Sweet corn... SOLS

It's like candy.  It always has been.  And, there's a finite window each summer when it comes available, and if I'm lucky, I seize it.  

Each year, my mom and dad expectantly watch the progress of local fields.  They keep in touch with their farmer friend, Doug, who grows the best crops just outside my home town.  They let me know when it will be ready for the first picking.  I wait as a child in line for a sprinkle-covered ice cream treat.  This year, my timing is perfect -- the boys and I are visiting when the call comes.

"Jim, it's ready." Doug's voice bounds through the phone's receiver and across the kitchen to me. "How much would she like?"

"12 dozen, Doug.  Can she pick it up at the farm this afternoon?"



"Sure, Buck.  It'll be pulled and ready; bagged up for her.  I'll help her load it when she gets here."

Relying on memories from summers past, I salivate despite the work ahead.  It's worth it.  

My mom and I shuck the large pile of tasselled ears out in the garage, accumulating husks and corn silk by the wheelbarrow-full.  She uses her electric knife plugged into two extension cords to shave each kernel from the each ear, letting them plop line by line into her large Tupperware bowl.  When mounds of juicy sweet corn cascade over its edges, I arrive to fill my two stockpots, warm and ready.

Grandma Lorraine's recipe is a tasty one; we use it each time we 'put up' corn.  Which, as an aside, I used this term with my husband early in our marriage -- he looked at me, befuddled, at what this phrase could really mean in city-speak.  I translated, "Freeze."  A little sugar, a little salt, 10 cups corn, and some water in each pot...boil for seven minutes.  That's it.

Over and over, I use my crocheted hotpads to transport the finished stockpots to empty Pyrex containers waiting on the kitchen table.  This is where our golden treasure cools before bagging.  This year, we're without fans to speed up the process...usually, the whirring blades surround our resting space like summer shade trees.  At first, steam fogs the nearby windows.  Little by little, the backyard returns to view.  

Every once in a while, I tiptoe over to the table to sneak a bite.  I'm providing the necessary quality control.  I fancy myself an ice cream taste-tester; really, this is much better.  It's the perfect marriage of salt and sweetness.  Each bite reminds me of another summer, in another garage where I sat, toe-headed with a trendy Dorothy Hamill cut, observing as my mother and grandmother journeyed through the same ritual.  Grandma always came to help.  They'd giggle and chat while they shucked, cut, and cooked sweet corn.  It felt more like a coffee date than a big, messy project.  

Today, the baby sleeps while we shuck, cut, and cook.  We snicker as Reid 'waters' my mom's plants that encircle their house like a multicolor necklace.  We consider inviting Grandma; the high temperatures deter us.  She's fragile now.  My mom carries on the tradition -- she selflessly invites the mess and invests her time in my freezer-filling campaign.

After dinner, my avocado green measuring cup dips into the shallow Pyrex, scoops up its golden yield, and drops two-cups worth into each baggy.   Again and again, my left hand instinctively flattens its contents while my right zips over the blue and green lock-tight tracks.  

42.

Our bounty lies stacked like bricks at Fort Knox.  The cookie sheets underneath secure its transport to the garage deep freeze to harden before the two-hour trip home.

"If you can ration this, b, your corn will last until next spring," my mathematical Dad figures.

"Yep..." I'm already dreaming of the comfortable happiness each serving will bring my family on hum-drum school nights.  "It will."

That is, if I can exercise such restraint...

It's like candy.  It always has been.  And, there's a finite window each summer when it comes available, and if I'm lucky, I seize it.

Write on,
b

Simply complex... SOLS

The conversation drifted into our sunny playdate like an errant cloud.  

"Mommy, my flower died," Reid held up the sponge-painted clay pot he created for my Mother's Day gift this year.  We were in the middle of building castles and mountain-covering roads in our backyard sandbox yesterday. 

"We can plant another one in there if you'd like. I bet we'd find a nice flower at Home Depot..." I encouraged.

"Does everything die?" his newly four-year-old voice crafted tiny, innocent words.

"Yes.  Everything dies...when it's time."  My calm exterior hid the storm of explanations churning inside my mind.

He added support for my claim, "Flowers die.  Bugs die.  Even PEOPLE die, Mommy."

Death.  

I avoid the topic like the plague in books and stories and even in real-life. I don't know how to explain it.  What, we're alive...and then we're not...it's like sleep -- no, scratch that...you'll be afraid to go to sleep tonight -- and then we'll wake up in heaven. 

Around Easter, the question du jour was, "How do we get to heaven, Mommy?  Will we take the car?"

Gosh, I hope not. That's my worst fear.  WORST.

He broke into my thoughts, "Well, how do we die?"

From the rolodex of possible scenarios, I picked the easiest.  "Someday, when you're old, your heart will just stop beating...because it's tired and you've lived a long, happy life."

"Will you die?"  The small words exploded like faulty fireworks sputtering along the driveway.

Lord, give me wisdom to answer this sensitive child.

"Yes.  I'll die someday when I'm old and you're old."

"Will you come back then?"

"No.  When we die, it is forever.  But, I'll be in heaven with Jesus and you will too someday.  Then, we'll be together again."

"Don't die, Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyy," his little voice pleaded.

"Are you scared that I will?"

My heart lay bare in the afternoon sun, writhing in the depths of the unknown...  My fears.  His fears.  They mixed in a way only abstract artists appreciate. 

"Yessssss.  If you do then I won't HAVE a mommy."

While two chocolatey eyes searched mine, I wrestled God to gift me with enough time on Earth to raise these two blessed cherubs.  Thoughts of my cousin's two small children -- losing their own mommy at ages seven months and four years -- competed mercilessly.

"I'll always be your mommy," I cooed as he slid into my lap and curled up like his two-year-old self, "and I'll always love you.  Soooo much." 

"OK."

With only a second's pause, he climbed back toward the sandbox and grabbed his favorite plastic digger from the gritty pile of toys.

"Let's build another road, Mommy."

And just like that, the sun reappeared and the project resumed.

But he has me thinking...



Write on,
b

SOLS: Frozen yogurt break?

With a tired baby ahead of us in the stroller and a promise tethered behind us, we hobbled into Orange Leaf this afternoon for frozen yogurt.  The idea was thrown out like the first pitch of a baseball game -- the rest of the outing hung on its fruition. We'd been to Carter's, and Nordstrom Rack, and now this, our final stop.  The treat would be a soothing salve...

Except, Grant voiced atypical objection as we entered the cheery storefront.  I thought he was just hot in his fleece-lined pumpkin seat.  I can fix that once we sit down...

And, Reid demanded full attention; the kind he was used to getting just a few short months ago.  The promise of a peaceful frozen yogurt stop slowly melted.  Is this REALLY how it's going to go down?

Selections were made carefully at the pay-by-the-ounce yogurt dispensers.  Wedding Cake for Reid and Oreo for me.  I really can't wait to sit down and enjoy this....yummmmmmm.

But, once we made it to the toppings smorgasboard, little cries became wails, and a toddler became a self-sufficient little boy who helped himself to the pinnacle of add-ons: chocolate sprinkles, which incidentally stood tall in an obnoxiously large container next to the crushed waffle cones.  I unhooked the straps of Grant's seat, rescuing him from its humid confines...all while Reid 'helped himself.'

In slow motion, the sprinkles rained down on the orange bowl...puddling his meager medallion of frozen yogurt.  I watched, helpless, and handless.  Oh my goodness, he's using the whole container.  I can't put Grant down fast enough to stop this mess!!! The slow motion became fast-forward.

I'm surprised I didn't yell, because I really wanted to; inside, my words were like the soundtrack to a train wreck.  Finagling Grant in an unnatural position, I wrangled the sprinkle container from where it rested inside Reid's bowl and let it tumble sideways onto the sparkling countertop.

This bowl.  THIS BOWL.  I stared at its contents in disbelief.  There is NO way Reid will eat all this -- even if he could, I wouldn't let him.  Really?  Really.

AND IT'S PAY BY THE OUNCE!!!  Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  

 In the periphery sat a welcoming trash can.  Would anybody notice if I dumped the excess sprinkles in there?  Then, Reid wouldn't even get the chance to eat them all...and there would be no forthcoming fit when I have to take them away unfinished.

BUT IT IS PAY BY THE OUNCE, AND REID TOOK ALL THESE.  SO, THE RIGHT THING TO DO IS PAY FOR THEM.  Even though I really, really don't want to...

The cries ensued, despite my rhythmic bounces, and a dancing toddler encircled me as the two bowls were placed onto the scale for tallying.  "$4.73, please."  Grudgingly, I handed over my credit card and smiled politely at the close of the transaction.  My eyes still focused on his ostentatious topping display.

With no delay, Reid's inverted bowl hung high above the trashcan...sprinkles falling like a spring shower.  A nice coating remained for his enjoyment.

Big, stubborn eyes witnessed my discontent.  "I don't want it now, Mommy."  I'm sure you don't; this is how our whole day has gone.  

"OK, I'll throw it away then."  He will not take me up on this.  3, 2, 1...

"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.  I'll eat it."

And eat it he did.  Right down to the very last sprinkle swimming in the melted yogurt, right beside his tired mom, who, despite rocking and cooing one little guy, figured out a way to consume her frozen treat with warp speed.

Jackets on and pumpkin seat occupied, we hobbled back out toward the car.
One red-faced crying baby.
One toddler covered with curious melted splotches of white on his navy fleece pants.
One mommy who imagined herself warm on a sunny beach, underneath a palm tree, atop a soft terry cloth towel, and beside a riveting book.

And that's where I spent the entire drive home...

Write on,
b

31:31 -- Buntings and Slices...

This winter, I hatched a brilliant scheme -- recreate the seersucker buntings bedecking Magnolia Bakery's ceilings in New York City...for Reid's big boy room.

I was resourceful -- I enlisted the help of a talented friend, who just happened to have in her possession a Cricut system which whipped out the most perfect pennants from preppy patterned scrapbook paper.  She offered me some hints; she'd made buntings before.

I was studious -- I researched bunting construction to ensure I made ours correctly. Effectively.  Stylishly. I read articles, searched Pinterest for advice, and looked at hundreds of pictures on Houzz for ideas to drive my own work.

I was crafty -- After researching, I tried some of my favorite ideas on for size by creating mock versions of potential bunting styles.  I toyed around with the order of paper patterns, the spacing between each pennant on the twine, the strength of the twine (should I double or triple its weight?)...before finding
what fit best for me and this specific project.

I was driven -- I plugged in my latest acquisition, a hot glue gun, one cold evening and set to work constructing as many buntings as the organized-by-pattern pennant stack would afford.  My project deadline was March 1. No excuses.  I dreamed of hanging them up in Reid's room as soon as possible.

Tonight, reflecting on this month's slicing challenge, I connected these two pursuits. After all, they followed similar trajectories...

In February, I hatched another scheme -- slice for 31 days straight and comment on as many other pieces as I had time to enjoy.

I was resourceful here too -- I took the advice Ruth and Stacey offered leading up to the challenge's start.  I followed their hints to write early and organize a bank of pieces to share...if this felt comfortable.  I unpacked past challenge experiences.  I examined my writing territories.  I donned my writer's glasses, looking for awesome amidst ordinary everyday.

I was studious here too -- I read so many wonderful slices this month, and with each one, I took the time to notice what the writer 'was on about.'  How did they do their tremendous work?  And, after I noticed it, I named it -- for myself, for the writers in my comments.  Then, I saved it up in a giant treasure chest of ideas.

I was crafty here too -- The treasure chest of ideas provided daily writing inspiration. I tried them on for size: like the way Ellen Spears writes to her son and addresses him throughout her pieces as, "You...," like the way Christy Rush-Levine used the analogy of trying on slices just like she tries on clothes, like the way Ruth Ayres writes deep and true...unapologetically...always.  These pieces, and many more, pushed me outside my comfort zone to tailor slices that were informed as a reader and then transformed as a writer.

I was driven here too -- The decision to slice for 31 days straight came amidst my return to work from maternity leave.  Honestly, I didn't think I'd make it because sometimes packing bags, bottles, and lunches each evening and rising early each morning to prepare for school left little margin for creativity (or my perfectionism!) to grow a blog post I'd be comfortable sharing.  I stuck to it though, because I knew all my busy e-friends were plugged into the challenge too.  That's why it's called a challenge, right?  Because sometimes there are moments when you think it just may overtake you...

But it didn't.

And there is one reason why: community.  The caring one here who encourages through kind words and meaningful feedback.  The talkative one here who shares bits of their lives to connect with my own.  The faithful one who stops by everyday to see what I'm up to...what I'm trying on as a writer.  The growing one here that, which each passing year, attracts and connects more like-minded teacher-writers who want to capture life's moments through words.

The buntings hang up in Reid's big boy room now...and the 2013 Slice of Life Story Challenge is in the books.  Closure on both projects is tempered by looking toward what's next.  For my family, it'll be updating two baby books.  For this community, it'll be reconnecting on Tuesdays over a few yummy slices.

Congratulations everyone!  And, thank you...

Write on,
b

30:31 -- Return debate...

Pulling up to a loading bay full of pickup trucks, we arrived at the blue and yellow Swedish megastore this afternoon. Finally. After a month of trepidation.

And sweat.

And nervousness

And confidence.

And then regret.

The four mixed in a unattractive recipe. One that always left me feeling unsettled, unsatisfied.

$300.  The dresser, although handsome and spacious, was nothing more than a glorified piece of cardboard.  And, better yet, it collected more scratches and dents than an appliance warehouse sale. This is the dresser we bought to stand up to Reid's growing up years.  But, somewhere in the middle of the whole assembly process he didn't even get the chance to test its durability -- because we couldn't make each and every component part (and there were hundreds) fit flush and plumb and...

Disaster.  Drilled holes in backward position does not a pretty dresser make.

Which is why we made the trip to the store again today.  To return it.  

Anticipating an unpleasant conversation with sales staff at the return counter, I folded and unfolded my receipt on my way through the gigantic glass doors that led toward Ikea's inner workings.  I shifted my stance and rocked in place (phantom baby syndrome, I guess) while waiting in line.  I watched other transactions.  I saw an opening with a new clerk...

Politely explaining the defective dresser piece, I felt like a human pin cushion.  She listened...and let me know that she'd seen the same problem this morning but the company doesn't offer cash refunds on products already in the assembly phase.  "Do you want to talk with a manager?"  

Nooooo, but yes.  "Yes, please."

She arrived; I issued my complaint, again.  Nonplussed, she stated that what is returned for cash is the store's jurisdiction and that my research call to corporate for preliminary answers was a waste of time:  "They just tell you what you want to hear to get you off the phone.  We have to check the piece out here to determine the real problem before we can do anything else.  It may be as simple as providing a replacement part or offering store credit."  Stunned at her candor toward corporate policy, I watched them wheel the dresser back to their makeshift repair lab.  Yellow shirts encircled it. Hushed voiced discussed it.  Workers laid on the floor around it. Out popped a drill.

I peeked back from time to time, which seemed to stretch out like a country highway with no real scenery to get excited about except the occasional old farmhouse.  They moved, I jumped.  They stepped closer to the return register, I jumped.  Yet, our destination...our verdict...remained out of sight.

Finally, she returned.  Her unnaturally bright pink lipstick spit out the words that had paved our 100-plus mile trip: "We'll just issue you the refund this time."

The first clerk, the empathetic one, stepped in to finish the transaction.  We glibly chatted while I signed the receipt. 

The sweat, nervousness, confidence, and regret separated and left.  I left too, learning a valuable lesson.

You get what you pay for.

(And, luckily this time, I wasn't stuck with what I paid for.)

Write on,

b

29:31 -- New life...

I've been nagged every time I'm out running errands...or at a clothing store...or walking past the Easter aisle at the grocery store during the past two weeks.

One voice in my head antagonizes.  "Good moms buy their kids Easter clothes. Matching clothes for siblings.  Look at all these cute tops and bottoms.  They're cheap."  And, the final blow -- "Everyone else does it."

Which, may or may not be true.  However, I heard on the radio the other day that the average Easter expense per child tallies a whopping $150.

The other rationalizes.  "The clothes don't matter.  We have more than enough clothes hanging in our closets to wear something special for Easter Sunday.  That's an unnecessary expense.  And, besides, the holiday isn't about pastel-colored fabrics as stores would lead consumers to believe.  You know this."

So I buy nothing...nothing at all.  Even though I continue my search by knowing what each store offers and at what price.

By today, the nagging followed me around like insistent toddler seeking permission.  I cave.  I want to be a good mom who has cute pictures and builds sweet memories.  Easter clothes are like birthday cakes. The baby and I head toward a close outdoor mall -- the sun feels so nice and we can walk between stores.

The first shop highlights adorable gingham shirts.
The second shop offers nothing; it's picked over by well planned moms.
The third shop boasts cute but expensive seersucker pants that, luckily, don't come in my sizes.

The clock's ticking; we return to the shirts.  Pleased with my diligence and their last-minute sale prices, I pay.

$35 for two shirts and one pair of oh-so-tiny baby khakis; Reid already has his at home.

$35.

Not a lot in the grand scheme of things...our western-thinking scheme that is.

But, elsewhere -- wow.  $35 would be enough to provide families with daily necessities.

Safe water.  Running water.  Power.  Clothes.  Clothes that fit...and are clean.

The antagonizing voice quiets.  The smaller voice invites me to reflect on needs and wants, culture and providence, self-sufficiency and submission.

The stillness of our car ride home closes with a bump up onto the driveway. The garage door ascends and while I wait, I notice something...

New life.

Which, isn't that what this weekend is really about?

New life.
New perspectives.
New responsibilities.

The baby sleeps, so I process my thoughts by slicing about them.

And, maybe this whole inner conversation isn't really about Easter clothes; maybe it's much bigger -- like about the kind of steward I am -- which, I know, could use some new life.  I'm being nudged in the manner of my 2013 One Little Word.  Refine.

New life...

Write on,
b

28:31 -- Buyers' remorse...

In the store chock full of cheerful little clothes, I waited to checkout behind a woman whose arms were loaded clumsily with fluorescent pink glittery sandals, and sunglasses, and an equally special Easter dress.

"You'll have to get in the next line, Ma'am," the clerk instructed.  Ma'am?  We're peers. You would've been in my kindergarten class, but...  OK, calm down.

With a stylish orange and yellow sun suit in one hand and a tired baby in a pumpkin seat and purse in the other, I followed directions.  Now, I waited behind a middle-age woman and her ready-to-pop daughter.  They were already carrying a bag from this children's store...

I didn't pay attention at first; I hoarded the seconds over analyzing my prospective purchase.  The cutesy little sun suit for my future niece...or the really, oh-so-practical terry sleeper?  The inner debate roared as I celebrated the chance to actually buy pink, ruffly clothes from the girls' side of the shop.

Slowly, the pumpkin seat turned to lead in my arms.
The woolen scarf around my neck turned tight and scratchy.
The chocolate sweater I wore turned into a sauna.
My attention focused on the conversation ahead.

"No, Ma'am, they're not," the young clerk stated.

"Well, you have these little socks and shoes displayed underneath the 40% off sign," she continued her case.

"But, they aren't 40% off.  The sign is for the clothing over there, not the accessories.  The accessories are 25% off."

The expectant daughter chimed in, "Mom, I guess the signage is only for the clothing. That's what she's saying..."

My wondering eyes darted around the store for other onlookers.  There were some. These words sprinkled heavily on them, too.  And, feeling like I had more time than sense at this point, I mentally tried some wishful comments on for size.

THESE LITTLE SOCKS YOU WANT -- WELL, THEY AREN'T AS DEEPLY DISCOUNTED AS YOU THOUGHT.  ARE YOU LISTENING?  THAT'S WHAT SHE'S POLITELY TELLING YOU.
Too obvious.

IF YOU CAN AFFORD FOUR-DOLLAR SOCKS, YOU CAN PROBABLY AFFORD ONES THAT ARE SLIGHTLY MORE EXPENSIVE.  WHO CARES?
Too offensive.

ARE YOU REALLY HOLDING UP THIS LINE OVER AN AMOUNT THAT WOULD TOTAL LESS THAN ONE DOLLAR?
Too commonsensical.

WHY DON'T YOU ASK AGAIN?  MAKE THIS POOR CLERK TELL YOU ONCE MORE THAT THE SIGNAGE IS FOR CLOTHING, NOT ACCESSORIES.
Too mouthy.

All my quips were completely unflattering, gaping at all the wrong places on my soul. The only answer that fit like a glove was to remain quiet.  I tugged at my scarf and fidgeted, embarrassed for this shopping duo as they filed the clerk down with their words.  I wanted to escape -- but I had Carter's bucks to use.  Today.  I shifted my gaze back toward a row of minuscule bathing suits.

"Well then, maybe you ought to say that on your sign -- CLOTHING ONLY," the insistent mother offered like a slap to the cheek.

The daughter agreed snottily, "Yeah," just one sentence away from echoing her mother's uncomplimentary behavior.

They noisily shoved the sweet, little pink and white striped socks back into their plastic bag and spun  toward the door.  The clerk's eyes were a fireworks display, although her voice was a snowy morning.  "Can I help you?"

"Yes.  You can.  This will be easy," I encouraged, "I just need to buy this sun suit using my Carter's bucks."

With relief, she authored the transaction which took less than one minute.  "Thank you.  Come again."

I walked out to the car, happy that I had tried my remarks on for size before wearing an unflattering one.  I could've looked really ugly...

Write on,
b