Mrs. Dominick

The man in front of me in the grocery check out line is irate. He has come in with an outdated coupon and the teenage cashier has rejected it.

"And you are who?!" he roars, so that my ears hurt. "Mrs. Dominick?!"

The young lady takes a breath and simultaneously flips the switch on her lane light that indicates a call for a supervisor.

***

Dominick's has roots in Chicago that go back to my childhood and beyond. Over the decades I've known many a highschooler who, if fortunate enough to be hired, took their first "real" job there, working after school and/or on weekends.

Chicago is a quirky city of rivalries and loyalties run deep. You learn early to declare a side... Cubs or White Sox, Catholic or Public schooling, Coke or Pepsi, Tribune or Sun Times, Democrat or Republican... Wait! There wasn't really a political choice as most Chicagoans back in the day were Democrats.  At least you said you were if you wanted to curry a favor, like let's say an extra garbage can, from your alderman. Anyway, I recall once playing cards in a local women's contract bridge group, a band of fairly intelligent women, and partaking in a serious discussion as to whether we were "Dominick's" or "The Jewel" shoppers, Jewel Food Stores being the only rival grocer at the time. 

Chicagoans don't like change. When Macy's bought out the city's beloved Marshall Field's there was an uproar that Macy's would not keep the name Marshall Field's on its stores. So after that debacle, when Safeway purchased the grocery chain, they knew better than to change the name of the stores. They remained "Dominick's, albeit now featuring "Safeway" products.

***

If I wake before my husband, I'll pick up my IPad and check the world news. I always begin with a glance at the Chicago Tribune. My two younger adult children still live in the city and I like to keep abreast of the city's goings on. I was surprised to see the announcement that Safeway was selling all 72 of it's Chicagoland Dominick's stores.

The article had comments such as: "market fragmentation," "competition from higher-end stores," "increased consumer use of 'big box' and bargain stores" My favorite comment was, "It is the fiduciary responsibility of our board of directors to evaluate any opportunities that may enhance shareholder value.”

I was a frequent Dominick's shopper when I lived in the city. Heck, I passed two stores on my 2.5 mile commute home from my office, so it was convenient, if nothing else. Over the years the stores had been refreshed, as they strove for an upscale modern look. And although the high school workers came and went, they had a core base of employees that remained over the years. I'd known some of the cashiers, butchers and service desk employees for 20 years or more.

Maybe Dominick’s wasn’t always the best bargain, but I knew the store like the back of my hand and I liked their community spirit. They employed a number of people who had a variety of special and different abilities, like Sam, who has cerebral palsy with obvious physical spasticity and speech function issues. And they didn't just employ them as grocery baggers, but as regular employees throughout the store. Sam was a cashier. I once, teasingly, asked Sam if he was old enough to scan my wine purchase. He laughed and told me he was 29. He then thanked me for the compliment and confided that he obtained his youthful-looking genes from his 80-year-old dad.

One day as I drove to Dominick’s, I spotted Sam ambling along, about a mile from work, a to-go soda in hand. I had shopped and was in the process of checking out when I noticed him idling at the front of the store, still sipping his drink. My cashier saw him, too and gestured frantically to Sam, as if to say "get moving." He saw her, nodded and held his soda up by way of response. I tell her that I like Sam. She sighs, “Sam’s the only employee I know who always arrives 1/2 hour early, only to clock in late.” We both smiled.

***

It took me a while but I found a grocery chain out here in the sticks, that I like a lot. It's a 33 minute country drive, roughly a gallon of gas. But oh, is it worth it.

Here's why I like Hy-Vee, in no particular order:

The liquor store is very large and includes lots of wine and local craft beer options and offers the usual 10% a purchase of 6 or more items.

The bakery section is expansive with a variety of fresh and artisan breads. In addition to the typical bakery fare of cakes, pies, coffeecakes, etc. they have fancy colorful cupcakes, mini-desserts and cute little shot glass desserts, perfect one-serving bites of deliciousness, all of which can be purchased in quantities of 1 - 100.

The large produce section contains all the fresh yield you’d expect, but peppered among are more unusual items, including offerings from numerous local farmers.

There is a separate portion of the store devoted to organics, health food and gluten-free, with its own organic dairy section. Everything in the "health market" can be purchased each Wednesday at a 10% discount.

They have the regular cheese selections of packaged sliced, grated and chunk cheese and as well as an upscale, fancy cheese section, featuring gorgeous wheels of cheese from around the globe as well as perfectly veined Maytag bleu cheese directly from nearby in Iowa.

There is an expansive prepared food section at Hy-Vee. In addition to the customary selections, there are extra options that give it a food court, if not quite a bistro feel. They've a Caribou Coffee mini-store, a fresh pizza section and an area devoted to Chinese cuisine which, some say, easily outdoes the area Chinese carryout eateries. Sushi and sandwiches are made to-order by hand. The soup/salad bar, is fresh and contains wide variety of options.

 The list goes on:

-Cents-off on gas purchased at Hy-Vee or local Casey Stores. 76 cents off per gallon of gas for us last visit!

-Free cookies from the bakery for kids ages ten and under

-Near the entrance expectant mom parking

-On-line grocery list print outs, listing aisle numbers, a map of the store, and any necessary corresponding coupons.

-And not that I've need of one, but they have a dietician on hand in each and every Hy-Vee store.

Like Dominick's, Hy-Vee has great community involvement. As we shopped recently, the entire Clinton, Iowa high school band came marching up and down every aisle of the store, performing in honor of their upcoming homecoming game. Happy, fresh-scrubbed, cornfed, heartland kids, with a healthy sprinkling of diversity. And they were quite good, I must say.

More importantly to me, like Dominick's, they also give high school kids that jump start in the job market, they have long-time employee retention, and they employ people of varying different and special physical abilities.

Hy-Vee is a "employee owned" store. I'm not a student of economics and don't know how this differs from "profit sharing" companies, but I do know that for the most part it produces happy, smiling, helpful employees, with whom I'm beginning to become acquainted. Soon one or two will become a favorite, just like Sam.

Oh, there it is again, that pang. Sam, oh Sam, what will become of you?

"Fiduciary interest" be damned.

"90 years ago, Sicilian immigrant Dominick DiMatteo opened a tiny grocery store on Chicago's West Side, ...he opened a second location with his 16-year-old son, Dominick DiMatteo Jr., and the grocery chain was born." 

So, apparently there actually was a "Mrs. Dominick."

of a lesser bowling god

I am not a natural athlete. The only team sports I ever participated in were the school required phys-ed sports. I well recall running up and down the basketball court, praying the ball wouldn't come my way. In softball, I was the girl who daydreamed out in right field. When the volleyball would come directly to me and I'd no choice but to hit it, my touch would cause the ball to rise up and strike me in the face.

I have an abundance of slow-twitch muscle, poor hand-eye coordination and I was born without the important "win at all costs" gene. Once the 2 sides figure this out, I’m usually the last one picked. To me, joy in physical activity has come in the form of yoga, and swimming or running long distances. As it turns out, I rather enjoy being by myself.

Married to a husband who enjoys all sports, I've been inspired to improve my athletic abilities. I've looked to books, magazines, dvds and online sites for tips on how to improve. After much perusal I’ve come to accept: Some of us were meant to be Mia Hamm and others, like me, are best relegated to cooking ham.

I was a "sub" last year on the local women's bowling league. Due to a last minute dropout this year I found myself a member of a team.

Each ball I throw is delivered with great expectation and fervent hope. However, as it rolls closer to the pins it becomes apparent that expectation and hope are trumped by accuracy and form. I'm pretty certain that the few pins that do occasionally succumb, do so out of pity.

***

I read this week with fascination of recent scientific research in neuroplasticity that tells us that the human brain is physically changed over time by physical activity and by our own learning processes. We actually mold our brains via our perceptions and reactions. Just like "we are what we eat," we are what we do. For instance, experts say that reading abundant amounts of good literary fiction helps to build and hone our emotional intelligence. There is additional evidence of benefits to our acuity and creativity due to time spent daydreaming. Heck, if that's the case I'm probably near genius. Anyway, over the last 60 years, apparently, I have reshaped my frontal lobe to the point that my abilities are pretty much limited to empathy, reading, cooking, gardening and playing with my grandchildren. One would think that this knowledge would be a relief to me, as it explains why I fail at sports such as  bowling and golf.

This weekend I also viewed, with interest, the Budweiser commercials that go something like this: "We'll never know if somehow, in someway, we can affect the outcome of a game… We all believe."

***
I worked for 20 years at a Catholic university where I met someone who would become a cherished friend and mentor. She was and remains a fiercely proud, Cuban-born, Roman Catholic. Each day she arrived an hour early, just so she could attend Mass at the chapel prior to work. She devotedly offered Catholic prayers, novenas, rosaries, and the lighting of votives to help friends in need. She swore it worked for her... and when her copious prayers didn't help she had another ace up her sleeve - Cuban Santeria. From her, I learned of syncretism, the combining of completely different, contradictory beliefs.

Once, within the confines of my office, I lost a critical document. I began frantically searching my desk, files, cabinets and the garbage can. From across the hall, she watched my fretful agitation, then said placidly, "We need a red string." "A red string?!" Ignoring my panic, she calmly walked to the supply room and returned with a length of red yarn. "Here! Tie this to your desk chair and tell that imp in a loud voice that you will not release him until he releases your paper." Out of sheer desperation, and hoping no other staff would happen by and witness me, I complied. Satisfied she returned to her office. I no sooner sat down at my desk, randomly picked up a stack of papers that I had thoroughly perused, over a dozen times in the past hours, when I found my lost document. It had been stuck to the bottom of the pile. Now, as if miraculously, it had released itself. I called out to my friend, "I found it!" She sprinted from her desk and said urgently, "Quick! Quick! Untie him! Untie him and thank him!"
As if I actually had some little imp tethered to my office chair. I removed the red yarn and mumbled my gratitude to the arm of my chair. Smiling smugly she made a motion of dusting off her hands and returned to her office.

***
One evening, our department was hosting a social for a very high ranking Catholic official. My job was to oversee the event. As the tall, dignified official and his entourage made their way around the room, greeting visitors, I noticed a large-boned woman with an unruly head of, not-recently-enough, dyed-red-hair that failed to hide two inches of gray roots. I recognized the frayed raincoat she wore, regardless of weather conditions. She was a neighborhood eccentric, who occasionally showed up on campus. She was eyeing the dignitary, looking for an opportunity to approach him. I made a move to intercept, but was too late. She'd latched onto the VIP's arm, looked up at him and said earnestly, while batting her eyelashes, "Doodle-ee-doo!"

With concern, the dignitary looked helplessly to his entourage. By then I'd reached the group, put my arm around the woman's shoulder and with promises of cookies directed her away. After filling a container with treats, I escorted her to campus security and they took her away. But not before, in the presence of my Cuban mentor, the crazy neighborhood, fiery-red-haired-raincoated kook pointed a crooked finger, from her gnarled hand in my direction and uttered a curse, calling for my demise.

With genuine horror my friend bade me, "Go immediately to the chapel and bless yourself with holy water and..." "Nonsense! I don't believe in curses." She took me by my lapels, looked me in the eye decrying, "Don't you see? It matters not if you believe! There are forces beyond us. Things we cannot explain. Not believing doesn't mean they're not there!" I shook my head, chuckled and returned to attending to the social.

Things were winding down and I took a breather, sitting down to check my cell phone for messages.

The cold water hit me directly in the face. In shock and gasping for breath, I looked up to see my Cuban mentor, breathless herself from a quick trip to and from the chapel's holy water font, holding a now-empty paper cup while uttering an anti-curse incantation.

***
I know now that I will improve my standing in the bowling league and not, mind you, because I go all by myself for extra practice every week, but because I cheer for everyone. I remain humble when I "accidentally" throw a strike or spare. And most important of all, I never, ever offer advice to another bowler, no matter how well meaning.

After watching me struggle recently, a teammate, who had bowled several frames exceedingly well, endeavored to offer me advice. "I know I shouldn't say anything, sweetheart, but you're kind of zig-zagging on your approach. Why don't you try starting more in the center." No response was able to form on my quivering lips. "Come on," she continued, "just give it a try. It can't hurt. I mean, you can't do any worse, right?" she chortled as she nudged me toward the lane.

My well-meaning teammate's next throw is a gutter ball. Next two frames she has bad splits and basically falls apart. I instantly begin to bowl much better. Oh, my dear Cuban shepherd, you have taught your protege well!

"It's only weird if it doesn't work." ~ Budweiser

Celebrities

When we lived in Chicago we were friends with a couple who both had held relatively prestigious positions. He, recently retired from a local U.S. government organization and she, still a high-ranking city union official. We'd socialize with them a couple of times a year. Just before we sold our city home and moved to the countryside, they invited us to their home for dinner. They'd a beautiful home in a nice suburb just barely outside of the city limits. Like us, they were now "empty nesters." We enjoyed cocktails as they showed us the latest improvements to their Architectural Digest-type home. We marveled at the fabulous, innovative updates, which included a completely renovated basement now featuring gorgeous eco-friendly faux-wood floors, a swanky bar area adjacent to a custom-built slate pool table, a hobby center for the stained glass she crafted in her spare time, and storage solutions that would put Martha Stewart to shame. Together we joked that their recently fledged children would surely complain that their parents had waited until they'd moved away to make these upgrades to the home.

Among the decor that caught my eye in the basement were the multiple, handsomely framed photos of the couple with local political, sport and business dignitaries. Photo after photo showed the two of them dressed to the nines, smiling while nestled shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of former Mayor Richard Daley, current Mayor Rahm Emmanuel, the state governor, local CEO's of major companies, professional Chicago athletes and if memory serves me, (my husband concurs) there was a photo of them with Oprah Winfrey.

***

Recently my husband and I attended the annual "homecoming" parade of a nearby small town, population 757. It's billed as "the largest parade in the county," and is a part of their annual hometown festival. We found the quarter mile parade route already lined with people and selected a viewing spot next to an "elephant ear" stand, run by the local Lions Club.

"Care for an elephant ear?" I turned to see a bespectacled, thickset man with a round face and a head of white hair. He looked kind, like if I did actually want an elephant ear, he would cook one for me with great care. "Do you live around here?" he asked. "Well sort of, we live over at Lake Carroll," I gestured with my hand in the general direction of our home. "Oh," he brightened, "We, too, have a place there." By now I had gotten a good enough look at him to know that I had seen his photograph just this morning on a missive we'd received in the mail. I also knew that his massive waterfront property was but a second home for him.

"Aren't you the president of our bank?" I asked. At the moment I could only remember his first name and it seemed brash to say, "Hey, aren't you Omar?"

"Yes," he said obviously pleased that I recognized him. He asked for my name and nodded immediately, "Yes, yes, I've seen your name when I've looked over our records" he made a slight sweeping motion with his hand as if he was reading a list.  As he spoke the words, I could somehow picture him sitting in his spacious office perusing a list of his customer base.

***

At a golf outing we win a gift certificate to a local eatery/bar, and decide to stop there for breakfast. Above the front door of the otherwise nondescript exterior hangs a large Budweiser sign. There is no other signage indicating the eatery name, their hours or the fact that they serve food. Uncertain if this is  the correct spot we enter.

The joint is dark and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright morning sun. I blink and see a bar along the left of the lengthy one-room pub. A group of men sit playing euchre at a common table in the middle. Beyond that is a large round table filled with a half dozen people at various stages of eating breakfast. To the right are some small square tables along the wall. We choose one of these near the back beside the round table.

"You can have our spot. We're leaving," offers someone from group at the round table, but we've already taken our seats. "Next time," says my husband grinning.

"Breakfast One - $4.25" or "Breakfast Two - $2.75" are the menu options. Breakfast One consists of coffee, two eggs cooked to order, toast, potatoes and "meat." "Meat?" Our server explains we have a choice of sausage or bacon. "Sometimes we have ham, but not today." Breakfast Two is coffee, eggs and toast.

To spend down our ten dollar gift certificate we each choose Breakfast One. We add a glass of juice, which I'm fairly certain is Tang, to bring the tally up another buck. With tax we'll still come in just under ten dollars and we can give our server a cash tip.

The gregarious people, at table next to ours, draw us into their conversation. A man sporting a blue chambray shirt and baseball cap saunters over from the bar and leans up against the pool table near us. "Hi, my name's Bob," he offers. A woman from the round table mentions in a stage whisper that Bob is the town's mayor.

As we finish our breakfast the mayor takes a seat at the adjacent round table and we turn our chairs to facilitate better conversation.

It is here that we learn first-hand of the town's current problems: 

a) the manhole on Summit and Lumar is loose

b) music performed at the recent "Appreciation Day" celebration contained vulgar language

c) repetitive problems with a rottweiler getting out of the yard and running loose 

***

I sit now sipping a cup of coffee and wonder how those handsomely framed photos of my husband and me with Omar  and Bob will look in our lower-level.

Wanted

For the past 30 years or so, almost every late August or early September a gray cloud begins to form over and envelop my head. Just like the dusty cloud of dirt that followed the Charlie Brown character, Pigpen, it follows me everywhere. Mine is a cloud of melancholy.  And like Pigpen or a person who wears too much perfume, I've become completely acclimated to it. It is an accepted part of my life. And, my friends, I am talking about a sorrow that is palpable enough to physically weigh me down. So, each year, about this time, I self-medicate by taking St. John's Wort, then I exercise to the point of exhaustion, and I throw myself into some furniture refinishing project or such, all in the hopes of staving off my depression. To date I've been lucky that it’s always just been a seasonal melancholy. Long before the snow falls I've regained my usual disposition. 

Over the years, I've done a self-analyzation and decided that it began as a young mother. Or maybe even before that. I never relished the return of the school calendar and its ability to prioritize my life. I've always adored the sweet freedom from any schedule that long summer days permitted. My happiest days back then were when I could take the kids to the beach for the day and forget about any clock or timepiece. 

But, when the leaves turned and the school bells rang, I would know just as sure as Bob Dylan that "a change is gonna come." Soon would arrive the long, cold Chicago winters and with it an endless search for matching hats, gloves and boots. My self-analysis also tells me it probably has something to do with the reminder that life itself is a set of seasons that passes all too quickly...

"Brace yourself," I said to me-self this year. "Ahoy! Batten down the hatches. There's a storm abrewin' and she promises to be a big 'un."

But, this year, the cloud, she did not come. A bottle of St. John's Wort stands at the ready, but yet unopened.

***

Somewhere out there is a story of a "wanted child." No, not wanted, as is a "most wanted" poster, but as a child who was wished for, as all three of my children were wished for...

This takes me back to this summer, as I watched the historic anticipated birth of the royal British Prince George. I remember that, as soon as it was reported that Kate had gone to the hospital in labor, the television cameras, journalists, tourists and "royal watchers" descended upon the area in frenzied excitement.  

My husband and I had some kind of chore or appointment that took us out of the house for a time that morning. I remember that I flipped the television on the moment we walked back into the house that day. I couldn't wait to share in the joy that the birth of this new baby would bring.

I also remember that it occurred to me that we all ought to be celebrating each and every baby's birth in a similar style. For each baby is born with potential for distinction, with a birthright of untold possibility.

This is what I posted eight years back, before I "forever quit" Facebook: 

Our cameras flashed in a paparazzi-like fury, as his eyes blinked helplessly. To us he was better than any superstar. He was our 1st grandchild...

For my husband and I, news of an anticipated grandchild is shear joy. So, this Fall season, no cloud will form o'er my head. In fact, my pendulum has kinda swung in the opposite direction, and so maybe, I think, I can take that St. John's Wort back for a refund. For this Autumn I am so, so happy.

A Battle in My Backyard

Some years ago, my husband and I were discussing the purchase of a couple of trees and some shrubbery with our local landscaper and his son. The four of us stood around a table that sits near a door featuring a large glass panel. As we chatted, something caught the corner of my eye. I turned to look...

Hmm, must be my imagination, I think. Then I see it again. At first I mistake it for a large moth or butterfly. Wait, it's a hummingbird!

***

As summer wanes, the hummies become especially active. They do these amazing theatrical aerial dives and loops that make me think of the Top Gun pilots in their fighter jets. I wince as I think of the g-forces they must experience as they swoop, somersault, arc, change direction at dizzying speeds and even stop mid-air.

Peaceful Husband and I sit quietly on the deck and watch the battle scene, as they zoom so close sometimes we can actually hear the whoosh of air. Suddenly one halts and hovers just inches above my Peaceful Husband's head. Spectacular!

At times I'm certain there will be a collision, but over time I witness no contact, not with each other, nor with the bees and wasps with whom they compete for nectar. They are superior athletes capable of unparalleled flight performance. And I sure hope those in charge of flight biomechanics over at Roswell Air Force are studying their flight capabilities.

Occasionally the hummies dart in for quick sips of sugar water from our feeder. I imagine that I hear them say "ollie, ollie oxen free free free," as they retreat to nearby trees to rest, recover and plan for their next assault. Or, "No fair! I called 'time out!' "

As they take off again, they emit battle cries that consists of shrill chirps. To me it actually sounds as if they're saying, "cheater-cheater-cheater."

Which in turn, reminds me of the other battlefield just beyond our deck. Did I tell you that we reside directly on a golf course? Here also, I hear "cheater! cheater!" only these refrains come from the mouths of humans especially when there is a golf tournament.

A couple of weeks back was our course's annual "Mr. and Mrs. Club Championship." Bragging rights for the following year are yours, to be had if you and your spouse take this honor. And as with many a contest, sometimes there is conflict.

Family experts say that money issues, inattention, and lack of sex are the cause for most couple's battles. I'm not sure just where golf would appear on such list, but I'm guessing, perhaps it'd be there somewhere.

"Hon, no, not that way. It breaks to the left."

"What?!" (she straightens)

"Turn your club face."

"Are you sure? I think it'll go right."

"For crissake, why can't you listen?" (says he, when she misses the putt)

They get into the golf cart, and as they drive off, I can't quite hear his comment, but I do hear her shrill, "Are you happy? Are you happy now? You've ruined my day!"

Where is the love, I think. What happened to "cuz I'd catch a grenade for ya, throw my hand on a blade for ya..."

Because of the warped way my mind works, or perhaps as a result of watching too many episodes of "City Confidential, I wonder if I'll one day hear someone say about them, "I can't believe they're divorcing." Or even, "It's a sleepy community. You'd never expect something like that to happen here..."

Just then a hummingbird buzzes me and brings me back to the moment. She flares her body out, to warn another male hummie off.

I wonder if this hummie couple will be splitting up soon. Will they stop on their migration to South America for a quickie divorce in Mexico? Will they quarrel about visitation rights for the fledglings? 

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times -- always with the same person.” ― Mignon McLaughlin

Work is a Reward

Labor Day, labor day, labor day... I promised myself that, with the fall season creeping up, I would once again begin, in earnest, to post something on my blog on a somewhat more regular basis than I have been doing this summer. What better day than Labor Day to dig in and get to work?

Labor Day is the United States’ annual tribute to celebrate the achievements of American workers. As a parent and grandparent I know well that these days it's a tough assignment to instill in children an appreciation of the value of physical work. Let’s face it, most children would rather do a fun thing, like play a digital game than take out the garbage or help clean the yard. But, I’m pretty sure that for the most part success in life is due to one’s willingness to work.

I’m not certain why, but when I sat down to think about Labor Day I thought of the famed poster of Rosie the Riveter, poised with her sleeves rolled up and flexing her bicep and the words “We Can Do It!” in a cartoon bubble above her head.

And Rosie in turn reminded me of someone I saw recently on television, her name is Lisa King. Ms. King is the mother of 10, yes, I said 10, count ‘em 10, children and I guess that in itself would be, as they say, “a labor of love.” Oh, and the youngest of her children, Ben, has down’s syndrome

Ms. King is a seemingly tireless, unflagging, indefatigable soul. There is an sweet effervescence about her. I get this sense that she will bubble over at any moment with a laugh or a joke and she does not disappoint me.

Due to a divorce from the children’s father, she’s a single mom now. Her children’s ages range from 29 years to 8 years, there are nine boys and one girl. She and her children grew up on a farm, so after the divorce the three oldest sons pooled their money to buy 150 acres of farmland, which they call, “Freedom Farms.”

The entire family is involved in the farm operations and the labor-intensive work that it entails. I don’t really know, but I’m guessing it might be difficult to support a family of 11+ on 150 acres alone, so they also run a bakery, cafe and storefront. They also sell their produce at local farmers markets.

The oldest son, Joe, with a college degree in engineering or something, is the official head of the business, but mom, Lisa, remains the head of the family and the children’s respect for their mother is evident.

Each family member contributes, and they all work hard, but Lisa’s efforts are particularly amazing to me. Her days begin at 4 a.m. with her baking of pies for the bakery. She can turn out 30 per hour, they say. She also harvests flowers they grow on their acreage and creates floral arrangements to be sold at the storefront. She also oversees and partakes in the preparation of the seasonal food produced for the cafe. All of her toil is done with humor and wit.

She has taught her children well. Their work ethic is inspirational, sort of an “all hands on deck,” “keep going until it’s done, and whatever you do, give it your best effort” - kind of endeavor.

Each family member is “in charge” of something. Each has a main job, and thus others working with them must follow that person’s dictum. But, whatever the task, everyone does everything. If it’s weed-pulling time, anyone not working on something else will pull weeds. If it’s produce-picking time, if it’s fence-mending time... The whole family working together, 7 days a week, and don't think they excuse Ben from his share of the labor, because they do not.

Now here’s the kicker: Lisa’s children are physically beautiful, like movie star perfect, physical specimens, each one cuter than the one before. She must be told this often, because she’s been quoted as saying, “I like to think that their beauty comes from within, too.” In fact, the reason the King family was “discovered” was because her four oldest sons posed for some farming magazine with their shirts off and as they say, “the rest is history.”

Now I’ve said this before and I’m saying it again:  I get that so called “reality tv” is as scripted and contrived, and thus as carefully edited as any sitcom or drama. I truly get that.

But, that being said, this is my type of reality television. It’s good, it’s wholesome and it renews my faith in my fellow humans, especially when nutty stuff is going on like the chemical warfare in Syria.

So, if you want to see a good show about a good looking, hard working family who don’t seem to mind laboring from sunrise to sunset, check out the King family on the GAC channel. I'm pretty sure you'll like the show. (By the way, GAC stands for Great American Country, which mostly features Country and Western music and stuff.)

Ms. King said that she once watched the show and it brought tears to her eyes. I hear you, sister, it brings tears to my eyes, too.

Lisa King - My Labor Day Hero

"Without labor, nothing prospers."  -  Sophocles 

Eating My Words

I pick up the little alarm clock at my bedside and squint at the face. 2:47 a.m.

Hmm, I guess I’ll take a peak outside before I wake my husband, who slumbers gently beside me. It’s the week of the Perseid meteor showers. We’ve both promised to wake each other, so that we can view the “shooting stars” together. As I stumble my way in the dark to the backdoor I think, “If it’s cloudy again, there’s really no point in waking...” I spot what looks like a person leaning against the kitchen counter and I freeze.

I think I see the figure’s head bob. “Yo, ‘s up?”

I recognize the female voice.

“Geez, you scared the freaking daylights outta me!!” She doesn’t respond. She just leans there immobile against the counter. I move closer. Her right hand covers her mouth. Her right elbow rests on her left arm which is snug against her torso. While I don’t excel at much, I am good at voice recognition. “Well, where have you been?” I ask her. Again, no response.

Closer still, I see that she’s biting a fingernail on her right hand. Not a good sign. And, she’s staring directly at me, in that way she has of peering into my psyche. Her head is slightly downcast, but her eyes remain focussed on me. It reminds me of a person peering over their reading glasses. Her brow is furrowed, and except for the corner of her mouth nibbling on the edge of her fingernail, she’s not moving. She finally takes her hand away from her mouth and scratches the top of her head.

It’s then I notice that my writing journal is wedged under her left armpit. She must notice my eye-shift, because she grabs the journal and tosses it down on the floor, right at my feet.

“You repulse me!” she spews.

“Yeah well, um, uh...”

She says not a word, so I continue my whiny stutter, “Well, see, um, we haven’t had any measurable rain since late June...”

“Are you kidding me!? Seriously, are you kidding me? Measurable rain! What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“Um, well, you know, summer is so fleeting and so when it’s not raining, I, uh, we like to, um, take advantage... uh, I mean, we don’t want to miss an opportunity... there’re a lot of things...”

“If you say golf, I swear, I’m going to smack you.”

“Well, yeah golf is among the many different activities...”

Her open palm stops just short of my cheek. “Stop!” she says. Then softer, “Please, just stop.”

We just stand there for a while, me looking down at my journal which lays on the floor near my feet.

She continues softly, “All I asked was that you write a few hundred words a day. Did I say those words must be of publishable quality? No, I did not. I merely asked for words, some words, any words. Did I say it had to be any particular subject? No, I did not. You like to cook. Write about food. Heck, just a note or thought jotted on a napkin would suffice, but you couldn’t even manage that.”

“I know, I know... “ I try a counter-offensive. I look her in the eye, “Back to my question, ‘Where have you been?’ “

We stay there momentarily, in our stand-off. Then she throws her head back and laughs, “You are a piece. You do know you’re not my only client, right? I took a break from you, a vacation, if you will, well-merited I might add.”

I have had a bunch of inspirations in my head since I saw her last, but honestly no time to pen those words. There are places to discover, there are experiences to experience, there are people to meet, there is life to live...

I swear she can read my mind, because she says, “So, why didn’t you write about those discoveries, those experiences, some descriptions of those people and all that life-living?”

And I’m at a loss, because I know she’s right. But at least, I’ve been praying for rain, and not just because the farmlands around us need it, but because a rainy day is the perfect excuse to sit back and write. But, we’ve had guests coming, and I joined that golf league, and that means I need to practice. And then there’s yoga, meditation, running/walking, gardening, cooking, cleaning, socializing...

“At least tell me you’ve read the books I recommended.”

“Well, I started Hulme’s The Bone People. And yeah, you’re right she’s got a great poetic freestyle, but all that physical violence was too much...”

“How about Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native?”

I shake my head, as I try to recall if she told me that one was to study imagery.

“Trollope’s Orley Farm?”

Another shake. Was that for character development? I’m not sure any more. 

“Gulliver’s Travels?”

Satire, I think. “No. No, but I did get the books. It’s just that...”

She sighs, so that I can see her chest heave. She smiles as she steps over my journal.

“Come on, you knucklehead. Let’s go watch the Perseids. Just the two of us. We don’t need to wake Ferdy,”

“You mean Freddy.”

“Yeah, whatever. Oh, and by the way, may I say that the leftover lobster risotto, was divine? I polished it off. Hope you don’t mind, but I was famished. And the sweet corn ice cream with the raspberry sauce? Simply inspired.”

We give ourselves a quick spritz of Dettol to keep the mosquitos at bay and go out on the deck. We lie back in the lounge chairs and watch and wait.

I wake up just before dawn. The sky over the horizon is lightening to a dusky dark steel color, just beyond the tall grass. My muse is gone, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’ll be back. If I can’t bait her with my writing talent, perhaps my cooking can lure her back.

I go back inside and crawl into bed.

Fred rolls over and sleepily murmurs, “Any meteors?”

“Not a one,” I lie. He smiles and immediately falls asleep.

As I begin to doze, I wonder if she’ll be back for Labor Day. Maybe, we can smoke a brisket, Kansas-style. As I recall, she loved that. And maybe some macarons? She goes nuts for those. But, I worry how she’s going to take the news that I signed up for the Fall bowling league.