DECEMBER

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