I Was a Perfect Child

I was a perfect child—no matter what my mother says.  How could I not have been?  I was raised by good godly parents on a sprawling green (when it wasn’t snowing) Canadian farm, before Americans had even invented acid-rain.   A tree-lined river bordered our fields.  The water ran clear when it wasn’t muddy, and you could actually eat the fish without fear of mercury poisoning—that is if you caught anything other than bone-riddled rock bass or sun fish.  Dad and Mom raised obnoxious chickens, pastured Holsteins, and free-range kids.  The air was clean, the dirt was dirty, and life was good.  So tales of my rebellious, pouty-lipped childhood have been most certainly exaggerated.

Mama said that as a toddler, I would never finish a bowl of oatmeal, spaghetti, or whatever.  The last bit needed to grace my curly, auburn locks.  Well, it may have happened once . . . or twice . . . and most likely it was accidental.  After all I was a perfect child. 

The stories of me painting my arm and a tiny wee bit of the floor with white enamel are in all points false.  I painted both arms, and some paint even landed on the walls.  But I was just trying to help lighten Mama’s load.  She had the whole room to do all by herself!

As a pre-teen, the four-inch nails I drove into the old elm tree by the milkhouse in no wise hastened its demise.  It stood tall and knobby—a hundred-year-old sentinel.  My plank board tree house perched as a crown in its grand, tired arms.  What better purpose could it serve in its waning years than to be homestead to my youthful fantasies, inspired poetry, and an almost holy communion of Jell-O tea and soda crackers? 

One story that has gotten a lot of mileage is the time Mama chased me round and round the big kitchen table with Daddy’s leather razor strap.  (I think I was thirty-five at the time.)  She said that I was eventually going to need to stop.  She would catch me, and I would receive the spanking that I supposedly deserved.  If I kept up my aerobic rebellion, it would be a spanking or house arrest, or possibly both.  I opted for the lumps—the sacrificial lamb.  I’m sure I must have been framed by one of my more devilish siblings, because I was indeed perfect.

The pile of hay strewn on the barn floor was a complete misunderstanding.  How else could we jump from the rafters and not get hurt without undoing a few dozen bales?

As a college student, when I made a tearful call home to tell my folks of the trouble I’d gotten myself into, I must admit I didn’t feel too perfect.  My heart was breaking.  I was afraid my parents would be disappointed in me.  When I explained my situation, Dad cried with me.  He said he only wished he could be there to stand alongside and help me through the pain.  I had made a huge mistake, but I was still his perfect child.  The college dean didn’t think so, but I know it was true. 

Memoirs of the Dentally Ill

My husband knew what he was getting into.  We were sitting waiting for a worship band rehearsal to start.  I had had a tooth extracted and was sitting there bleeding with gauze in my mouth when he asked me if I would marry him.  I always joke that I said yes because I couldn’t say no!

When I was young, we had a dentist who was an alcoholic.  Of course, we didn’t know that at first.  We knew that he was cheap, and for a passel of farm kids that was the most important criteria for my folks. 

Who knows what might have been, but he drilled and extracted to his intoxicated heart’s content.  He would tell me, “Oh, this is just a little one.  We don’t need Novocain.”  As I gripped the chair, turning my fingers blue, he inevitably would say, “Oh, it’s a little deeper than I thought, but we’re almost done.”  (Imagine that with a slight slur.)

After that guy lost his license, we went to another dentist who, although sober, did not have the latest upgrades in equipment.  I am not making this up:  This elderly gent would pump his leg up and down on some kind of pedal (not as simple as it sounds at eighty) that put enough air in his pneumatic drill to get it going at less than break neck speed.  (Think:  No electricity.  It would have been great for dental appointments in black outs!)  Rather than the typical high-pitched “whine,” drilling on my cavity-prone teeth sounded more like a melancholy mild complaint with a hint of crunching.  So my colorful history and low pain threshold set me up for a lifetime of dental fear and misgivings and credit card debt. 

This morning, I had yet another trip to my favorite dentist.  The only consolation in having more work done is that he talks with a British accent, which is entertaining.  Once again I endured claustrophobic perils while watching The View with my eyes closed.  (I must remember to vary my appointment times because that show is on every single appointment I endure, and there’s only so much of Whoopi I can handle with or without somebody in my mouth.) 

They prepped me for a crown, which is not as royal as that sounds.  There is a bright spot, though.  Because I am a teacher, apparently my name was put in a drawing they have, and surprise surprise, I won!  I won a ream of computer paper and 30 toothbrushes!  Well, considering I teach independent study with 2-6 students at a time, I would have preferred at least one jewel for my crown!

The Weighty Issues of Weightloss

I have a plethora of diet and nutrition books.  They are bookended in my library by other fiction, like The Lord of the Rings and Little House on the Prairie, with a basket of Robin Cook medical mysteries close by in case of emergency.  The sum total of the diet books’ weight is close to my own–neither has shifted much in the last few years!

I have the LA Diet, The Maker’s Diet, The Serotonin Diet, Be a Loser, and my favorite ones The Longevity Diet, and The Anti-aging Plan.  These last two take the unique approach in encouraging adherents not to eat.  I’d say eating 5 almonds for breakfast is close to revolutionary!

And of course none of these diet plans agree with one another.  On the McDougall plan, you can’t eat anything but raw, organic veggies and fruit (not much fruit!).  Okay, I’m in that ballpark.  But no oil–not even olive–and no avocados. 

The Hippocrates Institute guy lives on sprouts and juiced raw everything.  The Gerson plan says sprouts will give you arthritis and otherwise kill you.  One book says I can’t eat anything along with fruit, and another says I can’t eat fruit.  Well, that kind of takes care of the combining problem. 

 One touts high protein–meat, meat, meat–and cites studies from Inuit folk in bygone days before the invasion of MacDonalds and Starbucks to the great white North.   Another cites studies from African bush people who eat nothing but plain grass, roots, and rocks and live longer than American couch potatoes–unless, of course, there is an outbreak of civil unrest and genocide.

So who do I believe?  I gave up Diet Pepsi 2 years ago, so that should add at least 5 years to my life.  But I’ve had a appendectomy surgery, and that supposedly takes off 10.  I eat largely an organic vegetarian diet, but I do eat some meats that are not plugged with antibiotics and growth hormone.  That should give me another 10 or so.  And when I do eat steak (rarely), I sit on the floor so as to eat lower on the food chain. 

My biggest sin is coffee, but it is organic.  The creamers . . . mmm, not so much.  With all this dietary concern I might add a year here and I might lose a year there, and I could be so distracted that I wander into the street and get hit by a truck.  So I figure the best mantra is to cite that this is the day the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in it–after my spirulina shake.

The Ominous Facebook Purge!

Okay, I’m cleaning out my friends on Facebook, so let me know if you want to stick around.

• If you are an uppercase F "Friend,” do nothing.  You are in.  I may not have a clue who you are, but you laugh at my jokes and "like” all my posts, so that makes you worthy.
• If you are a lowercase f "friend,” press the bullet point to remain on my list; if you don’t get the affirmation jingle, then within 5 minutes send 50 bucks to the Paypal link listed below.  If you still don’t get the jingle, vote Independent in the next election and try again.
• If you are an anonymous friend or a friend of a friend, and I don’t have any idea why I accepted your friend request, write in the field below in 500 words or more why I should even care whether you are on my list or not.  Of course, if you play Scrabble, you automatically move to the uppercase F variety–no questions asked.
• (Field)_______________________________________________________________________
• If this field does not acommodate 500 words, deposit 5o bucks as indicated above. 
• Link:  PAYPAL!!!!  If this link does not work, send a $100 cashier’s check to my cousin in Africa; email to follow.

The unHappiness Project or . . .

. . . How Am I Supposed to Fake It?

I heard a guy on the radio say it is our obligation to be happy, just like any other moral obligation, like not stealing, providing for our children, and obeying the speed limit (well, maybe two out of three is not bad).  How is that exactly supposed to work?  I understand the benefits of happiness and the joys of serotonin fixes, but I am an honest often melancholic soul.  So how does one generate real happiness from the dark raw materials of tensions within and without? 

When my bursts of joy and uncontrollable laughter come (that make it even hard to breathe), I can feel that the happiness in that is less an obligation than a reality.  When I feel otherwise, am I supposed to fake it? 

Should we cultivate happiness in some fashion by attitude adjustments and by thinking on the whatsoever things are pure and lovely jazz?  Most assuredly.  But to say I am genuinely happy when I am not is enough of a joke to make me, well . . . laugh!

A Letter to the Editor

Scribble in the margins of my story
the things you find important that I've missed.
I don't want to fail to see the glory.

Highlight all the places where it's blurry;
my tears have marred the text and still persist.
Scribble in the margins of my story.

Change, I know, is key to perfect copy,
but I would not have added all these twists.
Still, I don't want to fail to see glory.

Edit out the lines infused with worry,
though, understanding would have helped a bit.
Scribble in the margins of my story.

Add the notes that help me see the beauty
in all the pain and terror that exists
for I find it hard to see glory.

I want to trust Your guidance so fiercely--
to really trust that all the parts can fit.
Scribble in the margins of my story;
I don't want to fail to see Your glory.


~a villanelle in iambic pentameter '08

Recipes and Household Hints to Prevent the End of the World

I don’t know if it was a fascination with food or paper, but since I was a very young girl, I have been collecting recipes and household tips.  I remember one year for our 4-H Homemaking Club we put together recipe books, collected from hither and yon, from magazines and relatives’ splattered cookbooks.  That big scrapbook collection probably ended up in the bonfire when Mom and Dad moved off the farm, but I know for many years it was still in the big mysterious attic, along with other fabulous detritus of our lives.

I wish I had it still because it would be fun to see what I considered fun and tantalizing as a pre-teen. 

Over the years, I have collected recipes, earth-shaking discoveries, household hints, and a gazillion sure-fire ways to lose weight.  At this ripe age of 60, I now know that I have much more material than I could ever assimilate into the semi-boring rotation of my meal planning, and all those hideous desserts would surely be off-limits, like . . . forever!  And those weight loss tips have produced just as much success as a big slice of chocolate cake.  But I still do it.  An obsession?  Maybe more like a pleasant reminder of the earlier days of my youth and the Camelot days of raising my own kids, when I foolishly thought what I cooked or baked actually mattered a whit.  They could turn up their noses or devour indiscriminately. 

I periodically scan my binders, and I really have found some jewels of recipes over the years.  Those lucky ones make it into the “keeper” binder.  The failures, that look and taste better on glossy paper than in the kitchen, get big X’s marked across them so that future progeny will not make the mistake of experimenting with that disaster.  As if any of my progeny will ever page through these archives of my life; but you never know.  The way the economy is going, this may be the bulk of their inheritance.  If they don’t use the recipes and life-saving tips, they can get the payback from the recycling plant.  (As an aside:  Why is it again that we recycle when the recycling plants and the trucks that haul it there are greater polluters in sum than the pollutant savings of my measly contribution, along with my whole city’s.) 

I have been considering a major consolidation of my collection since it could leave room for another obsession:  used books.  But I pick up the free magazine at the health food store, and sure enough, there’s an article or recipe that will soften my arteries and reduce belly fat.  Gotta have it!  Oh, and there’s a debunking of the last major health study.  Good, I can eat eggs and chocolate again—and peanut butter!  And statins!  Got to have that one to show the doctor the next time they harass me about my cholesterol.  (Did you know that all lab testing with statins produced cancer in the sorry little lab rats?)  And marvel of marvels, all my low-fat and non-fat efforts have been robbing my aging body of fat-soluble vitamins.  So at Starbucks, it’s no more of the skinny varieties:  I’ll have a vanilla café latté with whipped cream, venti, extra shot of espresso, and yes, I know it is 105 degrees out, but I would still like it hot! 

I guess I have benefitted a lot over the years.  Maybe rather than get rid of some, I just need to catalogue my collection so I know what I’ve got and where to find it.  I better do it quick because the contamination from the mercury in the fish I’m eating to unclog my arteries is likely to cause rapid memory loss.