Homecomings – an encore presentation

My “children” are now 25 and 20. This post remembers a weekend evening a few years ago. Was it only a few years? Oh, my.

The thing about kids is that they grow up.

Homecoming Week at Amigo’s high school just ended. A chronological recounting won’t do; the impression of the week is more of a scattered collection of events.
The bonfire had a perfect night — that is, the rain date had perfect weather.
Spirit Days! Must discuss spirit days.
On “Dress Like a Pirate Day”, Amigo wore a bandanna on his head and someone gave him an eye patch to go with it. Substitute his white cane for a peg leg, and there’s one cool pirate.
Decades day? He chose the 80s and wore a shirt featuring the Packer quarterback who preceded Brett Favre. Okay, trivia buffs, can you name the quarterback?
At the football game, Amigo sat with us, but he was never alone. Kids kept walking past and saying hi and calling him by name. The homecoming king himself, the most popular boy in the entire school, sat and watched the game and talked with Amigo for quite a while. Husband joined us after work, bought supper from the concession stand and bought a sweatshirt from the booster club as the sun went down and the temperature dropped.
But the most glaring sign of growing up was the dance. I picked him up at midnight, tired, hoarse, thirsty, grinning from ear to ear. We came home and found La Petite had caught a ride home from college with her boyfriend to spend a night here with us and with her bunnies.
And that’s where it ended: my two teenagers, one 19, one 14, sharing homecoming stories on the couch after midnight. The high school freshman and the college sophomore chatted and laughed and compared notes. I don’t know how long they stayed up talking about pep rallies, football games, dances, and spirit weeks. I’m sure they didn’t even notice my absence when I went up to bed.

I guess the great thing about kids is that they grow up.

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Dear family; ’tis the season

It’s gift giving season again, which means gift buying, which means spending. I’d like to suggest a few possibilities that save money and might even be practical.

Might even be practical? Oh, family and friends, you know practicality is my middle name. You know that anything related to canning is a good bet. As I see my net pay shrink and my right to a contract wind its way through the courts, putting up stores for the winter is an investment in both groceries and health. The corn I bought and froze in August was cheaper by the ounce than a bag of frozen corn in the stores, and it will taste oh, so much better. The same goes for the peas, the beans, the asparagus – hey, Amigo, we have asparagus in the freezer! Your favorite vegetable! But I’m going off topic.

Any tools related to food storage are a good investment. Keep an eye open for a mortar and pestle. We’ve learned from experience that the herbs that are so prolific on the deck in season do not do nearly as well in the house over winter. Drying these herbs and crushing them will make the kitchen smell great and fill the spice rack.

A kitchen scale would come in handy, too. Making tomato salsa and marinara sauce was interesting. I measured out one pound on my tiny little scale that measures in ounces up to one pound. Since the Roma tomatoes called for were fairly uniform in size, I then estimated enough one pound piles to make the full amount I needed. It worked, but a real scale would work better. Four to five Romas make a pound, in case you were wondering.

Last time I watched an Alton Brown recipe video, I noticed how he used the gravy separator. How is it I’ve gone this long without one? I’d use it for making soup stocks, too. I like the one with the removable strainer on top.

Don’t spend a bundle, though. If you spot jars in a thrift store or at a rummage sale, go for it. If you see a second hand mortar and pestle set somewhere at a ridiculously low price, grab it. A well known kitchen supply store asks $40 for a ceramic set. Ouch. That’s ridiculously high; don’t bother.

Chuck needs jeans. He wears them a lot, and he wears them out. Contact me for size and style. He pretends he knows, but…. you know the drill. Don’t tell him I said so, but second hand jeans are fine as long as they’re the right brand, style, and size.

Amigo? He needs independence. If only we could wrap it up and put it under the tree for Christmas. Until then, he’ll keep doing his own laundry and making his own lunch and setting the table for supper.

La Petite is working her way into the real world of, you guessed it, work. If anyone can deliver more work to her, in particular work with health care benefits, please tie it up in a bow and place it in her stocking.

Oh, did I get distracted again? The underlying message is this: our world is a scary place. The future is uncertain, and sometimes I feel like the odds are not in our favor. Save the cash for the important necessities in life. Holidays are important, but spending oodles of money isn’t necessary. 

Meanwhile, I plan to make a trip downtown on Small Business Saturday, the antidote for Black Friday at the malls. It’s so much calmer and so enjoyable that I might even time my trip to the small shops on the Friday itself. Join me, anyone?

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Life in perspective

There’s nothing like an ER visit to put life back in perspective. Armed with a faithful husband and a sense of humor to take the edge off the worst, I wobbled into the closest hospital’s Emergency entrance last night.

The symptoms, by my estimation, had come on mid-morning. Numbness on one side of the face, shaky left leg, dizziness. I shook off concerns and stayed in my cubicle all day, and then (typical teacher) called the doctor when I got home. The nurse on call said, “ER. Definitely. Do you have someone who can drive you? Soon?” Well, yes. Chuck was pulling in the driveway moments after the call.

While the nurse was getting me wired up to the beeping and blinking equipment, she asked basic questions. “What’s your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know why you’re here? What month is it?” Was that a trick question, we asked? It was November 1st. We told everyone who treated me about my hearing impairment, and they all handled it professionally. Well, mostly professionally. This is the first time anyone has called my hearing aids “cute.”

So – I was exhausted. Chuck pointed out that I’d been fading since earlier in the week. I’d been tired, very tired, but chalked it up to stress. Campaign stress, election fears, work stress due to state testing – you name it, I’ve felt it. No, he told me, it was more than usual.

CAT scan was an odd experience – my first. Hold still? No problem. Let me doze off and we’ll all be happy. Results were normal, so ER doc talked to the neurologist on call and ordered an MRI. We got lucky with timing; the MRI tech was in house due to routine equipment testing, so they took me almost immediately. Here again, lying still was no problem. “Can I take a nap?” They thought I was kidding.

MRIs are loud, though, even to one like me. With my hearing aids out and earplugs in, the rhythms and changing tones kept me awake. Has any composer written an atonal piece based on MRI sounds? If it hasn’t been done, some talented and creative musician needs to write it.

Ultimately, all life-threatening possibilities were ruled out. No stroke or TIA, no blood clots or bleeding in the brain. My orders included an anti-dizziness medication, a day of rest instead of school, and two follow up visits: one to my family doc, and one to a neurologist.

So here I am, resting on my couch, watching MSNBC and promising myself that I’ll turn it off if bad news or campaign news becomes upsetting. I dropped a note to friends and family on Facebook and emailed my bosses and secretary after I put in for my sick day. Petunia, good mother that she is, picked up my prescription and promised to drive me to the family doc. La Petite checked in within minutes of my online update. It’s the opposite of the sandwich generation; this time, mother and daughter are taking care of the one in the middle: me.

Meanwhile, I still have that post-dental work feeling in one side of my face, and I still wobble on my left leg. I’m leaning left now literally as well as politically. As long as I do this Weeble style and wobble but avoid falling down, I can move on.

And if my blog posts sound one-sided, you know there’s yet another reason for that point of view.

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Health Care and PBS

About a year ago, I was facing two major appointments followed by eye surgery — twice.

Pre-op physical first. I told the scheduler that I had a complete physical in August. No use; the Almighty Computer wouldn’t register a shorter appointment. I had to schedule the full 30 minutes. Luckily, doctors are smarter than the scheduling computer, so this was quick and painless.
Cataract surgery: The left eye had its cataract removed on a fine Friday morning. Right eye happened two weeks later. Recovery was smooth, despite my nerves.
So… I was “down one eye” for a while. I was grateful to work in a cubicle; I wouldn’t have to worry about rowdy students throwing things at me. Two years ago I would have worried about chairs flying through the air. No more! My coworkers aren’t the “throwing chairs” types. (Paper airplanes at times, but that’s another story.)With 20-20 hindsight, I see that I might have better off scheduling these surgeries some other time. I made a serious effort to miss as little school as possible by using a long weekend and having both eyes done on Fridays. October was also the month for parent-teacher conferences, a field trip out of the office, and the start of the not-to-be-forgotten state test season
Under the Affordable Care Act, insurance companies cannot refuse me coverage because of my pre-existing condition, cataracts in both eyes. Health care is important, whether for the eyes or the ears or any other body part. I support President Obama because he made health care for all a priority for all Americans. I’m beyond my reproductive years, but I still support women’s rights to make their own health decisions with their own doctors. When I get older and wiser and face coverage through Medicare, I’d rather see Obama’s version than Romney’s vouchers.
And when I reach the next fork in the road, I’ll support the network that reminds me that it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

“Fozzie, turn left at the fork in the road.”

Thanks, PBS.

“I’m on my way to New York to break into Public Television!’

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The price of time off

I only took the morning. In fact, I finagled two appointments in one morning so I could handle these issues with one morning off instead of a few hours or even two half days. See how teachers think? We hate being gone. Even in my current job, where I don’t have to prepare plans for a substitute, I don’t like being away from school.

I was rather pleased to manage my schedule in such a way as to minimize time off. But I couldn’t feel too smug; look what I faced when I got to school. This is my gradebook. The puffy A+ symbols mean that students have submitted work to be graded.  The only classes with nothing to grade are those that haven’t started yet.

Daisy’s Gradebook

The load was significant, too. Most of the section gradebooks had at least ten portfolios or tests in them.

I filled up my WSRA – Teaching Wisconsin to Read coffee mug and I hit the ground running, er, clicking. By the time the day was done, I had replied to seven parent emails, graded two science portfolios that came in the mail, and –well, see for yourself.

Daisy’s Gradebook – later

That’s a beautiful sight, those blue A+ icons. Now let’s see if I can be ready for Friday, when the first writing portfolio, a personal narrative, is due.

 

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Friday night Fireworks

We ended the summer with a bang and a boom of fireworks. The night started simply: some good tunes from Amigo’s favorite radio station on their highly decorated and LOUD truck.

                                    …play something country!

We did what they say on the ads; we enjoyed the fun, and stayed for the game. Peanuts, funnel cake, refreshing beverages – and a dancing umpire?

                             When all else fails, dance!

                No fowl, er, foul here!

This was a visiting mascot, too, that we’ve never seen before. Fang, we think, had a broken, um, er, tail.

                                                          Can you see it? 

Here’s a closer look.

Really. What kind of a doctor handles mascot injuries? Who will put the spring back in Fang’s tail? And why are those people dressed like burgers? Never mind. Just watch the game, and enjoy the fireworks afterward.

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Beware of Birds!

It was a bright and windy day, not a dark and stormy night. I came outside and found the deck umbrella had gone for a field trip. Wheeee!

upside down, but not inside out

Unfortunately, it was in the path of a neighbor – one with feathers and a beak. This neighborly critter left its mark.

                                                         Yep, there it is.

What — You were expecting gang graffiti?

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Saving the trees – not such a green movement

I mentioned the City Council meeting two weeks ago, but I didn’t share the results yet. The Council voted in favor of the perceived majority, the emotional and noisy latecomers to the issues. In the elevator after the meeting, a neighbor turned to Chuck and asked his advice on what to do with the signs they’d made.

Good man that he is, he suggested compost.

“I speak for the trees!” Maybe.

Readers, they meant well. They made these lovely protest signs and attached them to a small branch, er, stick.

A sample of the aforementioned trees in action.

So what’s the problem, Daisy? Recycle the paper top, and compost the stick, right? Almost. I insist, though; I must have my moment. I have to get persnickety.

Not biodegradable. Nope.

The sticks were stuck to the treetops with two industrial strength staples from a staple gun. After seeing the neighbors and their recruits waving the signs around, I know they made dozens. Will they really take the time to pull out and recycle the staples? Doubtful.

Masking tape would have been the biodegradable, environmental choice. Of course they didn’t ask me. Snicker. I’m only Daisy, the composter mom. What do I know? And the neighbors are too busy to read my blog.

They don’t know what they’re missing. Really.

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Skyline Mystery

We are on the road now, and so far the journey has been, um, well, rather eventful. I’ll share after I have a chance to sleep. And recover. And rehydrate. Not necessarily in that order, of course. But in the meantime —

I bought Chuck a polo shirt at a church rummage sale. Now the mystery: what’s the skyline? It’s not Seattle – no Space Needle. It’s not Milwaukee. I don’t think it’s Chicago, but I could be wrong.

No ID yet; readers, can you help? Please tell me which city this shirt illustrates, and include details. No five paragraph essays – just enough details to prove your answer, okay? Okay. 

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