?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Things I Learned Late in Life

Posted on April 13, 2016

Maybe I’ve written some of this before; and, if I have, then forgive me for repeating myself.

I always liked kitchen cupboards that didn’t have handles.  Handles seemed peripheral and expensive for something one could do by cupping one’s hand under the cupboard door itself. Turns out handles minimize fingerprints, scratches, and other types of dirt. I learned this by asking a friend how she kept her cupboard doors neat.  She said, without hesitation, “Do you have handles?” A lightbulb moment followed.

Self-service car washes, even those that use cloth strips instead of brushes, scratch your car’s finish. The last time I had my car detailed, the owner of the company showed me how the more “modern” strips are still abrasive; and she told me where to go to get my car washed and keep the finish at the same time. I’ve had at least half a dozen cars before I learned this tip.

Fried chicken. I love fried chicken, and there is no restaurant close by that serves it unless you dine at KFC.  I’m not opposed to KFC, but it isn’t a dinner experience with your best man; it’s lunch. So I found a recipe on the Internet and learned the “trick.” Once you’ve breaded the chicken in whatever breading you choose – flour, bread crumbs, panko, etc. – let the pieces rest until the coating has turned to a paste.  Then fry.

These are not world changing tips by any means; still I’m glad to have learned them in my lifetime.

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The Coffee Syndrome

Posted on April 10, 2016

Yesterday I made my semi-annual pilgrimage to Talbots® for wardrobe updates. I’ve shopped at other stores over the years, but Talbots’® sizes fit me best. That is, if I can figure them out . . .

Time was when a size 8 was a size 8, and that was that. It was the same time when there was only regular and decaf coffee, and you added your own cream or sugar. There was only one color of sugar back then too.

But Starbuck’s® began this effort to make everyone an individual – or maybe it was Burger King® who wanted to do it “your” way – and the entire thing has gotten out of hand. I call it the coffee syndrome.

As it relates to Talbots®, it goes like this: Previously, the standard “departments” of petites, misses, and woman plus had the standard sizes– 8, 10, 12, etc. (Talbots doesn’t have a junior department, so we can forget about sizes 7, 9, and 11, etc.) And even thought a size 8 at Target or Macy’s isn’t necessarily the same as a size 8 at Talbots, I knew what to expect.

Maybe it has to do with female vanity, but a while back I noticed that the sizes began to have sub-categories: slim, curvy, ankle, crop.  They also began to have odd names like Signature and Heritage. It took a while, but I finally found a size and style that fit me.

But yesterday I had to start from scratch again.  The sizes were still there, but the various styles had become more complicated.  Talbots now has the Chatham Ankle, the Daily Ankle, the Hampshire Ankle, the Perfect Crop, the Perfect Skimmer, the Newport Pant, and the Weekend Chino. I really was only interested in what fit, not its name; and I shall be eternally grateful to the three clerks who knew the store’s merchandise and could interpret my simple requests.

When I got home I looked all these styles up on the store’s website. And it made me even more positive that the coffee syndrome had come to the clothing industry. After all, I learned I’d ordered a perfect crop with a front zipper, size 8, with front slash and back welt pockets with slim legs that will make me look taller.

That’s as confusing as my Starbuck’s order of a tall, decaf, nonfat, extra hot latte with additional foam.

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TV Options

Posted on April 5, 2016

Tonight begins the three-night farewell to “American Idol,” the program that launched Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood to superstardom and another dozen winners to modest fame. The fifteenth and final Idol will be crowned Thursday, but not before we are treated (or subjected, depending on your viewpoint) to a retrospective of the program’s history, its impact, its judges, and coaches.

Tonight is also the Wisconsin primary which portrays a different type of “Idol” (and I use the word loosely) on the American scene. The candidates can safely be said to be idols to their staunch fan base, while appearing somewhat less attractive to others.

Both programs have had advance promotion, and I’m in a quandary which one to watch as I do some overdue filing. Yeah, tedium on all fronts is the order of the evening.

I used to be an avid “American Idol” watcher through the years, but recently I found the show somewhat repetitive and boring. I’m not sure when I noticed this, but the season that featured Nicki Minaj and Mariah Carey didn’t help. All they did was whine.

I’m becoming disenchanted with the primary season too. With fifty states doing their voting thing over several months, I feel as if I’ve had enough already. And there’s almost half the states to go. I understand the current system is a response to the old “back room decisions” at conventions of years ago. But perhaps we’ve swung the pendulum too far.

As for filing, I haven’t done it in almost a year. When I searched information for my accountant I knew exactly where to go for receipts; they were stacked in a pile in the closet. But the accountant is through with them, and I’m sure I can get a lot of filing done while switching back and forth between two weary shows on TV.

The real program I want is the Chicago Cubs game, but it’s from the West Coast tonight and doesn’t even start until long past my bedtime. Some people think baseball is akin to watching paint dry, but I submit it beats “American Idol” and all primaries hands down.

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Moonlight Sonata

Posted on April 4, 2016

It’s one of Beethoven’s signature compositions, that piano piece with umpteen octave fingerings in the left hand and complicated sharps, flats, and surprises in the right. It’s also a piece that every serious intermediate student of piano attempts.

I’ve attempted it twice in my many years of lessons, hoping to play it better the second time because I’ve become a better pianist in the interim. A month or two ago, I decided to resurrect “Moonlight Sonata” once again. My hands are becoming stiff as I age, and I wanted to engage Ludwig’s sonata for what I believed could be the final time. My piano teacher had no objection.

I set about finding the music and reviewing it. Started on the first of four pages and felt as if I was moving along. My sight reading was better; my understanding of the fingering was too. But on Page 2 something happened.  I think it had to do with moving some notes from the left hand to the right to accommodate my smaller hands.  Or maybe it was simply an old-fashioned epiphany.

Either way, I found myself not looking forward to working on the piece. I started to avoid it.  Then I realized I never really liked “Moonlight Sonata” as a musical composition; what I found attractive was its difficulty in fingering and the challenge of that.

So I went to my lesson and said, “You’re not going to believe this.”  I had the feeling my teacher expected me to have had some sort of revelatory moment with Beethoven, one that would make the composition even more endearing, and that she definitely would believe it.

“I’ve never really liked ‘Moonlight Sonata,’” I said. “I find the music rather dull.”

My teacher was incredulous. “Then why have you spent so much time learning it, not once but twice?” I explained about the challenge of playing it. She was still incredulous, but in that moment Ludwig and I divorced. I knew I’d never play his “Moonlight Sonata” again.

However, I’m happy to say my music teacher and I are still together.

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Forever Books

Posted on April 3, 2016

My local independent bookstore, Forever Books, turned seventeen this past week. While seventeen isn’t a milestone most people think about, in the indie bookstore community it’s a lifetime. I think Amazon has had a lot to do with this.

Robin Allen, owner of Forever Books, once told me that some people visit her store, study her books, photograph them on their cellphones, and then check to see if Amazon sells them more cheaply.

These may be book lovers, but they are not concerned about the welfare of independent bookstores. Which is all the more reason to acknowledge Forever Books.

If you visit the store’s website, www.foreverbooks.net, you’ll find ten reasons for shopping there. Robin had me at the first one: “You kept dollars in our economy. For every $100 you spend at one of our local businesses, $68 will stay in the community. What happens when you spend that same $100 at a national chain? Only $43 stays in the community.” But it isn’t just about money.

Robin, Diana, Stephen, and Sherry are all knowledgeable about literature and can help you find your next read, your next favorite author, or your next gift. When Forever Books doesn’t have what you want, if you order it by 11 AM one day, it will be in the store the following afternoon (Weekends excluded).

Earl and I showed up in St. Joseph a year after the little store on State Street opened, and we’ve patronized it ever since. (With the exception of Kindle offerings, I don’t purchase anything from Amazon, and I recently found a way around that too.) I hope Forever Books is around another seventeen years.

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Weekend Casualties

Posted on March 29, 2016

Easter weekend was wonderful, but it wasn’t without its moments. Moments of angst. That’s the way life is. For the record, here are some things that could have derailed our enjoyment, if we’d let them.

First, we broke a little Belleek pitcher used for cream.  It was an heirloom from my Mother’s home, and it had lived with me twenty years.  Who knows how long it had lived with my Mother, but it’s safe to say the word ‘heirloom’ applies.

It was resting from its duties on the counter when I inadvertently knocked into it.  Smithereens were the result. We spent a moment in remembrance; and, if Earl had his way, it would have been an entire mourning service. But I’m of the opinion that you need to use things; otherwise there are no memories to outlast them.

Moving on, my less heirloom-y and more contemporary meat thermometer died at a most inopportune moment.  That would be the one where I needed to test the entre. So I did it with a knife and fork, cutting into the turkey to see if it was no longer pink.  That’s how we did it years ago.

And, finally, my resolution to eat carefully and healthily came crashing down even before the Easter dinner started. This is because we began eating in earnest when Chris arrived for the weekend two days earlier.

Still, I wouldn’t change a thing. The Belleek can probably be replaced, as can the meat thermometer. And the scale, which didn’t break, reminded me that I need to return to healthy eating if I want to return to my former weight. It’s all good.

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Easter

Posted on March 27, 2016

Today is Easter, the most significant event for Christians in their entire liturgy; because it is the basis on which their religion is built. No Resurrection, no true religion. This was the minister’s over-riding message at the church Earl attends regularly and I attend sporadically. Easter is one of those sporadic days.

In addition, Chris, who is like a son to me, is visiting for the weekend. He arrived two days ago and we have been going non-stop ever since: eating at various local restaurants, working on marketing projects, preparing Thanksgiving dinner for Easter. Yes, you read that right.

Chris and other family members were planning to come last Thanksgiving for the weekend.  But various commitments and casualties intervened, and Earl and I ended up celebrating by ourselves. So when Chris said he was coming this weekend, I decided to recreate the traditional turkey dinner instead of the traditional ham dinner for Easter.

Here’s what I’ve learned:  Ham is easier. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we were together and had a wonderful time. Easter, Thanksgiving: what’s wrong with giving thanks for the Resurrection?

More stuffing anyone?

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Libby

Posted on March 22, 2016

I got the call last night; Libby had died. She was in her mid-nineties, and I hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years, so our relationship was mostly birthday cards and flowers at Christmas. Still I appreciated the call.

I hung up the phone and paused, recalling what Libby meant to me as I sat in the dark. I always knew this moment would come, but I didn’t know how I would react.  After all, Libby was the yin to my own mother’s yang. When the latter and I locked horns, it was Libby who helped unlock them. When my own Mother, whose job required that she travel, left town it was Libby with whom I stayed. With whom I poured out my heart about a teenage boyfriend or a geometry exam.

St. Louis, Missouri.  Little Rock, Arkansas. Chicago, Illinois. These places were home to Mother and me. And always, Libby was there. Sometimes we lived down the street; other times, we just made a point to get together.

Our last bonding occurred twenty years ago as my Mother lay dying in Conway, Arkansas.  Libby, my Aunt Alice, and I took turns being with her during those final months. But it was on Libby’s watch that the inevitable happened. She called me in the middle of an April night to say my Mother had passed away. You have no idea how grateful I have always been for her being there.

And here I am, twenty years later, mourning Libby quite possibly more than I mourned my Mother. And smiling that just as she called me, her niece did the same.

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Winner Take All

Posted on March 21, 2016

There is a great grumble across the land concerning a brokered GOP convention this summer.  The thinking goes that even if Donald Trump doesn’t receive enough votes to wrap up the nomination on the first ballot, he should be the party’s choice because he’s so far ahead of anyone else. (At least at this date.)  And it’s not right that party leaders would disregard his constituents. They’re saying that if Trump isn’t nominated, they will have been disenfranchised.

Actually, being disenfranchised means” not being permitted to vote”.  It doesn’t mean “having your vote ignored.” This is probably hair-splitting for the group I’m discussing; but it’s valid, especially for the eight states that have winner-take-all primaries. Marco Rubio hoped this would work to his advantage in Florida; it didn’t.  For John Kasich, it did in Ohio.

The thing is that voters in winner-take-all states who don’t vote for the candidate who eventually wins the night have their votes effectively ignored then and there. And since there are fifty state primaries with each state making its own rules, voters are regularly going to the polls and having their choices discounted.

Perhaps the ultimate example is a Presidential election. It doesn’t matter if it’s close or not, in the end those who didn’t vote for the winner suck it up. Quite possibly they grumble for four years, but they seem to understand that they were not technically disenfranchised. Their candidate simply lost in the end.

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Letter to a Fence

Posted on March 18, 2016

Dear Fence,

We are new neighbors, but I’m already crazy about you. I love looking out my piano room windows each morning to make sure you’re still there. Even though you’re becoming invisible as I grow accustomed to you, I’ll never take you for granted.

Was it only last week that I watched the men hammer your galvanized stakes around the pond’s perimeter as the unassuming-yet-oh-so-always-arrogant geese barely paid attention? They were too busy eating their five pounds of grass per goose per day and leaving their remnants on my lawn.

I watched as the two-foot high poultry netting was attached to your stakes.  The geese continued to eat.  I watched as the workers departed and the geese – who, by the way, need to drink every twenty minutes or so – tried to move from grass to water as the first test of your effectiveness.  But you held firm amid the honking and squawking that followed.

I smiled at the thought of the first goose-less summer in three years as the unhappy birds waddled away. Of course I knew they’d test your mettle again the next morning. And, sure enough, around 9 AM, they flew onto the pond as if they’d won. They’ve come every morning since, each time landing in the water angrier than the time before.  But they don’t stay as you are the barrier between them and the grass buffet they’ve come to see as an entitlement.

My husband jokes that one day they’ll come with a pair of scissors and cut the netting.  I say one day they won’t come at all. Because you and I are going to have a wonderful long-term relationship.

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