What A Stranger Taught Me

"Excuse me, little lady, do you have any scrap?"

As I pulled weeds from my very neglected alley garden, I looked up at these words and saw a pickup truck filled with metal of all kinds, and a muscled, stocky man covered in sweat. I thought for a few moments. Did I have any scrap? We had just rented a Dumpster and gotten rid of so much! But then I remembered, we still had the cast iron sink, original to our old house, sitting in the garage. It was worth some money as a vintage plumbing item, I knew. I offered it to him.

He hesitated. I bet he thought it was a stainless steel sink. But I opened the garage door and showed him. "That's worth something. I'll take it." He pointed out that the fittings were brass and the cast sink was "heavy scrap." I offered to help him load it into the truck—it had to weigh 200 pounds. But he dragged it and lifted it without much effort. Then he raised both arms over his head and exclaimed, "I'm goin' to the scrap yard!," with such enthusiasm I felt good about giving the sink to someone who needed it. We chatted for a while, and then I noticed he had old bike frames in the truck, too, and I had an old bike to get rid of. I had planned to donate it, but the brakes were shot and I didn't think I could donate something that was broken (Well, my husband thought that. I wasn't so sure.) 

When I showed him the bike, he immediately asked if I was sure I wanted to part with it. He could fix the brakes, he said, and give it to his daughter, who would love it since it was blue. Then I felt even more sure that I was doing the right thing. His whole face lit up as he told me how much his daughter would love it. I told him I'd had it since I was 11 or 12, and he said, "What are you now, 25?" Well, if I had been unsure that he was a nice guy, that sealed it. But as we talked some more, he revealed that he had worked in concrete and other heavy labor for 25 years and then had an accident that had taken out most of his neck, and he showed me a deep, disturbing scar on the back of his neck. I shuddered. He told me he still experienced phantom pain in his body, and that the painkillers he'd been taking had stopped working. He said this all in a conversational way, as if we were talking about the weather. He thanked me and proceeded to drive slowly through the alley, searching for more scrap. I knew I had just met a good person, and I felt good about helping in the small way that I was able. I also knew that I was damned lucky to have my health and my salary. I am also pretty lucky that I don't have to ask strangers for handouts. 

 I hope he made a killing at the scrap yard that day. 

Like the Ingalls Family, Only Not

There sure has been a lot of media coverage of home folks growing their own food this year, have you noticed? The New York Times has been a great source of both inspiration and frustration for me, as I read the many articles about people with tiny lots growing enough produce to sell at local markets. I long to eat zucchini and tomatoes and pole beans from my own yard, like we did when I was young and my grandparents had a large garden in the side yard. But for now, when I look into my own side yard I see two thriving pumpkin plants and two pitiful corn plants. It's late July, and our corn will be ready by about October. When we drive by fields full of corn taller than I am, I have to wonder when these farmers sowed their corn, given the cold and wet spring we had in Minnesota this year. I guess that's why we're not farmers: lack of know-how. 

Because I love the Little House books, I've been reading and rereading them since I was young. I am especially fond of the parts of these books that include descriptions of cooking and growing food. Ma made her own cottage cheese by scalding milk: this sounds like a recipe for a ruined pan and, possibly, a fire on the stove, were I to try this myself. In the spring, Laura and her family delighted in eating creamed potatoes and peas, tomatoes in sugar, and fresh lettuce dressed in vinegar and more sugar (which I also ate as a child, thanks to my Grandma). In the fall and winter months, they ate vinegar pie, green pumpkin pie, Hubbard squash—so rock-hard was this squash that Ma had to split them open with Pa's ax—and smoked meats. All this reading about providing for yourselves makes me wish I'd dug up a much larger piece of yard for a much larger garden. My son brought home a single bean plant that is now yielding slender, pale green beans. Would that we had planted a whole seed packet of these, I love green beans! My son, not so much, though, so I'd be able to enjoy them all by myself. 

Our neighbors have dug up most of their backyard and turned it into a garden. They share lettuce and tomatoes with us, and I'm always reminded of summertime at my grandparents' house in Cincinnati. My grandma grew up on a farm in Michigan, and she made delicious meals, some she called "concoctions." I wish I'd had an appreciation for all that she did in the kitchen while I was at her hip. I wish she'd taught me how to put up preserves. And I wish I'd inherited her cherry pitter, a heavy metal thing that clamped onto the edge of the countertop when we'd picked enough Bing cherries from her tree to bake a pie. Given that we had cherry pie for Thanksgiving, I have to wonder now, were those cherries that grew on her tree, and that she saved for the holiday? Did she make her own pie filling by making cherry preserves? I guess I'll just have to wonder. 

That's what we call a "WHOA, big fella!" landing

"I'm really glad I'm still alive!"

Not the words you want to hear when you're on an airplane, and certainly not from your own child.

As Henry and I wrapped up our trip to Ohio visiting my family, we boarded the 9 AM flight to MSP. It was a little chilly on board, so I covered Henry with my jacket while we taxied. Once we were in the air, the cabin suddenly felt like an oven. Not a gradual rise in temperature, but a sudden skyrocketing up to intense heat. All of the passengers were fiddling with the dials that control the air flow, looking around the cabin to see if we were all feeling the heat. I started to fan Henry's face and he said, why are you pushing hot air on me? Excellent point!

Soon, the announcements began: "We know that there's a problem" and "Folks, we're looking into this, please bear with us." Then the alarms went off. That's when I reached over and tightened Henry's seat belt. He asked why I was doing this, and I told him we'd be returning to the airport soon. Sure enough, the captain came on the loudspeaker and told us we would indeed be returning to Columbus airport. When we descended to the runway, the captain stopped the plane IMMEDIATELY. There was no slow deceleration, no gradual decline in speed. We stopped. (And we applauded.) So hard and abrupt was our landing, that we had to deplane on the runway, and get back to the terminal in shuttles. According to the captain, the brakes melted. I was never so happy to step onto a runway and get some fresh air. That's when Henry made his "I'm so happy I'm alive" statement, which everyone laughed at, but I think we were all thinking, "So am I, kid!"

I knew right then we would be a day late getting home.

After a lovely night at the airport Holiday Inn, Henry and I arrived home to Daddy and our own beds. It will be a long time before we fly again. Later this year, we're heading up north and we'll be driving for about four hours. I can't wait. 

Props

Catherine Newman is one of my favorite writers. I've been reading her online columns since I was pregnant and her little boy was two. Now her son is 8 and her daughter is 5, and every Tuesday I go to her column and share a little piece of her world. She has such a way with words, that I envy. So, take my word for it, check out her column (and her blog) for a great read. Cheers!

Other kids' parents...

Last weekend, we went downtown St. Paul to check out the Flint Hills International Children's Festival. The weather was perfect—sunny and not too hot—and we all had a glorious time, listening to music, dancing, and playing with flags, balancing sticks, juggling apparatus and more neat (and free!) stuff. Cyril Paul played with his band, and Henry was delighted to see him, the same musician that had visited his school for a week as an artist in residence. I discovered that I still love to dance, to live music, in public. Bless my husband's heart, he semi-danced with me while I twirled around to the caribbean tunes. I felt like a kid again, and it was wonderful.

Later, while we stood in a very long line for a balloon creation, my day darkened a bit. The woman standing behind me had a very little boy with her. This poor child was clearly tired,  and he kept sitting down on the grass. The woman with him—good lord, I hope she wasn't his mother—continually barked "Stand up!" at him. Over and over again. She didn't offer to hold him, she didn't acknowledge that he might be exhausted, all she could muster was snapping angrily at him to get off of the damp grass. After about ten minutes, I couldn't take it any more, imagine what that little boy felt like. His face was full of pain. I wanted to pick him up myself...and carry him away from that mean old bag. I desperately wanted to turn around and give her a piece of my mind. I desperately wanted to yell at her, to tell her that this tiny boy (he truly looked like an elf) deserved a little compassion. Was she standing in this line for his benefit or for hers? Isn't it time to call it a day when a child cannot stand up any longer? Why was she caring for a child when she seemed to lack any semblance of a care-taking gene? Was she really more concerned about a grass stain, or damp shorts than she was about his well-being? 

It took me a little while to calm down once we left that line and moved on to the butterfly tent. Henry loved the tickling feet  of the butterflies as they crawled on  his arms. We really had a wonderful day (so wonderful that we went back the next day). But I am still worried about that tiny child. Does he have any joy in his life? Is his entire day filled with barking commands? I certainly have my moments of hideous motherhood: I'm impatient, I lose my temper, I forget sometimes that whatever activity we're doing was supposed to be FUN. But I hope above anything else that I will always think about Henry's best interests. And I hope I'll let him sit down if he's tired. 

If a tree falls in the yard...

Last Sunday, we were enjoying a movie with our son when I commented, "Boy, it is gusty outside." Just then we heard a loud crash. Thinking something had blown over in the kitchen, Tim went in that direction and saw a limb from our neighbor's tree in the yard. So we went to the back door, and discovered that half of the door had been taken out by the killer tree limb. It wasn't until we had moved the limb that I realized we should take pictures of the damage. It turns out that our insurance deductible is more than the cost of a new door, so we'll be paying for this ourselves. Figures!

What I found most interesting about this experience was the lack of a kind word from our neighbor. This was not her fault, of course, but if my tree had taken out her back door, I would have apologized at the very least. I would have appreciated an offer to help chop up the tree and an offer to haul the lumber to the yard waste center (part of the joy of living in St. Paul: we burn fossil fuel to drive our leaves and limbs to a central location. Makes perfect sense.) Heck, I would have appreciated an "Oh, Dear!" But, it was radio silence. We've been neighbors for several years, and she's been a guest in our home. I guess Tree Impales Neighbor's House doesn't warrant comment. 

I can't help but wonder, after all, how well do we know our neighbors? Or ourselves? I'd certainly like to think I would try to make it right if my property damaged or destroyed the property of another person, but would I really? Would you? It's easy to be self-righteous when it's not our tree, so to speak. So, today will be spent cleaning up the tree limbs and shopping for a new door. And saying hello to our neighbor. Because life goes on, and hopefully we'll be neighbors for a long time. She's quiet, she doesn't throw loud parties, and she keeps her sidewalk shoveled. If you've ever lived next door to a less than ideal neighbor, you know what a treasure she is! 

And So it Begins

I've always been opinionated and passionate about lots of topics. Just ask my family. I come from a long line of opinionated women. My husband tells me I should run for city council, but I know I'm too far left for that...so when he suggested (for the tenth time) that I could start a blog, I finally saw the light. 

So who am I? I'm in my thirties, I'm a mom, I'm a publicist and a former newsie, I'm a Democrat, and I love to laugh out loud...too loud, occasionally. I long for more patience with my fabulous son, and I consider it a grand success of a day if I don't feel the weight of my Guilt Necklace at the end of my parenting day. I work for a local publisher after spending nearly 6 years at the governing body for the airport, and in television news before that. So I have lots to say about current affairs, news coverage, and politics. 

One of my goals with my blog is to capture even a smidgen of the wit and talent I admire in other writers' work. I intend to write about all kinds of topics...motherhood, restaurants, customer service, the pending election, the daily battle I face with the squirrels raiding my flower pots...whatever causes me to interrupt yet another DVD my husband and I were quietly enjoying by saying, "You know what I read/saw/heard/experienced today??!!" 

And so it begins.