On the Banks of the River

Village stream Avening close to bursting its banks  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting, and doing the things historians usually record; while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry, and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happens on the banks. Historians are pessimists because they ignore the banks for the river.” ~ Will Durant

I opened a favourite book of mine, Storycraft, by Jack Hart, and by pure chance found this quote on page 142 of Chapter 9. Now you can open a book at random and not find anything of consequence. This time I opened a book at random and found a quote that pretty well sums up all of the important things that need to be summed up.

It is the everyday, the lives that we live, the families we make (and family is a big word–you do not have to be related by blood to be family), and the things we do and create that are important. Like a headline ripped from the paper–civilization is given short shrift if you only look at the extremes.

The “story of civilization is what happens on the banks” in our everyday lives. That is the interesting stuff. Leave the other stuff to historians and the headlines. (Not all historians keep account of the killing, stealing, and shouting–Will Durant is himself a historian).

Bliss is what happens on the banks–what do you think?

Hi Mom ~ Bliss is being Blessed with a great Mom

In Memory of my Mom: White flowers. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Michelle says: Today is Mother’s Day in the United States. Wherever in the world you are, write your mother a letter.

Well, Michelle, it is Mother’s Day in Canada too—and I am going to take you up on your prompt—more for me than anything else.

Hi Mom!

Well, to start, I miss you. It has been 21 years now, and not a day goes by that I do not think of the creak in the stairs. An odd memory you might think—but it is one of my most vivid.

When I would come to visit you after I was  married, with toddler Adam firmly held by one hand, and baby Tyler balanced ever so precariously in my other arm, (precarious because he was always moving) I would knock on the front door after climbing the four steps to your covered front porch. Then, I would wait to hear the creak on the stairway which led from the upstairs of our house (it was still “our” house even though I did not live there anymore) to the main floor. That creak meant you were walking down the stairs and had hit the step that produced a loud raspy groan that announced any trip down (or up) the stairs (I remember avoiding it when I came in late as a kid and young adult). That squeak meant you were making your way from your sitting room upstairs (my old bedroom) to the front door to let me in—and I knew it was my invitation to just come in.

You would take Tyler from my arms and cuddle him with one arm, and hug Adam with the other. You were always, ALWAYS, glad to see us. You would shepherd us into the middle living room (an odd house—we had a front living room and middle living room that was once a dining room perhaps?) and offer us drinks and food and good conversation. And you would play with the boys—being a grandma was an interactive activity for you. I remember my grandmas were wonderful but they never, ever played with me or took me for walks or taught me things. You did all those things with your grandchildren.

You helped keep me sane as a young mom—and when you left this world for another, I was equipped to handle it.  Equipped but not happy to handle it without you—but as there was no choice I did the best I could.

Life has been good and bad, wonderful and awful over the last two decades. Lots has happened, but suffice to tell you the most important thing: the boys have grown up into fine young men (an odd clichéd thing to say—but true.)

This letter is more for me than you, because I think from where I imagine you to be, you are helping me out along the way and are aware of what is going on in my life and that of your other kids. You know our heartaches and our triumphs and I am sure you laugh and cry for us. I will always think of you as my personal cheerleader, someone who believed (and believes) in me and my brothers and sister. You are our guardian angel—we know that for sure.

There is no proper ending to a letter like this except: I love you mom ~ Lou

Unbroken Sabbatical

While I am on a sabbatical from my blog, I still have to write my weekly column for the newspaper, so thought I would share it with you. I am not going to edit it into a post–this is how it will appear in the Kingsville Reporter this week (with a fifteen year old picture of me anchoring page 5.)

ON THE HOMEFRONT

Happy..Happy.. Mother’s Day (Photo credit: Thai Jasmine)

 Happy Mom’s Day

  “I got to grow up with a mother who taught me to believe in me.” ~ Antonio Villaraigosa

My hope is that my children will be able to say that they got to grow up with a mother who taught them to believe in themselves. That is one of the greatest gifts I can think of, and it is a gift my mother bestowed on me. I have been a mother for over twenty-seven years. I lost my mom when I was thirty-nine, but in those thirty-nine years she taught me a lot. And one of the things she taught me was how to be a mom.  I am still working on it  ~  it takes a lot of practice.

 Not too long after I lost my mother, I met Ida Conklin (a well known lady in Kingsville) at the bank. She expressed her sympathy at my loss. She was a bit older than my mother but she told me that one never really gets over losing their mother. And she was so right. Even as I write this today, I have a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. As Mother’s Day approaches, I would prefer that she were still here and that I not just have memories of her. But, the memories are many and they are precious.  I always have a hard time writing my Mother’s Day column because there is such a flood of memories—and I still cannot seem to put them in words. But, if you still have your mom, honour her. If your mom has gone to what I like to think of as a “better place” honour her memory. That is all I have to say…..for now, except Happy Mother’s Day to all moms, and goodnight.

 Another topic:

            As you know if you read this column on a somewhat regular basis, I have become a blogger—which is just another name for someone who has a presence in the ethereal regions of the internet. One of my favourite bloggers is Heidi@lightlycrunchy.wordpress.com. She has a very down home but sophisticated take on life that I really enjoy. She is not into existentialism, crazy metaphysical hokum, or super analyzing her pain and angst (at least not in her blog—but don’t get me wrong—I enjoy a little metaphysical hokum at times). She is ~ dare I say it, sensible, with a deft sense of humour. Here, just in time for spring is her post on what she intends to plant in her huge garden which she tends with the help of her family. She works outside the home and inside the home. Here is a little example of her life:

“Today we cleaned up, the kids did a complete clean out of the barn and there was even a chance for a nap. I sorted through the seed order and am going to use this space to write them down. Last year I neglected to record anything and lost the packing slip, so I am leaving myself a list here where I can find it again when ordering time comes around next year. I am pretty good at keeping records, but lousy at remembering where I put them.

We’ll still have to purchase our seed potatoes, green pepper and hot pepper plants, tomatoes in several varieties and some onion sets, but this will be a good start. Next weekend we’ll start planting some seed.

dill (Photo credit: sweet lil’ bunny)

Here is her order:

 2013 William Dam Seed Order: Basil – Italian Large Leaf Organic/Sweet Basil; Beans (bush) – Provider; Brussels Sprouts – Jade Cross Hybrid; Carrots – Nelson Hybrid/Baltimore Hybrid; Cucumber – Eureka Hybrid & Sweet Success Hybrid; Dill – Bouquet; Lettuce – Great Lakes 659/Buttercrunch/Bon Vivant Salad Mix/ Pinares; Melons – Diplomat Hybrid/Halona Hybrid; Onions – Ramrod/Camelot Hybrid; Parsley – Green Pearl Organic; Peas – Lincoln; Pumpkins-Dill’s Atlantic Giant/Mustang Hybrid/ Spooktacular Hybrid; Radish – Raxe; Rosemary; Sage; Spinach – Space Hybrid; Sunflower (Helianthus) – Mammoth Russian; Watermelon – Jade Star Hybrid, Full Lucky Hybrid; Zucchini – Spineless Beauty Hybrid; Leek – Jolant.”

            I know this list has some of you salivating—and your fingers are just itching to get into the soil, and I know enough to realize that you have probably already done a little planting.  Others (me included) are a little confused, yet impressed with all the seeds that Heidi has gathered, particularly the Spooktacular pumpkins and space spinach.

            Left to my own devices I would probably get a tomato plant or two—but my eldest son is raring to go on this year’s garden—so,… so be it. If you only want to garden in your mind, check out Heidi’s blog—she will keep you updated on her progress as well as show you the fruits of her labour – she cans and freezes and makes spaghetti sauce—and has a husband who cooks! (I love my husband, but I think I could love him just that bit more if he cooked.)

My Family Loves Our Cat

I am thinking about writing a book about the like/dislike relationship I have with the family cat. I got the idea from Richard, Meredith Viera’s husband who just wrote a book called  something like “I Want to Kill the Dog”.  (They were on Dr. Oz  and I did not take notes, thus I may not have the exact title). The dog loves Meredith. The dog does not like Richard. And Meredith admits that the dog has “barking issues”. Richard says the dog never stops barking. So I was inspired. The following offering was written quickly and just off the top of my head and digresses, but I am thinking that part of the  charm of the book will be its digressions. This is just to give you a laugh or two, and is not even in draft form yet.

Tell me–would you read a story about a cat, but really about my family? So here goes nothing:

My family loves our cat. I mean loooooooooves the cat. I do not. Sometimes I like the cat. Sometimes I do not. Like. Him. Much.

Not Kitty Bob but close (Photo credit: katsrcool (Kool Cats Photography)

This morning, for example, after everyone had left the house, the cat wanted to play. Or kill me. I am not sure which. He kept pouncing at my legs and lightly plunging his little sharp cat teeth into my calves. He is “cooling his jets” as it were, in the basement right now. I did not like the game, or the attack. I am still trying to decide which it was.

We named our cat Kitty Bob. Not because we are from the southern United States and like names like Bobby Jo, Jim Bob, or John Boy, though they do have a certain rhythm and lovely cadence. Quite simply, we thought the cat was a female so we named it Kitty (original, right?). Once it was exposed as a boy though we added Bob, so he would not get a complex (you know, the boy named Sue complex). It used to be embarrassing to call the cat from the front door. Now, I don’t care.

Naming things is not something I do particularly well. None of my dolls or stuffed animals that I owned or parented as a kid had names, because I could never decide on a name that was good enough or descriptive of their characteristics. I had a big blue bear and a pink and blue poodle—they were known as Bear and Poodle. I had a teenage doll (my mom never bought me a Barbie or it would have been easy to name)—I called her my “teenage doll”. The only doll I had that had a name was Betsy Wetsy because she came with a name and rather dubious habits of hygiene (she wet her diaper). My sister had a doll called “Tear Drops”—I think she cried (at least she didn’t wet herself—though as a kid I liked feeding my doll water and it leaking out of her.)

American television journalist and a former political advisor, George Stephanopoulos  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: George Clooney at the 2009 Venice Film Festival (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Both of my sons have the name George, the youngest as a first name, the eldest as a second name. I do not like the name George particularly (except for George Clooney, George Stephanopoulos, George of the Jungle,…okay so I do like the name George–just not when it is applied to my boys). I call the boys Adam and Tyler. (Both their grandfathers were named George, except my dad went by his second name because he did not like his first name, so it is his fault I do not want to call the boys George.) You would not believe how hard my husband bartered, begged, cajoled,  lobbied for the name George. And I was being just the tiniest bit stubborn. I thought we were going to go home with no name kids. Anyway, the crux of the matter is I have trouble naming things, people, and animals.

Okay, that is it — doesn’t sound like a barnburner best seller does it–oh well, sometimes bliss is going back to the drawing board…………

Life is Not Pure Bliss-But Surviving Is

Happy Birthday (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I find I cannot do this post justice today as there are so many emotions that bubble to the surface, but I still felt I had to commemorate the day:

Twenty-seven years ago today I welcomed my first-born son into the world. Welcomed though is such a calm and happy word and in this context it does not tell the whole story.

Adam was born 11 weeks prematurely. He was obviously in a rush to come into this world, but in his rush, I did not get to hold him for at least a month after he was born. I visited him in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) for those four weeks, and was only able to touch him through the holes of his incubator. And then it was only to brush a finger along his tiny arm, or touch his leg ever so lightly. I decorated his incubator with cards and cut-outs and little stuffed animals.  My mom knit him the tiniest of hats and booties to wear with his cut in half diaper (whole diapers were huge for his 2 pound 5 ½ ounce little body).

So many memories—some frightening, some wonderful—but the end result is that today he is a healthy thriving 27 years old. A basketball player, a musician, a reader, a boyfriend to a lovely girl/woman, a man with so much potential—and it is potential he will reach and surpass.

Of course, I am his mother, and I am proud of him. I remember the journey to get here—and though life is not pure bliss—having survived and come through to tell this happy story today is.

Bliss Covered in Syrup

French toast . (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In honour of my son Tyler who is going back to school today after his Reading Week at college (something we more honestly called Slack Week when I was at university), I am going to provide you with a recipe of sorts – one that I am going to make for him this morning for the third time this week.

He loves French toast. Loves it. Can’t get enough of it. And he is always appreciative when I take the little time it takes to make this breakfast of champions (though sometimes we make it for lunch, and on occasion, supper.)

Tyler is my picky eater. Every family has one, but since he has been away at school his taste buds have expanded to include salad, grilled cheese sandwiches (his must have real cheddar cheese, bacon if he has it, and raspberry jam) and stuffed pasta (he used to eat pasta with just butter and salt—now he will eat three cheese ravioli), and sweet potato fries.

He was never a picky eater by choice—some things appealed to him and other things did not. Food had a yuck factor for him, and some of it still does, but I find it interesting that once he has been exposed to a variety of other foods outside our home, he is more likely to try them. He has five roommates in the house he lives in at college (which is only two blocks from Fanshawe in London) and so he is exposed to a lot of different tastes. They all  have one thing in common though: Pizza (which I consider a major food group and so do they).

I remember when I was in university (about the time that pizza was brought to the new world), I would eat pizza almost every night in residence—a bunch of us would go together and order one after studying or getting back from the school pub.

I realize I have digressed from today’s recipe—but French toast is not all that complicated.

French Toast à la Tyler

White bread – as many slices as you need to feed the people you are feeding ~ Tyler always has 3

I egg for every three slices of bread

English: Cinnamon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Splash of milk

A little vanilla

Cinnamon sprinkled in

Syrup and butter – enough to drown the toast

Using a whisk, whisk the eggs and milk and vanilla and cinnamon together. Dunk the bread and put it in a hot frying pan. We just got a new big non stick frying pan and can cook three pieces at once. We flip them when one side gets nice and toasty. I eat the burnt ones.

I know this is not an official recipe – it is just a bit of a map that takes us on a journey to syrupdom.  It is meant to be more nostalgic than directive—but it is the last day I will see Tyler for several weeks (Easter is coming up)—so it is my goodbye to him today. (Don’t feel too sorry for me, I email him every day and I am one of his ten on his phone plan that he can call without charge—so we talk a lot).

Do you have any nostalgic recipes that give you or your family bliss?

Related articles

• French Toast (annashortcakes.wordpress.com)
• Fabulous French Toast (meanderingsabound.com)
• French Toast Hmmm… (camillalatte.wordpress.com)
• Cinnamon French toast recipe (telegraph.co.uk)

Future Bliss

Like this Rosebud, I am still waiting to bloom.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 A service has been invented through which you can send messages to people in the future. To whom would you send something, and what would you write?

This is a timely prompt from lovely Michelle at WordPress, as I have not been looking forward to my upcoming birthday in April. I  have come to the realization that I will not be wandering this little place called earth for as many years as I have lived thus far. I am going to be 60 (sob, groan, ackkk!) and I am fairly sure I am not going to live another 60 years.

When I was younger, 60 was not something I could  easily imagine–and when I did, I imagined that I had “arrived”; that I had reached my ultimate goals; that I would be ensconced in comfort.

It is not so much the age of 60 itself that has me bummed out–it is the fact that I only have so much time left to “arrive”.  I am fighting the feeling that the book is closed and that my goals are unattainable, so I am going to write this letter to my sons in an effort to give them advice, and me some hope:

Dear Adam and Tyler;

As you read this, I am a vibrant 80 year old. I did not reach some of my goals until later in life, as I have always been a late bloomer. But along the way, I learned that even if I did not feel like I had been a “success” in the normal sense of the word, I reached success on many levels.

I found love with your dad; I found my maternal instincts as soon as I had you guys (it was an amazing transformation by the way as I did not know that I really wanted children until I had them); I worked at jobs I did not like; I worked at jobs I loved; I had a business of my own and learned that I would rather buy books than sell them; I learned how to be a “mother bear” advocate for you guys; I tried to learn to let go (even at this age, I am probably still struggling with that); I learned that family and friends can get you through anything; that losing your parents is rough but their voices stay with you; I have learned that success is not just financial (though it does make it easier); and I have learned that you should never give up.

As the two of you progress down the sometimes smooth, sometimes wretched path of life, keep in mind that in the end it is all worthwhile. You have seen your parents struggle, and now you see us comfortable in our own skins. Even though we are eighty, we live life as if there is no tomorrow, because as we all know, there may not be.

Live life well and fully. Enjoy good times even in the bad times. That old saying~this too will pass~is true, even though some things we would rather go away, do not go away fast enough.

You are loved, and my best successes!  ~ Love mom

I know that this letter to my sons twenty years down the line has fallen into cliché but I do not care–clichés are there for us to use–and sometimes they do the job. I am looking for my bliss today–in twenty years I am certain I will have found it and put it to good use.

What would you say to your loved ones from your place of bliss?

Related articles

• Where Is The Bliss In That? (onthehomefrontandbeyond.wordpress.com)

 

~ Family Bliss ~

Three butter tarts on a plate, with flash (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

One of my favourite definitions of bliss is family harmony. I am in a family sort of mood this weekend as my sister Peggy and my favourite (and only—but that does not take away from him being my favourite) brother-in-law, Herb are visiting us from Ottawa which is about an eight hour drive away. I have not seen them for over a year and a half.

They arrived in our small town of Kingsville at suppertime last night, and are staying at my oldest brother Jim’s house. My kids came over, his kids came over and we had pizza and beer and Prosecco and a lot of hugs and laughs. I am feeling wrapped up in warmth this morning.

Today my sister and I are going to lunch and I am taking her to my favourite winery, showing her our new library, and just spending time with her. We email each other every day and talk several times a month, but having her here in person is such a treat.

The “boys” will be hanging out together today and talking cars and politics, and joking around a lot. Then we will all meet to go out to dinner tonight, using up a certificate my brother was given for Christmas at a nice restaurant up town. The only thing missing is my other brother John and my sister-in-law Starr, but they were here a few weeks ago—so the last few weeks have been rift with family moments that I just want to capture, put in a jar, and save.

So since John is not here, I am going to share one of his favourite treats that my Mom used to make and he devoured. In fact, he would line these tarts up on his arm and eat them one by one with a big glass of milk. It is an image I will never forget.

My mother, unlike her oldest daughter (me) baked up a storm, particularly at holidays.  This recipe is for her famous raisin tarts, and though I have never made them, I can attest to the fact that they are the best ever.

So, on this Saturday in mid-January I share with you a little family bliss and a little piece of bliss from my childhood in the form of these tarts.

Raisin Butter Tarts

Ingredients:

2 eggs

2 tbsp.vinegar

1 cup butter melted

2 cups brown sugar

1 tsp vanilla

1 ½ cups of raisins, nuts, or currants (Mom always used raisins and walnut pieces)

Beat eggs only until whites and yolks are mixed. Beat in sugar, vinegar and vanilla. Stir in melted butter and fruit and nuts. Half fill tart shells. Bake at 450 degrees for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees for 20 minutes longer.

Enjoy a little bit of heavenly bliss!

This recipe was handwritten in a spiral notebook which is covered in splatters from many many sessions in the kitchen. I may not have lined up my arm with these tarts, but I always had more than my fair share.

Do you have a recipe that harkens  back to your childhood days?

Can Bliss Be Nutritional? ~ Recipe Saturday ~ 1/12/13

Spinach (Photo credit: stormgrass)

Seriously, the irony is not lost on me that I am providing you with recipes. For a number of reasons I am about the last person to provide information on cooking. Here is why:

1. I generally do not like to spend more than thirty minutes in the kitchen as it does not take the people I cook for thirty minutes to eat what I have prepared. It takes them five minutes. I like a balance between the time I put into a project and what I get out of a project. (Yes, I call cooking a project). I will put in more time when I have company as the time it takes them to eat the food is more than five minutes.

2. I am a gourmet reader of cookbooks. I am not a gourmet cook. I am barely a cook. I hardly ever follow a recipe. The fact that I have fed my family for about thirty years and they have not died from malnutrition gives me a gold star in my book.

3. I generally do not use a recipe that calls for more than five ingredients or has more than three steps.

4. I hate to clean up after I cook.

So, what makes today’s recipe special (blissful even, since that is the topic of the year)? It has more than five ingredients. It has more than three steps. It is not quite gourmet but pretty darn close for me. But it is soup so it makes more than one meal. It is healthy and my husband likes it. Usually those two phrases do not go together.

I must warn you that when I provide recipes—they are sometimes written down quickly, the steps truncated, and they are not triple tested by me. They are maps, not definite trips. But I try to be as clear as I can be. Without further ado, here is a recipe I enjoyed at my sister’s, wrote down, and made. It is good and warming on a winter day:

White Bean and Spinach Soup

Ingredients:

2 tsp. of olive oil

1 onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

Pinch hot pepper flakes

1 –  19 oz. can of white kidney beans, drained and rinsed

5 cups of chicken stock or 1  – 10 oz. tin chicken broth plus water to make up 5 cups

½ cup small pasta (macaroni, stars or wheels)

3/4 lb. fresh chopped spinach or 10 oz. frozen

1 tomato diced

Salt and pepper to taste (always feel so creative when something is to “taste”)

2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley (I used dried—certainly not 2 tbsp though)

Directions:

1. Cook onion, garlic, and hot pepper flakes on low until tender (of course I cooked them on high—I cook everything on high—though I am learning to turn the heat down).

2. Add beans and stock—bring to boil. Season with salt and pepper “to taste”.  Reduce heat, cover and simmer for ten minutes.

3. Puree soup and return to heat. (I did not puree, but mashed it a bit). Add pasta and cook 5-10 minutes or until tender. Soup will thicken.

4. Add fresh spinach and cook until just wilted – 2 – 3 minutes. (Frozen—I suppose you thaw it out— I used fresh).

5. Add tomato.

I don’t know where the parsley came in— guess I did not write it down. Since I used dry—I am sure I just threw it in with the spinach. Most of you are more highly developed cooks then I, so you make the decision.

Makes six servings.

EAT!

January Snow Scene (Photo credit: ς↑r ĴΛϒκ❂)

I love this soup, though I am pretty sure I only added about half of the fresh spinach. My husband loved it—so that was a super bonus. It is good for you too. Nutrition can be bliss.

Do you have a healthy recipe that tastes really, really good?

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Bliss Returns ~ Day 8

Sudden Loud Noises (Photo credit: STML)

In the last twenty years I have probably seen about five movies at a theatre that were not animated. Yes, I have kids. And for a while I saw every animated movie there was. And then I just lost interest in going to the movies—you can rent, buy, or see most stuff on television if you wait long enough or have the desire.

On Sunday, I went to the movies with my husband, and we saw “Guilt Trip” with Barbra Streisand and Seth Rogen. We were given passes to a movie with two drinks and regular popcorn for Christmas, so we thought we would make use of them. We scoured the paper to see what movies were being offered, and it being just past the holiday season, there were lots to choose from.  But I did not want to see an adventure movie, or the Hobbit movie (sorry Cindy), or a sad movie….I wanted to see something light that would not break my resolution of finding my bliss.

So, we settled on “Guilt Trip”. Or actually my husband settled. I was quite happy to find a movie that was not shoot ‘em up, depressing, or a fantasy.

Well I just loved it. It was in a word: charming. The humour was gentle, the story heart-warming, and the ending happy. Smultzy? Not really. It was pleasant; indeed, it was storytelling at its best. There was conflict, but it was resolved. There were laughs, but also some serious everyday stuff that happens in all of our lives. It was just a good movie. A son and his mother on a road trip. But the son had an agenda, and that is what the whole movie was about. In the end. It was a worthwhile trip for the movie goer.

The only unblissful part of the movie date was the trailers that came on before the movie. We were inundated with probably about eight trailers—and the cacophony of noise blast at us and around us was an assault to the senses. It was too loud—so loud that it reverberated thunderously through the body almost to the point of shutting down. Bliss came when the trailers ended and the movie we had signed on to see came on the screen.

Sometimes bliss is relief in disguise.

Have you ever found bliss when something stopped?