by jphilo | Feb 24, 2011 | Daily Life
Last week’s mild weather was a tantalizing tidbit of spring. Sun-starved and heat-seeking Iowans lumbered out of their winter dens to feast upon day after day of light and warmth. Since the cold arrived over the weekend, everyone I’ve talked to has been downright grumbly about the unwanted return to winter. Apparently, the springlike weather whetted appetites just enough to leave us hungrier than ever!
When Mom and I went to lunch on Tuesday, we overheard one woman complaining. “The weather seems colder than ever after that warm spell. It would have been better if it hadn’t warmed up last week.” Her litany continued, with slight variations for the next ten minutes, always ending with the same refrain. “I hate this cold weather.”
I have to admit, similar thoughts have crossed my mind since February quit acting like April. I catch myself daydreaming about sandals and capris, opening the windows, and hanging laundry on the line. Sometimes, I convince myself it’s warm enough to go without a coat and am jolted back to unhappy reality when I step outside.
Still, I don’t wish last week’s warm weather away. Our brush with spring melted the snow so walks outside are no longer dangerous. It exposed bare ground so the deer can forage in the woods instead of in my flower beds. It cleared a path in the yard so I could hunt for signs of spring in the swelling buds and greening grass.
Best of all, the warm weather wrestled several days from winter’s grasp and landed us one week closer to spring. Even now, when I stand outside and breathe deeply, the scent of damp ground and earthworms and bruised, green grass lies just beyond the cold air and swirling snow.
Spring is coming.
I can almost taste it.
by jphilo | Feb 21, 2011 | Daily Life
Last night, our small church group was in charge of Adventure Club. In other words, we wrangled a whole passel of kids so all the other groups could meet in blessed peace, without pint-sized distraction.
The evening was a smorgasbord of PBJs, games, Veggie Tales, craft time, and a Bible story. I volunteered for the Bible story (Will the school teacher in me ever die?) about the 10 Commandments. The only problem was how to negotiate the “Thou shalt not commit adultery” sticky wicket with four through nine-year-olds.
Happily, the kids took care of the issue themselves. When they kids arrived for the Bible story, and they tried to recall the ten big ones from memory, their spin on number seven was “a married man shouldn’t have another girlfriend and a married woman shouldn’t have a boyfriend.” So much for that worry and many thanks to Marsha, who front-loaded them with that kid-friendly interpretation during craft time.
Their interpretation reminded me of a story my daughter passed along during our Sunday afternoon phone call. She was giggling about a something our new son had heard from a friend. This friend was watching TV with his daughter, and one of those irritating Viagra commercials aired, not for the first time in their TV watching experience. At the end of this particular commercial, his daughter asked, “Does reptile disfunction mean the man’s lizard isn’t working?”
Oh, to be a kid again.
by jphilo | Feb 16, 2011 | Daily Life
The signs of the advancing age of the people who live at our house are multiplying at an alarming rate.
Some signs, though not necessarily welcomed, are expected.
AARP mailings, which my husband and I refuse to open.
New wrinkles, which we both try to ignore.
Aches and pains, which we try to exercise away.
But some signs are a bit of a surprise, like the one that nailed me Sunday night at our church’s Valentine Formal. When we arrived at the church’s main entrance, we felt young and perky, all clean and gussied up for an evening in a beautifully decorated room, with a delicious meal, and enjoyable company.
The valets (recruited from youth group) took our car, and three young women (same recruiting pool) waited just inside the door to take our coats. The three coat takers outnumbered our two coats, so the youngest of that number stayed put. Her big blue eyes shone as she confided, “I’m kinda lazy.”
The school teacher in me had to include her in the festivities, so I said, “Well, you can do a slip check.”*I twirled around and said, “Is it showing?”
Big Blue Eyes shrugged, giggled, and said, “I don’t know what a slip is.”
Bam!
The generation gap hit me like a two by four.
I felt old and older by the minute.
Beneath my feet, I sensed the world moving on without me!
I should have expected it. At Anne’s wedding this summer, only a couple of the bridesmaids heeded my advice and brought slips to wear under their street length, thin silk dresses. The others made a frantic Walmart run and returned with this news. The store doesn’t sell slips. Being resourceful young women, they purchased thin nightgowns and slipped them on under their electric blue dresses.
In light of the cultural slippage occurring in the younger generation, here’s a bridging-the-gap, five point tutorial for their convenience:
- See that word slipped in the above sentence? That’s how slips got their name. They’re made of slippery fabric so you slip them under dresses or skirts to smooth away unsightly wrinkles.
- They also keep light from shining through thin fabric, thus exposing your legs. Without slips, young women look lumpy, and young men realize women have legs.
- Slips are for your protection, ladies!
- See the picture at the top of this post. That’s a full slip.
- If you don’t like the extra set of shoulder straps, half-slips (which look like a skirt with an elastic waist band) are also acceptable.
Is this how my mother felt when she lobbied staunchly for girdles and hose while my sister and I sang the praises of pantyhose?
Boy, do I feel old today.
*Note: I was wearing a half slip too long for my dress. Using the technique my sister taught me in the 1970s, I had tucked the slip into the top of my pantyhose. It works until repeated sitting and standing works the slip loose.
by jphilo | Jan 20, 2011 | Daily Life
Hiram and I must be gluttons for punishment, diving into another bathroom remodeling project. We managed to finish the last one – adding a shower to the upstairs bathroom tub which required tearing out old tile and putting in new plumbing, new sheetrock, new tile, and new plumbing – the day before the kids came to celebrate Christmas.
That project was step one of our present project, turning the bathroom next to the kitchen into a laundry room. Last Saturday, Hiram moved on to step two. He tore out the old shower stall. It nearly killed him to pitch the shower door (which he thought was in perfectly good condition), and he couldn’t bear to throw out the top quality shower head (if anyone needs one, contact me please), but everything else was good riddance to bad rubbish.
As with any remodeling project, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is two-fold. The new stackable washer and dryer, which Lowes has patiently stored for two months and is willing to keep for a month or two more, will fit nicely in the old shower stall space. So we don’t have to tear out the closet beside it or the lowered ceiling above it to make room. And since the space used to house a shower, the drains and pipes are already there. Hiram will just move them a wee bit, put in a new electrical outlet, beautify the floor and sheetrock, and we’re in the first floor laundry business.
Now for the bad news. Um, the bad news. Well, the bad news is that there isn’t any bad news. The project looks like it will be less work and less expensive than anticipated, which is bad news for gluttons for punishment. Because gluttons for punishment don’t want nice. They want punishment. So either we need bad news, or Hiram and I can’t call ourselves gluttons for punishment. Instead we’ll need to take a trip to a warm place next January instead of launching another remodeling project.
Which sounds like good news to me. Best case scenario? We find a hotel that gives discount rates to couples who bring their own deluxe shower head. Wouldn’t that be good news for a couple ex-gluttons for punishment?
by jphilo | Dec 27, 2010 | Daily Life
Hoarfrost coated every branch and blade of grass this morning. But its cold beauty was was small comfort during my walk. My thoughts were with my friend who lost her husband on Christmas Eve. Of how grief has stripped her of joy. Of how quickly her family gathering careened from celebration to mourning.
I walked through the morning fog, wanting more than anything to be angry with God. I wanted to rail against him for this cruel turn of events. I wanted to curse the sun as it burned away the fog to reveal an achingly beautiful, blue winter sky. I wanted God to show some remorse, not flaunt his glory.
Instead, he sent an icy breeze to shake frost from the branches. It drifted through the air and laced my scarf with a crown of white thorns. Softer than the crown of thorns Jesus wore. A gentle picture of his suffering. The very breath of God reminding me that he can comfort my friend better than any other because he knows her pain.
Christ’s beauty is small comfort on this cold winter day. But it is the only answer I’ve been given. Dear Jesus, may it be enough.
by jphilo | Dec 21, 2010 | Daily Life
Our lives have changed so much in the past two years, as this recycled post from December 16, 2010 reveals. New jobs, weddings, one book published and another in progress, and not so much snow on the ground this December as in years past.
But much is still the same. Once again, I’m praying for good weather for our kids as they travel. And the Christmas baking tradition is as much a part of the season as ever. In fact, we’re are looking forward to baking together once we gather next week. In fact, on New Year’s Eve, the two newlywed couples are planning a pizza bake-off, using the recipes they’ve perfected in the months since they made their vows. Hiram and I are to be the judges. But declaring a winner is a moot point because I’m already the grand prize winner in this contest.
Prize #1 a night off for this cook. Prizes # 2 & 3 are two new recipes to share in future blog posts. Score!
Baking Up a Storm – Recycled
When the kids were little and I was a schoolteacher, snow days were baking days at our house. I thought that chapter of my life was over, now that the kids are grown and I work at home. This morning, my son came downstairs and looked outside. He declared the day not good for splitting and hauling wood. “Maybe today we should make cookies,” he suggested.
So while I reorganized my office, sorted mail, and finished an article, he started baking. By mid-afternoon, we had three boxes of biscotti ready to mail: one for Mike and Brenda who housed us two weekends ago, one for the Trauma Therapy Institute, and one for Discovery House Publishers. A box of shortbread was ready to send to the monks.
All morning, I kept shaking my head. “Is this real?” I asked myself every five minutes. “Is my son in the kitchen baking?” Over the past five years, I had made peace with his decision to be a monk. I blocked out the hope of any other end to his story.
Our trip to the post office to mail the boxes was uneventful, so the goodies are on the way. But the pick up got stuck in our driveway on the way home, and we had to walk the rest of the way. I can see the snow piling up on the hood as I write.
The immediate future is unsettled at our house. Allen’s adjusting to the outside world. I’m adjusting to having him around. My husband is driving home in a snowstorm tonight, and the weather doesn’t look good for Anne’s return from college Thursday. When they do get home, they can’t get into the garage because of the pick up blocking the driveway.
But this afternoon, I’m not worried about the future. Instead, I’m relishing a stormy day spent baking, getting stuck in the driveway, hiking through the snow, and the gift of sharing these things with my son.
Can this day be real?
