Writing Interrupted

Before I resume my self-imposed assignment of writing about bits of our life in the country, I have something to get off my chest:

Sometime back a family member recommended a book to me. I forgot all about it at the time. Then over the Christmas holidays a trusted friend recommended the same book. Then I ran across another relative who was reading the book. Interest piqued, I did some checking and found the book near the top New York Times’ list of best-selling fiction. In fact, remains there at the time of this posting. I then read a glowing NY Times review. Unable to find the book at our local library, I decided to buy it.

I will not mention the title of the book nor the name of the author, only “cuz that’s how I roll.” Anyone interested could probably figure it out.

I was immediately engrossed by the author’s clear and clever writing. The book is divided into three parts, each with an innocuous sub-title that belies the underlying mysterious, juicy suspense and evil that begins to ooze forth.

Captivated, I breezed through Part One in a matter of hours. It was a page-turner, as they say. It was then that I decided to pause and do a search to see what other books the author had penned. I found that she had written two books previous to this, and those books had both enjoyed positive reviews, and I could easily purchase these books at a bargain rate from a used book purveyor. I can only say now, thank goodness I didn't follow through with my impulsivity.

In Part Two, there is a confirmation of what the reader already suspects: that one of the narrators is unreliable. Now nobody loves a good “unreliable narrator” plot more than me. And I adore when a writer can manipulate me, so that I find myself rooting for the ‘bad guys.’ Initially, I was impressed with the author’s insight into the minds of her two main characters. She’d a good grasp of what would seem to be the honest inner-thoughts of both a male and a female struggling in a borderline marriage.

So, I was sucked along.

It was here, in Part Two, that my newly beloved author began to slip and, my friends, she was taking me down with her. I began to notice that her writing exhibited one too many convenient coincidences. I mean how lucky can one person be to have every single thing work out exactly as planned, without ever an error or misstep? Her story became ever more implausible, and her characters ever more ineffectual.

Still, I plowed along into Part Three, hoping the ending would redeem the book. By now the plot showed incongruities. It had loose threads, like a littered tailor shop floor. Her hints of juicy evil had turned to parched clay. And by now the only character I gave two hoots about any more was the dementia-riddled father-in-law.

And then, my friends, came the ending. Holy smokes, was is ever horrendous. She’d tried to clean up those loose threads, but I wasn’t buying any of it. I felt cheated. I felt used. I’d been robbed, both of money and time. And now that I think about it, probably more than a few brain cells. The experience made me think of that part of Malcom X’s speech: “You been had, you been took, you been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, run amok...”

Do I sound angry? Me, who espouses, “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different.” It’s just a different style of writing that is not suited to me. I’d like to think I was perturbed, disappointed, and frustrated. Like when you hear about some mastermind criminal and wonder why he uses his extraordinary intellect to no good end.

I did a bit of online research and read that she had found herself stuck about 82% (that’s her figure - 82%?) into her book. Her editor provided help to enable her to finish the book. Okay, I’ll cut her slack, maybe she’s the one who’d "been took, hoodwinked bamboozled, led astray and run amok" by her editor.

So okay, it’s not her it's me. I’m just not a good reader of this type of book. I guess the only crime here is that I can no longer trust New York Times' book reviews. 

So, I’m returning to where I feel safe and sound, with the likes of: Kazuo Ishiguro, a master of unreliable narration, or Patrick deWitt, who can make me not only cheer for his bad guy characters but develop a liking for them as well, or the book I’m currently reading, The Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons. It was published in 1932 and has clever witty, satirical writing that has made me chortle, giggle, snicker, and laugh often enough that I had to move to another room, so as not to disturb my husband, who was concentrating on some project. It’s the kind of book you don’t want to read in the crowded doctor’s waiting room, because people’ll look at you funny when you suddenly let loose with a loud guffaw.

America's Coolest Small Town 2013

I quit Facebook some time ago, so I'm posting this here. First, read yesterday's blog and then vote for Mt. Carroll, Illinois as "America's Coolest Small Town 2013." We've only 6 days left to vote!! Here is the link:

http://www.budgettravel.com/contest/americas-coolest-small-towns-2013,14/

It's the one on the map just east of the Mississippi, inside the Illinois borders. Don't accidently hit the Iowa town to the left. Egad!!

It's really a cool "Mayberry-like" place. Look at the photos. If you're my friend and reading this and you've come out to visit us, we've either already taken you there to see it, or we plan to take when you do visit us this summer. And how cool will that be when they're voted "the best" and you can say that you've already been there! So, do me a 'solid.'

Here is the criteria:

What makes a Coolest Small Town?

The town must have a population under 10,000. It also needs that indescribable something: independent shops, a sense of energy, an epic backyard, culture, delicious coffee. In other words, cool doesn't necessarily mean quaint: We want towns with an edge and a heart.

And here is the official contest description:

Don't be fooled by the elegant brick courthouse and the pastoral farmland settings: Though this town in Illinois's northwestern corner looks like classic Main Street, U.S.A., there's something gleefully, well, "off" about the place. And the residents wouldn't have it any other way. Need proof? The local antiques store and tea room has a Victorian Mad Hatter theme. Weirdest of all—by a country mile—is Mount Carroll's year-round haunted house, the Raven's Grin Inn. The 19th-century mansion has been converted into a spooky art piece with a homemade pterodactyl skeleton, a giant metal skull, four cars sticking out of the facade, and a series of slides and trapdoors. 

Right now we're in a dismal 2nd to last place, so we need your vote. If you are on FB, you can post the link for me. I want Mt. Carroll/Mt. Pilot to win, but not enough that I'd actually consider re-joining FB. Come on, I'd do it for you... Come on, you know how... As Nike says: "Just Do It."

Just look at these cute "Mayberry-like" photos. How can you resist?

Okay, friends and family o' mine, here is my final offer: I've never actually visited "Raven's Grin Inn," but my sister has, so I know of what I speak. Here is my offer: You vote for Mt. Carroll for "America's Coolest Small Town 2013" and I'll not only take you there upon your visit to our home, but I'll buy your entry ticket and lunch or dinner (depending on time of day) in Mt. Carroll/Mt. Pilot. (It's a good thing my husband doesn't read my blog!)

It's "Art!"

Our Town

For the remainder of February I’m going to write some basic, random bits about our new “home town.” In the nearly eight months time we’ve become nicely accustomed to our new home and its surroundings. Now my writing will not match the haunting, existential beauty of Thornton Wilder’s play about Grovers Corner. But I like the idea that maybe, if I save my writings, someday my great-grandchildren may read about our experience of moving from the big city to a rural area and even, maybe, find it interesting. Much in the way I would love to now read the words of my ancestors.

Our “town” is really an almost-completely, private development situated in the middle of a rural county of 90% farmland. Yeah, I know it’s strange, but there you have it. We have, our county that is, one stop light and erecting that was a politician’s nightmare. They didn’t have to pull a Mayor Daley “middle-of-the-night Meigs Field bulldozing” to get it in, but it was hard fought and much protested by the local community. Other than that, we’ve only stop signs and small town municipality’s speed traps to slow us down and that is usually sufficient to keep things in check around here. Most of the crime found on the “police beat” of the local paper deals with DUI’s and speeding. 

If you’ve read my past postings, (and if you knew how few people actually read my blog, you’d know why I’m even mentioning this ;-) ). Anyway, you’d know that I enjoy old-time television. So my husband and I have nicknamed all of the local areas according to our memories of “The Andy Griffith Show.” We call our ‘privatopia:’ Myers Lake. Myers Lake has a lake, a golf course/clubhouse, a small ski/tube/snowboard hill and tow, and an “aquatic complex” with indoor/outdoor pools. It’s not at all like the simple rowboat fishing hole near Mayberry. We have our own security officers, but rely on local towns for volunteer fire forces.

We share a zipcode with a small nearby town of about 1400, (although we are pretty sure that includes the 400 or so of us ‘full-timers’ here in Myers Lake). Here we include another nearby town of about 750 (this town didn’t have the savvy to let us use their zip and thus share our tax base. But due to county regulations, they are within our “township” and so it’s where we vote during local and national elections.) We call these two collectively our “Mayberry.” Between the two Mayberrys, which are both about 10 miles from us, there are two main gas stations, which serve as fast food/convenience centers. They sell mostly gas, cigarettes, beer, milk, donuts and fast food, and I’d gauge it’s about in that order of volume from highest to lowest. They seem to both have that “general store” draw and it’s where you’ll rub elbows with area farmers and townfolk.

The Mayberrys also have one small grocery store, one biker bar, an on again/off again cafe and a pizza carryout/delivery place, which is run by a guy who preaches during the day and makes pretty good pizza by night. Each town has a post office, but I’m sure that one will close as the USPS makes future cuts.  One of the towns has a public library. They share a high school and I’m not sure but maybe even an elementary. It’s where our few children from Myers Lake would be assigned.

Nearby is a town one step up from our Mayberry, and they have about 1800 residents. We call this town, “Mount Pilot” and it is our county seat, so if we're called for jury duty this is where we’ll be assigned. They have a jail attached to the courthouse, (kind of Mayberry-ish) and they have a beautiful Carnegie Library. They have a medium-sized grocery store, which I think is owned by someone from Myers Lake and has a delivery service that includes Myers Lake. Mount Pilot has a drugstore, a hardware store, a Dairy Queen, two gas stations, four bars all serving food, and a couple of which feature live music on weekends. They also have a couple of restaurant/cafes, one of which is billed as “upscale.” They have a couple of quaint antique shops, and also have a crazy haunted house, which has been featured on network TV and is a huge draw near Halloween. They also have a 8-lane bowling alley, which was recently revamped with new, slick lanes, and includes the latest in video, automatic scoring, live television entertainment. It gives you the speed of your throw and shows hints on where to aim to pick up your spare. It’s where I am a sub on Myers Lake’s women’s league. As a league player one can bowl any time for the bargain rate of $5 per two hours. Oh, and I almost forgot, our Mt. Pilot was recently named one of the 15 finalists in the "Coolest Small Town in America" Budget Travel's annual listing. How cool is that?

The next biggest town is a place we call “Siler City.” It rests on the Mighty Mississippi and has the only movie theater in our county, and all the bells and whistles to go with that famed stoplight, bars, restaurants, gas stations, a drugstore, grocery store, an actual “True Value” hardware store and a couple of big biker bars. Being on two main state highways, adjacent to the river, and nestled in rolling hills it is a big draw in warmer weather for motorcyclists.

The other towns we visit are outside of our county. For the nearest large town of 20,000, we use the name of the place where they actually filmed The Andy Griffith Show in California: “Culver City.” And for the ‘big city’ that has ‘everything’ we give Rockford, Illinois, the name “Raleigh.” And just like Andy’s show, we can find whatever we need in “Raleigh.” It's where Barney Fire had his annual vacation in a corner room at the YMCA, and where he wrote this letter to Andy:

Dear Andy: It certainly is exciting up here in Raleigh. Really having a ball. My head hasn't hit the pillow before 11:15 since I got here. Catching all the shows. Saw that Italian picture that we read about in the paper, Bread, Love and Beans, and it was plenty risque, let me tell you.

The food here in the cafeteria is terrific, and I've been eating up a storm. The breakfast special is unbelievable: three hot cakes, two strips of bacon, one egg- any style, juice, and coffee, all for 35 cents. It's served only between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m., but I can't sleep anyway.

I ran into a fellow on the street the other day who tried to sell me an iron deer for my front lawn, but I don't know.

Well, it's almost 5:00, so I better get down to breakfast. Love to Aunt Bee, Opie, Floyd, Goober and all the boys.

10-4, Over and Out, Barney 

P.S. I'm not saying anything, but there is an awful lot of pretty women up here. Ha Ha.

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” 

     - Thornton Wilder

Took this picture yesterday in "Culver City" where we went to pick up plumbing supplies.

Read the Jimmy John's sign ;-)

Let It Snow, Let It Snow

Every so often I had a vague sense that something was not right, like a nagging something, my mind trying to tell me something but, for the most part I was able to ignore it. I arrived at our agreed destination, all by myself, about 70 yards ahead of my companion, so I stopped. Then I felt the pain and I knew.

In my head, I could hear the voice of my yoga teacher, from years back, “Let us not label it just yet. Might it perhaps be better called “fatigue?” Fatigue or pain, I knew it hurt and I knew the right thing to do was to turn back. In fact, now that I think about it, wasn’t it my yoga teacher who also used to say, “Always listen to your body.” But, I’m having so much fun I don’t want to stop. My husband catches up to me. He’s breathlessly asks, “Well, should we continue on, or head back home?” “I have a blister,” I confess. “Aww. But good.” he says, then laughs. “No, I don’t mean good you have a blister. I mean I’m still sore from yesterday so, I’m ready to turn back.”

In my heaven there will be cross country skiing. So, that means in my heaven there will be snow, at least some of the time. There will also be warm sunny days and beaches with soft white sand and salty waves that lap at the shore. But, no biting sand flies! There will also be a kick-ass digital library. Wait, you probably oughtn’t call it “kick-ass” in heaven... but, I digress.

Four days ago we had a blanket of snow about 4-5 inches deep and each day since we’ve had an overnight dusting of 1/2 to one inch. So everyday we’ve gone out on our skis. We even went out on Ray Lewis’ blessed, holy SuperBowl Sunday.

We live on a golf course and when winter comes, provided there is snow,  the course morphs into a cross country ski trail. The association even grooms it, which basically means someone drives a snowmobile with an eight foot wide plank of wood dragging behind it to compact and level the snow out. But, unless it’s ridiculously deep I prefer to blaze my own trails.

We live in a section of northwest Illinois with a terrain of rolling hills, hills unscathed by flattening effects of the ice-age glaciers. There are areas that are challenged aerobically as you climb uphill, and places where one can glide effortlessly downhill.

When the mercury falls, many of my neighbors head south. Our next door neighbors leave in early October and don’t return until May or June, so they’re kind of like the hummingbirds. Our across-the-road neighbors leave right after Christmas and return in April, so they're kind of like the robins. Our neighbor, Mike, who like us stays, calls all of them the “bluebirds.” “Mike, I think you mean “snowbirds.” “Yeah, snowbirds.” he says. And I wonder if it’s a Freudian slip for blue-haired old people. Anyway, I can’t blame anyone who leaves. I mean, who doesn’t love a warm getaway? I just don’t want to miss all of Old Man Winter. For me, nothing fends off the cold quite like xc skiing. And there is always the warming thrill of coming upon a wild turkey, a deer, a bald eagle, or a fox.

The best part of all is that the trail, for us anyway, begins just outside our back door and a return home promises a warm fireplace and a cup of hot cocoa, nicely frothed thanks to the nifty milk frother I received as a gift. Or, if it’s early evening maybe a glass of mulled wine.

The Gladiators

When I was a kid in history class, or maybe it was social studies, I remember hearing my 5th grade teacher, Sr. Michaela, tell us about the gladiator fights in ancient Rome. She wove a story I could easily visualize. The games themselves would begin with much pageantry, the participants would be paraded around for all to see. Loud trumpets or horns would blow to signal the start of a battle. I could picture an amphitheater like the Roman Colosseum, where thousands of spectators would watch, noshing on food either brought from home or purchased from vendors, cheering as athletes were beaten, bloodied and broken, some eventually breathing their last. The crowds of spectators would shout “Have mercy!” or “Kill him!” depending on for whom they had decided to cheer. She told us that they lined the floor of the amphitheater with sand to sop up the blood that would spill.

I remember thinking to myself, I would never, no way, be so barbaric. Nor, for that matter, could anyone I knew partake in the watching of such brutality. What could those uncivilized people of that time period have been thinking? And to watch such callous, violent confrontations, all while eating?! Oh thank goodness that today we are sensible. We no longer lust for such brutal combat.

Athletes inspire admiration, as well they should. They are revered. They are commemorated. They are popular. They entertain us. Grown men proudly wear replica jerseys of their favorite player, to let everyone know for whom they are cheering, the person they adulate, the person they wish they could be, except maybe for a lack of natural talent, and a penchant these days for performance enhancing drugs; as if the jersey possessed a magical power.

Football is the American sport that probably best exemplifies toughness and manliness.

I come from a football-loving family. My grandfather loved the sport, my uncles love the sport, my husband loves the sport, my sons love the sport and now my grandson loves the sport. I learned to like it right along with them.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

“Will somebody please just hurt someone?!”

These are the words I often hear shouted out when we watch sporting events with my brother-in-law. Once, as I reached for a piece of pizza, I heard his familiar refrain and I remembered those thoughts I had as a 10 year old. And here was I, eating, as the crowd cheered and called for blood and broken bones. Well, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m just sayin’...

Now, as I prepare to make my boneless Buffalo chicken wings, guacamole and chips, hand-tossed pizza, brownie bites and a couple of alcohol pairings, all in honor of Superbowl Sunday, I ask myself “Is football brutal?” “Will I not be cheering as athletes are beaten, bloodied and broken? Is not the entire country and much of the world doing the same?

Will a player be hurt? Will somebody finally please my brother-in-law by actually hurting someone? Will a cherished career end in disappointment, permanent injury or humiliation? and all for the nation to cheer? Will players continue to battle, as did the gladiators of yore, despite aggravated injuries?

The Pro Bowl was last weekend, but no one actually watches it, because as someone told me recently it’s like watching a game of touch football. Apparently football without some physical brutality, while it may free you of guilt, is also not very fun to watch.

And yet despite these thoughts, I’ve made some weird compromise with myself, that will allow me to  watch this Sunday’s game. And cheer if my team does well. And secretly kind of be okay with an opposing player, especially if he is very talented and thus critical to the outcome of the game, being taken to the locker room, so long as the injury isn’t too bad or permanent. Why? Because I am a jive-face, hypocritical, mealy-mouthed, pretense of a human being. That's why.

Up North

Okay, short story time. Here's one based on a true event from early 1960. I was going to post it in two parts, but there isn't a good place to split it and it's pretty short anyway, probably about 1500 words or so.


UP NORTH

When my cousins from the country visit us in the city, I usually play with them, even though they’re mostly older than me. Jesse is the oldest and he’s my favorite. He’s sort of the boss of us kids, but not in a mean bossy way. Like, he’ll notice if someone’s getting picked on and he’ll make the teasing stop. Or, if we’re playing a game and someone cheats, Jesse will say, “Come on guys, let’s play fair.” And the funny thing is: everyone listens to him.

Last year when I saw Jesse, I noticed that he was different. I guess I’d say he’s sullen. I’m not exactly sure what it means but, it’s a word my mom uses, when I’m quiet like that.
“Why are you so sullen, Sophie?

“I’m just thinking,” I tell her. Usually I’m thinking about how much I miss my dad.

So this day, since Jesse still seemed "out-of-sorts," that’s another thing my Mom says about me when I am "sullen," I decided not to play with my visiting cousins. And that's why I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters, who were playing Tripoley for pennies, when I remembered that day last summer.

I like to listen to grownups talk. They use expressions. Expression, that’s what my mom called it when I asked her later about something I’d heard. You can tell when grownups are going to say something interesting because their voices get really quiet. Like the time I heard Mom say “Did you hear that Bitsy lost her baby? She and Jim are taking it pretty hard.” And I’m thinking, how the heck does a grownup lose a baby? I was thinking that I just bet Jim is really mad at Bitsy for losing their baby. Maybe someone will find the baby and bring the baby back to the parents. When I asked my mom about it she laughed said, “That’s just an expression. Bitsy didn’t really lose a baby. She had a miscarriage.” When I asked her what a miscarriage was, she said, “Never you mind.” It was a whole year before I figured out that miscarriage meant the baby had died before it was even born.

So, I was sitting as near to the grownups as I could without being “under foot,” another one of those grownup expressions, when I remembered that day Mom and I were up North visiting our relatives. Up North is what my mom calls the Indian reservation where she grew up.

That summer I had just finished 2nd grade at the Catholic school here in the city. I used to go to the public school, but one day three nuns came to our apartment. The nuns all wore the exact same clothing, floor-length black gowns with black shawls over black and white caps. Mom called each one Sister.  “Yes, Sister, we’ll see you at Mass on Sunday.” “Yes, thank you, Sister, that would be wonderful.” “Yes, please thank Father for me, Sister.” I tried but couldn’t hear all of what the nuns were saying because they spoke in those special adult whispers  “...the school has special funds set aside” “...don’t think of it as charity” “...will be a better environment for her.” The next year I went to the Catholic school.

That summer was 1959, and Mom and I were up North, and it was very hot. I heard the grownups say it was a “record breaker” and I kept picturing some one breaking a phonograph record. My cousins were all going to the river to cool off, but I didn’t want to go. First of all I didn’t know how to swim, plus I was afraid my cousins might roughhouse, and Jesse might not notice this time because he was starting to be pensive then. That’s another word Mom uses when she thinks I’m too quiet and worrying. So, that day I went with my mom to St. Peter’s for bingo instead.

At first I sat with her in the bingo hall, but I got bored. Mom called it restless. She took me outside to buy a bottle of pop from the machine, Cream Soda was my favorite. She said I would have to stay outside of the bingo hall until I finished drinking all of it. So, I sat on a bench by myself.

When I finished, I took the empty bottle back to the crate next to the machine. That’s when Fr. Tony walked by. He’s the only priest at St. Peter’s, which is the only church on the whole Indian reservation. We have four priests at our city church and a church in every single neighborhood. Fr. Tony was wearing a black cassock, which is kind of like the long gown the nuns wear. Jesse’d told me that they call it a cassock for priests and a habit for nuns. Fr. Tony wasn’t Indian. He had blue eyes and light hair.

Fr. Tony was walking fast and almost walked past when he saw me and stopped, really fast, like a car screeching to a halt. He smiled and said that I looked new. I knew that he meant that he’d never seen me before. I told him that my mom and I were visiting our relatives. 

He asked, “And what is your name?” and I told him.
“Sophie, how old are you?”
“I’m seven and a half.”
“Are you Catholic, Sophie?”
“Yes, Father, I go to Resurrection School in the city.”
“Have you made your First Communion?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do you know your catechism?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. That’s good. Come, let’s go for a walk in the church.”

He took my hand and led me into the church. We stopped to bless ourselves with holy water near the door of the church, then walked up the main aisle.

He asked me some easy catechism questions, like “Who is God?” and “What must we do to save our souls?” He smiled at the answers I’d memorized. When we reached the altar he said “Let’s go take a look at the tabernacle.” I had a strange feeling then, because only altar boys, like Jesse, and certainly never girls, are allowed in this area past the communion rail.  I thought maybe it’s different here on the reservation than in the city, so I followed him. He pointed to the shiny tabernacle and asked if I knew what was inside. I answered him and he smiled again. But, I didn’t like his smile anymore. It didn’t make me feel happy and proud like the smile from my teacher made me feel when I give her the correct answer at school.

He reached for my hand again, but I put my hands behind me. He placed his hand on my back and said “Let me show you the sacristy,” and gently pushed me in that direction. I knew I should obey Father Tony because he was a priest and priests have special powers, like forgiving our sins and stuff, so I went. Father Tony said the sacristy was the place where the priest and altar boys got ready for Mass. He showed me the closet where they keep the clothing they wear for Mass. I was nervous and I don’t know why but, I told him that my cousin, Jesse, was an altar boy. It just sort of came out of my mouth. He turned quickly to look at me. “Jesse? Jesse Wolf is your cousin?” “Yes, Father.” I wasn’t sure if it was his smile or his eyes that scared me, but I was sorry I had mentioned Jesse’s name.

He asked me if I knew the name of the clothing he was wearing and pointed to his cassock. I knew what the answer was, but I was tired of his questions. Maybe I needed a nap, I was so tired.

I thought for a minute and decided that if I didn’t actually say any words it wouldn’t be the same as telling a lie. So, instead of saying, “no, Father,” I just shook my head. “It’s called a cassock,” he said, as he unbuttoned it and took it off over his head. I felt tired and sick now, too, and I just wanted to get back to Mom.

Fr. Tony was now in the t-shirt and slacks that were under his cassock. He didn’t look like a priest anymore, just like a regular man. He reached out and touched my shirt. “That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing, Sophie. I like those stripes.” 

My heart was pounding. I told Father Tony that I was sick and that my mom must be looking for me and I just turned around and ran. I was worried that I’d just told a lie to a priest, which I was pretty sure was a mortal sin. You see, there are big sins and little sins and the big ones are called mortal.  I once looked “mortal” up in the dictionary at school and it means death.

I looked over my shoulder to see if he was following me, but he wasn’t. I ran all the way to the bingo hall and found Mom. She didn’t look like she’d been worried about me, but she did say that I didn’t look well. “Your face is white. It must be the heat. Let’s go splash some water on your face and get you back to Aunt Edie’s.”

I didn’t go with my mom to Mass the next day even though it was Sunday and it’s a mortal sin to miss Mass on Sunday. I told another lie, too. I told my mom I was sick, just so I wouldn’t have to go to Church with her. She said it was okay, because I probably had “heat sickness.”

We left for home the next day. I never had to see Fr. Tony again. I’d even made myself forget all about him. Until that day when my cousins were visiting and they were at the park, and I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, and I heard  their voices get real low, like whispers, and I listened so hard. “...Fr. Tony...” “...abusing children”  “...and Chevy’s little girl” “...Chevy stabbed him” “...such a shame” “Yes, Jesse, was one of them, too…”

Chew on This or A Taste for Poison

I’m winding down on my “taste buds” theme. I’m currently polishing up a short story, soon to be posted (in two parts.) It’s based on a true event I’d overheard as a kid. 

Meanwhile, back to the present, I’m a believer in the importance of a good breakfast to start your day. I can still remember Sr. Beata, my 7th grade teacher, telling us about the significance of “breaking the fast” with something more nourishing than a chocolate donut. I’ve always been a stickler for good nutrition and so, for the most part, I adhere to the most recent, ever-changing good health guidelines.

My problem is most mornings I have next to nothing in the way of an appetite. Even though I’ve loved vegetables since childhood, and I like fruit and oatmeal and stuff like that, all I really have a taste for in the morn is a cup of coffee and a piece or two of toast, preferably from my own homemade bread.

But, I force myself to gag down eat a “better” breakfast. As “chief cook and bottle-washer” it’s my duty to feed my husband, who actually will eat chocolate donuts if left to his own devices. So, I make a healthy breakfast for both of us. Most days he’ll have oatmeal (or whole grain cereal), fruit, toast, juice and some of my homemade yogurt. I, opt for a fruit smoothie made from a store bought green juice, fruit, greens, homemade yogurt and follow up with a couple of nuts. (ha, ha, no, I’m not referring to us, I mean like almonds, walnuts or brazil nuts.) On Sundays, we’ll have a more traditional American breakfast of eggs, pancakes, sausage or such.

Nine years ago I was at a party where the hostess served some kind of rum-laced mixed drink she blended in one of those “Magic Bullet” blenders. Immediately I wanted one (no not the drink, I wanted the blender) but, the $50 price tag didn’t seem justified. And trust me, I’m not exactly a bargain hunter. Borrowing an Abraham Lincoln trait of using a tale to emphasize my point, I once purchased city museum memberships, so I would have first crack at exhibit openings, kid classes, etc. When I told my husband, he shook his head and said, “Honey, only you could figure out a way to pay for something that was free.”

So, I found a Magic Bullet knock-off at Macy’s/Marshall Fields. (I don’t feel like doing the research to figure out which store was in business at the time.) My smoothie maker was called the “Rocket Blender” and with my coupon and M/MF’s “one-day shopping” discount offer, I bought it for a mere $15. As they say, “even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then.”

My sister, who was one of the many proud original “Magic Bullet” owners I knew at the time, snickered as she cautioned, “You get what you pay for.” But, I’m the only one of those Bullet owners I knew then, who has used, and continues to use, their blender on a nearly daily basis. My husband marvels at its durability, although he frightened me recently saying, “That motor has a strange sound. But, well, it works.”

My husband and I get a kick out of the Aldi aisle where they display the extra “junk” (my husband’s word, not mine) which they feature weekly, in addition to foodstuff. The “junk” ranges from bedding, to gardening supplies, to live trees, to small appliances, to 6000 kw generators to toys. You never know what you’ll find. If the “junk” doesn’t sell you’ll find it months later in the discount bin. It was here that he recently found a nifty, electric, variable-temperature fondue set for $10. Unlike me, my husband has a penchant for finding “deals.”

I now have my eye on Aldi’s “Magic Bullet” knock-off smoothie maker, which is going for $19.99. I’ll wait until it’s in the discount bin for $10 and I’ll have a backup for my nearly 10 year old, possibly ailing, Rocket Blender.

So, follows my recipe for a healthy Dr. Oz-type smoothie. *With a caution from me to never, ever, use raw mustard greens for the “greens” in the recipe. I tried them once only to quickly find my self alone and on the bathroom floor, unable to crawl to a telephone, writhing in pain that seared from my esophagus to my stomach. It was there on the floor that I scratched out what I thought might serve for my epitaph, lest I remain epitaphless, or worse yet, be subject to having someone else write one for me. ;-)

herein lies ranell

she tried her best to eat well

self-poisoned she fell

My Daily Smoothie

1/2 cup "Green Drink" (like "The Green Machine" by Naked)

1/2 cup plain unsweetened yogurt

1/2 cup fresh or frozen fruit (I like berries and bananas, but will use any leftover fruit)

1/2 cup cooked greens* (fresh or frozen spinach, kale, turnip greens)

1 or 2 ice cubes

Whirl ingredients in the blender for 30-45 seconds.