I have come to realize that writing a weekly column is like priming a pump. Once you get going, the topics you want to write about gush at unstoppable rates.
Take ants for example. On the April 22nd edition of NPR's Science Friday, or Sci Fri as it is affectionately called, one of the topics was ants. Did you know that they make up nearly two-thirds of the world's population of insects. I had no idea.
In the ant kingdom, males are anatomically incompetent, rendering an order completely run by females, who are superior in every sense of the word. Queen Nor of Jordan once said that women hold up half the world. In ant-ville, the females literally control everything.
The other day while I was on my powerwalk, I found a five dollar bill on the ground. A few years ago, I found $20 in a parking lot of a major bookstore. But have you noticed that you rarely find coins anymore?
When was the last time you found pennies, nickles, dimes or quarters on the ground, under the couch cushion or heard people jingling change in their pockets? I think it's a thing of the past in this age of debit and gift cards.
It seems that people don't want to be bothered with it. When I am in the checkout lane, I seem to be the only one who still picks through my wallet for the exact change.
A few weeks ago, I gave away my 38-year-old wedding dress. For years, I thought someone in the family would definitely want it. But I came to realize that it held little meaning to others. Besides, the once white tafeta had turned yellow and the sparkling sequins had become dingy.
I never imagined giving it away to hang alone on some unknown rack in a thrift store. I finally snapped out of that dreamlike state, folded it in half, loaded it into the trunk of my car where I had a half-dozen bags of clothing and then dropped it off at a church collection center.
I am hoping that maybe someone, somewhere can use it, but that's probably not the case either. I feel a tinge of sadness now, but I am glad I finally gave it away.
Last week, I put clear nail polish on my stockings to stop a run. While I tucked the sticky patch down under my foot where no one could see it, I chuckled over how tacky I can be.
Fear comes over me when I see young children walking to school alone early in the morning. Worrying about these youngsters who look to be barely six years old, I say a prayer for their safety.
My passport photo is so bad that I'm convinced I will be unrecognizable to the customs agents when I travel abroad.
I'm really expecting the agent to look at my passport and say, "This can't be you. You look much younger than the person in this photo?" Yes, that's what they will say (wink, wink).
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Somewhere Over the Rainbow Snowbirds Fly
"I want to write a story about snowbirds," I announced.
"Isn't it the wrong time of year?" my husband replied, bewildered.
"No, it's the perfect time of year. Now is when they are returning," I said.
"Oh, you mean snow geese," he responded, convinced he knew what I meant.
"No, I mean snowbirds - the kind that go south every winter and return north in May," I answered.
"Oh, the human kind," he said, enlightened.
This is a story about snowbirds.
I must admit, I'm a little envious of snowbirds, no, make that very envious.
It really gets me the way they kick up their heels at the first hint of cold air and head south with their fifth wheels in tow.
To me, it's not fair that anyone can go ahead and skip winter and then come back and brag about it in May.
Is it my imagination or do snowbirds pretend that winter really doesn't exist? The closest they get to cold weather is when they have to listen to the rest of us moan and groan about how winter takes us hostage for nearly six months.
I don't know about you, but I think snowbirds have a way of rubbing it in. "Snow. What's that?" one says with a sarcastic glance. "I don't own a winter coat," one brags with a swagger. "Gave them all away since I began wintering on South Padre Island."
In my book, snowbirds have it made. For heaven's sake, they live in summer-like climates year-round, they don't have an arthritic bone in their bodies and they wrap themselves in the security of knowing that they've left behind slipping and sliding, shoveling, scooping and scraping.
Ah, snowbirds...When I observe their perpetual tans and see them head south from Manitoba, Minnesota, North Dakota, Saskatchewan and other places, my heart sends out a perennial appeal, "Take me, take me, I beg of you. Please don't leave me behind to sojourn through another frigid winter." But to no avail, my pleas go unanswered.
Basking in a bubble of mild temperatures through November, December, January, February, March and April, snowbirds don't seem to possess the slightest tinge of guilt over their escape. Is it my imagination or do they look healthier, maybe even younger than the rest of us?
Now, as snowbirds return from a "tough hard winter" in the Sunbelt, they are making me crazy with comments like "Fifty-three degrees? Brrrrr!" [Oh, ple-e-ease.]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
"Isn't it the wrong time of year?" my husband replied, bewildered.
"No, it's the perfect time of year. Now is when they are returning," I said.
"Oh, you mean snow geese," he responded, convinced he knew what I meant.
"No, I mean snowbirds - the kind that go south every winter and return north in May," I answered.
"Oh, the human kind," he said, enlightened.
This is a story about snowbirds.
I must admit, I'm a little envious of snowbirds, no, make that very envious.
It really gets me the way they kick up their heels at the first hint of cold air and head south with their fifth wheels in tow.
To me, it's not fair that anyone can go ahead and skip winter and then come back and brag about it in May.
Is it my imagination or do snowbirds pretend that winter really doesn't exist? The closest they get to cold weather is when they have to listen to the rest of us moan and groan about how winter takes us hostage for nearly six months.
I don't know about you, but I think snowbirds have a way of rubbing it in. "Snow. What's that?" one says with a sarcastic glance. "I don't own a winter coat," one brags with a swagger. "Gave them all away since I began wintering on South Padre Island."
In my book, snowbirds have it made. For heaven's sake, they live in summer-like climates year-round, they don't have an arthritic bone in their bodies and they wrap themselves in the security of knowing that they've left behind slipping and sliding, shoveling, scooping and scraping.
Ah, snowbirds...When I observe their perpetual tans and see them head south from Manitoba, Minnesota, North Dakota, Saskatchewan and other places, my heart sends out a perennial appeal, "Take me, take me, I beg of you. Please don't leave me behind to sojourn through another frigid winter." But to no avail, my pleas go unanswered.
Basking in a bubble of mild temperatures through November, December, January, February, March and April, snowbirds don't seem to possess the slightest tinge of guilt over their escape. Is it my imagination or do they look healthier, maybe even younger than the rest of us?
Now, as snowbirds return from a "tough hard winter" in the Sunbelt, they are making me crazy with comments like "Fifty-three degrees? Brrrrr!" [Oh, ple-e-ease.]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Speechless places of the soul
It’s Mother’s Day 2010 and my husband, Brian, trying to make conversation, asks me, "Do you ever look at our kids in amazement and say, 'Wow, they started inside me'?"
I slowly turn toward him and reply, "Yes, but it’s very hard to put into words. I mean, how can anyone describe the connectedness a mother feels toward her children?" It is impossible.
"As a fertilized egg moves slowly down the uterus, it is already dividing rapidly into many cells."
We carry, feed, clothe, diaper, bathe, nurture, chase, catch, hug, and then at some point we have to let go.
"At this stage, the embryo is called a morula. About one week after fertilization, the morula starts to implant in the endometrium of the uterus..."
I always thought that letting go would be the easiest part of having children. But I was wrong. It’s the hardest by far.
"...establishing an intimate link between the mother and embryo that lasts throughout pregnancy."
It’s one of those things that mothers can only express accurately in the murmurs and moans of the heart. When I think of my children, I get a lump in my throat caused by unintended feelings of remorse over how fast they grew from a tiny twinkle in our eyes to grown adults with lives of their own.
"The membranes joining the embryo to the placenta develop into a cord, the umbilicus, which grows thicker and longer as development proceeds."
Where did the years go? My youngest will be 26 in a couple of months; my oldest is 36. As I look back, I can measure my life by when the children stopped doing things: stopped nursing, stopped wearing diapers, stopped drinking from a bottle, stopped eating baby food, stopped holding my hand to cross the street, stopped calling me "Mommy," stopped coming home before midnight and ultimately stopped living at home.
"The umbilical arteries and vein, within this cord, carry blood from the fetus to the placenta and back."
We mothers become so fluent in the needs of our children that when they finally do leave the nest, we lose our way and continue to cook for the whole brood, grocery shop as if all the kids were still at home. Little League fields, science fairs and school concerts are homing devices to us.
Raising children transforms everything mothers do into a purpose. After children leave home, moms find themselves having to re-purpose everything.
"In the placenta, capillaries of the mother and fetus lie close together and the maternal and fetal bloodstreams exchange substances. Here the fetal blood picks up food and oxygen."
The bonds mothers feel for their children stretch well beyond the physical, leading us down the soundless paths of the heart, to the speechless places of the soul, where only a mother's love can say what we cannot express.
[Source: "Biology A Journey Into Life" Arms & Camp]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I slowly turn toward him and reply, "Yes, but it’s very hard to put into words. I mean, how can anyone describe the connectedness a mother feels toward her children?" It is impossible.
"As a fertilized egg moves slowly down the uterus, it is already dividing rapidly into many cells."
We carry, feed, clothe, diaper, bathe, nurture, chase, catch, hug, and then at some point we have to let go.
"At this stage, the embryo is called a morula. About one week after fertilization, the morula starts to implant in the endometrium of the uterus..."
I always thought that letting go would be the easiest part of having children. But I was wrong. It’s the hardest by far.
"...establishing an intimate link between the mother and embryo that lasts throughout pregnancy."
It’s one of those things that mothers can only express accurately in the murmurs and moans of the heart. When I think of my children, I get a lump in my throat caused by unintended feelings of remorse over how fast they grew from a tiny twinkle in our eyes to grown adults with lives of their own.
"The membranes joining the embryo to the placenta develop into a cord, the umbilicus, which grows thicker and longer as development proceeds."
Where did the years go? My youngest will be 26 in a couple of months; my oldest is 36. As I look back, I can measure my life by when the children stopped doing things: stopped nursing, stopped wearing diapers, stopped drinking from a bottle, stopped eating baby food, stopped holding my hand to cross the street, stopped calling me "Mommy," stopped coming home before midnight and ultimately stopped living at home.
"The umbilical arteries and vein, within this cord, carry blood from the fetus to the placenta and back."
We mothers become so fluent in the needs of our children that when they finally do leave the nest, we lose our way and continue to cook for the whole brood, grocery shop as if all the kids were still at home. Little League fields, science fairs and school concerts are homing devices to us.
Raising children transforms everything mothers do into a purpose. After children leave home, moms find themselves having to re-purpose everything.
"In the placenta, capillaries of the mother and fetus lie close together and the maternal and fetal bloodstreams exchange substances. Here the fetal blood picks up food and oxygen."
The bonds mothers feel for their children stretch well beyond the physical, leading us down the soundless paths of the heart, to the speechless places of the soul, where only a mother's love can say what we cannot express.
[Source: "Biology A Journey Into Life" Arms & Camp]
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The kind that makes her heart throb...
Some things were not quite right about my childhood - the garage wasn’t one of them.
I have always been fascinated with garages. Maybe it is because they leave so much to be desired.
When I was a kid, my friends and I transformed garages into playhouses, theaters, and even carnivals. We created places to have secret club meetings and haunted houses.
These days, I hardly ever see children playing in garages. I suppose they're out surfing the web, playing video games or at soccer practice. I think they are missing out.
When people leave their garage doors open, I cannot help craning my neck to see the array or, on the contrary, disarray of stuff. When I do, it's as though I am seeing inside a person's life.
I think I can tell a lot about people by the way they keep their garages. Some garages are plumb full. You could not fit your big toe inside if you tried. Those garage owners probably don't have high blood pressure. Most likely, they are laid back and hardly fuss. If they cannot find what they need in the garage, they figure they'll find it later or go out and buy a new one.
The other type of garage, the kind that makes my heart throb, is very well-organized. These people tend to be uptight and know right where everything is. [Circuit tester? Bottom right side of the pegboard on the left.]
Inside their garages is an imperturbable realm, where garage dwellers tinker and toy all hours. The sound of "Oldies" reverberate from speakers hoisted in the corners, life-sized posters of heroes and heroines keep company with an impressive collection of license plates that plaster the walls.
Stunningly well-kept, these garages look more like living rooms with their painted concrete floors. They usually have a TV or two, folding table and chairs, a fridge, maybe some vintage cupboards and special lighting. Vehicles are parked in the driveway or on the street.
Our garage is an adventure for me. I could spend hours sweeping, sorting, rearranging and organizing. Although, the place stays that way for only a few days and then somehow it returns to its former undone self.
I asked my husband to designate half of the garage just for me. We would draw a line right down the middle with one side his and the other side all mine.
My side of the garage would have pegboards with hooks to hold all sorts of stuff. Everything would be in its place with room to spare. My side would have a tidy workbench, where I would build birdhouses, repair furniture and spray-paint baskets.
A florescent light would hang from above and an FM radio would chime in the background. It would have a heater for when there's a chill in the air and a fan for when temperatures rise. I would have a mini-fridge for ice water and a hot plate for tea. Stringing patio lights around my side would be a nice touch, don't you think?
Oh, yeah....it would be my garage space from heaven and I imagine myself spending a lot of time out there. I suppose that's why he has not agreed to this, yet.
You can see why the garage is a final frontier for me. It's where I am buffered from life's woes, cast the standard-bearers of day-to-day life to the wind and contemplate what could be.
In my garage resides an unadulterated space, where I, once again, am cleansed and made whole. Memories of things left undone or things gone wrong would not follow me there.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I have always been fascinated with garages. Maybe it is because they leave so much to be desired.
When I was a kid, my friends and I transformed garages into playhouses, theaters, and even carnivals. We created places to have secret club meetings and haunted houses.
These days, I hardly ever see children playing in garages. I suppose they're out surfing the web, playing video games or at soccer practice. I think they are missing out.
When people leave their garage doors open, I cannot help craning my neck to see the array or, on the contrary, disarray of stuff. When I do, it's as though I am seeing inside a person's life.
I think I can tell a lot about people by the way they keep their garages. Some garages are plumb full. You could not fit your big toe inside if you tried. Those garage owners probably don't have high blood pressure. Most likely, they are laid back and hardly fuss. If they cannot find what they need in the garage, they figure they'll find it later or go out and buy a new one.
The other type of garage, the kind that makes my heart throb, is very well-organized. These people tend to be uptight and know right where everything is. [Circuit tester? Bottom right side of the pegboard on the left.]
Inside their garages is an imperturbable realm, where garage dwellers tinker and toy all hours. The sound of "Oldies" reverberate from speakers hoisted in the corners, life-sized posters of heroes and heroines keep company with an impressive collection of license plates that plaster the walls.
Stunningly well-kept, these garages look more like living rooms with their painted concrete floors. They usually have a TV or two, folding table and chairs, a fridge, maybe some vintage cupboards and special lighting. Vehicles are parked in the driveway or on the street.
Our garage is an adventure for me. I could spend hours sweeping, sorting, rearranging and organizing. Although, the place stays that way for only a few days and then somehow it returns to its former undone self.
I asked my husband to designate half of the garage just for me. We would draw a line right down the middle with one side his and the other side all mine.
My side of the garage would have pegboards with hooks to hold all sorts of stuff. Everything would be in its place with room to spare. My side would have a tidy workbench, where I would build birdhouses, repair furniture and spray-paint baskets.
A florescent light would hang from above and an FM radio would chime in the background. It would have a heater for when there's a chill in the air and a fan for when temperatures rise. I would have a mini-fridge for ice water and a hot plate for tea. Stringing patio lights around my side would be a nice touch, don't you think?
Oh, yeah....it would be my garage space from heaven and I imagine myself spending a lot of time out there. I suppose that's why he has not agreed to this, yet.
You can see why the garage is a final frontier for me. It's where I am buffered from life's woes, cast the standard-bearers of day-to-day life to the wind and contemplate what could be.
In my garage resides an unadulterated space, where I, once again, am cleansed and made whole. Memories of things left undone or things gone wrong would not follow me there.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Wait for me while I...
"I'll be waiting...You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess..." Lyrics from Love Story by Taylor Swift
Have you ever noticed how men are always waiting for women? The fact of the matter is, men have been waiting for women since the beginning of time.
I don't know about you, but to me the sight of men waiting for women is right up there with holding the door open, pulling out her chair or helping her with her coat.
I imagine a lot of fellows put everything on hold while they wait.
Come to think of it, I don't see many young men waiting around; they're probably in too much of a hurry. It's mostly the older guys in cars with windows rolled down and radios turned up, lingering on benches while watching passersby at the grocery store or thumbing through Times and People magazines in doctors' offices.
One nods off at the laundry mat while she folds underwear. Another stands by the curb while his wife rummages in a yard nearby.
Every time I go shopping, I see what appears to be a completely bored man hanging out alone in Ladies Wear. He's holding her purse while she's trying on clothes in the dressing room. Talk about the possibility of a long wait!
Considering how much time these guys spend waiting, I figure they must be sacrificing something: teeing off with the boys, catching the game on TV, gambling at the casino, tilling the garden, shooting a few hoops or tinkering in the garage.
My father was not a patient waiter, but my husband is, which makes me wonder about the conversations that are a part of the waiting dance...
Maybe she says, you don't have to stay, and he replies, I'll wait anyway. Or maybe she promises, I'll only be a minute, and he says, take your time. If she warns, don't go wondering off, does he promise, I won't? If she asks, will you hold my purse while I try this on, does he respond, O.K.?
I imagine there's bargaining, too...
If you come to the grocery store with me, you can do whatever you want afterward. I'll bake your favorite cookies if you help me with the laundry. If you go clothes shopping with me, I won't make you go to church.
Now that I think of it, I never see these men upset or impatient in the least bit as they wait. They have a quiet calm about them. I'd like to think these patient stewards of women's agendas are really great guys who want to be supportive.
I salute this dying breed of princes as they wait for their princesses.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Have you ever noticed how men are always waiting for women? The fact of the matter is, men have been waiting for women since the beginning of time.
I don't know about you, but to me the sight of men waiting for women is right up there with holding the door open, pulling out her chair or helping her with her coat.
I imagine a lot of fellows put everything on hold while they wait.
Come to think of it, I don't see many young men waiting around; they're probably in too much of a hurry. It's mostly the older guys in cars with windows rolled down and radios turned up, lingering on benches while watching passersby at the grocery store or thumbing through Times and People magazines in doctors' offices.
One nods off at the laundry mat while she folds underwear. Another stands by the curb while his wife rummages in a yard nearby.
Every time I go shopping, I see what appears to be a completely bored man hanging out alone in Ladies Wear. He's holding her purse while she's trying on clothes in the dressing room. Talk about the possibility of a long wait!
Considering how much time these guys spend waiting, I figure they must be sacrificing something: teeing off with the boys, catching the game on TV, gambling at the casino, tilling the garden, shooting a few hoops or tinkering in the garage.
My father was not a patient waiter, but my husband is, which makes me wonder about the conversations that are a part of the waiting dance...
Maybe she says, you don't have to stay, and he replies, I'll wait anyway. Or maybe she promises, I'll only be a minute, and he says, take your time. If she warns, don't go wondering off, does he promise, I won't? If she asks, will you hold my purse while I try this on, does he respond, O.K.?
I imagine there's bargaining, too...
If you come to the grocery store with me, you can do whatever you want afterward. I'll bake your favorite cookies if you help me with the laundry. If you go clothes shopping with me, I won't make you go to church.
Now that I think of it, I never see these men upset or impatient in the least bit as they wait. They have a quiet calm about them. I'd like to think these patient stewards of women's agendas are really great guys who want to be supportive.
I salute this dying breed of princes as they wait for their princesses.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Skip the sloppy joe mix
When I opened a letter from my sister last week, I wasn't expecting to find a postcard from my mother inside. It was postmarked Oct. 16, 1970, carried a 10-cent air mail stamp and was addressed to my sister in Pirmasens, Germany, where she lived at the time.
The note reads…
"Mary Ann, so glad to hear from you and that all is well. Will write a letter later. Here’s the recipe for spaghetti sauce.
Spaghetti sauce: 1 large can tomato juice, 1 small can tom. paste, 2 cups water, 1 tbs. sweet basil, 1 tsp. salt, ½ tsp. garlic salt, 1 tsp. black pepper, ¼ tsp. oregano, 1 tablespoon dried onion soup mix, 1 teaspoon sloppy joe mix, 2 bay leaves, 3 tbsp. sugar, ¼ teaspoon baking soda. Bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour.
Lots of luck. Secret to good cooking: put all your meals in the hands of the Blessed Mother.
Keep happy and well.
Love,
Mommy
P.S. You may skip the sloppy joe mix and onion soup mix.
Mommy? At the time my mother typed this, all six of her children were older and had stopped referring to her as such. I wonder if she was resolving that feeling mothers get when it is no longer cool for kids to use the term "Mommy." Sometimes I catch myself wanting to sign emails and cards to my kids that way but quickly sensor myself and settle for plain old "Mom."
My mother's Sicilian spaghetti sauce was famous throughout the neighborhood, the school, the church, the entire town. I didn’t know she put black pepper in it! The sloppy joe and soup mixes were news to me, too. It makes me wonder. Mom cooked from memory and this recipe doesn't sound at all like the one she gave me. I guess she was doing her best to recall the mysterious flurry of ingredients she used.
I should have studied her more closely and taken copious notes on how much basil and oregano she poured into her palm and then sprinkled in the sauce.
I notice that her typewriter ribbon was wearing out by they way she filled in the "a" in "all," the "o," "r" and "g" in "oregano." My mother was a perfectionist, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that she tried to make her note just so.
She really was a talented cook and typist. I remember watching her do both and hoping that some day my fingers and hands would maneuver magically like hers.
Mom had the focus of a bull snake coiled and ready to pounce on its prey. Nothing could distract her from the impenetrable bubble of concentration she maintained in our noisy and often chaotic household.
In her empty nest, my sister's request for her sauce recipe surely must have lifted her spirits.
I took for granted watching her cook and receiving her letters. Mom is gone now and on April 8 she would have been 90 years old.
My husband asked me, "How many more times will you write about your mother?"
For a moment, I was taken back by his question, which really was a statement, and then said, "As many times as I need to."
Even though I am 58 and all my children are grown and gone, I always will miss my mommy.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
The note reads…
"Mary Ann, so glad to hear from you and that all is well. Will write a letter later. Here’s the recipe for spaghetti sauce.
Spaghetti sauce: 1 large can tomato juice, 1 small can tom. paste, 2 cups water, 1 tbs. sweet basil, 1 tsp. salt, ½ tsp. garlic salt, 1 tsp. black pepper, ¼ tsp. oregano, 1 tablespoon dried onion soup mix, 1 teaspoon sloppy joe mix, 2 bay leaves, 3 tbsp. sugar, ¼ teaspoon baking soda. Bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour.
Lots of luck. Secret to good cooking: put all your meals in the hands of the Blessed Mother.
Keep happy and well.
Love,
Mommy
P.S. You may skip the sloppy joe mix and onion soup mix.
Mommy? At the time my mother typed this, all six of her children were older and had stopped referring to her as such. I wonder if she was resolving that feeling mothers get when it is no longer cool for kids to use the term "Mommy." Sometimes I catch myself wanting to sign emails and cards to my kids that way but quickly sensor myself and settle for plain old "Mom."
My mother's Sicilian spaghetti sauce was famous throughout the neighborhood, the school, the church, the entire town. I didn’t know she put black pepper in it! The sloppy joe and soup mixes were news to me, too. It makes me wonder. Mom cooked from memory and this recipe doesn't sound at all like the one she gave me. I guess she was doing her best to recall the mysterious flurry of ingredients she used.
I should have studied her more closely and taken copious notes on how much basil and oregano she poured into her palm and then sprinkled in the sauce.
I notice that her typewriter ribbon was wearing out by they way she filled in the "a" in "all," the "o," "r" and "g" in "oregano." My mother was a perfectionist, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that she tried to make her note just so.
She really was a talented cook and typist. I remember watching her do both and hoping that some day my fingers and hands would maneuver magically like hers.
Mom had the focus of a bull snake coiled and ready to pounce on its prey. Nothing could distract her from the impenetrable bubble of concentration she maintained in our noisy and often chaotic household.
In her empty nest, my sister's request for her sauce recipe surely must have lifted her spirits.
I took for granted watching her cook and receiving her letters. Mom is gone now and on April 8 she would have been 90 years old.
My husband asked me, "How many more times will you write about your mother?"
For a moment, I was taken back by his question, which really was a statement, and then said, "As many times as I need to."
Even though I am 58 and all my children are grown and gone, I always will miss my mommy.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Really? Really!
I don’t know about you, but I spend a lot of time thinking about God’s will. Sometimes it consumes me.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
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