Herban Sprawl

“It was such a pleasure to get the call to come down and do this. We never thought these two would get around to it!” The Rev. Dr. Timothy W. Ashton, 29 November 1986

Today is the day Big Kitty and I celebrate the twenty-second year of our marriage. He’s my first husband, I’m his first wife. We’re on our second Taurus, second truck and first house. Not a lot changes around here, which is rather comforting when you really think about it.

Some people might chafe under the sameness, but when you strip it all down to the “bare-ass facts,” as my dear old dad used to put it, I wouldn’t trade the old cat. He doesn’t come when called, he purrs at level 8 on a 10 level scale, he can scatter a crowd with his methane gifts, he swears like a proper tradesman and, with the exception of mushrooms, eats whatever I put in front of him. He’s off the charts for intelligence, dense as hell when it comes to subtleties, but as kind and fair as they come.

He can fix anything, when he gets around to it, and he understands the inconvenience of my arthritic knees. He’ll dance the night away and he’ll party till his pants fall off. A good sports weekend for him consists of wins for The University and the Cowboys, as well as losses for Tech and the Skins. He’s is supportive of my Cubs habit and cheers my guy in auto racing. He’s considerate of The Uncles and he’s very fond of da niece and da nephew. He even thinks my sib is a gas…

Life with Big Kitty isn’t full of surprises, but when they do happen, they are clever and interesting - just like him. Yep. Twenty-two and counting… But who lost the pool on ‘it wouldn’t last?’

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,”

This morning when I stepped out to nab the newspaper, the landscape was covered in a friendly little layer of frost. Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw that even the herb garden had been covered with magic sparkle. It called to mind that old poem by James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet that every child in Miss Scanlon’s fifth grade adored. She read us Lil Orphant Annie and every other Riley poem with great cheer and we hung on every word.

It also reminded me of the John T. McCutcheon illustrated piece that used to run in the Chicago Tribune (until they decided it might offend Native Americans), Injun Summer. They used to print it on the Sunday immediately preceding Halloween, and it never failed to make the autumn bulletin boards of the teachers at Northwest Elementary.

There are wonderful children’s books and every year more of them are published to spark the love of reading, but as we move so far away from the twentieth century, fewer and fewer of them will ever read Penrod or the book that started it all for Beverly Cleary, Henry Huggins. Even today, I cannot think of dog repellant without its “true” name: Doggy-Be-Gone. I used to wish we had an old stable behind out house like Penrod did. Somehow it seems crass to think that the character children of the twenty-first century will have fond memories of will be Captain Underpants. Eek!

The turkey breast is all scrubbed up and seasoned with poultry seasoning from the Shakers in upstate New York. I invented my own dressing this year, and it’s in my prize au gratin from Williams-Sonoma. In another fifteen minutes or so, the bird goes into the oven and I am looking forward to the scents of Thanksgiving. I made the pie last night, and the cranberry relish has been mascerating in the ‘Grand Manure” for a few days now. All that remains is to set the table.

A few days ago I was obsessing about that, but yesterday, when I braved the aisles of The Fresh Market (the checkers jokingly called it Bloody Wednesday), I found some tiny roses - the kind my mom used to like to buy from the street vendors in Chicago- and that kind of settled it. Mom flowers, Mom’s Spode. besides, I won the gravy boat in the “Divide the Set Lottery,” so I think the die was cast without any input from me.

Today is our day to count blessings - good health, good company ’round your table, and here’s to even better days to come.

This morning I was rousted out by a tribe of starving felines. Usually they are quiet in their attempts to shove me out of bed, but not today. I acquiesced because I needed to be up and at ‘em anyway, but it was funny. Sitting in that period of morning grey - the time before the world gets its coloring - I clutched my tiny mug of espresso and began to think ahead to the holidays.

It’s all about the lights…. I was thinking about how replacement windows make it difficult to put lights in the windows, how I’ve almost been tempted to hang a fake wreath with lights (no, not yet), and how Clarice kept sending me out to Target for more lights that year.

Then my thoughts turned to the menorah. How many gentiles find meaning in putting a menorah in the window and go to the trouble of learning the blessings in Hebrew? While Hanukkah is not the most sacred of Jewish holidays, it is one that all of us can relate to. It’s the story of a moral victory gained by faith and perseverance. It’s like white America getting over itself and joining with our non-white brethren to elect Barack Obama because we wanted a president we could respect and believe in.

That greyness is particularly productive for me as a writer. It is also the time of day when it is genuinely quiet. My thoughts drifted to this year’s Thanksgiving dinner. When I count my blessings, I generally start as I set the table because it is there that I feel my mother’s spirit most intently. She was not a great cook, and there were always fights about the damn turkey. (Years later my sister discovered that my dad didn’t really like turkey!) But the table was set with pride because her tabletop finery was the emblem of the success they had achieved.

If my mother could see my china closet, she’d probably faint dead away, but when she recovered, there are things in there that would delight her. They are the mark of her influence on my taste. The tacky and neo-bordello stuff would cause her to roll her eyes, but she had a sense of humor and would see where I was going with those toys.

Mothers are a funny thing. They can make you or break you. They can cause their sons to withdraw into their own world of books and their own heads, locking emotions up with the care we lavish on hiding the silver. They can be the grammarians who edit our lives. They can wreak guilt havoc on their children’s souls, some of it necessary, most of it not. Some of them continue to try to control their children’s lives with disastrous results, and then wonder why their children keep them at arm’s length. Others become the champions of their children’s causes, offering emotional support and positive reinforcement. Some even have the ability to control their children’s lives from the grave!

Setting the table with some of my mother’s treasures is fun. After all these years, I really do only remember the best of my mother. Those mother-daughter squabbles were only her last ditch effort to make sure I would be okay after she left this earth. Sure we butted heads, but she left me with some important wisdom, too. “Forgive and forget.” “Rise above it.” “A well-placed comma is worth its weight in gold.” “Watch your tenses.” “Keep your pants zippered.” “Buy it, it’s 75% off!” “Always wear good shoes.” “What does Amy Vanderbilt say about that?”

I’ll count blessings on Thursday, and among them will be having been aimed in the right direction and allowed to get there. Soon afterward, it will be time to put the lights in the windows and recite the blessings in Hebrew. From the grey of early morning when the thought processes are clear and unclouded by the prejudices of daily stress, we’ll shift to the twinkle of merry lights that keep us going in the dark of night. With any luck, those lights will help more than one soul lift the mantle of loneliness and despair, and that, indeed, would be a blessing.

We’re getting a cold front here in The Star City of the South. Today the wind was blowing something fierce, and Allyson, Shannon and I watched snow flurries swirling outside the window. I call this hot chocolate weather!

Couldn’t decide what to make for supper tonight. Last night we had chili and given the amount of beef in that, I was interested in a meatless dinner. The cold weather made me think of Anna’s chick pea soup. Right now, the kitchen is fragrant with garlic and rosemary while it simmers. Ahhhhh…..

Mince three or more large cloves of garlic. If you’d like to add a small onion, that’s also nice. Chop it finely. Strip the leaves from two 4 - 5 inch sprigs of rosemary and mince those. Drain and rinse 3 cans of chick peas, and have a 32 ounce carton of low salt chicken stock at hand, as well as a 15 ounce can of chopped maters. In a heavy dutch oven, saute the garlic (onions) and rosemary until translucent. Dump in the chick peas, stock and maters. Stir it all up. Bring it to a boil, almost, then turn down the heat to a nice simmer. Cover the pot and come back every so often to give it a stir and make sure the stock is still at a healthy level. (If it cooks down too much, add a little more stock, or some water.) After an hour or so, outboard hand-held boat motor in hand, whiz the soup to make it creamy. Give it a taste and add salt and pepper to your liking.

Anna says that in Rome they like to add tiny pasta to this soup, so if you have some digitini or orzo or some such, you could cook about half a cup or so and add it to the soup.

And that’s it. Buon appetito!

Last year I had to bid farewell to my twenty year old gas stove. It had been a good one, but it just plain petered out. I turned to the usual sources for consumer information, studied the models available and ultimately decided to buy a stove from a local independent appliance dealer because they have a great service department and buying local is always a good idea.

The oven was never on the money, and after fighting with it for way longer than I should have, I called and asked for help. It turns out the fact that the clock would mysteriously change time was an indicator that something was wrong. I adore my Maytag guy, Rah. I adore his father-in-law, who gave my old washer last rites, just as much! But I have to tell you, I’ve been seeing too much of Rah and people are going to start talking!

We’re on the fourth clock/thermostat assembly. I baked perfect pumpkin pecan tea bread at 330 degrees on the read-out and 348 degrees on the oven thermometers I have inside the oven. The recipe said to bake them at 350. Twenty degrees difference in baking is dicey business. Twenty degrees difference in making a roast means it might be done too quickly. No matter which way you slice it, something ain’t right.

The store has earned my undying gratitude for their kindness and willingness to get it right, but I think it is now Maytag’s problem. I gave it the old consumer-is-disatisfied try, but they blew me off. The store didn’t much like hearing that news, so they are going to move into a different gear. This has now become a mystery to be solved and all of us wonder why four different clock assemblies have changed times or the oven has been off by anywhere from 15 to 20 degrees.

Meanwhile, we have some time until I roast a little turkey, so we’ll just sit back with a cup of tea and see what happens.

This morning we in the Star City awakened to find that Mother Nature had sprinkled powdered sugar all over the place. It sure was a pretty sight at 6:30! It served as a reminder that we are in that season of late autumn when it is darker earlier. When Barney sits at the window and looks out, the greyness of the landscape blends with his tabby colors.

The dismal state of the economy has people trying very hard to get into a holiday spirit - it’s going to be tough this year, especially since the power company is getting a rate increase, and natural gas has gone up again. The heating oil companies made sure to fill a lot of tanks with the higher-priced inventory, which was sticker shock for those on automatic filling plans! They weren’t going to miss a chance to make a buck.

Yet, I still notice that people are feeling hopeful that Prezelect can spark a turn-around. Many of us have placed our trust in his ability to collect reliable information and make sound decisions on our behalf. Something tells me that when we gather around our Thanksgiving tables, there will be plenty of prayers uttered for his safety and our collective future!

Meanwhile, for a few hours, my garden is covered and my weeds aren’t thumbing their noses at me. Mother Nature, thanks for that. I was really tired of their taunting.

It’s getting to be that time of year when my thoughts run to the excitement of the holidays. I used to dread them, but with age came the idea of making peace with them. The other thing that happened was the addition of Clarice to the decorating escapades. Clarice became the light-meister, freeing the reluctant Big Kitty – the consummate commercial electrician – from a task that was on his Despised Male Spouse Jobs List.

The year of the flamingo tree is one that went on the books. I got a short white, prelit tree at Wally, and it became the tree for all the flamingo Christmas ornaments. Last year’s improvements included a topper created from a pair of pink pens that were topped with feathered friends, and a lot of pink boa for the garland. It was glorious, to say the least, and caused everyone from the House Goddess (Girl, you got enough mingos?) to the Reno Guys (Stella, this is fab!) to chortle with delight.

Then I got a great idea for the flamingo room (aka the guest bathroom) – I put up a swag on which I hung pink bathroom items. It was cute, but it needed work. I have plans…

And that’s how it happens around here. A tweak here, a tweak there…

The one thing that has both Big Kitty and me in a quizzical state of mind has to do with a valued family member. He did something that required some discussion with us beforehand, and when we found out, we were mystified as to why he felt it necessary to hide it from us. We talked it over and decided to ask what gave. He was evasive. I’m not sure how other people view evasive answers, but I see them as partial truths. Mostly, in my experience, people are evasive if they have something to hide or if they just aren’t sure how to answer the question. And the latter is generally the case when they anticipate a response that might be painful for them.

We’re pretty reasonable. We just want to know why it had to be a secret from us. And we do want to talk about it until everything is clear. We don’t happen to like it when there are misunderstandings because people won’t communicate. Shutting one’s self away without even responding to a request for talking it out is a sign that there is something terribly amiss in that person’s mind. Nobody wants those kinds of feelings to exist because they tend to fester and explode, causing even more pain. Who needs that?

So we’re wondering if the holiday will seem empty because this person chooses to stay away, rather than clear the air. It won’t be nearly as much fun to come up with decorating surprises without the hilarity provided by all of one’s near and dears. And when we gather around the table, it’ll feel funny without that single individual who always adds so much to everything we do together.

Yesterday morning we awakened to frost on the windshields and grass. It was nippy when I stepped out for the paper. Today, however, the Star City has been given the gift of rain. We could have used it earlier in the year, but we still needed it. It’s just inconvenient to have the streets and sidewalks slick with wet leaves.

At the same time, I have been whittling down my stash of the last tomatoes that I coerced BGF into planting. I came home with greenies, neglected to make fried green tomatoes, and had a wonderfully red batch of small, firm maters. I have already made okra and maters for the last time this season. Ahhhh, yum. But for this evening, it’s one last fresh one for the salad, and just for old time’s sake, I popped in little balls of fresh mozzarella.

All summer we gorged on salad Caprese - slices of fresh tomatoes, covered with slabs of fresh mozzarella, liberally covered with chopped Genovese basil, drizzled with some nice olive oil and seasoned with a little salt and pepper. I gave BGF some basil plants, but I don’t think he got around to getting fresh mozz, so he wasn’t motivated to keep those going. He did a stellar job with the tomatoes, though - I am really going to miss them.

When I was a youngster, we’d get a call from Grandma Kate. “I got hungry for ______ (fill in the blank with an Italian specialty). Come pick me.” We’d pile in the car and return with Grandma and a vat of whatever she’d had an urge to eat - gnocchi, stuffed artichokes, cabbage rolls - you name it. What was not a special thing were ravioli, although she was the undisputed Queen of Ravioli in our hometown.

Actually, what she made were tortellini, as my sister and I discovered when we found them in cookbooks. Little bellybutton shaped morsels of heaven, they were. Grandma churned those out as a little cottage industry, so we had a fairly regular supply. But warm weather meant dandelion salad and later, tomatoes.

It’s hard to say goodbye to them, but it’s also important to acknowledge that some foods are better in season where we live, rather than trucked in from a gazillion miles away. Tomatoes fall in that category. So, until next summer, farewell, red orbs of  culinary joy. Farewell, fat leaves of basil. Arriverderci!

Yesterday I had Stephanie and Shannon here teaching me the finer points of life on Facebook. I learned all about the little Flairs and garden patches and all that sort of thing. This is why I love having young people around. They keep on me and drag me kicking and screaming into technology and other assorted discomforts.

Stephanie was here, tutoring me when Shannon arrived, and she announced she had me on a 504 plan. Later, I had the pleasure of teaching Shannon about the infamous 504 plan itself, and she was pretty amazed at what it could do for children. More on that later…

I am now sporting some really cool stuff on my profile page. I have flairs that are near and dear to me, such as, sighhhhhhhhhh, da Cubs, my alma mater, Frank Lloyd Wright and even a cat wandering through a catnip patch. My garden of little plants is growing and I’ve been sending out a bunch, although the people I’ve sent them to probably don’t know how to retrieve them because they’re in the same boat as I was before my individualized 504 session!

Number One Niece says Facebook is a huge time waster, and she is absolutely correct. I really should be doing other things. Maybe I need a 504 plan to help me get my awfiss back under control.

For those who aren’t sure what I’m talking about, a 504 is a required educational plan for children who are not achieving as well as they should, and who have a diagnosis of something like ADD or ADHD, among other things, that impair their ability to achieve their potential in school. When I say required, I am not kidding. In these days of high-stakes testing, teachers are under the gun to document everything there is to document about the kids who aren’t making the grades.

Shannon had the idea it was for someone of low IQ, but the fact is, a 504 is essential for dealing with kids who can’t keep it together, and if they have one, the teacher then has the flexibility of building in accommodations that will put the child on the right track. In the division where I taught, it was required for any child whose grades weren’t up to snuff, or who had a medical diagnosis that had the potential to cause academic issues.

Take, for example, a child with a severe case of asthma. We’re looking at an affable kid who misses a lot of school because of a medical condition. We’re also looking at a family who doesn’t manage the disease for the child. A 504 plan can be written to allow flexibility on attendance, but it can also build in accountability for parents. We did that for a little boy. What happened was that his mama didn’t want to have to jump through the hoops of coming by school every single time she kept him home, so she got on the stick in terms of making sure the house was as free of the triggers as possible, and she also didn’t keep him home everytime he pulled a little manipulative game about his health. We had our own set of things we had to do to make sure the things that could set off an asthma attack were under control, and the upshot was that when he didn’t miss so much school, he started to like it better and began to do really well. I saw him wandering around the campus of the community college the other day when I had to go re-enroll for classes!

The thing is, it’s legally required for kids with the diagnosis of things like ADD and ADHD, but parents don’t necessarily know about it. It’s not out there like special education services. They don’t know there are entire classes devoted to teaching kids with those problems and that not all teachers take advantage of the research that is out there. At one of my elementary schools, we had 504s all over the place, and the kids were very closely monitored. The accountability factor is huge, but it’s worth it when a smart kid who can’t stay in his seat is able to have the accommodations that will enable him (or her) to excel.

In any case, my 504 plan worked yesterday and I am feeling a little more like a spry young thing with my cool cause listed and my flairs and my garden escapades. I can now poke people and play with the best of them. I wonder if I can be released from the plan yet, or whether my teachers are going to insist on monitoring my progress for a while longer.

T.G.I.F. Big Kitty and I did a little fridge clearing for dinner tonight. We repaired to the sofa to catch up on a few of our Tivo’d programs, like Bones, which had been knocked off the air in favor of the last debate and then the World Series. Suddenly it occurred to us that our evenings hadn’t been punctuated by calls from Rudy Giuliani and other interlopers with their urgent voices spreading their fearmongering campaign messages.

The t.v. wasn’t rife with campaign commercials, either. Ahhh, dolce far niente….

The House Goddess came in grinning hugely today. She was astonished to learn that each phone call she received, urging her to vote had been carefully orchestrated through a sophisticated targeting campaign program, and that she received a door hanger because she was on that same list for getting out the vote. Luckily, she had proudly complied and today we celebrated the new era. After that we trashed Sarah Palin and were catty about Michelle O’s red and black frock. (Neither of us thought it did a thing for her.)

And now we can relax in our homes without hellish messages from the GOP and get back to those great commercials for erectile dysfunction.