The Suitcase Lady

Mysterious

2009-03-10T21:20:00.002-05:00

At the age of seven I got my first library card, and life turned mysterious. I discovered mystery books in the children’s stacks at my storefront, neighborhood library. My addiction to the genre was instant.

Fast forward fifty-eight years. Finding a mystery by a favorite author on the library’s new book shelf can still make my day.

Matching wits with authors to detect the perpetrators or puzzles is not my style. I prefer to be surprised, entertained and, in many cases, amused.

If I were marooned on a desert island, I would want books by these ten authors to wash ashore.

Robert B. Parker - Spenser is forever macho, Susan sexy and Hawk invincible.
Laurence Shames - Key West, mayhem and a Chihuahua star.
Alexander McCall Smith - Three cheers for Madame Ramotswe and all traditionally built women.
Janet Evanovich - Skip the between the numbers series. Diesel pales next to Morelli and Ranger. Note to Stephanie… pick Morelli, and you’ll get Bob in the deal.
Donna Leon - Her series is a luscious mix of Venice, civility and paradox.
James Lee Burke - Wonderful stuff considering the number of adjectives he injects per square inch.
Randy Wayne White - Intrigue, tropical sunsets and marine biology play out in an idyllic marina.
Carl Hiaasen - More over the top than the real Florida - not an easy feat to pull off.
Tim Dorsey - OK, I’ll admit it, I love that history-loving psychopath, Serge Storms. I can’t wait to get my hands on the latest book, Nuclear Jellyfish.
Tony Hillerman - Joe Leaphorn’s creator died on October 26, 2008. The Navajo Nation, New Mexico and mystery readers everywhere are mourning.

Kindly share your favorite mysteries if you’re inclined. Happy sleuthing.

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Fever

2009-03-03T20:44:00.001-06:00

Last weekend I developed an advanced case of cabin fever. It hit like a shock wave as my car was sliding down the driveway into a snow bank on the opposite side from the garage door.

Our driveway goes straight down from the road and currently resembles a shimmering Alaskan ice field. Even a polar bear with its five inch claws and fur covered pigeon toed feet couldn't get traction here.

It is high time that spring put a tentative toe in the door. Walking up the driveway to the roadside mailbox or filling the bird feeders have become limb threatening activities.

And then there's the morning issue. I find no incentive to get out of bed when my nose is as cold as a popsicle. For the last week the AM temperatures have been single digits (above and below zero) and the wind Arctic blasts. The only sensible response to this situation is pulling the quilt over the head and going back to sleep; i.e., hibernation.

The snow hasn't been a stranger, either. I took three trips to the carwash last week in a valiant attempt to remove the patina of salt and slush that permanently envelopes my car.

Try as I might, I've only found one glimmer of hope. A few days ago I spotted a huge Sandhill Crane, an early returnee from its winter home in Florida. It was gliding down from the gray skies for a perfect landing in a nearby wetland.

If the thermometer ever hits fifty, expect to see us dancing naked in the melting snow banks.

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Owls

2009-02-24T22:21:00.000-06:00

Obviously, I am having an owl year, and I'm delighted.

Scientifically, an "owl year" occurs when the huge tundra loving snowy owls are short on prey (lemmings and snowshoe hares) in their far northern habitats. These ghost-like owls come south in search of munchies, causing bird watchers in the northern tier of America much joy.

I spotted my first snowy sitting on a telephone pole a few weeks ago just as dawn was breaking. I'm always on the lookout for raptors but was shocked when this one turned out to be white with black flecks and a big facial disc.

My second owl in a month was much more minute, in fact, only three inches tall and the world's smallest owl. The elf owl was ensconced in a natural habitat at Tucson's remarkable Sonoran Desert Museum, which, despite its name, is one of the top zoos in America.

Elf owls hang out in holes in saguaro cactuses. The openings are made by Gila Woodpeckers who build their nests in the cavities and abandon them when their young fledge.

Elf owls dine entirely on arthropods which are captured in flight. Moths are a special treat. When water is scarce, these little owls can get needed moisture from eating juicy beetles and other buggy prey. Scorpions and centipedes are also on their menu, and they remove the stinger before feeding scorpions to their young.

I'm grateful I never had to say to my kids, "Eat up all your scorpion, dears, so you will grow up to be strong and healthy."

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Pajamas

2009-02-17T19:37:00.003-06:00

"Don't ever send your children to a school where the kids call teachers by their first names."

This nugget of wisdom was the chalkboard "thought for the day" at my favorite French bakery. I heartily concur. If a teacher has no more status that a playground buddy, scant education will result.

I would like to add two school selection criteria of my own.

First, never send your child to any school that has the word "academy" in its name. If you doubt me, just try the following simple test. Walk into any classroom in an "academy" school and ask the students to write one short, grammatically correct, coherent paragraph in their native language. The results may shock you.

Second, don't send your child to any school that has more than one "crazy" day per school year. Crazy days are rampant... crazy hair day, mismatched clothes day, backwards day, crazy hat day, pajama day, stuffed animal day and on and on.

I truly believe it is harder to teach a bunch of hyper kids who have green faces, mismatched socks, flannel PJ's, purple hair and gigantic pandas in their arms, than a normally attired class.

Conversely, I find students hindered by a teacher in her chenille robe and bunny slippers.

I've never been a fan of school uniforms, but I might have to change my mind. Our school administrators seem to have lost theirs.

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Ampersand

2009-02-10T20:57:00.040-06:00

I am a fan of ampersands (&), those flamboyant little symbols that fill in for the word "and".

Shunning secretarial classes in high school, I was not formally introduced to the ampersand until I started doing graphic design. I was smitten. Even the word is fun to say.

Ampersands have been around since Roman times; however, the name is more recent. After perusing numerous web sites, the following history is the clearest. Be a bit patient, the explanation is convoluted.

The name "ampersand" certainly sounds as if it should mean something terribly exotic, coined in the misty yesteryear of typography, but its roots are actually quite humble, and we have the long-suffering schoolchild to thank for the word. It comes from the practice once common in schools of reciting all 26 letters of the alphabet plus the "&" sign, pronounced "and," which was considered part of the alphabet, at least for learning purposes.

Any letter that could also be used as a word in itself ("A," "I," "&" and, at one point, "O") was preceded in the recitation by the Latin phrase "per se" ("by itself") to draw the students' attention to that fact. Thus the end of this daily ritual would go: "X, Y, Z and per se and." This last phrase was routinely slurred to "ampersand" by children rightly bored to tears, and the term crept into common English usage by around 1837. Courtesy of The Word Detective May 2003

When choosing a typeface, I always check out the ampersand first. That symbol is often a wee showcase for font designer's creativity.

A small gallery of ampersands with a decidedly romantic bent follows. Happy Valentines Day!

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Breezy

2009-02-03T20:19:00.016-06:00

The other day it sounded as if the Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe was roaring through the house. Wind gusts were up to 45 mph, and the cats were all hiding in the rafters. I wanted to join them.

I have friends who find wind invigorating and exciting. I, however, view a windy day with unease. Aren't those big wind gusts just a practice run for sinking an ore boat in Lake Superior or blowing away some poor little Wisconsin town? And it's historical fact that many pioneer women who lived in sod houses out in the plains went mad from the constant howling of the wind.

Wind was a foe even when we lived in the city. Our yard was graced with a magnificent, mature willow tree. We all treasured it. But, don't believe all that gentle wind in the willows nonsense. After every storm, we could be found in our yard raking up willow tree debris for hours.

The phenomenal power of wind was fully revealed to us when we moved into our current country home. We are on a seventy foot bluff with open fields around us. When a nor’easter gets whipping, the noise in our upstairs bedroom is deafening. The whole house, including the bed, literally shakes and groans.

I think the wolf got miscast in The Three Little Pigs. The wind should have been the character that said, "I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down."

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Speech

2009-01-27T22:54:00.005-06:00

Sousa doesn’t talk. It’s odd to live with a creature that drifts silently through the house like an ebony ghost.

We know that the girl possesses a voice. In two years she has emitted four small “meows.”

Sousa is a beautiful black tortoiseshell cat who started life as a stray. She was run over by a car and left for dead at the side of a road. When a nearby farm family went to bury her, she stirred. Our local no-kill shelter took her in, paid the vet bills and tried to find her a “forever” home.

Every weekend she was tucked into a cat carrier and taken to a “mobile.” In other words, she was driven to a Wal-Mart parking lot with other foster cats in need of permanent homes.

Sousa apparently figured out that hiding silently in the back of her cat carrier was the fastest ticket home to her foster mom. For a year and a half, people passed her over for more vocal, charismatic cats.

But then she had a mobile showing at our house. We both knew this brave girl was right for us. After all, the other Tooley cats can talk up a storm. Neko even says the best cat swear words I’ve ever heard when I refuse to open the treat cupboard.

Silence is fine with us.

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Potatoes

2009-01-21T07:00:00.005-06:00

"There is no such thing as an Idaho potato. But there are potato varieties that are grown in Idaho."

This was one of the first things my future mother-in-law said to me. She came from one of the largest potato-growing families in the state of Wisconsin and wanted to make sure that any future daughter-in-law of hers wasn't a potato illiterate.

Fortunately, I was a fast learner. And it didn't hurt that I'd sell my soul for homemade mashed potatoes.

My husband and a good friend are still laughing about my order at a famous Chicago restaurant. "I'll have the whitefish, but hold the rice pilaf. Just bring two ala carte orders of mashed potatoes, please."

One night in Berlin I came as close to potato nirvana as I'll ever get. We were wandering around looking for a quaint and inexpensive cafe when I spotted a restaurant named "Kartoffel". My high school German kicked in, and I recalled that this was the word for "potato". Sure enough, every item on the menu featured potatoes in some glorious form.

However, my love of potatoes will never eclipse my mother-in-law's devotion to these tubers. Every summer she drove from her home in Tucson to visit us in Wisconsin, and she invariably arrived unannounced. One summer afternoon she walked in our door just before dinner.

"I'll have to go to the store," I said, "I don't have enough potatoes."

"Don't bother," she said and went out to her car. She came right back with a sack of potatoes. I've never known any other woman who traveled with emergency potatoes in her trunk.

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Twinkies

2009-01-13T20:36:00.002-06:00

The Interstate Baking Company recently filed for bankruptcy. In other words, Twinkies have tanked.

Who would have ever thought Americans could forsake their Twinkie habit? A lunchbox staple for generations, Twinkies have fallen from grace. What happened?

The answer appears to be that the world has finally caught up with my mother. Years before the term "health" food was invented, my mother was packing nutritious lunches for me every day. The format never varied: a cheese or peanut butter sandwich on 100% whole wheat bread, an apple and homemade cookies.

In my entire life I've probably eaten a grand total of three Twinkies. When you grow up with real food (called "slow" food now) you are hooked for life.

But now moms who grew up on Twinkies are doing a radical thing. They are reading food labels. Significant numbers of them are deciding not to feed their kids a chemical lunch.

I worked for a natural foods bakery for five years and remember an experiment done by one of the office people. An unopened package of Twinkies was placed on top of a file cabinet for two years. The Twinkies didn't mold, rot, shrink, smell, dry out or decompose. We could only conclude that Twinkies are shot full of embalming fluid.

A few centuries from now some archeologist will probably dig up an intact package of Twinkies and ponder the culture that produced "food" with archival qualities.

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Concrete

2009-01-06T20:50:00.011-06:00

Anyone can remodel a kitchen by being handy with $40,000. It's a real trick to do a make over for $2,000.

Our son in San Diego found himself with four young children, a large dog and a kitchen built in 1939. Taking his design inspiration from friends' houses in Mexico, he planned a remodel. The new kitchen would be owner-built of simple, affordable materials. Our daughter-in-law noted another Mexican imperative, "Stops in construction might have to occur until the next payday."

Two building materials would be featured, Mexican tile and concrete - lots of concrete.

The work began. Four, ninety pound bags of cement were mixed into concrete. The concrete was poured into a handmade, arch-shaped wooden mould and allowed to dry for a week. Nine of these arches were created from the same mould. The arches became the supports for the built in table and countertop.

Then, the easiest, cheapest and most visually striking work commenced. Three trips to Mexico were made to bring home a stunning array of tiles. Patterns were created, and the table, countertops and floor were hand tiled.

One summer of hard labor, ingenuity, trial, error AND intense patience from all family members produced an utterly delightful kitchen. To which I must add, our son and his family now have the heaviest kitchen in all of America.

Click here for pictures.

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Birthday

2008-12-28T20:29:00.001-06:00

Having a birthday on New Years Eve is no picnic. Restaurant prices are inflated, drunks fill the roads, everyone is sick of buying presents and the weather is atrocious.

But one memorable year when I was a young mother, my birthday was a picnic - literally. My husband and kids cranked up the thermostat, dressed in shorts and sandals, moved back the living room furniture and spread out our picnic sheet in the middle of the room. We all sat around feasting on our favorite summer picnic foods... tuna sandwiches, potato chips and raw vegetables. The sheet kept the cake crumbs moderately contained.

The years passed and our family scattered, mostly to the southwest. I realized that the perfect cure for a winter birthday was within grasp. Money was no longer as tight, and I could leave the birthday blizzards behind.

My dear mother-in-law in Tucson gave me a birthday party for many, many years. She had finally figured out that my favorite color was not brown. Therefore the kitchen table in her trailer sported her best Vera designed tablecloth covered with purple violets. Everything she cooked tasted wonderful, and her cakes were legendary. She pegged me as an angel food type.

I wish these birthdays could have lasted forever, but, as Robert Frost noted, "nothing gold can stay". So here's fair warning to my family and friends in warm climates... don't be surprised if you find me on your doorstep on December 31.

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Tree

2008-12-23T20:16:00.007-06:00

Your children should never forgive you for certain things. In my case it would be the living Christmas tree.

Like many disasters, this one started with the noblest intentions. I had read that in many parts of the country people bought small, real pine trees balled in burlap for their Christmas trees. After the holidays, the tree was moved to a patio or deck and then planted when weather allowed.

Our nurseries in Wisconsin are all closed for the winter as our yards are solidly frozen.

So I was delighted to spot a nursery in South Bend, Indiana, that had rows of these living Christmas trees for sale. Our family was returning home from a Thanksgiving trip, our two children tucked in the back seat. I must add that we have never owned a large car.

I rallied the troops. "We can do this", I pleaded. "It's only 170 miles. We can save a tree." The kids were aghast, but they stoically allowed us to jam the tree with its sizable earth ball between them in the back seat.

Somehow our mobile nursery arrived home, and the tree was appropriately adorned for the season. The kids would have preferred a 10 footer. After New Years, the tree was removed to the deck to await Spring's arrival. In Wisconsin a four month wait is de rigueur.

My husband dutifully dug the hole as soon as he could get his shovel into the ground. The little tree was planted with high hopes. I'm sure you all know the 3 word outcome of this story. The tree died. To which I will add that my son plans to spend the rest of his life in California, a state where living Christmas trees stand a fighting chance.

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Gadgets

2008-12-16T20:35:00.000-06:00

Gadgets are primarily guy things. I figured this out many years ago when my brother-in-law gave me a battery-operated paper towel dispenser as a Christmas present. Push a button and, voila, one sheet winds down. He was smitten. I was dumbfounded. This device defined superfluousness to me.

My husband loves gadgets, too, but he tries hard not to impose them on me. Occasionally, he cannot resist trying to enhance my life with gadgetry. The electric broom would be a good example. No, this gizmo is not a carpet sweeper. It looks exactly like a good, old-fashioned broom, bristles and all. The electric part zooms into action to suck up the pile one has manually swept up. In other words, the broom fills up with dirt. Give me a dust pan any day.

Needless to say, I have very few gadgets around the house. I absolutely do not need electric toothbrushes, Cuisinarts, bread machines, leaf blowers or electric cheese graters. Don't get me wrong. I believe a few gadgets are so essential that they should be in a gadget hall of fame. I would nominate:

The compact hand-held hair dryer
The Swing-Away manual can opener
The gizmo that opens stuck jar lids

Any nominations?

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Recycle

2008-12-09T20:47:00.007-06:00

We had one of our best Christmas trees in July, and it required absolutely no effort on our part.

This very special tree started out with hundreds of others on a tree farm in Central Wisconsin. We met up with it one blustery December day in our Piggly Wiggly store's parking lot. Once home, the tree was ensconced in the dining room and carefully decorated by my husband.

When the holidays were over, we recycled the tree. Down to the beach it went to ultimately be turned into driftwood by the wave action in Lake Michigan.

We would occasionally see our tree, now sans needles, when we were able to take long walks on the beach in spring. The tree would wash up and down the beach, but it also disappeared for weeks at a time. By the start of summer, the tree had vanished.

One July day we were coming back to our beach stairs after a hike, and there it was on our neighbor's beach, our tree, planted upright in the sand and completely decorated with dead fish. You will just have to imagine this, as we were laughing so hard our last thought was of getting a camera.

We later found out that the fish tree was the brainstorm of our neighbor's grandson. He hung the dead fish from the holes where their eyes used to be. (Gulls eat the eyes of the dead fish that float in) You might say our entire neighborhood is big on recycling.

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Grinch

2008-12-02T21:01:00.007-06:00

It appears as though the Grinch has stolen the American economy. Moreover, it doesn't look as if he's bringing it back any time soon.

Every since 1957 when Dr Seuss, aka Theodor Seuss Geisel, invented the cantankerous Grinch, the annual telling of the Grinch story is as traditional as the Nutcracker. Christmas almost can't happen in America without the Grinch.

Any toddler can tell you that the poor residents of Whoville have all their trees, trimmings, presents and feasts stolen by Mr. Grinch. BUT CHRISTMAS COMES JUST THE SAME! Eyes all over America tear up at this point in the telling.

We have a reality check about to occur. Will American children delight in playing board games with their folks as opposed to getting a 58 inch plasma TV under their tree? Can Christmas come for our kids without a boatload of toxic Chinese made toys waiting to be unwrapped? Can Christmas occur for the big folks without the latest techie gadgets?

Everyone professes to believe that the Whos in Whoville had a true Christmas, sans presents, trees and trimmings. But what if the Grinch's heart, aka the American economy, doesn't grow three sizes? We are probably about to find out the truth behind the legend.

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Grandma

2008-11-25T18:54:00.005-06:00

Over the river and through the woods was definitely not the route to my grandmother's house on Thanksgiving or any other day. The road went past the factories and around the taverns.

My grandmother lived upstairs in a dreary German flat on Milwaukee's south side. Even on the sunniest day her house was dark inside; the frugal Germans built these massive blocks of houses with only a few feet in between them.

My father dropped me off at Grandma's house every Sunday afternoon, and I adored being there. My grandmother, a typical German Housefrau in her faded, sagging house dress and run down carpet slippers, was wonderful to me.

Her house did not have a single toy in it, but the hours were richly filled. When I was very little, Grandma filled the old fashioned kitchen sink, and I would stand on a chair and simply play in the water. She also let me bang on the old, out-of-tune piano for hours, a monumental act of patience on her part.

Grandma taught me Canasta when I got bigger. She also made a valiant attempt to teach me to crochet, but I could never get beyond the chain stitch. She was definitely more successful in introducing me to cooking. I watched with fascination as she rolled out homemade noodles and hung them on the chair backs to dry.

My parents came back at dinnertime. The evening meal invariably involved something with noodles and schaum torte for dessert. Ed Sullivan always followed dinner, although he was barely discernible through the snow on the TV screen. Grandma's favorite show came next.

My grandmother, a staunch German Lutheran, was the biggest fan in America of the Yiddish comic, Molly Goldberg. She would have loved to have had Molly as a next door neighbor. My multi-cultural education began early.

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Duck

2008-11-18T20:49:00.006-06:00

The lone duck was hunkered down in the sand on the beach in front of our neighbor's cottage. We spotted him when we were going down the stairs to take a beach walk.

We both suspected a problem. Ducks are flock birds; a single one is usually sick or injured with a broken wing, bullet hole or broken foot.

We mutually agreed to take our walk in the opposite direction so as not to frighten this wild, possibly immobile creature. When we came back a while later, the duck had not moved.

"Don't interfere with nature" is a wise rule. However, I suggested that we might bring a pan of water and a dish of cracked corn down and place them a distance from the bird. Rehabbers have told me that many injured birds die from dehydration.

I went back to work in the house, and my husband took down the food and water.

A short while later he walked into the house with a smile and said, "Don't worry, the duck is fine. In fact, he came up with me. He's on the deck now."

I was incredulous. But there he was on our deck.

The duck was a decoy washed ashore by the waves.

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Stitches

2008-11-11T21:37:00.007-06:00

My cousin sews a mean seam. She selects gorgeous fabrics, makes her own patterns and sews stunning clothes. I am in awe of great seamstresses.

Unfortunately, I did not inherit the family gene for sewing. Early in our marriage, my husband gave me a sewing machine as a very special, surprise Christmas present. The real surprise turned out to be how ill-suited this machine and I were to each other.

The instruction manual for my sewing machine was positively frightening. Plus it was written in a strange hybrid language best described as Japanese English. No matter how hard I tried to follow the directions, bad things always happened; big loopy stitches, puckered up stitches, very wavy lines of stitches.

I quickly figured out that putting a garment together also required accurate measuring. My preferred method of measuring has always been "eyeballing".

Fortunately for me, sack dresses were in style at that time. I actually managed to sew several large rectangles together with a drawstring on top. Fashion was on my side.

My sewing machine and I parted company one day when I was mending split seams. The bobbin had turned itself into a piece of tumbleweed. I yelled to my 10 year old son for help. He took a long, hard look at what I had done to the machine.

"Just go do something else," he said. "I'll do the sewing for you."

Through the years I have inherited two more sewing machines. I immediately put them out for adoption.

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Voting

2008-11-04T16:29:00.003-06:00

It's election day, and I won't have to call my kids and remind them to vote. I tried that once and learned my lesson.

Years ago I phoned my married son to remind him it was election day. When I was shortly into my diatribe, he asked me to stop.

"I know what you are going to say," he said. "You're going to tell me about your grandmother." And then he added, "Of course I've voted."

I laughed and reminded myself that it is wise to desist when your message has been delivered effectively. The following is what I didn't have to tell him... again.

When I was growing up, we always got a phone call before every election from my long widowed grandmother. "Edward," she would say, "can you please take me to vote next Tuesday?"

My father unfailingly assisted his mother year after year in the performance of her civic duty.

My father's family was poor, and my grandmother lived most of her lifetime in a dreary "German" flat. She rented the choicer downstairs flat, thus getting a little extra rent income to help pay the bills. In her final years, climbing the steep, dark and twisted flight of stairs was almost impossible for her. But until the end of her life the pre-election day phone call was ritual.

I must add that she often told my dad, "I have to vote for Frank." For those of you unfamiliar with Milwaukee's history, Frank Zeidler was the last in a long line of Milwaukee's socialist mayors. They studded Milwaukee with beautiful schools, parks, libraries and natatoriums.

To me "socialist" is not an evil word. My grandmother couldn't possibly have been wrong.

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Juggler

2008-10-28T21:25:00.007-05:00

My husband is a dexterous juggler, and he has Halloween to thank for this delightful skill.

Shortly after we were married, I received an invitation to a Halloween costume party. This was not the type of party where a ghost costume fashioned from an old sheet or a witch hat and broom would suffice. The hundred or so guests were all artists and writers. Imagination and creativity would be running rampant. In other words, the pressure was on.

Since I regard even everyday clothes as costumes, I was in my element. My husband, however, was mortified. This is a man who regards sunblock, hand lotion and even first aid cream as disgusting slime. Dressing up as a giant Twinkie, Cyclops or a three headed dragon was unthinkable to him.

I hesitantly inquired, "What are you going to be?"

"A juggler," was the reply.

"But", I noted, "you don't know how to juggle."

To which he said, "I will."

And he did. No grease paint or bizarre costume was necessary. He wore a black turtleneck and slacks. Ironically, I have absolutely no recollection of what I wore to that soiree.

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Snake

2008-10-21T20:56:00.007-05:00

I have to confess that I've lost my snake. And what's worse, I've lost it before I could determine if it was alive or dead.

Let me explain. Last Sunday we took a walk down our lovely Lake Shore Road. On the way home I found a small snake (7 inches long, as thick as a pencil) on the asphalt shoulder of the road. It was not squashed by a car, but it was not moving, either.

Unable to check a snake's vital signs, I decided to get it out of harm's way.

When we all arrived home, I put the inert little snake in a Tupperware bowl, sans lid, just in case it was still alive. I put the bowl on a table in the "suitcase" room downstairs.

Then I consulted my "Snakes of Wisconsin" book. Since our state only has 21 kinds of snakes, I quickly identified my little guy as a Northern Redbelly Snake. The book said, "This species is often seen on warm sunny days in September or October basking on back roads."

Yesterday, when I came home from work, I went downstairs to check on the "dead" snake. The bowl was empty. The cats aren't talking, and the snake (alive or dead) is nowhere to be seen.

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Upstaged

2008-10-14T21:14:00.002-05:00

I was definitely upstaged last week, and I don't mind one bit. Anyone who would try to compete with a mouse for children's attention is a fool. Fortunately, I have learned that people charm is trumped every time by animal charisma.

The mouse in question was spotted scampering around a classroom just minutes before I arrived to do a program. Not one child had anything but mouse on their mind. All I could be was a second tier act. My career has prepared me for such humbling incidents.

The bookstore cat comes to mind. My program was going smoothly, and the bookstore cat was discreetly hanging out on the fringes of the group of children. Then I brought out my cat marionette. Bookstore cat proceeded to arch its back, make every hair on its body stand on end and hiss like a cobra. No strange feline was going to invade his territory. Nothing I could have done would have topped that act.

The lonely dog episode was another challenging scenario. I was at a very small library, and the program had to be done outside on a grassy lawn. I was facing the library with my back to the brick walled building next door. As soon as I started, a dog appeared in the second story window above my head. And this pup was extremely happy to have 50 kids and a program lady right below him. His owner was obviously not home, and the dog wanted to come out and join the fun. He communicated his desire by barking happily for the entire hour.

But my most challenging program involved 50 girl scouts and an open air park pavilion. As I was doing the program, I spotted the skunk heading out of the woods directly toward us. I told everyone to freeze. By some miracle and the influence of great scout leaders, the girls became statues. The skunk waddled into the pavilion, got into a trash can, had lunch and left. I am happy to report that none of us needed tomato juice baths that night.

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Gibraltor

2008-10-07T21:02:00.002-05:00

I am a failure as a consumer of durable goods. I have only bought one stove in my entire life.

For over thirty years I cooked and baked with the Rock of Gibraltor. That was the name we lovingly gave to our free stove. The rock was 30 years old when we inherited it. The woman who sold us her house was moving to Seattle and had no desire to move her ancient behemoth of a range.

In the 30 years I used it, I never figured out all its remarkable features... a deep well burner complete with kettle for soups, a cracker crisper drawer, a warming oven, dish towel drying racks, various timers and automatic starters. The stellar feature was its solidity. If anything rolled under the stove, it was gone. The Rock of Gibraltor did not move.

The Rock was easy to repair. My handy husband would occasionally replace a burner or broken element and the stove would keep on cooking year after year.

When we finally moved to our present home, we couldn't conceive of moving a 10 ton, 60 year old stove. We reluctantly left it behind and bought a shiny new Maytag range.

I knew I was in trouble when the Maytag arrived with these instructions... "do not use burners at high heat for prolonged periods of time." I did. The supports that held up the burner coils immediately melted causing the pans and teakettles to slide off. In retrospect, we should have moved the Rock.

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Minnesota

2008-09-29T21:40:00.004-05:00

I spend a fair amount of time in places other than my Midwest Wisconsin home. Therefore, I need to lodge a complaint to the rest of America. I am not, repeat not, from Minnesota (or Minn-ah-soda, if pronounced with the regional accent). Nor do I have any desire to be a Golden Gopher.

People in New Mexico are amused that many Americans mistake their state for an entire country, Mexico. We Wisconsinites have no such luck. We are diminished to the status of a gigantic Minneapolis suburb.

My aunt's eye doctor (in New Mexico which I know is a state) is a prime example. He knows I fly in to accompany my aunt to her appointments. Yet every visit he says to me, "How are things in - um - Minnesota?" "Great, as far as I know," I reply. And then I tell him for the umpteenth time that I live in Wisconsin. I am seriously considering wearing a large cheesehead to my aunt's next appointment. A Green Bay Packer sweatshirt will probably be necessary, too.

Wisconsin is desperately in need of a serious branding campaign. Our license plates meekly say "America's Dairyland". I suggest we replace this with "Eat Cheese or Die". That will get us a bit of well-deserved attention. Residents of the Big Mitten, rise up! We've got nothing to lose - but Minnesota.

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Treasures

2008-09-23T20:44:00.007-05:00

Japan wisely designates certain special citizens as living national treasures. If America ever becomes enlightened enough to emulate this practice, I know exactly who I would nominate. The apple lady would get my vote.

I met this amazing woman by default. Every fall I do a children's program, "All About Apples", which combines botany, folklore, nutrition and my own unabashed love for the fruit. I start the program by introducing the apple family - Mac, Milton, Jonathan, Paula Red, Granny Smith, Fuji, Ida Red and more choice specimens from the apple family tree.

In pursuit of as many apple varieties as possible, I head to the West Allis Farmers Market. One memorable year, I stopped at the sprawling stand of one of the biggest orchards and politely asked for one apple of each variety. The owner derisively replied, "Oh, you're one of those", meaning, of course, another grade school teacher wasting his time.

I left his display and found a small stand in a far corner of the market. A solitary older woman manned the stall, and her face looked exactly like that of an apple doll; browned, happy and weathered by many seasons in the sun.

She met my request with unparalleled enthusiasm and told me about her family's orchard which is devoted to saving antique apples. I learned that America loses hundreds of apple varieties each year. I already knew that most kids think an apple is a rock hard, utterly tasteless, corporately grown Red Delicious.

She introduced me to her apple family - apples grown since the time of Thomas Jefferson, apples perfect for pie making, an apple called Alexander which was first cultivated in Russia in the 1700's. And then she showed me an unassuming smallish Pink Pearl apple which wasn't very pink at all; that is, until it's cut open. The entire inside of the fruit is a delicate shade of pink. What kid, especially girls, can resist the charms of a pink apple?

"Come back next month," the apple lady always says. "Wolf River and Spy will be ready then." I'll take her up on that.

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