A Brief Moment from Writing

As most writers know, there is a lull in writing when nothing comes from the brain to the fingers. Some call it "writer's block." I call it, "being tired".  I had about lost the incentive to stick with my family story writing for posterity. Posterity in my family means a "possible look into that green book Mother left for us." Most writers, as most parents know, when children become adults they aren't the least interested in what you're doing. You can say, "Look at this picture I painted." They'll glance and say, "Uh huh." When I tell them I'm collecting stories about my life I hear, "Uh, huh."

I've spent the last few months collecting facts and stories about the Newkirk clan, the ancestors of my husband. A tough job that began as a Christmas gift to my three adult children.  One morning reading through my mail, I spied a writing contest to be held by the Alabama Writers Conclave and I entered the creative nonfiction section. Creative nonfiction is the act of building a story around facts. I had been writing  two stories many times over (the editing process) working to get the words just right. Finally, I felt I was ready for story #1 to go to the contest.  It is about the creation of the Preventorium for children located at Magee MS in the 1930s and 1940s(closed in early 1960) I was a patient there because I was undernourished. Looking at old pictures we kids all had the same knotty knees and skinny frames. None of us had TB, as adult patients had at the Sanatorium located nearby. It is an interesting story, one I didn't mention for many years. Still today, few people I mention the story to have ever known the excellent job the Mississippi State Health Dept did for us kids.The story will appear later in the emagazine ,AlaLit, magazine of the Writers Conclave.

When I received notice I had won one of four prizes in my category, I told my family ( who for once sat up at attention and stayed alert until Sat night the 12 of July.) The family told me to text what place as soon as I could.  I did manage to their delight.

The announcement surprised me and gave me hope that I could keep plugging away.  When my name was called I halfway raised from my seat (I was on the front row with other winners) and raised my arms as if to say "Praise the Lord!" I won $100. I've been writing for 20 years. However, I've had other stories published in the Quarterly of the Gulf Coast Writers group.

I have been collecting family stories of my relatives and ancestors. What a job. I have a list of projects to complete before dying, and I wonder if I can make it through the points.

In the last week I've reworked a short story to enter and another creative nonfiction I hope will make it to the Honorable Mention. I only know how to write true stories, so the fiction may be a bit silly.

I apologize to my few readers for my absence.  Below you see my sister and I celebrating after the win.

Traditions I Ignore

Two traditions I dislike attending: funerals and marriages.  They are cookie-cutter ceremonies. The worst part of funerals is listening to a minister who probably has more attendees standing in the hot sun or hovering together to keep warm or huddling under the tent or personal umbrellas. No matter the raw circumstances the attendees face, the minister sees the group, and decides to preach the sermon of his life. Not only has he already said enough inside the church or home, but also he feels he has to continue under the tent as we look at a box hovering above an abyss.

How can one be sympathetic/empathetic for the family of a lost one when tradition overshadows the life of the deceased? If you think about the whole situation, more emphasis is given to a few remarks given by friends and family (some truly informative and funny) a few sad hymns, and then marching out of the sanctuary, getting into your car and forming a line to the cemetery. The bill for the casket and funeral that comes later in the mail takes the family's breath away. Or a quickly written check that could feed a few homeless men is given with smiles.

Or, if there are cremains or a closed casket, guests are ushered into a community room to feast on something simple like coffee or punch and a brownie. Someone later remarks on the frugality of such simple fare. If the group is large, you walk into a room filled with six or more tables laden with food that easily will feed more than the thousands Jesus did when he broke a loaf of bread.

And feast the attendees do. You'd think they skipped a meal and planned to save buying lunch or dinner.They load their small plates overflowing. Try eating from a small paper plate lying in one hand, drinking punch or wine with the other that also holds a fork or a large chip and you're bound to have a few disasters. These attendees go home talking about the variety of food -- the deceased is given a "poor soul" remark on the way home.

Marriage ceremonies are similar. Why does nearly every woman want the "dress of her dreams" that cost Daddy a bundle, plus all the ornamentation that goes with the ceremony and the entertainment and food that a family feels it must display for the attendees to prove their financial status.

You know families like this. Have a funeral or a wedding the way others have in order to "keep up with the Joneses" or to prove something deeper. I admire the couple you read about in the paper who had a simple wedding whose family and friends know the couple is as married as another couple who left the country club an hour before. I understand  personal weddings and funerals are being introduced these days. Hurrah!

I'm sick of the television series "Say Yes to the Dress". To pay thousands of dollars for the "perfect" dress worn once  that  previously the act of choosing caused tears and anger among family members who supposedly were to support the bride-to-be, then the bride has to choose all the ornaments and food and china and crystal and flowers, etc. Marriage takes four people and a minister.
         
Then there is the process of burying a loved one in the finest mahogany casket lined in satin that sets the families back thousands of dollars they may have to take out a bank loan to repay--all the time knowing that time under dirt will disintegrate the box and its contents. How this reveals a lack of sense, a refusal to think outside the box in order to avoid ridicule and stress figuring which casket will honor a dead person who doesn't care one flip what he's put away in. Or the choice was made by the funeral home who pressured the family to "remember your loved one in the finest way."

Rarely do I attend a funeral and if I am hungry I'll attend a wedding. Otherwise, I'll stay at home and write a proper note.

A Few Weeks Have Passed

since I ranted and raved about celebrating holidays. Regardless of how I felt, the celebration continued. I'm not one to avoid celebrating the time to remember why this is set aside, but the pressure of a lot of activity in the house at my advancing age is a bit much.


Thank you for the comment "dkzody" for agreeing with me.  You mentioning "curmudgeon" gave me a moment to reflect. I always associated that term with professors who couldn't keep up with their students. However, I did feel it a proper description for me.


I have a lot of projects in the works as a writer. I'm editing manuscripts of two friends, attempting to write stories about my past experiences, and a short account about my maternal grandmother whom I knew a short time. Perhaps the need to do that pushed me over the edge. I'm one of those people who has to be busy, knows when its time to stop and read a good book, work Scrabble on Kindle, or see the latest movie. I'm like my dad. I declared he'd die behind the lawn mower one summer day. He didn't. I figure I'll pass away in front of the computer trying to finish something.


I don't make resolutions any more. I make "reminders". They are usually posted on the wall near the computer and stay there until the stickiness disappears. A quick check to see if I've accomplished something mentioned and then into the trash can.


Another project in the works is a blog of my family stories. My free library class in "Mining your Memories--Writing Family Stories" has gone well. I've a notebook full of experiences of the past and present that my adult kids (tell me there's a better term) might take a minute to read. Also it is a means of letting my class know that although I'm not a perfect writer, I'm recording in the most interesting way the funny and the serious of my years on earth. I'm anxious for everyone to write stories, not so much from beginning to present, but little experiences of several lines to several pages to leave for your descendants. Progress has already warned us that what we do, say, believe, enjoy, hate will change drastically in the next 20 years and we should record stories for someone in our family to enjoy.


May the coming days and months bring blessings/goodwill to all of you.

Bye, Bye Holidays

This year was hectic. Illness prevailed.  Gifts purchased with little thought. The “real looking” tree remained in its box.   And, to confess to all, there’s no desire to celebrate holidays. Two out of four weekends in the month of each year my family of husband, daughter and two sons, one grandson, a daughter-in-law, and a mother-in-law have eaten together or gathered in one room to visit. Now it’s time to celebrate “together” again. Wasn’t it last week we ate pasta together?

Can’t I have Christmas my way?  With Son 2 here this year, the evening  of the 24^th begins the magic: sitting in front of fire drinking hot apple cider, nibbling cheese on fancy crackers, and snuggling with pets Ace, Deuce, and Scratch.  Laughing at the funny events of Christmases past. Reviewing old snapshots, laughing at the hair styles.  As the night wanes we’re relaxed. Then to bed to arising Christmas morning at our own time, teasing with the few gifts remaining under the tree, finishing off the cider, selecting a rum muffin, a boiled egg and returning to the fireplace. The afternoon is spent having friends and family share a glass or cup and catch up on each of our lives.

Son 1 and his family live nearby and have their customs.  We shared their customs for several years. Who can say which side of the family has better celebrations? They wish to include us gathering on Christmas Eve for a great meal, watching the grandson open his gifts early the next morning, having a light breakfast, leaving around noon to return to a family house a few hours later for a festive meal is eye-appealing and too much to digest.

How often we’ve reminded Son 1  with his family he has his customs, we have ours. He wants both but has to make a choice. How many other sons and daughters have wrestled with where to go on Christmas? I don’t want to be a part of that decision.

Blame this on age. Younger folks do not understand how aging begins to rob us of the ordinary. We must refocus on new conditions that we can handle.

Age has lessened the excitement of riding around the neighborhood looking at the holiday lighted decorations. Age has tired me of p & b sandwiches. Age has frozen my need to create a meal.  Age has eliminated the act of rising before six a.m.  Worst of all, age has interfered with my typing. My fingers like to wander to other keys than the ones I prefer to tap.

I didn’t know age would insist I nap more frequently, have an empty pantry of hostess delectibles,  take away my social life, suck energy from my body, or  allow me to ignore the messy living room that could never be on the cover of Architectual Digest. Traditions and obligations have become stressful with age.  How difficult  it is to maintain an outward appearance of enjoyment with a pain pulling here and there.

After 30 years of meeting work schedules, husband R and I want to live each day the way we choose: sleep late, eat when and what we enjoy, and wear our robes all day, if we so desire.

A Zoo in My Backyard

I recall when we spent summers in the Delaware Recreational area  how often we saw wild animals. Bears, coyote calls nightly, eagles, wild turkeys, and deer to name a few.  Becoming conscious of where we walked on the hillsides, guarding our garbage from bear intrusions, mysterious crunch-crunch outside our shed nights. . . all so mysterious to us town folk.

Since returning to our subdivision in Mississippi surrounded by loads of forested areas and a small bit of the historical Natchez Trace crossing our land, so far we had to watch out for alligators living in our lakes. Our house sits on a rise, away from the lake, so an alligator may have to be truly interested in meeting us to travel the distance.

We get emails occasionally about an animal showing up nearby. The latest came yesterday. It read something like this:" Those living on Mescalero, Kiowa, and Arapaho and Village Drive be careful that all pets must remain inside due to coyotes traveling in pairs seen on these streets. For them to be  traveling must mean they are hungry. Don't leave anything out and drive safely nights down these streets."

Lordy me! Those homes sitting near the lakes have had such trouble with the huge alligators until they were caught. Now we have coyotes. It isn't unusual that deer are seen on Village Drive, which is one of the entering and exits of the Village. My neighbor artist who often is up early likes to let me know how many deer have traipsed up our driveway. I informed him we give free breakfast if they'll eat and then leave.

We don't have to travel far to see a collection in a zoo. Visit our Village and you'll have fun finding them,

 

Am I Getting Too Old?

I no longer feel excitement when holidays roll around. The need to give gifts to others whom I admire seem insignificant now. When the holiday arrives, whether Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, Valentine's Day or whatever, I think of it as another day. Another time to sit at home doing what I enjoy: reading, writing, watching a movie.

My daughter reminds me I've had my time with necessities and if I want to do nothing on those days I should feel no qualms. But I do. I feel I'm hurting someone's feelings if I don't accept a lunch or dinner invitation, or a gathering to watch popular football teams play.

What I dislike is the strain of conversation. So few I know like to speak about the latest book, a headline from the newspaper, or world affairs. No, they talk about their kids, gran'kids, next door neighbor, the latest Bunko group, or their latest surgery. Forced conversation with people who have nothing in common with me creates a tired brain. I check my watch  slyly. I give a nod to my husband that says "For goodness sake, let's get out of here!" I'd even play a game of Scrabble if offered rather than sit and listen to oohs and ahhs about the latest baby present.

Oh, I do remember those who aren't able to celebrate. I've friends who live too far away for me to spend time with. I'm not wooden headed about other people, it's the forced manner of celebrating the same way we've done for the last 50 years. Nothing surprises me much anymore.

It's Nut Time Again

Fall is giving Mississippi a preview of coming events. Cool mornings and evenings, a welcome relief from the humid temperatures.

Received my first catalog from Sunnyland Farms in Georgia. Again I turn each page hungrily anxious for my first autumn taste of pecans.

We enjoy the ride to nearby Raymond, Mississippi to a retail pecan grove  bursting with ripe nuts. Human pickers and machines gather pecans, sort them and place them in large bins inside the store. Inside the small frame building, the nuts are divided into the types of pecans and displayed. First time I visited I recall how confused I was with the differences in pecans. Wasn't there just a good pecan?  

 Each variety has a distinct taste and chew. Luckily, you can take a sample, crack it, and try it for the kind of taste sensation you prefer. Some of the kinds I recall from my last visit were Stuart, Cape Fear, Desirable, Forkert, and Excel.  Every year a new type appears.  If you can go to a grove in your area, choosing your favorite pecan taste is an education in itself.

Just as most everything else in the food world, Indians ate pecans. The word is Algonquin meaning " hard to crack, needing a stone to open" Maybe those early ones were hard to crack, but today, some, like the paper-shell type, can be cracked in the hand.  I think of the hickory nuts Mother loved. She used a hammer, put the nut on the sidewalk or a large stone, and hit several times. The result was a constant picking out of the meat which didn't want to give up its warm bed. Too much work for the rest of the family who stuck with pecans.

We've always ordered pecans in the shell and had them cracked there at the store. There's such pleasure to sit in front of the television set with a bowl of cracked pecans in your lap, picking off the shell. The act of working for the meat is satisfying. You're not eating them too fast, tasting slowly with delight. Not the same satisfaction as reaching for a handful of  shelled meats sitting ready in its tin.  Try it.

One occasion we sent cousins in Virginia 10 lbs of pecans, cracked. When they received the package they were horrified that the package had been through some melee to have broken the pecans. They almost complained to UPS before they called to verify the condition.

We in the South say pee Kahn', not Pee' kans.   Check the dictionary.

Where Are the Writers?

I recently attended a local writing group. We met in a loud, crowded cafe at a table in the middle of incessant conversations and eating. Two of us wear hearing aids and the sun pouring through the windows blinded those of us facing them. Finally I saw the attendees and heard them speak after the lunch crowd had dispersed.

No order nor business was conducted. This was a "casual" meeting of writers. So what did I learn at that first meeting? One writer was working on a screenplay. He got to tell us where he got the notion to do so and that was his one minute of attention. A late comer H, an excited new writer joined us wearing the joy and excitement of having put together something of which he was proud. I glanced through his picture book with prose adjacent and knew he needed work to put depth into his prose, but on the whole he needed support. "Anyone, please look at this and tell me if I'm on the right track." No one took up the mantle of support. One visitor, who says he's an intellect without a Harvard education, isn't a writer. He calls himself a physicist who likes to tell everyone about his favorite subject. I call him a "tag-along." He gave a critique for the visitor that was out of the ballpark. In the first place, he didn't know what he was saying. Second, he kept trying to tell the newbie how to write it the way that was already written.

I left shortly thereafter, thinking an hour with this group wanting to stay connected with each other wasn't doing much in the surrounding din . I took away the plea of newbie, "Help me." Unfortunately, I left without his contact address. His cry is the same for many who need help with their writing. A writing group should have time to give help to the new writer who lives in his own small world and wants to expand. But how? Where?

So many people are writing nowadays who'll never get their work published on the mass market. They'll write and behave like they will, but everyone except themselves won't  see the shallowness of their work as others do. Someone once proclaimed "Everyone can write." That isn't a blanket that covers you with ideas and thoughts you hammer out on the computer or with the stub of a pencil. Everyone can write but not without guidance. We need a writing group to help fledgling writers.

 Everyone can write their stories for their loved ones. You simply begin to put your thoughts on paper. Even if you don't know the fine points of a good story, you allow your mind to open to experiences and stories locked in your head. Writing by hand, on typewriters or computers, anyone can write remembrances. No mass marketing, no hard copies, they produce nothing more than typed papers connected with a paper clip. These are the writers who'll achieve success in small ways because they have reachable goals.

That's my job nowadays. I push adults in a free library series to probe their memories and write sentences, paragraphs, or pages about their growing up. I insist they are writing the past for the future generations. I believe what I'm saying, and the teaching of such subject reinforces my belief. I've had wonderful stories come from numerous adults who are writing about their first loves, early childhood, marriage, divorce, parental relationship, career choices, war time and other eras of history. The group remembers the polio shots (as one participant wrote), first toy they ever owned, first time to eat margarine, ration books of WWII, first car they bought, and so on. There is no limit to what memory dictates as stories.

Somewhere near their writing space I've asked my students to print this sign and read it daily:

I AM A WRITER

I NEVER TURN IDEAS OFF AND ON

MY MIND IS ALWAYS BUSY 

A Cause for Celebration

Two dear friends recently married. I was as happy as a mother could be, as I knew they had wished for this for years. They are F and B. Together for over 20 years, this duo happily has lived and traveled with all the spirit of happiness.

We met these two when I was working summers in my son's business, Kudzu. They had stopped on their way to their Pennsylvania summer home from busy Staten Island for a look-see at the old redecorated gas station sitting on the side of the road just outside Barryville, NY. After  introductions and a quick chat on a lazy Saturday, they stepped out to their rental car to continue their journey. However, unknowingly, the automatic doors locked. B had left the keys in the ignition. What to do in a teeny town with no locksmith around? Call the local gas station. This particular one did everything and had the knowledge of breaking into cars like the police. However, it took four hours. In that time of waiting F, B, my husband R, and I learned a lot about each other. Two southerners talking with two New Yorkers produced some stimulated conversation. We became fast friends.

We spent breakfasts together, dined together, saw this couple throughout the summer. Returning home to  Mississippi, we kept a steady correspondence with pictures, F sharing his trips with us. F is above 80 years of age and looks 60. He has a special formula he's created for a breakfast that he emphasizes giving him the strength and youth. We enjoy his tales of travels to the ends of the earth, his multitude photos shot in exotic places, and the fact he's enjoying life to the fullest. B, the silent one, is the steady rock who cares for F like a dear husband should.

Congratulations, F and B. We love you and wish now you can find that freedom of living publically as a married couple.

Persistent Telephone Calls

Despite our having ID on our phone, most times we are in the habit of picking up on the first ring. As a result we get caught with a beggar on the other end.  How often we've discussed how to handle these persistent callers. Some friends say they don't give the caller much time to identify himself, then hang up; another said she'd heard to blow a whistle into the receiver would stop that caller; someone else said he picks up the phone and if there's a second of silence, he hangs up.  I have tried and used the last suggestion. But after much thought about those calls from organizations I know are worthy, I've adopted this remark:

"Now who are you calling for? Oh. You know, this is a difficult year for us and we can't contribute as we should. Thank you for calling."  Guess it's the southern hospitality that creeps into my voice that I can't use the second of my expressions:  "You know, you've called just too many times and I've told you to take my name off your political list.DON"T CALL HERE AGAIN!" I feel good with that last remark.

Once a politico called asking to support some man running for senator. I asked, "Where is he from?" The state was Ohio. "Now, do you suppose I want to support a man I don't know with my hard-earned money? You must be kidding." Caller paused and said, "I guess you're right about that" and hung up. I have to argue sometimes with the sense of a request.

After the conversation I visualize the caller and remind myself they are trying to supplement their earnings to pay a bill, buy books for school, add to the grocery money desperately needed. For a few minutes I am ashamed. But that thought disapates in a few minutes. That caller should know that no one likes a call asking for money.

I make up for contributions to the fallen policemen, the veterans, the Southwestern Indian tribe, the light bulb company, the crippled children's hospital, the political groups and all others who represent large bodies. I look around and find someone locally I can help, like the young woman whose pay goes to defray a bail for her son, the woman who struggles to keep alive a school to teach children to obey the laws of man and God, offer a loan to someone needing ready cash to pay on a medical bill, or clean out my closets to provide a girls' group with needed clothing.

That kind of contribution is satisfying because I know where the goods are destined.

LIfe Changes

I used to wonder, when my parents were in their eighties, why they wanted to stay at home, not having the urge to shop, wander through the park, or walk the streets of our subdivision. Dad would sit in his favorite chair and watch sports on television for hours on end, sometimes falling asleep during the third quarter of a game.

Mother, who no longer could remember how to get from one room to another without getting lost, didn't watch television, but would nap all day long. Whenever I suggested to her to watch a favorite show, she'd reply, "I'm into interested in that anymore." Or she'd suggest "go riding." She didn't have to think or listen to anyone but me when I took her for a ride through the countryside. She'd ride to the ends of the earth without complaining, as long as she was moving without trying.

I was only 20 years younger than my parents, but still I couldn't understand their desire to do nothing.

Today I do. However, what is nothing to you is something to me.

I am now 20 years older, the same age as my mother. Luckily, I have a few sit-down hobbies I enjoy. But I don't look at television. Why? Because the speakers on the programs are talking too fast. Is this typical of us Southerners, that at an older age when we are so immersed with the slow language of the South,can't understand anyone from any other part of the country because they speak too fast for us to register the words?

I've become more fond of the bed for afternoon naps than any other time of my life. A short time in exercise, followed by running errands makes me tired. I flop down on the bed and have the best sleep of any withing 24 hours. Despite chasing ancestors,viewing a good movie on my Kindle, or reading the latest crime novel, I can be engaged all afternoon, but at 5 p.m. I notice I've missed my nap and fall into a stupor of two hours.

If it is true about napping extending one's life, I should hang around doing the same thing past my 100th. I've always said I hope to live to 140 because there are so many areas I want to cover. At the rate I'm going now with these naps, I can certainly count on additional years being added to my present age.

WRITING LIFE'S EXPERIENCES

I don't suggest everyone  follow my lead and write their life's experiences, but when you think of the history that will be unknown by many of your family members  generations to come, I wonder if you wouldn't get the fire started underneath you.

I'm teaching the second part of a two-part series of "Mining Your Memories --Writing Life's Experinces." It is a free course held once a month for four months and is divided into two parts: birth through elementary school and middle/junior high to young adulthood.

Because I am a self-starter, I have been writing various stories of happenings in my life thoughout the last 15 years. I realized early that some people need to be pushed. They need reason and a prod of their memory banks. I always thought of my brain as being like the post office boxes from the rear: series of slots where adventures, experences, important dates and such were slips of paper lying inside the slots. When the slots got full that part of the brain shut down until another slot opened up. In class I direct the adults to think by giving them situations or key words that put themselves into a time frame when they can remember a place and activity.

So with the support of a local library I set up free classes and have had good results.

For example, when we entered seventh grade, we signed Valentine cards with trite sayings we haven't used since that time: "Be mine to the end of time,""You are my sunshine." We began with everyone writing their own obituaries. Yes, I emphasized  a good obituary is self-written and should be an historic account of themselves. In elementary school we drew a houseplan where we lived at that time. That alone prompted many stories from the class. One student called his "My House of Memories".

There are lots of books one can follow, but sometimes sitting and reading the hundreds of questions printed one after the other becomes daunting. We discuss the time period, putting ourselves into elementary. junior high and high schools by describing what the buildings looked, where one's classes were located, who the teachers were, favorite classes, etc. We remember polio shots, favorite music, how we dressed, the way guys wore their hair, and the like. Remembering is the best way to appreciate the past.

We are in a small way contributing to the mass history of the 1930s through the 1970s. You may not ever read these accounts, but hundreds of family members will.

I felt comfortable about starting this class and sure enough in the middle of an hour someone will speak up and say, "I can't believe I can remember this." I hand out personal essays of friends who've captured that time and period, thus giving the class an opening that allows them to remember.

This is fun for me and for them. At the same time at home I'm typing as fast as possible to write the same assignment. From the accounts we write we'll find nuggets of stories we can expand on and create funny incidents to captivate their grandchildren, neices, and nephews. Learning to tell the story is just as important as writing them.

Eventually a small group will continue to write and our goal is to see that everyone prints up his own life's stories in a manner they can distribute and leave as a legacy.

EATING A BEST SELLER

I'm on a new diet. It's diet or nearly die. Nearly die means weeks and weeks of honest-to-goodness illness that is Not death-defying, but it feels like it. Part of my new diet is the ugly concoction at left. 

Can you guess what it is? I have it three times a week. Egg whites with either cheese or turkey sausage and  added Spirulina, the green ugly stuff.

Dr. Seuss must have been eating spirulina when he wrote the successful Green Eggs and Ham. Since this has been added to my diet I have discovered that the book is listed as No. 1 on the Book List of Wall St. Journal.  

The above illustrates how the egg begins in the skillet. When it is cooked it looks a bit better:

I must admit I closed my eyes eating this the first time, but as each breakfast arrived, I found myself adjusting to reading the newspaper and looking only occasionally to be sure my fork had a good helping attached.  I couldn't complete the Seuss meal with ham, since that is off my list of OK Foods. And ham has always been my favorite. 

Feeling the need to quote part of Dr. Seuss' famous poem, I have to resist due to restrictions. But for all of you who read it to your child or had it read to you, you know he made the dish sound delish!

Following Health Rules

As a retiree I have time to read a lot of online news. One of my favorites is one by Dr. Andrew Weill. Perhaps its because if I follow his advice, I'll live to my goal of 140 years old. Of course, I know I can't do that, but by putting the age at the impossible, I always have that optimism I need to carry on.

However, in this quest to live a long time in decent health, I'm committing a terrible body sin: sitting too much. With little interest nowadays in shopping (if I do, it's online), more interest in reading and exploring subjects on the Internet, completing a family tree, writing family stories -- you got it. I sit down a lot, a whole lot. And Dr. Weill says that's not good for the aging body.

I change a bit. I get up and walk around, sip water, check the weather out doors, and return to my book or computer. Another four hours and I do the same. Mind you, I sit up straight so there's no stress on my back. But how can I find an activity to limit my seating? I feel pressed for time to complete all that I want, despite the 140 time limit. I could go tomorrow, this afternoon, next week. Then all my diligent work will remain incomplete. And that's where I get anxious.

My neighbor down the street would love for me to visit her often. Secretly I'd count the hours I'd was separated from my writing. I procrastinate to push myself to grocery shop. I don't want to leave the house. Have I become agoraphobic? Not really. There's no fear of the outside. In fact, once I'm out I truly enjoy having made the decision, but not when I'm searching for avocados.

Don't get me wrong. I do go to exercise classes three times weekly, but exercise at home? My mind's elsewhere.

Frankly, I don't think I'll change. The clock is ticking. Let's face it, I'll be good for 90 years, but don't  tell me I have only 10 to go.

Sunday Breakfast

Where some folks have pancakes or waffles for breakfast, my favorite, as consumed this morning, is biscuits drowning in syrup. Ahh, that sweetness, that additive of iron to my system!

Biscuits are sometimes home made with a biscuit mix. Who wants to take time to make from scratch? However,the frozen kind allows you to take out as many as you wish and pop them in the oven.

The syrup, however, isn't any kind. Not maple, not fake stuff like Log Cabin, just ordinary sugar cane syrup. The kind that started with a stalk of sugar cane, fed into a crusher by mules walking in a circle and the liquid heated just so. There are so few Mississippi syrup makers left, due to old age, that finding the right taste on the grocery shelves can be tricky. The term is "Ribbon Cane Syrup." Not Molasses, although they are related. Molasses is thicker and has a stronger taste. Ribbon Cane is light in taste. There's a golden sheen to a jar of syrup; whereas molasses is dark brown, almost black.

Handed down from my mother's family, I've enjoyed syrup with a spoonful of one added ingredient. Anyone with a Southern rural background has probably had this combination: adding sour cream to the dish of syrup, mix well to where it is a milky brown, drop in a biscuit, dip, or pour the mixture over an open biscuit and you have a delicious way to enjoy your breakfast. The sour cream gives a smooth taste and cuts down on the sweetness. Add bacon or ham and nothing tops that.

MIning Your Memories

I began a free class in writing family stories back in September at the local library. The last meeting is Thursday, December 13. Like the teacher I once was, I've given class exercises and homework to 14 adults.

As examples of experiences, I used my own writings, far from being the kind that sells at Barnes & Noble, but my own exploration into my  family life. This was done so the participants could see that getting the words onto paper were most important first of all. No editing at this time. We talked about the time from  birth through elementary school. By handing out dozens of questions to prick their memories, I've led them through a process of exploration. And I've been surprised how much the participants remember about their early school life. Perhaps it's because they are much younger and still have their memories available.

Once I was told to think of our brains as arranged with "shelves" stacked on top of each other as in a post office. As we experience life the "notes" of memory fit into the shelves. As one ages, the shelves get stuffed and the earlier notes get pushed so far back a person has trouble finding that one experience. Of course, that's not true, but I use that in my thinking about how we shove some memories aside and it takes constant weeding to find some small incident we want to write about.

The reactions from participants has been pleasing. From drawing the floor plan of an early home to mapping or to writing an obituary, the challenges have been enjoyable. A wonderful group meeting for one and a half hours has created the incentive to write now.

Imagine in the 30th century a kid  fumbling though a box in the attic picks up a notebook titled "Family Stories". He thumbs through the pages yellowing with age and begins to read. He carries the notebook downstairs and settles  into a comfortable chair and flips the pages. Mother walks in and says, "What's that you're reading, Son?" and he replies, "Stories written by somebody named Vivian Newkirk. Who's she?" and his mother says, "Oh, you found those wonderful stories written by your fourth great-grandmother! She lived back in the 21st century. There's a lot to learn about the past, Son, in those pages."

Cooking Frenzy

At this time of the year I feel more compelled to prepare something holiday-ish. The drawback is I show off my poor cooking skills. I've never been one to openly brag about the lack thereof. The older I've become, the less embarassed I am to admit that fault. However, I've found more ladies who can whip up anything delectable at a moment's notice.A skill Mother did with ease.

One afternoon as an adult standing in Mother's kitchen I asked her why her cooking skills didn't wiggle into my DNA? I didn't ask why she never took the time to teach Sis and me, as I knew she worked very hard at her job as manager of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce in Jackson, MS. But I thought the question, hoping she'd admit the reason.

Surely enough, she blamed herself and expounded, "I had to begin helping in the kitchen at age five, taking out buckets of lunch to my older brothers in the field and my reward was teasing. I hated that job. I can still remember having to stand on a stool to stir the pots at the wood stove, setting the table, then having to wash all those dishes. You know, we fed the farm hands as well as our family. I vowed sometime in those early years that I'd never put a daughter of mine through the experience." No one ever told this rural kid cooking would be one talent all young women should possess.

My family ran by clockwork. Mother was up in the mornings before us, preparing our breakfast;  Daddy bathed and dressed; Sis and I  dressed and made up our beds; we ate. Then Sis and I cleaned off the table and Daddy washed the dishes while Sis and I took turns drying while Mother dressed. Where was there time to teach us?

I wish I had the technique to make sweet muffins at the drop of a hat. I recall that when one of us heard a car pushing up our hilly driveway, Dad would say, "Mother, get the oven going, looks like some hungry folks are coming and they'll want your muffins." And quickly Mother would have sturreded up the batter, filled the muffin cups and shoved them in the over just as the doorbell rang. I can't make muffins.

I"ve collected muffin recipes and tried to replicate Mother's plain muffins to no avail. I can make candy. Pralines are my specialty. Only during the December holidays do I ever make pralines. I have a never-fail recipe I found lodged in Mother's cookbook, its tattered yellow sheet smudged with butter, its words written in pencil about to fade. She made divinity, fudge, fruitcake, and pies galore.  I make pralines, period. My pralines are chunks of pecans coated with cooked sugar. If you want to make Pralines yourself, try my recipe. Takes less than 30 minutes on the stove.

            MIX          1 1/2 c white sugar, or a bit less
                             3/4 c brown sugar packed
                             1/2 c condensed milk
Cook over heat until boiling and test for a hard core after a drop falls into a clear dish of water.
          Drop in         3/4 st butter
                               Real vanilla to your taste, maybe 1 tsp (Ok, if you have vanilla extract, that'll do)
          Add              1 1/2 c broken pecans

Stir swiftly to allow air to cool the mixture, when a sheen appears, begin dropping spoons full on oiled wax paper. Cool for 10 minutes and enjoy.     

The fudge I leave to R who cooks less than I do. He relishes making cocoa fudge by his recipe he developed when we lived in the little house everyone called "The Doll House." Five rooms with a galley kitchen, hot as Hades in summer, cold in spots during the winter. We probably made more fudge during that time than any other time in our lives.


Now we eat less sugar. How can you make pralines and fudge without sugar? You know the temptation, "Just one small piece and I won't eat another one until next year." It doesn't work that way. For several years R didn't make fudge unless someone complimented him and ask for a platter for themselves. I got to lick the pan only, which was more enjoyable anyway.


What do I  cook during the holidays? Besides pralines, there's ambrosia, and chocolate pudding (which is supposed to be chocolate pie but something always happens so we eat it with a spoon). No matter what main dish I make, something fails to taste or look right. The rice needs more water, the dressing is too liquidy, the roast has no flavor.

I can't win for losing. Every time. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS                HAPPY HOLLIDAYS                     HAPPY COOKING/EATING

Meeting Mr. Smith, Part 3

Mr. Smith sits in my class as I guide him and  another 16 participants down memory lane. The course is "Mining Your Memories -- Writing Family Stories." Although I am still checking his earlier writings, Mr. Smith is anxious to record his life experiences. He is one of three men in the class, all  having written something pertaining to their life's experiences.

In class, consisting of four one and one-half hours the second Thursday at a library, I give keys to finding the path to remembering what is on the bottom shelf of their minds. I was told once to imagine the mind being like a group of stacked shelves, with the bottom ones filled with early experiences and as we live, each line of shelves filling with remembrances of our sadness and gladness. The class is working with material from the bottom shelves.

So far I've read Mr. Smith's greeting cards and some poetry. He knows how to express Godly love, compassion, and thoughtfulness in his words. All are typed on a manual machine; I recognize the imprint. I can imagine him punching the keys as many early writers have done on their non-electric Royals and Smith-Coronas.. He carefully places each line on the page as though he is planting a small flower. He capitalizes where I wouldn't expect, but my remarking that he shouldn't is again taking away his creativity. I have to be careful to understand what is emphasized.

Here is a partial quote from one of his writings, entitled "Live Inside of Creation".

"Look at the Whole of what's going on
And learn to receive the life of its
Being. Move into the inside of what's seen,
And understand what's there to help us.

Be open to Who we are."

This is from a book entitled The Breath of God.  Beautiful, isn't it? As I wrote earlier, he is 71 years old and is an ordained minister. Whether or not one believes in a Holy Being, his words  resonate with truth.

I'm anxious to read his biography. Like many from the South, he moved to Chicago to live and eventually returned to the state and married. He is pleased with what he has done to help others in his life's work with alcoholics, and especially proud of his family. Knowing him enriches my being.

His work is an every-day enjoyment. He splashes the oils onto his plywood canvases  as though he has no care in the world. In the woods near his home he's found twisted vines growing around tree limbs. He hacks them into walking sticks and sculptured pieces and paints them glowing colors.

Even if he doesn't see people and flowers as you do, his paintings are as one of my friends says, "  . . . are quite different from each other and seen together in a group, they compliment each other without being the same painting over and over." That's Mr. Smith's gift to the world.

The Big 8-O

I thought my birthday would pass like a gentle breeze on a spring day. Not so. The date reached the headlines along with the day before and continued through the day after. My day roared through like a storm, a storm named Issac. My birthday was August 30 and Issac paid thousands a visit a day earlier and continued spinning in place as it roared like the lion from MGM movie reels.    

No matter how many times we prepare for tornadoes and hurricanes we are rarely ready to meet the torment head on. Neither do I expect to meet my birthday head on. This year I wanted to wake up, read the cards and answer the phone calls from my favorite friends and family, have a quiet breakfast and examine myself  closely in the mirror to assess myself. That lasted less than an hour since waking up.

At 7 a.m. son J called to say we had to celebrate my birthday in a festive way, "How about lunch?" I didn't want to get dressed, go rushing into a possible rainstorm and celebrate when so many thousands of folks were struggling elswhere to make sense of loss. Seemed like an anachronism. But R and I met J and his family and mother-in-law for a delightful lunch.

There remained the rest of the afternoon to ponder over my age and what I would accomplish in the coming year. Sometime ago I'd set a goal of living to be 140 years old, not because I would accomplish that, but to force myself to be optimistic  to accomplish small, selfish goals I've set for myself and enjoy the days and nights left in my small world.

Instead, I ended up remembering seven years ago when R and I were cloistered in an elementary school in Pennsylvania because a flooding Delaware River.We couldn't cross any one of the four bridges to reach Barryville, NY where we were living for the summer. This was August 30, the day after Katrina had destroyed the Gulf Coast, news we hadn't heard about until we stopped at the school. Our car was loaded to its roof with cat and her house plus our clothes from visiting our daughter for 10 days in Maine, andfour bags of groceries. We asked the cafeteria workers if we could store our cold items in the school's fridges, to which they kindly consented.

We sat for six hours with nothing more to do than talk with each other and those around us waiting for a signal that bridges were clear, while a driving rain pounded outside. We napped on old Army cots that must have broken the backs of many a WWII soldier from use and covered ourselves with rough wool blankets smelling like the mustiness of a closed up basement. We were experiencing what thousands were at the same time, under different conditions. We were amid 100 people who were fed snacks and juices from the school's storehouse by the friendliest cafeteria workers who came out of the comfort of their homes to help us. By 3:00 a.m. we were told we could leave. Our time there had been decent, nothing like we read about later in other places. I passed my birthday  exhausted from the long hours of nothing to do, not by being soaking wet and hungry. How fortunate we were.

 I consider this August 30 as my 8-0 birthday. That sounds younger, don't you think?

Crazy Ideas Not So Crazy

During our travels R expressed the idea of having a mannequin couple sitting in our home, dressed, and appearing to read or watch television to give the impression we were at home when we would be in Maine or Michigan or north Mississippi. I thought his idea "crazy". However, when we visited a New Orleans eatery on Magazine Street, what should we see but a mannequin couple sitting in a show window eating! So there are many crazy ideas floating around concerning mannequins!

A recent example was printed in Sunday, August 19th issue of our local Clarion-Ledger. In the Family section is a story of a family who bought a mannequin. As the woman related, "Four years ago Larry wanted to know what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted a mannequin for the dining room window." Sure enough, they found one on eBay. She stands in her latest fashions gleaned from second hand shops, and on holidays she is dressed appropriately. She has her own closet and a changing wardrobe of hair colors. She's  been dressed as a pilgrim, a Saints cheerleader and has celebrated the key holidays in costume. What fun they must have!

Would R have dressed his couple more than once? I doubt it. But we have often found a use for a male mannequin: to sit in the back seat with a hat on to accompany daughter J on her trip west, to go with my sister and me to distant states, or just to be a "pal" to me when I'm driving around town. I can envision myself discussing ideas for essays, talking over problems, mulling suggestions for dinner (when I used to cook), or just "being there." And like a pet, there'd be no back talk. No back-seat driver. Ahh . . .

Since we didn't have a mannequin for J when she headed for Utah over 10 years ago, crossing the expanse of New Mexico, Dad did decide that she take a sweet potato, the kind that sort of looks like a gun, and put it in a holster. When she got out of the car for meals, she'd remove the potato to give the impression of anyone checking through the car's window, that she was totin'. Worked like a charm. She also put a hat above the back seat to make drivers behind her "think" she had a guy sleeping in the seat.

There's no way anyone can use sweet potatoes to mimic a couple playing Scrabble in the living room. I'd advise anyone needing "life" to appear in the home, buy a mannequin, dress it in comfortable clothes with a drink nearby and go!