen said. "You know, they wear all those really cool sweaters and nice pants."
"Yeah, that's right," Maureen said. "And Allison's mom has a style all her own."
"She wears the best stuff I've every seen," Colleen agreed.
"Your Aunt Cathie's friend has a glamorous style," family friend Michelle added.
In the upstairs hallway in front of the mirror, we were having a
discussion on fashion and style.
"How would you describe my style?" I asked as I preened at my reflection, expecting an answer describing a combination of pizazz, glamour and good taste. Instead, Colleen Sr., our college student helper, offered this:
"Don't you have a buy-it-on-sale-and-wear-it style?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked the group, which was doubled over in laughter.
"Whenever you show us what you bought on a shopping outing, the first thing you mention is how much the price of the item was discounted," Colleen Sr. said. "You are more excited about the money you saved than what you bought."
"At the end of last summer, when you bought that dress for two dollars, we thought you'd never stop talking about what a great deal it was, especially since it has the French label in it."
"Well, it was a good deal, and it paid for itself right away because Colleen wore it to play practice that night, and I wore it the next day when I met friends for coffee."
"And I suppose you told them all about how cheap it was just like you told me to brag about your shopping skills at rehearsal,"
Colleen Jr. said.
"As a matter of fact, I did, and they were impressed as most people are when you tell them about a good deal." Those girls are right about me. I can't stand to buy anything unless it is on sale. I tell myself I can't afford an item and don't need it, but if it's marked down, suddenly my purchasing power appears and takes charge, literally and figuratively. For me, passing up a bargain would be like Bonnie and Clyde passing through a town without holding up the bank. The other day I ran into a friend when I was traveling about town searching for a wet vacuum to suck up the two to three inches of water that had flooded my basement. She asked me to go with her to a sale at a very nice ladies store. "There will be big markdowns,"she promised. She didn't need to say more. I immediately dismissed my water problems until later, rationalizing that the job would be easier when some of the water had evaporated, and I was off to the sale.
The bigger the markdown, the happier I am. "Clearance" has become one of my favorite words, as has the phrase "50 percent off lowest marked price." If an article of clothing doesn't have at least one red line through its original price tag, or isn't hanging on a special sale rack, it probably never will make its way out of the store in my possession. At these moments, I am so happy I even can instantaneously figure out in my head how much of a good deal I'm getting.
However, I have to admit that I'm not always as savvy as I purport to be.
Occasionally, I'll find a dress that has a price tag that is too good to be true, but the dress will look even better with just the right belt or scarf. So I set off searching for it and, of course, it costs three times what the dress does. And, of course, I buy it anyway. After all, I have to spend all the money I've saved somewhere.
November 30, 1988
Gas Gauge Hovering on Empty, But Kate's Late
The needle on the car's gas gauge is teetering on big "E" and I am a bit nervous. "I should stop and fill up my tank," I think, but if I do I'll be even later than I already am for my hair appointment, and it might be canceled and I can't go another day without a trim. So I hope I can go a few more miles with very little gas, because I'm opting to risk running out.
Things brighten as we go up hill and the gauge registers at about the one-sixteenth mark. I'm in good shape; I won't even need to buy gas on the way home. Now we are on level ground and the gauge is teetering around "E" again.
Uh-oh. We're going downhill and so is the gas gauge. I wish I had worn more comfortable walking shoes. I may be hiking to a gas station.
Whew! I made it. After the haircut I'm going directly to a gas station - if I can get the car running again.
Why am I always in this predicament? Whenever I'm in a hurry, I'm out or almost out of gasoline, and when I'm not in a hurry I don't need gas.
Why am I always in this predicament? Whenever I'm in a hurry, I'm out or almost out of gasoline, and when I'm not in a hurry I don't need gas.
Of course, I never think I need gas until the gauge registers below one-thirty-second of a tank. Oftentimes I just can't get around to buying gas. Yesterday I drove car pools and I noticed I was entering the danger zone but I kept putting off stopping.
"I'll wait until after I cash a check so I can pay in cash and get the discount," I thought.
Later when I was driving again, I decided to skip the gas pumping because it was too cold outside and I didn't have my gloves.
"I'll wait until I pass that cheaper price station that pumps for you," I thought, but I wasn't going that way.
"I'll wait until after I cash a check so I can pay in cash and get the discount," I thought.
Later when I was driving again, I decided to skip the gas pumping because it was too cold outside and I didn't have my gloves.
"I'll wait until I pass that cheaper price station that pumps for you," I thought, but I wasn't going that way.
Then last night I drove the whole crowd to skating and safely back home again and it never occurred to me to look at the gas gauge. My fairy godmother must have poured some of her magic dust into my tank to get us home. But today she is saying I can only get so much mileage from those gasoline fumes. "Go to a gas station!"
Another peculiarity I have about gassing up is that when we are traveling I never want to stop until we are at the desperation point.
Another peculiarity I have about gassing up is that when we are traveling I never want to stop until we are at the desperation point.
I figure the longer we go without filling up, the farther we can go before the next stop.
I'm one of those no-fun people who never likes to stop on trips. I want to get where I'm going, and a bunch of gas station stops only prolongs the agony. Plus, isn't it fun to see how far you can get on one tank of gas?
Fortunately, good sense - and traveling with kids - puts a damper on such an adventuresome idea. I don't think I'd like hiking down the Interstate in search of a gas station.
That doesn't mean I've never run out of gas.
We had a car once that didn't have a working gas gauge. It also didn't have a parking gear. That went out Thanksgiving Day, 1971, when one of my nine brothers-in-law - I won't name names threw the car into park before it was completely stopped and ran into our house to watch on television what he was hearing on the car radio: Nebraska's Johnny Rodgers running long for that famous touchdown against Oklahoma.
The gauge on this early marriage car always said full, but the tank never was.
Our plan was to try to remember the mileage on the odometer and then add the number of gallons pumped in the car times the number of miles per gallon the car would travel.
This was pure speculation since we never got around to accurately
figuring the mileage.
You probably are not surprised to hear that this system seldom worked. It was confusing.
figuring the mileage.
You probably are not surprised to hear that this system seldom worked. It was confusing.
Was the mileage 80,230 or 80,320? Did we put in 10 gallons of gas, or was it $10 worth? Does the mileage differ if we drive more in town or on the highway?
I could never keep these numbers straight and John never seemed to care. Our solution then was to keep an empty gas can in the car at all times. I hope I don't end up wishing I had one today.
January 20, 1988
January 20, 1988
Lefties Elbowed in a Right-Handed World
I've discovered one more area where I'm the victim of discrimination. That's right. Me, the suburban housewife.
You probably weren't aware of it, but I'm one of the downtrodden of the world, the elbowed, the neglected members of society.
OK, OK, I'm overreacting, but it's not easy being left-handed. Let's face it (or should I say, let's hand it), this is a right-handed world, and we lefties are left to our devices - right-handed ones. Anyway, on to the latest slight to us second-class folk. You know how it has become fashionable to accessorize clothing with a pin or a brooch? Well, the designers of these items must be right-handed.
The clasp on the back of the pin is situated so only a righthanded person can put it on. If I pin it on a sweater with my left hand, it's upside down.
Writing and eating are probably the most challenging problems for a leftie.
Many left-handed writers use what is known as overhand. I do. I think I do this because in handwriting class my paper was slanted to the left, just as my right-handed classmates' paper.
The problem with this style of writing, in addition to smearing the ink with the side of my hand, is that it's awkward.
When I was in school, note-taking was difficult in a classroom filled with right-sided desks.
Occasionally there would be a left-handed desk, but invariably a right-handed person would plop down in it and then complain about not being able to write.
Another of my gripes is spiral notebooks. If the spiral is on top of the notebook, I tum the notebook upside down. Then there's the clipboard. When the doctor's office asks you to fill out forms, they hand you the papers on a clipboard. For lefties, the clip gets in the way. So despite the doctor's good intentions, we still write on our laps - overhanded, naturally.
Lefties are often referred to as awkward, which is exactly how I feel when I confront a buffet line at a party. Invariably the serving pieces are set to the right of the serving dishes.
I bet you've never seen a left-handed person serving punch at a wedding. If you did, more punch was spilled than poured. Punch ladles are as far to the right as Jerry Falwell and just about as stubborn.
Not only is the handle shaped for the right-handed, the bowl is situated for right-handed pouring. There's no way a leftie can use it without undergoing some contortions.
Another moment of panic is when I find my seat at a long dinner table and discover I'm seated between two other diners. I immediately get that straitjacket feeling and wonder how I'll cut my food without elbowing my dinner companion. Usually I vie with other lefties for the seat at the left end.
As you probably have guessed, I don't think we lefties get any respect. Even the word left has some negative connotations, whereas right is so . . . right.
For example, "he's way out in left field" is derogatory, but "he's right on target" is positive.
Wouldn't you rather be right than left behind? What about lefthanded invitations, or having politics that are left of center (of course, I think that's fine) instead of right wing?
Being left-handed isn't always a problem. I like being different. I think lefties are more observant. I always observe other lefthanders.
There are more of us than you'd expect. Left-handedness can be an advantage in sports. It's a shame I don't have more athletic prowess, so this could be to my advantage. Left-handers are almost always creative. I am. I created two left-handed sons.
January 14, 1987
'Wonder Years' for Teens, 'Worry Years' for Parents
At the beginning of the new year 10 years ago, I had three little children with the fourth expected any minute. It didn't seem possible that life could be any more hectic or that the children's demand on my time could be greater.
But all the time I would hear, "Wait until they are teenagers." It was always said by parents of teenagers in a tone of voice so ominous that it suggested living through the teenage years would be like walking through a mine field, with minimal hopes of survival.
I didn't have to wait long to have teenagers. Before I had a chance to really get the hang of mothering pre-schoolers, I had high schoolers. These high-schoolers are wonderful people just as they were wonderful grade-school kids, toddlers and babies. They aren't the problem, their age is.
Teenagers want to do things that are dangerous, that don't seem sensible (at least to parents), and that parents just aren't ready for them to do.
What worries most parents is that they remember doing the same things, and they know there is something to worry about.
The sole aim of the parents of teenagers is to usher their children through these years in one piece. Whenever, I'm out for the evening, a sudden pang of terror grips me: "Did I ask my teenagers all the right questions about their evening plans? Did I make all the guidelines and curfews clear so later they can't say, 'Oh, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to go there.' "
I look around the room, which is often filled with people of my vintage and tell myself to
calm down, "You are surrounded by a houseful of people who survived the teenage years," I tell myself, "The percentages are in your favor." That helps me but still....
My suggestion for weekend activities for the high school age crowd is to invite a few friends over and I'll teach them to play Bridge. I'm always looking for partners.
The teens don't think much of this plan - it's not nearly risky enough. It is much more exciting to be driving around with no definite destination, although that's not what they told Mom and
Dad, who think they are at a party. The kids were at the party, but they left because it was boring and the parents were home, which is exactly the reason Mom and Dad wanted their teenagers there.
Adding to the teen's adventure for the evening is the driver, who finally passed his driver's test the previous week on the third try. On his first try he took out a couple of pedestrians. On his second try he made a left turn on red, even though he knew the law allows
only a right turn on red. He gets his right and left mixed up.
What it all comes down to is worry. Lots of it. Teen-age years are the worry years. Most of the worrying is done late at night while parents are also waiting for the teenagers to come home and
wondering if they will return unscathed physically, emotionally, and legally.
If they are late, the worrying automatically kicks into overdrive. If I'm in bed, I get up and stare out the window. My heart inflates as every car travels up the street and deflates when it continues by the house. If too much time passes, I go back downstairs to sit in
the dark, staring alternately at the clock and out the window.
Between the times that I'm thinking about the worst scenario for why they are late, I plan what I'm going to do to them when they do arrive home. Should I be hysterical? Calm? Should I pour on the guilt? I can never make up my mind, so I go back to praying the rosary for a safe return.
Finally, all's well. The evening's errant ones appear fortified with excuses but I'm too overjoyed to listen. Now I can go to bed.
Inevitably, before my head sinks all the way into the pillow, my mother's words to me during one of my teenage summers comes flashing into the dark. "But I do worry," she said, even though I told her not to. She also told me, "Come home earlier so I can get some sleep." I hear your Mom! Boy do I ever hear you!
January 18, 1989
'What Do I Own You?' Is Not a Simple Qustion
What is high finance? Is it what is depicted in the movie "Wall Street"? The president reporting to the nation on the complexities of the new tax bill? Donald Trump putting together a complicated real estate deal in New York City?
Or is it six women settling up the check after a $33.84 restaurant luncheon?
I often hang out with a group of female friends from my school days. The subject of money invariably emerges whenever we get together. Negotiations are begun, haggling continues, a deal is struck, money changes hands and all involved are satisfied that a
fair compromise has been attained.
Isn't this what goes on in the board rooms of the corporations of America?
The only difference is they may be dealing with $20 million and we are negotiating the fate of something under a $20 bill, small but coveted hunks of money usually acquired at grocery stores when the check written exceeds the tab total because it is an odd amount.
Who wants to register $37.63 in the checkbook when it's so much neater to subtract $50 and have $12.37 in mad money to pay for Brownie dues, roller skate rental and school lunches?
One of our recent get-togethers was a birthday celebration. We discussed getting a gift (negotiations had begun). After much discussion (the haggling), one of the group had an idea for an appropriate gift, so she became the designated purchaser (the deal was struck), with plans to be reimbursed at the party (money will change hands) and the birthday girl would be delighted (satisfaction all around).
During the course of the event everyone sidled up to the shopper and in a hushed voice - after all, the giftee has to be surprised asked, "What do I owe you'?"
But it is never that simple. First old debts have to be settled and suddenly all secrecy is tossed aside.
I'll be all set up to pay my share, then my friend who did the shopping - we'll call her Gladiola - will say, "Don't pay me because I still owe you for the Girl Scout cookies."
That's right. "But it was only $5," I say.
Petunia, standing checkbook in hand, says, "Why don't I make up the difference because you gave my son money for lunch the other day when you drove car pool."
When Rose attempts to put in her contribution, Iris puts the skids on it: "You don't owe anything."
"She's right," the rest of the bouquet agree. "You brought the cake, so we'll just split the gift cost among the rest of us."
Then I say to Tulip, "Why don't I pay for you because I owe you for that cookbook your daughter's school was selling." "I almost forgot about that," she answers.
"I've got a whole bunch of those cookbooks in the car. Anyone else interested'?"
"That reminds me," Magnolia sings out. "Does anyone want to go to that lecture on money management my investment club is sponsoring? I'm selling tickets."
Because this money back-and-forth has been going on for years, we think about appointing a treasurer who would tabulate who owes how much to whom for gifts. lunches, candy sales, theater tickets, flowers, our kids' walk-a-then pledges, raffle tickets, etc. At the end of the year she would submit statements on how much we were to pay each friend.
It would probably even out and no one would owe anything.
The problem is the recorder's job would be so confusing that she'd only do it if we paid her a salary. That would be OK, as long as we could divide it six ways and it was under $20.
January 27, 1988
Or is it six women settling up the check after a $33.84 restaurant luncheon?
I often hang out with a group of female friends from my school days. The subject of money invariably emerges whenever we get together. Negotiations are begun, haggling continues, a deal is struck, money changes hands and all involved are satisfied that a
fair compromise has been attained.
Isn't this what goes on in the board rooms of the corporations of America?
The only difference is they may be dealing with $20 million and we are negotiating the fate of something under a $20 bill, small but coveted hunks of money usually acquired at grocery stores when the check written exceeds the tab total because it is an odd amount.
Who wants to register $37.63 in the checkbook when it's so much neater to subtract $50 and have $12.37 in mad money to pay for Brownie dues, roller skate rental and school lunches?
One of our recent get-togethers was a birthday celebration. We discussed getting a gift (negotiations had begun). After much discussion (the haggling), one of the group had an idea for an appropriate gift, so she became the designated purchaser (the deal was struck), with plans to be reimbursed at the party (money will change hands) and the birthday girl would be delighted (satisfaction all around).
During the course of the event everyone sidled up to the shopper and in a hushed voice - after all, the giftee has to be surprised asked, "What do I owe you'?"
But it is never that simple. First old debts have to be settled and suddenly all secrecy is tossed aside.
I'll be all set up to pay my share, then my friend who did the shopping - we'll call her Gladiola - will say, "Don't pay me because I still owe you for the Girl Scout cookies."
That's right. "But it was only $5," I say.
Petunia, standing checkbook in hand, says, "Why don't I make up the difference because you gave my son money for lunch the other day when you drove car pool."
When Rose attempts to put in her contribution, Iris puts the skids on it: "You don't owe anything."
"She's right," the rest of the bouquet agree. "You brought the cake, so we'll just split the gift cost among the rest of us."
Then I say to Tulip, "Why don't I pay for you because I owe you for that cookbook your daughter's school was selling." "I almost forgot about that," she answers.
"I've got a whole bunch of those cookbooks in the car. Anyone else interested'?"
"That reminds me," Magnolia sings out. "Does anyone want to go to that lecture on money management my investment club is sponsoring? I'm selling tickets."
Because this money back-and-forth has been going on for years, we think about appointing a treasurer who would tabulate who owes how much to whom for gifts. lunches, candy sales, theater tickets, flowers, our kids' walk-a-then pledges, raffle tickets, etc. At the end of the year she would submit statements on how much we were to pay each friend.
It would probably even out and no one would owe anything.
The problem is the recorder's job would be so confusing that she'd only do it if we paid her a salary. That would be OK, as long as we could divide it six ways and it was under $20.
January 27, 1988
Case of 'I Should Be's' Is a Daily Dilemma
Have you been wondering what I do all day? I doubt that you have, but if you were my answer would be: "I do a lot of things but not what I should be doing because I'm never doing what I should be doing."
It seems that no matter how important what I'm doing is, I can always think of something I should be doing instead.
For example, when I was going to the hospital with the distinct feeling that my baby's birth was imminent, I felt like I shouldn't go because I should be straightening up the house.
Whenever I leave the house I think I shouldn't be going because I should be mowing the lawn or scouring the bathroom or vacuuming cobwebs off the basement windows.
Don't worry, I still go and usually to a place I've been telling myself I should go when I've been doing something else.
If I'm cleaning the basement to get ready for a birthday party, I keep thinking I should be shopping for party favors. Later, when I'm out shopping for the party loot I get nervous because I should be home planning party games.
Of course, there also is the dilemma of thinking I should be in two places at once. At 5 p.m. when I'm getting dinner started, I think I should jump into the car to pick up one of the children at soccer or dancing lessons. But I also think I should get the clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkle.
If I opt for doing the laundry, then I get really nervous because I know I should hurry up and pick up the kids. But I also think I should put another load of clothes in the washer.
I get a case of the "I should be's" when I'm just hanging around keeping the home fires burning. I tell myself I should be working on some project to improve our community. Then, when I'm at a good-deed-doers meeting, I think I probably should be home doing deeds I'm supposed to be doing.
I also love going to lunch with friends. These occasions don't often occur because most of my friends also have all these things they should be doing. When we do get together, it is relaxing and fun until I decide I have to get going because I should be home doing something. Of course, when I get home after an afternoon out I never feel like doing much of anything.
Food is a continual "I should be" problem. Whenever, I eat something, I know I should be eating something else or nothing at all. If I do eat something I should be eating, I know it won't be long before I'm tempted to eat something I shouldn't.
That's why when a friend stops by for a chat, instead of sitting and visiting I feel like we should take a walk while we talk so I can walk off the brownies or ice cream I shouldn't have eaten. When I'm having a nice dinner I would like to have a glass of wine to complement my food. But I think I should have water instead because wine will make me sleepy and I have things I should do after dinner. On the other hand, I tell myself, maybe I should have the wine because if I do I'll be relaxed enough so that all the should-be-dones are forgotten.
If I start dozing off while I'm lying on the couch reading the newspaper, I think I should go to bed. So I get off the couch and then decide I should straighten up the family room before I go
upstairs.
After reading about all these dilemmas, you probably could surmise that I'm either a very complex, multi-faceted worry wart, a frazzled organizer, a nervous wreck or all of the above. But
possibly I'm as normal as anyone else.
October 22, 1986
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