When our children were small, I maintained a camping list as complicated as a theological treatise. It grew so wise and wonderful that our daughter, now taking her family camping, borrowed it. “I don’t want to forget anything.”
Ha! Campers always forget something.
I balked at handing over my ragged, penciled/inked, 25-year-old list. Part of me celebrated. No more worries about taking Scooby-Doo Band-Aids, the only kind our five-year-old would accept. But I sniffled anew over our empty nest.
I sobbed, “My camping list. …”
Hubby’s face stiffened in his familiar you’re-insane-but-I-won’t-say-it expression. He didn’t protest, “But you hate lists.” Or even, “You didn’t lose it 25 years ago?”
Still, he couldn’t comprehend how listings of bug spray and Imodium® evoked tender memories a mother could cherish.
He did offer to make a new list.
Eyes shining, he plopped beside me. “What do we want on our camping list?”
“We”? I had sort of wanted to do … anything else.
He read me. “If we collaborate, we won’t forget anything.”
We discovered — gasp! — that we define “essentials” differently.
He cannot survive without disgustingly healthy oatmeal raisin cookies. I refuse to leave the driveway without my beloved Pecan Sandies Shortbread cookies. We do agree that a hike without trail mix is like a cruise — not that we’ve taken one — without a buffet.
Hubby stood firm on one point: no melty, messy chocolate chips.
I stood firm. Trail mix without chocolate is not trail mix.
Believe it or not, we completed the list before Christmas.
In hopes of rescuing your future campouts, I include tips on camping items that should never be forgotten:
The good news: even if we’ve forgotten camping list essentials, we’re still married.
But with a new, untried list … with no Scooby-Doo Band-Aids … will we survive the next camping trip?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What item would make the top of your list? (Hint: Room service does not count.)
Empty nesters like me have forgotten the, er, thrill of the first-day-of-school drill, right?
I may forget where I left my car … in my garage, because I walked to the store.
But I still can feel Mom brushing my hair into a tight ponytail that relocated my eyes. Before the bus arrived, she asked if I’d changed my underwear, then hugged me goodbye.
Clutching a box of unbroken crayons, I entered a classroom that smelled of chalk dust and my teacher’s flowery perfume.
We were issued information cards to give our parents. I could read and knew my address and phone number. One blank, however, stumped me.
After school, I asked Mom, “What’s sex?”
She straightened. “Honey, where did you hear about sex?”
“It’s on the cards—”
“The school cards.” I handed her mine.
Why did she chuckle? “The school wants to know if you’re a girl or boy.”
“I’m a girl!” Mystery solved. I felt immense relief.
She probably felt more.
Fast-forward 25 years. My eldest, starting kindergarten, also knew how to read. We had practiced our address and phone number. I had instructed her about sex blanks.
She donned her Strawberry Shortcake backpack. I plunked my toddler into a stroller.
The school, though located across the street, seemed a world away.
“Time to go,” I said brightly.
“I want to go by myself.”
My heart shriveled. “But—but—all the other mothers get to come.”
“I don’t want you to come.”
“You might get lost!”
“We visited my room. Two whole times.”
How had she mastered a teenage eye-roll? “Uh—”
She looked carefully both ways and crossed the street. But at the school’s entrance, she paused.
She needed me! To my two-year-old’s delight, the stroller and I galloped madly toward the school.
But my kindergartener had disappeared.
Now I paused, chewiing my nails. Should I risk another eye-roll?
Instead, I slunk home and suffered. Had my child indeed found her classroom?
Or had aliens abducted her?
When the school’s dismissal bell rang, the sight of the familiar little figure saved my life. “How was school?”
“Okay. But I didn’t like the cookies.”
She’d found her room! She’d filled out her information card herself. She knew her sex.
But she had balked at the teacher’s listing her race as white. “I told her you said I was pinky-beige.” My daughter groused, “She put a ‘W’ in the blank anyway!”
Apparently, my child had taken our racial discussions to heart. …
Ah, the first day of school. I may be a spectator now, but I haven’t forgotten the thrill of the drill.
As if I ever could.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What first-day-of-school memory stands out for you?
Does anyone speak of this popular summer beverage as “iced tea”?
Only dictionaries, menus, maître d’s — and column writers who must meet editing standards — have touted good ol’ ice tea with the superfluous “d.”
As southern temperatures soar, my Louisiana relatives greet visitors with a simple “Ya’ll come in and have some tea.”
If you, too, are a Yankee, please note: Never ask if the tea is sweetened or unsweetened.
Loyal southern citizens would rather fight the Civil War again than drink unsweetened tea. Even consumers who add artificial sweeteners warrant watching.
So I will try to lose weight before my September visit.
The locals drink it even at breakfast. Just recalling childhood memories of endless frosty glasses consumed while eating huge sorghum-laced biscuits adds layers to my physique.
My mother, though she did not possess the southern genetic code necessary to produce true sweet tea, was an exceptionally wise Yankee. As a young wife, she studied her in-laws’ iced-tea technique and learned the correct way to dump endless scoops of sugar into hers.
For years, Mom’s sweet tea helped cool and fuel her skinny little kids throughout sweltering summers. She steeped teabags in a pan with a ceramic lining — why, I don’t know, but I followed her lead for years. While it brewed, she recruited a child to “throw ice.” Money being short, she never considered store-bought bags. Trayfuls lasted mere minutes. Instead, Mom filled gallon milk cartons with water and froze them. We children took these cartons to our solid cement porch and threw them.
Most of the time, deliberately breaking anything resulted in an immediate Judgment Day. Part of the perk of throwing ice included the soul-satisfying shatter, classified, unbelievably, as “helping Mom.”
When Dad arrived, brown and weary from hammering nails on a sizzling roof or covered with paint, she filled a jar with cracked ice and poured her blessed sweet tea over it, resurrecting his body and soul.
A half century later, I know pitchers of sweet tea will await me when I visit Dad, along with glasses chock-full of ice. No pumpkin chai or caramel truffle for us, and never decaffeinated.
He and my relatives know better than to mess with a great brew.
Better than I, for the last time I visited, I asked, “Is this tea sweetened?”
What’s your favorite summer tea? Sweetened or unsweetened?
To very-soon-mothers-to-be walking along my street, in malls, and parks: my heartfelt sympathy. I gave birth to an August baby, too.
My final month, I holed up in our bedroom, the rental’s only air-conditioned area. Trying to buckle my shoes, I wriggled like a June bug on my back for two hours, then sallied forth in bedroom slippers to buy slip-ons.
At the store, a terrified teen clerk eyed me.
He came through … and probably vowed lifetime celibacy to shield him from cranky, pregnant women. Women wreaking vengeance on people with flat stomachs, no stretch marks and normal body temperatures. On anyone not carrying August babies.
My helplessness gave way to well-shod confidence. No more June bug imitations. With God’s help, I could do this.
I even volunteered to conduct my church’s evangelistic survey. I walked on my heels, as with any shift toward my toes, my watermelon-sized stomach would have dropped me onto my nose.
But I wore cute shoes. With no buckles.
Most residents, after glances at my stomach, demonstrated kindness. Crusty homeowners collared Chihuahuas and offered glasses of water. One irate lady shooed me into her recliner. Did my mother know I was doing this?
Later, fellow volunteers and I discovered my survey had proved the most successful! However, our team leader nixed the others’ tucking pillows under their shirts for follow-up.
I did not participate. August Baby had other plans.
The day before her arrival, I weeded flower beds. Throughout my pregnancy, I had charted a religiously healthy diet. But that day, I deserved chili dogs drowned in beans, cheese, onions and mustard.
Stuffed, gritty and exhausted, I announced, “I’ll shower tomorrow.”
My husband, a sleep-deprived resident physician, yawned. “Me, too. Don’t go into labor tonight.”
We collapsed. But August Baby woke us at one a.m. to announce her imminent arrival.
Not only did I have to confess my heinous dietary lapse to the nurse, but every hospital staff member came to meet me.
“That’s Dr. Phillips’ wife?”
“Yeah, the one with the dirty nails.”
August Baby, however, made me forget everything. So what if the overflowing obstetric wing made us spend our first hours together in a hallway? Since many staff were on vacation, my long-awaited bath was postponed. …
August Baby and I spent many sweet, sweaty, squally summer nights cuddled too close, her soft skin and hair damp against mine.
But my daughter learned early to go with the flow. Her sunshine-tinged hair, eyes, and smile always have reminded me of August richness, of the treasure I received, dirty nails or not.
August Baby, you were — and are — golden.
I know exactly where to find ice cream in my hometown. So do thousands of academics, farmers, ball teams, Bible study ladies and motorcycle gangs.
Ivanhoe’s has served area ice cream addicts for decades.
So that evening I forced myself to leave Hubby and the others — hoisting a piano above their heads — to seek a grocery.
Consulting his phone, Hubby gave me directions, then bowed his head and prayed. “At least, we’ll see each other in heaven.”
Okay, so I needed 13 tries to navigate endless roundabouts. By time I found the address, I had viewed the outskirts of Louisville, Chicago and Japan.
I finally found Hubby’s designated grocery store.
It had not yet opened for business.
Sitting in the store’s soon-to-be-blacktopped parking lot, I realized my family could have moved the White House’s contents since I left.
I reached for my cell phone … that I’d left at home.
A vision of my grandson, stuck-out lip quivering with disappointment, gave me courage to try again.
I would accomplish my mission the old-fashioned way, like my father before me.
His method? Pick a direction and trust God to lead to a store/motel/gas station/restrooms.
I found auto repair shops, upscale tattoo parlors, and … marinas. In Indianapolis?
Like Dad, I tried one more road … that led to a health food store.
Desperate, I entered and found ice cream!
Soy cranberry and papaya bark.
In despair, I sank to the floor.
Then spotted it on the bottom shelf:
Not carob. Not tofu. Not even yogurt.
I bought it and arrived as the last piece of furniture was moved into place. Not even Hubby possessed the energy to roll his eyes.
Smiles that reigned as our grandson blew out candles morphed into frowns as I plopped ice cream on pieces of cake.
“It’s not healthy,” I promised. “Honest.”
“Yes, it is.” My other grandson pointed to the label. “It says this ice cream came from healthy cows.”
“Taste it,” I pleaded. “Real chocolate chips, see?”
My family is nothing, if not broadminded — especially when starved.
Smiles returned. Birthday Boy ate two big helpings.
Everyone needs character-building tests, challenges that demand their all.
But I’m glad my usual ice cream quest requires only a three-block walk to Ivanhoe’s — without a single roundabout — to choose from 100 sundaes.
Now, there’s a challenge. …
Where does your favorite ice cream quest lead you?
Hubby and I have just returned from two weeks of camping, aka our vacation. Grateful to return with only 4,271 mosquito bites, I greet my calendar, which features a two-scene 1947 Norman Rockwell print entitled “Going and Coming.”
In the first, a grinning guy showing off a snazzy fedora and big cigar drives a station wagon topped by a boat. His smiling wife holds Little Sister on her lap. Junior and Fido hang out a window. Warm air flaps their ears and ours, and spit hits our windshields as they pass. Big Sis blows a bubble with her gum that could carry her to the lake by air. Little Bro holds his nose, giving the “You stink!” gesture that passed for rudeness during that era. Beside him, Grandma, sitting straight as a general, ignores the little heathens because of her poor eyesight.
At least, that’s the excuse we grandparents give.
In the second scene, the family returns from the beach. Dad sports only a stump of his cigar and bravado. Mom and toddler snooze. Even the boys and dog sit sedately, and Big Sis’s bubble has shrunk to earthbound size. Grandma, still ramrod straight, probably sleeps with her eyes open, a skill she’s perfected during church.
These Rockwell pictures shout their message so loud and clear even art experts can’t mess with it: “Vacation’s Over … Thank God!”
Each spring, epidemic celebrations offer a taste of summer, tantalizing as our first mouthful of strawberry shortcake. We view new territory, thumbing our noses at those less audacious, confident our bubble gum will taste good forever.
By late July, however, we surpass our quota of quality time together, especially in the car. We peel from the sun’s overfriendliness. Sand has made itself at home in cars, carpets and shorts. Kids have grown an extra epidermis comprised of sun block, Popsicle®, and dirt.
Oddly, something deep inside us craves an alarm clock — and regular bath times. We still love barbecues, but a Sunday roast with mashed potatoes and gravy sounds even better. We want our beds, our messy houses and our schedules.
Even messier because of vacations.
In Rockwell’s return scene, Dad will unload the car, including boat, gear, and sleeping children. Mom faces the formidable task of putting the remaining kids — freshly energized by their arrival home — to bed. (A side note: Both scenes feature children who appear entirely too clean. Mrs. Rockwell never would have painted them thus.)
We wouldn’t miss it for anything.
Today, are you coming or going?