Tag Archives: Nostalgia

Of Crocuses, Tourneys and Hope

“A single crocus blossom ought to be enough to convince our heart that springtime, no matter how predictable, is somehow a gift …” —David Steindl-Rast

Have you, too, been watching your crocus bed like basketball bracketology? As if tiny blossoms guarantee your team achieves NCAA basketball glory?

While not everyone pairs crocuses and basketball, this Hoosier always will.

Blizzards may morph the combination into a reluctant threesome. Benedictine monk Steindl-Rast’s quote above resonates with me. Yet, Indiana inhabitants understand our March is as fickle as a referee’s calls.

Still, when crocuses, tough little optimists, push through snow, I want to turn somersaults. Although I prefer not to spend spring in a body cast.

Image by Klaus-Peter Knopp from Pixabay.

Perhaps ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Minoans also had to resist somersault temptation, as they loved crocuses. The Romans gave us their name, derived from the Latin adjective “crocatus,” meaning “saffron yellow.” Spice derived from an autumn crocus was used extensively by ancient chefs. Fashionistas used saffron to color fabrics and hairdos. Others swore it cured Grandpa Kitanetos’ rheumatism, Grandma Isis’ headaches and even Uncle Flavius’ habit of hitting the wineskins too often.

Image by Oberholster Venita from Pixabay.

Not surprisingly, the plant appeared in early civilizations’ mythology. Somebody was always falling in love with somebody else, rousing a god’s jealousy. In retribution, remorse or pity — or all three — deities, nymphs or humans were turned into crocuses.

In contrast, God, in the Old Testament book of Isaiah, celebrated the flower with an outrageous simile: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus” (Isaiah 35:1 NIV).

The Judean desert? I’ve been there. Even cacti run screaming from that burning wilderness.

At that time, God wasn’t dealing with depressed sports fans whose team blew it. He was speaking to war refugees who thought God had given up on them. Instead, He promised Jesus would come, bringing forgiveness and healing that would make miserable lives blossom like the crocus.

Today, as snow falls, the crocuses and I don’t give up hope. Tiny buds are reaching for the heavens, proclaiming Jesus’ Resurrection never quits.

Because of Him, we can always have hope.

Even if our team loses in the first round.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What do crocuses say to you?

Testing, Testing

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Standardized tests and I have always crossed No. 2 pencils.

During the 1960s, we Hoosier children took Iowa tests, though Indiana teachers already gave too many. Iowans loved math (yuck). Nobody in the test readings solved exciting mysteries like Nancy Drew.

Little did I know the SAT lurked in my future. Today, SAT cheering sections rah-rah second graders. Preparation courses guarantee not only top scores for high schoolers, but complete acne cures.

Fifty years ago, I almost forgot about the SAT.

My OC boyfriend saved the day. “Got your test ticket?”

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay.

“Um, I think so.”

“SAT’s Saturday! If you don’t take it on time, college is out!”

I rolled my eyes. “Were you born in Iowa?”

“Des Moines.” He blinked. “Why?”

“Nothing.”

No wonder we didn’t last until prom.

I found the crumpled ticket under my bed and took it to the test center.

Nowadays, kids bring laptops, caterers and masseuses. I brought two No. 2 pencils. (Has anyone ever seen a No. 1 pencil?). Also, a headache from staying out late the night before.

Image by Jean van der Meulen from Pixabay.

Reams of story problems met my bleary eyes. Sue rode trains to Detroit at 65 miles an hour. Her friend Gertrude traveled at 50 mph. These tests never asked important questions: Why didn’t they go together? Why would anyone go to Detroit? This had to be about a guy. Sure, Sue had a great body and flat-chested Gertrude, like me, read Jane Austen. That didn’t mean Gertrude didn’t deserve Kevin, the California surfer visiting his Detroit grandma.

The only answers offered: a) x; b) y; c) x + y; and d) 2,578 1/2. Heartless!

The first analogy question appeared more promising: chocolate is to vanilla as brown is to: a) fudge; b) mint; c) white; and d) 2,578 1/2. I chose b. Nothing topped chocolate mint ice cream. Sundae fantasies drifted through my mind. …

Sometimes, my high school friends and I had better things to think about than SAT scores.

Amazingly, colleges accepted my scores. But a scholarship? Doubtful.

During my era, students took the SAT only once. I could, however, take Achievement Tests. I retired at 9:00 p.m. the night before and brought five No. 2 pencils. I banished all thoughts of trains, Sue, Gertrude, boyfriends and ice cream.

My scores moved me up the scholarship ladder. Those standardized tests proved accurate, after all.

Maybe they were clapping for me in Iowa.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Were/are you good at taking tests?

Soxy Thoughts

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Today, we ponder the crucial issue of socks.

Socks? How can socks rank with global warming, European peace and Lady Gaga’s hair?

I, too, underrated these essentials that keep our world from getting cold feet.

I don’t even recognize some of these socks.

Unfortunately, 3,005 unmatched socks inhabit my laundry room. A Sunday sock. A striped soccer sock that fit my son three decades ago. A romantic sock printed with a red rose. Along with hundreds of others, these languish, lonely and unloved.

Maybe not so lonely. They multiply faster than rabbits. However, my socks never produce identical twins. Sigh.

My husband’s socks are paired by weave, wear and color (brown in the top drawer, black in the second, folded, with toes facing the same direction, thank you very much). While I relegate gift socks to stocking-stuffer status, Hubby considers them special. For his birthday, I gave him Smartwool^® bicycle socks, guaranteed not only to prevent blisters, but to increase mileage and double IQs.

Hubby’s brown-toned socks live in serene stacks in his top drawer.

Not only do smart cyclists (and their smart spouses) purchase specialty socks, but runners, golfers, snowboarders and fishermen swear by them. Manufacturers speak in scientific sock terms like “moisture and thermal management” and “dissipation of friction.” One hockey company sells “sanitary socks” — as if all others are unsanitary? Still, motorcycle riders from one survey should buy them. The riders admitted to wearing electric socks three winters straight without washing them.

Even if I bought fancy socks for Rufus, he’d chew them into tatters.

Even corporate types struggle to maintain nice socks. One CEO, attending a Japanese tea ceremony, politely removed his shoes. His toes erupted from a shabby sock like pimples. His new mission: to sell “sockscriptions,” mailing periodic boxes of socks so businessmen won’t experience similar trauma.

Fine socks are available for every occasion. Silk monkey socks for posh trips to the zoo. Glittery sushi socks for Japanese restaurants. Mint Chocolate Chip socks for Ben & Jerry’s grand openings. I can buy cute socks for my daughter’s dog, Rufus, that coordinate with designer coats, collars and chew toys.

Who am I kidding?

I’ll continue to purchase bunch-in-a-bag socks that preserve my circulation and budget. And if I don’t deserve fancy socks with matching chew toys, darned (pun intended) if Rufus does, either.

Finally, I bless your socks on, because with March’s unpredictable temperatures, I certainly will not bless them off.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How many singleton socks live in your laundry room?

Classic Post: Birthday Cake vs. Birthday Pie

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Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.

This post first appeared on February 28, 2018.

Birthday cakes boast a long, illustrious history. According to the Huffington Post, Greeks and Romans commemorated births of gods and men with candlelit cakes. As wine flowed at birthday feasts, the honoree occasionally set his toga on fire.

Birthday cake traditions still are regarded as sacred. Abstainers offend the family/office/church Cake Queen. (Watch your back, or she may stuff you into her oven.)

So, for survival reasons, I eat birthday cake. Thankfully, lighted candles suck out all calories.

On my upcoming birthday, however, I will indulge in raspberry pie. À la mode? Of course, à la mode. Do you think I’m an idiot?

My niece, Lauren Galan, makes — and photographs — delicious pies.

Don’t answer that. You, either, Hubby.

Obviously, this crucial subject demands discussion. Though my sweet tooth welcomes sugar, regardless of origin or creed, I have always liked pie best, especially my mother’s — fruit-plump, with ambrosial juices bubbling through golden, flaky crusts.

As a child, I loved reading about pie. Almanzo Wilder, in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy, reverently scanned hundreds at a county fair: “When he began to eat pie, he wished he had eaten nothing else.”

Mom would have made me birthday pies, if I’d dared requested them. But tradition ruled. I blew candles out on cakes.

Pie Heaven does exist on this earth. My brother practiced optometry where Amish patients gifted him with luscious offerings. Amazingly, he once shared his birthday shoofly pie with me … which made me suspicious. Had he stuck bananas up my Ford’s tailpipe? Informed the IRS I never had the three children I claimed? Volunteered me for a ten-year mission in the Sahara? I still wonder. …

Sometimes, being a pie lover can be dangerous — but yummy!

Some opponents caution that deviating from the cake custom opens the door to chaos. Only at one’s wedding does one deal with cake-in-the-face. But birthday pie increases pie-in-the-face risks exponentially.

And their point is?

The lemon cream pie that once smeared my visage caused no dire effects. Fellow conference-goers, however, fussed about my suit and hair as if I’d suffered a blast of radiation.

When globs of luscious pie are within licking distance, who cares about my hair? Some people should get their priorities straight.

Did you hear that, Almanzo? I know you’d bravely take a pie in the face. And choose birthday pie, too.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Which would you choose, birthday pie or cake? Which kind?

The Best Cabin Fever Cure

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Suffering from cabin fever?

I recommend a tried-and-true cure that works for all ages: baking bread.

Years ago, I was pregnant, diapering, potty-training, or all the above, laboring under a blizzard of “Mo-o-m-myyyyy!”s.

After coloring 147 Smurfs, we needed a different creative experience.

Baking bread worked.

My preschoolers stared in wonder at yeast particles. When we gave them a warm bath, I explained, they blew up tiny balloons that made the bread rise. (Hey, you play Mr. Wizard your way, and I’ll do it mine.) Everyone took turns measuring flour and salt. With luck, we didn’t reverse the quantities.

I needed to knead bread. The rocking rhythm soothed my soul. The children clobbered dough instead of each other.

We made the best bread on the planet — if we let it rise. Like a drying sidewalk, a blob of dough begs for kids’ fingerprints. So, the bowl rested on top of the refrigerator.

When the dough finally rose, we punched it down together. The final step: shaping loaves and twisty rolls. Only culinary experts age six and under can create these little masterpieces.

The baby swallowed the little lump of dough I gave him. The sisters rolled and cut dough into strips with plastic knives. They added cups of flour when Mom wasn’t looking. It whitened the dough, an improvement since one chef decided the floor made a great cooking space. I helped them braid segments and persuaded them to allow each magnum opus to rise again.

Scraping dough off kids, I began to reclaim the environment. One child had showered us with a bag of flour. Another washed dishes to “help.” After rocking them to sleep, I scraped goo off walls and ceiling. Redid the “clean” dishes and mopped. Could I finish a cup of tea before little voices called, “Is it time to bake twisty rolls yet?”

Image by Alexander Lesnitsky from Pixabay.

I opened the oven 14 times so they could supervise! But who cared? Heavenly fragrance swirled around us like warm love. Gray, alien lumps miraculously baked into little golden braids. Each kid slathered warm twisties with butter and devoured them while watching Mr. Rogers.

Half a big loaf of bread disappeared too.

Everybody felt lots better.

Decades later, half a loaf might cure cabin fever too.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your cure for cabin fever?

How to Rationalize Watching a Ballgame

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My name is Rachael, and I’m a ballgame-aholic. Sports rivet me to the small screen.

Although I was raised with the Midwestern work ethic. My mother scoffed at grown men who wasted time playing games with balls and sticks. When she not only hid the “TV Guide” and sport sections, but dispatched Dad’s recliner to the roof, our family got the message.

My husband’s family, though equally industrious, considered watching ballgames valid and Indiana University basketball sacred.

Consequently, Hubby doesn’t require many ballgame rationalizations, though he sometimes borrows from my vast collection. One favorite: we accuse each other of working too hard, then prescribe couch-potato bliss “to keep our blood pressures down.”

If this fails, we add respectability with semi-productive activities that don’t detract from the loafing essential to sports viewing.

First, we count the money in our wallets.

Okay, that took four seconds. What next?

We fold Hubby’s brown and black socks. He does this on autopilot, and I rarely bother to separate the two, so we can focus on the game.

Hubby polishes shoes. If the score’s tied in the final minutes, the difference between black and brown also escapes him. But my flip-flops look really shiny.

I consider cleaning my handbag. But what will emerge from its mysterious depths? A penny with two Lincolns might make us rich. However, a 50-year-old photo of an old boyfriend might distract us from the important business at hand.

Picking dead leaves off plants qualifies as a ballgame pastime, unless teams play overtimes. I enjoy the excitement, but bald plants do not.

Manicures, pedicures and ear-hair-trimming sessions also work, though they necessitate similar caution.

Hubby and I sort through cassette tapes and vinyl albums. We cannot bear to part with any of them, so such endeavors provide pleasant diligence without accomplishing anything.

Some couples file tax receipts, answer emails, or alphabetize canned goods while viewing a ballgame. Some have the effrontery to exercise. They even claim this is quality couple time.

Quality time? My husband and I snuggle, cheering our teams, snarling at referees, consoling and/or celebrating with hugs, smooches and buttery popcorn.

After 48-plus years of watching ballgames together, we know how to do quality time.

It’s the best ballgame rationalization ever.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you rationalize watching ballgames?

Classic Post: Soda Fountain Magic

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This post first appeared on June 20, 2018.

Entering Zaharako’s soda fountain as a preschooler, I knew magic was for real.

I spotted curlicue iron tables and chairs my size. Glass cases held hundreds of chocolates, hard candies and jelly beans. Had I reached Heaven early? The adult friend who brought me confirmed this with ice cream I didn’t have to share.

I pattered across the gleaming, black-and-white floor to the counter’s red stools. They spun round and round! My friend’s objection didn’t surprise me. Even if stools were designed to twirl, grown-ups said you shouldn’t.

A 1908 orchestrion — a self-playing pipe organ with drums, cymbals and triangles — fascinated me. Did jolly ghosts fill the high-ceilinged room with music?

Occasionally, Mama took us to Zaharako’s. How I longed for that pile of roasted cashews! But even a small packet cost too much.

My mother’s generation had frequented the place during their teens, so we cool adolescents of the 1960s avoided the fountain as if radioactive. Still, celebrating my first job, I treated my little sister at Zaharako’s.

I said grandly, “Order whatever you want.”

We ate huge sundaes. I played the orchestrion and bought cashews, toasty and delicious beyond belief.

Later, I chose fabulous Zaharako’s candies for my future in-laws’ Christmas gift.

Fast-forward several years to my mother’s visit. Adulting had drained away my coolness, so we visited Zaharako’s. The mirrors gleamed, but the near-empty soda fountain’s stained counter, dull woodwork and damaged tin-patterned ceiling didn’t brighten our day.

“Everyone came here after school. ‘Meet you at the Greek’s!’ we’d say.” Mom gazed at the broken orchestrion. “The fountain’s dated now. I guess I am, too.”

Decades later, I shared a similar feeling when I stopped for a treat, but Zaharako’s, a landmark since 1900, had closed. The orchestrion? Sold to a California collector.

Not long afterward, though, as I traveled past my childhood hometown, something sent me off the interstate.

Miracles do happen.

Inside Zaharako’s, red stools flanked gleaming counters, and mirrors glimmered amid rich woodwork. Pint-sized curlicue tables and chairs again held little diners. The original orchestrion played, grand as ever.

I sent yummy chocolates to my mother.

She couldn’t remember events of five minutes before, but she recalled Zaharako’s.

The soda fountain had worked sweet magic once again.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite soda fountain treat?

Classic Post: Booting Up

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This post first appeared on January 3, 2018.

“Don’t go outdoors without your boots!”

These winter words echo across decades.

Actually, this child liked clumping boots. Despite Mom’s belief I would catch 19 diseases, their podiatric force field protected me when stomping ice-covered gutters.

Unfortunately for my parents, their children’s feet grew hourly. While my sister acceded to wearing my hand-me-downs, I drew the line at my brother’s galoshes. However, recycled boots weren’t always an option because we had honed losing winter wear to a fine art.

The positive side: Lack of sufficient winter garb kept us inside warm classrooms at recess. While friends shivered outdoors, I read favorite books.

Some stories featured boots. In Little Women, Jo March’s boots helped her play swashbuckling heroes and villains in homegrown dramas. In Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy, a traveling cobbler designed Almanzo Wilder’s first manly pair. Puss in Boots never would have brought his master fame, fortune and a princess if he hadn’t strutted about in that all-powerful footwear.

Still, most boots seemed mundane until go-go boots invaded the fifth grade fashion scene. My ignorant mother refused to buy me white boots amid the muddy slop season.

I whined. I pined. I promised I wouldn’t lose them, not even one.

She wouldn’t budge. So, I languished without the go-go boots every girl owned except me — and Becky Andrews, who wore thigh-high black boots like Nancy Sinatra’s when she sang “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”

Ten years later, I wore a similar pair that stretched my height well past six feet.

But snow time with my toddlers required mommy boots. My little ones readily wore garage sale Strawberry Shortcake and Ninja Turtles boots, even with PJs. They, too, waded in yucky gutters, despite my warnings.

Years later, they cornered me in a boot discourse similar to my go-go debate with Mom decades before. My children wanted me to spend a gazillion dollars on short-topped “boots” designed to frostbite toes.

When I refused, they left a row of sensible boots to an undisturbed existence in the closet — until I discovered my son’s worked well when I shoveled sidewalks.

I couldn’t wear the tall, black leather boots (my size!) I’d found on sale for five bucks.

I still wear them. I just leave them home when it rains. Or sleets. Or snows. Or. …

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Fess up. Do you wear your boots during yucky weather?

January: Love It? Hate It?

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Some welcomed 2023 with the same enthusiasm as author Jerry Spinelli: “I love beginnings. If I were in charge of calendars, every day would be January 1.”

Contrariwise, author Roald Dahl would “remove January from the calendar altogether and have an extra July instead.”

Thankfully, neither works for a calendar company. But their clash illustrates typical debate.

My highly scientific poll, based on Walmart eavesdropping, suggests that in January, most shoppers wilt like post-Christmas poinsettias.

Snow-lovers gripe because The Weather Channel sent only flurries. Snow-haters grouse because blizzards lurk behind every cloud. Kids hate January because they return to school. Babies, imprisoned in snowsuits Grandma gave for Christmas, raise loud protests.

Besides, everyone’s broke.

We’re all on diets.

Many people really hate January.

Quiet January was one of Mom’s favorite months.

My mother, a pastor’s wife, loved it. Her Christmas responsibilities ranged from distributing food baskets to ensuring no shepherd in her pageant picked his nose. Plus, we children assumed Mom would make Christmas dreams come true … without money.

Though she loved Jesus supremely, Mom thanked Him when His birthday party was done.

I, too, savor January’s serenity. Time for unhurried worship of the Christ who dared enter our crazy world. A hot-soup-homemade-bread aura helps us settle down and settle in to savor good books. For Hoosier authors, January’s excellent writing weather. (How do unlucky novelists in the Bahamas finish anything?)

Mom and I have passed January preferences to my Michigan grandson. He, however, loves shrieking forays down the highest sledding hills.

Hubby’s the only basketball fanatic in our family … not.

My husband and other sports fans welcome January because they wallow in basketball. Mourn losses. Decimate January peace with insane celebrations.

January also gave the world distinguished citizens: Martin Luther King, Benjamin Franklin and Joan of Arc. Betty White, James Earl Jones, Elvis and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Hopefully, their birthday presents weren’t wrapped in leftover Christmas paper.

If this January sends snow, I’ll welcome snowflake kisses. Swish snow angels. Sled with my grandson, shrieking all the way down, “Jesus … he-e-e-elp!”

Then do it again.

Image by Public Domain Pictures from Pixabay.

Sorry, Roald Dahl. I’ll never vote these days off the calendar.

John Steinbeck reminds us: “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?”

Though, Charles Spurgeon offers even better advice: “Let January open with joy in the Lord.”

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Why do you like or dislike January?

Been There, Done That, Don’t Want to Do It Again

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Have you created a bucket list? I’ve considered it.

Instead, I recorded what I’ve done and would rather not repeat:

Buy stupid shoes. At 20, I wore platforms with heels so high they gave me altitude sickness. Repentant, I then purchased “healthy” earth shoes — hideous footwear with nonexistent heels and built-up soles that tilted me backward. Either way, I risked possible surgery.

Attend the Indianapolis 500. Amazing, but the cars’ incredible speed and incessant roar made me crave 30 quiet seconds inside a refrigerator, away from sizzling heat.

Tour France without knowing the language. My French, limited to “bonjour” and “french fries,” invoked eye rolls, especially on Petite Street, where shops sold clothes that fit only Tinkerbell.

Other remembrances make me shiver. I never again want to:

Camp next to someone a sheriff greeted by name.

Read Ku Klux Klan recruitment posters.

Lodge in a Honduran hotel room with broken locks.

Our baby liked the red and orange shag carpet, but it wasn’t my first choice.

Accept rides with strangers.

Nor will I:

Endure red and orange shag carpet.

Allow a closet-sized kitchen whose fridge froze lettuce and melted ice cream.

Sample saki. It tasted like turpentine.

Finally, I won’t challenge anyone to a doughnut-eating contest. Ronnie, a street kid who attended my Bible club, claimed he could outeat anyone. I devoured twice as many. Humbled, Ronnie went home, sick. Humbled, I realized the Bible didn’t recommend this form of evangelism. I called Ronnie’s mother to apologize.

Silence. Then laughter. “Glad you called his bluff.”

Still, I couldn’t look a doughnut or bathroom scales in the face. God, either, but soon I realized He’d forgiven me and had taught Ronnie and me to engage brains before mouths.

God isn’t limited by clueless mistakes. Amazingly, the kid still attended Bible Club. Decades later, I pray doughnut disaster memories have faded. That Ronnie clearly recalls Jesus loves him.

In reviewing my once-but-never-again list, I realize God’s protected me big-time. I never fell off my shoes. I haven’t been abducted, joined the Ku Klux Klan, or worn French Tinkerbell clothes.

I now can look doughnuts in the face.

Scales? Still working on that.

And God’s bucket list for me.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s on your once-but-never-again list?