For Memorial Day

As a special treat for Memorial Day I give you parts of the story of my Dad in the U.S. Navy. My favorite story from this period in his life was how he figured out a way to make ice cream.

My Dad, George, wanted to fly planes. So when he joined the Navy he signed up for the Naval Aviator Program. He and my mom, Nancy, eloped partially because Navy Pilots weren’t allowed to be married. Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, the program ended before he got to train to fly. Instead of learning to fly he was shipped off to an island in the Pacific where he was a supply clerk (think Radar O’Reilly here) at an air strip. (I think this may have been Guam, but I am not sure.)

While he was away, Nancy lived on the family dairy farm in upstate New York, and worked as a soda jerk at the local drug store. She wrote George every day, and regaled him with details of her life – including explicit descriptions of the ice cream sundaes, milk shakes and other frozen treats she created behind the counter in downtown Horseheads, New York.

In the primitive conditions on an island in the South Pacific, they had very limited resources for refrigeration, and a treat like ice cream was unheard of. George would get Nancy’s letters, and read aloud to his comrades about the ice cream treats she had created. In the sweltering South Pacific heat they all longed for ice cream.

 Each day the pilots were required to get in so many hours of flying, and they would take off, fly around for a while, and then return. When they returned from their little trips, they would complain about how hot it was on the ground. It was then that George realized it just might be cold enough at those altitudes for cream to freeze. So he hatched a plan and set it into motion. He put the ingredients into a metal container and promised the pilots that they could have the first spoonfuls if they took it up with them during their flights.

George, and as much of the company as possible, would line up and be waiting on the runway when the plane landed. George would have two spoons, and would hand one to the pilot as soon as the container, which was almost too cold to hold in his hands, was removed from the plane. Then each of the men in the company would get a spoonful of the frozen treat.

For this Memorial Day, if you are lucky enough to have ice cream as part of your day, really taste that first spoonful, and think about those men on an island in the South Pacific, how my Dad managed to make ice cream, and smile. As I will.

The Bane of my Existence

     If you have ever been to my house you know that most of the first floor is covered with tile. Often, when someone comes over for the first time the first thing they will say is something along the line of, “Oh, I love these floors!” to which I usually respond, “Yes, the bane of my existence”. Then I have to explain to the quizzical looks that these floors are the one thing the builders did right when they built this house in 1965, as they are laid atop a 4” bed of cement. The tiles themselves are Mexican Saltillo, picket style, and there are about three of them in each square foot of floor space. They run from the front door of the house to the back door, from the eat-in kitchen all the way to the family room and the garage entrance. They are under every cabinet, appliance and wall on the first floor. (All in all, about 600 square feet of tiles.) Saltillo tiles are hand-made, no two are alike, and they are uneven and extremely porous. They are not sealed. So they soak up every and any liquid the come in contact with. And they have been the bane of my existence. 

                                                           Nick with Gambit back in 2005
                                                           Here you can see how the floors usually look

     When we bought this house 18 years ago, I thought the floors were red brick with black grout and I thought, “Great! The boys won’t be able to screw these floors up.” And I was right; nothing that the boys have ever done has made a dent in those floors. I have come to realize that nothing short of a large quantity of C-4 will ever make a dent in these floors. After a couple of years of cleaning and scrubbing the everyday messes created by an active family, black gobs started to come up from the grout revealing grey crumbly cement. This was a concern.

     Then one day I knocked a pot lid into the space beneath the stove and was shocked by what I discovered upon crawling in to the cupboard to reach under and retrieve it. (Yes, I probably should have sold tickets to that event.) As I reached under to pull out the lid my hand touched something that clearly was not the pot lid. So I grabbed a flashlight to get a better look before I stuck my hand back in there again. What I found was a perfect 9 by 11 glass baking dish and, much to my horror, rose and gold colored tiles with off white grout.

     And so began my quest to clean the tiles. This started a chain of events which just went from bad to worse, reminding me in many ways of the movie Money Pit. I spent hours on my hands and knees scrubbing with everything I could find, masked to protect myself from all the harsh chemicals, pulling up years and years worth of Mop-n-Glow encrusted grout and peeling layers from the tiles. We rented an industrial floor cleaning machine and tried everything we could think of. When I finally realized I needed professional help, the first contractor who came to the door looked down, said, “I won’t do this job” and walked away. (Not even a “Hi, it’s nice to meet you”.) We ended up needing to have all of the grout replaced, which meant that there were guys on their hands and knees, using a Dremel-like tool, digging out all of the old grout.
    
     Yesterday, for the second time in the past 18 years I have accomplished the goal of getting the floor cleaned. The first time, you ask? It was during the 30 seconds between a contractor completing the “two week” job which took more than three months and our walking out the door to head to Germany for two years. Unfortunately, by the time we got back, the floors (which need to be sealed every year) were already dirty again.

     My boyfriend did a lot of research on the internet and we bought a steam cleaning machine, in hopes that it would do the trick on the floors (along with other cleaning tasks like the grill, the fireplace doors, etc.). I was hopeful, but didn’t really know if it would work on these floors or not. Imagine my delight when he tried it on the floor for the first time and loads of dirt came right up! It is a slow process, but I don’t have to get on my hands and knees with a toothbrush, and it does the job! I started with the kitchen yesterday, and in about three hours the floor was clean. The only problem is that now the rest of the floor is clearly very dirty!

                                             Before, dirty, nasty floor!

                                             The Steamfast!

                                             SO much better!
     I am excited about bringing these floors back to their intended beauty, and even though it is going to take time, using the steam cleaner is not physically taxing, so it just means time and attention, not painful scrubbing. I figure that if I spend a few hours each weekend, I will have it done by the spring, when it will be time to start over and then I will be able to seal them once again. An accomplishment for 2014!

Welcome 2014

    
Welcome 2014. Usually on New Years I come up with a single word which is supposed to be my guiding concept for the coming year. I have been having difficulty finding my "word" for this year, but thought perhaps I could work it out by writing my way to the "word". It is another one of those times when I am in transition mode, something I have done pretty frequently, and with so much uncertainty, the "word" for this year has so far escaped me.
     Part of the reason I am in this strange place is that I have accepted a new kind of position that will start in a couple of weeks. I will be wading into the unfamiliar territory of a research assistant at the Social Research Center in Ann Arbor. This is a part-time gig that will allow me to both work a "real job" and continue to work from home on my writing and editing projects. I am hoping that this new job will open some doors and help me to focus on my field of study, Social Sciences.
      So now I am facing the dreaded hour long commute - which is daunting in the mitten in January and February (and sometimes March and April), but is still not as bad as the hour and a half to two hours my boyfriend faces each way every day. That fact brings me to another undertaking for 2014, getting our house projects completed so that we could put it on the market and move closer to his work, if that is what we decide to do. This is no small task for many reasons, and while I am looking forward to getting the house in order and updated, these kinds of things require a lot of time and effort - always. Handy-man type projects always take longer and cost more than I think when I start them, and often, we wait until things have to be done before we face them.
     There are more things in the house that need to be done than we can easily afford, and one thing almost always leads to something else. Here is an example: We need a new fridge. The one we have I bought in 1985 while pregnant with Nick. The ice maker is kaput, and for some reason, the paint has decided it is time to peel off and fall on my floors. It still runs very well, and things stay nice and cold inside, but I know it is simply a matter of time before it gives up. So my boyfriend and I went shopping and picked out the one that we want – really beautiful French door model. The problem is that no matter how we have measured it, it will not fit through the doorways so that we can get it into the kitchen. Well… we also need to replace all the windows in the house (and should have done so 15 years ago) and part of that project is that we want to put in a door-wall from the kitchen to the deck – which would also allow us to get the new fridge into the house. So now, in order to get a new fridge, we need to tear a huge hole in the back of the house and put in the sliding door so we have an opening large enough for the new fridge to fit in. Oh – and the whole kitchen needs to be painted since we have had a new chunk of ceiling since about 2008 which is naked above the table and the paint is beginning to wear off the cabinets, and… and… and… One thing leads to another.
     So I have been thinking about words like ‘projects’ or ‘completion’ or ‘execution’, but now I am thinking about "accomplishment" as my word for 2014. I am thinking that I should probably look at each small part of a project I get done as an accomplishment which will lead me toward the larger completion. In thinking about this I have also realized that I have often failed to acknowledge my accomplishments, no matter how big or how small. So this year, dear 2014, I will stop and acknowledge my accomplishments, no matter how small, in my quest for larger project completions. There. I just finished my first blog post for 2014. Well done, me.

A baby speaks...

A dear friend passed this on to me shortly after the birth of my first child... and today I share it with all of you. (If it doesn't bring tears to your eyes...)

A BABY SPEAKS

In Silence I lie and watch thy face, Sweet Mother mine.

And think how full thou art of grace, And, oh how kind!
And I almost laugh as I hear you say
“I think the baby has noticed today.”

To Thee I am “baby” – thou dost not know

How often I’ve lived – how long ago
A chieftain I was, and once a King –
Though now I appear such a little thing!

I’ve had my share of earthly joy;

Of woman’s love I’ve made a toy,
And once in martyrdom I died –
(To atone for my other sins I tried!)

But God, a seal upon my lips has set,

And twill not be lifted ‘till I forget,
For God is much wiser than thou or I -
I must not remember how it feels to die!

Dear little mother, with eyes so brown,

When I wanted rebirth I sought around
‘Till I found thee, with thy face divine,
And then I knew that thou wert mine –

That thou my mother in truth would be.
Sweetheart, I was wise in choosing thee!
So day by day into thy face
I’ll look until I lose all trace
Of other lives, and only know
That I am here and love thee so.

(Author Unknown)

(From Magazine “Woman’s Life”, March 7^th, 1896)

 

 

 

 

November 22, 1963

50 years ago today, when John F. Kennedy was shot and killed, I was 6 years old, a first grader at Marble Elementary School in East Lansing, Michigan, and everyone called me Meg. I didn’t really understand what that event meant, except that all the teachers were visibly upset and my teacher had been crying.  But my dad had travelled to London on his way back to Africa once again, something he did on a fairly regular basis during my early years. And, as he did every day, he wrote a letter to my Mom a few days later…
Dear Nance,
     The “tellie” in my hotel room is showing the funeral of President Kennedy live by telestar. It is a grim and somber moment. I think of the words of Lincoln – “it is for us, the living, to be here dedicated… that these honored dead shall not have died in vain… that government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from this earth.” And perhaps this is some explanation of why you and I are today separated by an ocean - - and the dedication to service and the dignity of man comes again between my family and me.

I have come to understand that part of the reason that the grown-ups were so upset was the uncertainty that event brought to their lives. It was the end of optimism, and the beginning of doubt and insecurity. That single event led to so many changes in society and I have wondered more than once what might have been had Kennedy not been killed that November day. Would we have been so involved in Viet Nam? Would the protests demanding social change for African Americans and for women and for others have happened? There is, of course, no way to know… but I wonder.

For me personally, Kennedy’s funeral marks the day that I broke my left arm, severing the radial nerve and setting my own life on an unexpected path. Would my life have turned out much differently if I hadn’t been so restless and not decided to bother my sister and her boyfriend, falling and breaking my arm? Perhaps. But I do know that every experience we have is a vital part of who we are, and I would not be who I am today if those experiences hadn’t happened. And neither would we as a nation.

And so, in my own small ways, I strive for “the dedication to service and the dignity of man”, thinking every day, “if I can just make one person have a better day today, if I can serve (in the truest sense of the word) mankind in some way today, the world will be a better place tomorrow”.

How to Cook Fresh Pumpkin

It is almost Halloween so I went to our local pumpkin patch earlier this week and picked up some pumpkins for carving and one for pies. There is a HUGE difference between varieties of pumpkins and I thought perhaps it might be handy for you to have directions on how to roast one – fresh pumpkin is SO much better than canned. So here is the step by step.

1.       Find a pie pumpkin. The main differences are that usually a pie pumpkin has freckles on it and they are always much more dense than a carving pumpkin. You will be able to easily find them at your local market or pumpkin patch this time of year.

2.      Tools for the task: A sharp knife, rimmed baking pan, ice cream scoop, colander, spoon, mashing device (potato masher, food processer or blender)

3.      Turn your oven on to pre-heat. I use 375, but this process is very forgiving, so anywhere from 350 to 425 will do the trick, you will just need to adjust the time needed depending on how much heat.

4.      Using your sharp knife and some muscle, cut the pumpkin in half leaving the stem intact on one side.

5.      Then use your ice cream scoop to scrape the stringy center and seeds out of each half. Put the seeds and gooey parts into a colander.

6.      If you want easy clean-up, spray your baking pan with a thin coating of Pam.

7.      Place each half cut side down on the baking sheet.

8.     Roast for 45 minutes to an hour, until a fork slides in and out of the pumpkin easily.

9.      While the pumpkin is roasting, place your colander in the sink. Fill the sink with water just until the seeds start to float to the top.  It is really easy to then skim the seeds out of the colander and into a bowl, picking out any orange bits as you go. The stringy parts will hang on to the seeds, so squish them out, rinse them a little and put them in the bowl with their friends.

10.  DO NOT put the orange goo down your garbage disposal – unless you have a crush on your repairman and want to invite him over. Throw the goo in the trash or your compost pile.

11.   Put the seeds back in the colander and rinse them one more time, then pat dry with paper towels. They probably won’t get all the way dry, but that’s okay. Put them back in the bowl and toss them with a little bit of olive oil.

12.  Spread them out on a cookie sheet and sprinkle with kosher salt. Here is where you get to be adventurous. Some people like to use garlic, pepper, cayenne pepper, pretty much any spice you really like. I am a purist about these things and only use salt.

13.  As soon as your pumpkins are fork-tender, put them on a rack to cool. As soon as you can, flip them over this hastens the cooling process.

14.  Make your oven 400 degrees and pop those seasoned seeds in for about 15 minutes total, flipping them over as best you can about half way through.

15.   Once the pumpkin halves are cool enough to handle, you can often just peel the skins right off. Use a spoon to scrape any of the meat which is stubbornly holding on and put the meat into a large bowl.

16.  Then use a mashing tool to mash the meat into a uniform consistency.

17.   Viola! Now you can proceed to make your favorite pumpkin, bread, pumpkin cookies or pumpkin pie!

18.  NOTE: I put two cup portions into quart-sized freezer bags, mush them flat, and pop them into the freezer. The trick with this is to get the pumpkin out of the bag before thawing it in a bowl. (Otherwise it is a pretty messy process.)

Mini-break Part 2

We got a late start on Saturday since our adventures in the park on Friday night got us to bed later than usual. We set out to find the colors of Northern Michigan with a brief stop for breakfast on the way. The plan was to drive along the Lake Michigan shoreline to the city of Charlevoix where they were having an Apple Festival, stopping for Kodak moments as they came up along the way.

            It was a perfect autumn day with bright sunshine and deep blue skies, the kind of sky you only see where trees outnumber people. Driving through the valleys, like you do, we spotted a dirt road that had a sign posted saying that this road would not be plowed in the winter. This looked like a promising opportunity for the photogs in the truck, so we ventured up the hill and in to the deep forest. We were instantly plunged into the shadows created by towering pines, ancient oaks, and bright maple trees. I could wax poetic about the beauty of virgin forests, but I will spare you – let it suffice to say that it was lovely.

            The “road”, really a one-lane wide track through the forest, was very sandy and, at times, very steep. I was glad we had the four-wheel-drive truck for this adventure as I doubted there was much traffic to lend a hand if we were to have gotten stuck. Eventually we came to a clearing atop one of the hills where we decided to stop and let the shutterbugs fly free. With dense forest on the west side of the hill, there were pasture lands on the east side with a clear view of the surrounding hillsides, ablaze in all their autumnal glory.

            My boyfriend jumped right out of the truck and headed over to the vantage point near the barbed-wire fence where he could capture the scene. Joe and I had a brief discussion, and when I looked over to see where Larry was, he was rising up from the ground. “You didn’t just cross that fence!” I hollered over to him. “No,” he replied, “I fell.” “You okay?” I questioned. “Yeah, I’m fine.” So I wandered over to the gate in the fence and surveyed the beauty before me.

            A few minutes later Larry emerged from the tree line and much to my dismay, blood was streaming down his face. To make a long story short, he had tripped on some fallen branches buried beneath the fallen leaves, hit his head, scraped up his arm and had landed on his camera, protecting it during his fall. I doctored him up, and ignored the jibes about having band-aids in my purse. He was okay and went right back to snapping away.

            Three of the bovine inhabitants of the pasture came lumbering up the hill to check us out. A very large bull and, what I would assume were, two of his male progeny took long drinks from the water trough as they had their pictures taken. Once they were assured that we did not have any special treats for them, they headed back down into their lush valley. After the shutterbugs had taken a little hike down the trails in the forest we headed down to the road that runs along the coast.

            There is a place along M-119 which has been dubbed the “Tunnel of Trees” due to the very narrow road which is completely covered by the forest. It was incredibly busy on that Saturday afternoon, with a steady stream of traffic going in both directions – and no place to pull over and enjoy it. It was lovely, though, and we all enjoyed the experience.

            The Apple Festival was pretty cool – many of the local apple producers had stands along the main drag and there was also an art fair, face painting, and pony rides, by the harbor. We wandered about, looked at some of the art, and bought some apples before heading back to Mackinaw City for the night.

            We each went to our rooms to relax before going out to dinner. I went out on our balcony to watch the sun setting behind the bridge.

Someone set off a firework near the bridge, and Larry joined me on the balcony. Soon it became apparent that this wasn’t just, “someone setting off fireworks”, but an actual show. Larry went in to the room to get his camera so that hopefully he could capture some of the beauty of fireworks with the bridge, all reflected in the bay. There were some tiny bugs attracted to the light in our room, so Larry pulled the sliding glass door closed behind him as he came out. It was a pretty impressive display, and we really enjoyed it. However, when it was over and I headed back in to the room to make arrangements for dinner, I found that somehow, the door had locked.  

            Eventually, Larry called out to some of the occupants of a neighboring room to please call the desk and apprise them of the situation. The manager of the hotel came pretty quickly and let us back in, and we all had a good laugh. I decided that it was fortunate timing as 1) the weather was nice – no rain or snow, 2) we were fully clothed when this happened, and 3) I didn’t have to pee.

            On Sunday we took a drive across the Might Mac and the Upper Peninsula to see the Locks in Sault Ste. Marie. (For those of you non-Michiganders, that is pronounced “Sue Saint Marie”.) We didn’t get to see a ship going through the locks, but it was pretty cool anyway. (And I mean that – the wind was biting cold.) It was a pretty easy drive home after all that, and traffic was not at all bad. It was a wonderful way to spend a weekend.

Note: photos are from a google search - don't have any from the trip yet.