Yummmmmmmm Remember

There are certain foods that when I taste them bring up an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

No Bake Cookies… No Bake Cookies were a rainy day treat. Days when you were stuck inside and your mom thought the best way to keep the youngsters busy was by spending time in the kitchen. Up on the chair we would go. Mom at the stove cooking the gooey chocolate base while teaching us lessons in fractions and measuring. Licking the peanut butter off the spoon. Watching as she cooked the gooey mixture on the stove then dropped those chewy, chocolaty, oatmeal morsels onto the counter. All the while four sets of eyes locked were on, waiting for the delicious cookie to cool and harden. A cold glass of milk and a couple cookies could make any day special

Every time I make the cookies the memories flood back.

You all know it, the smells and tastes that can set the memory part of your brain spinning out of control. My mother-in-law use to make this recipe with round steak smothered in green peppers, tomatoes and brown gravy. Every time I make it the house overflows with this amazing smell. At least one of the members of the family remark on Gram’s steak recipe as the aroma permeates the air.

But it’s not just the smells and tastes. When Kirk’s mother passed away no one wanted her iron skillets. I grabbed them up and every time I cook in them (so far) the meal has turned out wonderful. My Sheppard’s Pie tastes better, the pepper and steak smells better, and the feeling I get when I use the pan is like a soft cloud that settles down over my shoulder. It’s a fog like effect that allows me glimpses back through the years. Glimpses of moments when I remember seeing the pan in the oven with sweet potatoes for a Thanksgiving dinner or with the bottom covered with bacon grease waiting the frying of eggs for breakfast. It’s the wonderful memories and many incredible meals that are part of the simple piece of iron.

Memories in smells and tastes. Not pictures to look at, but moments treasured throughout a lifetime.

We Remember

I recently caught up with a friend from High School on Facebook, I’ll call him John. We have been chatting a little, catching up on where our lives have taken us. But tucked back in the recess of my mind is an incident where he made a huge difference in my life. I wonder sometimes if he remembers or if the event is just a small cliff note buried under the large amount of the events of a lifetime.

SO.. the story went like this. I was a sophomore in High School dating a senior; we’ll call him Steve (I never dated a Steve so this should be safe). My parents weren’t thrilled about it as Steve had a car and a lot more freedom than I.

It was a Friday night and we were at one of the keggers that took place in various corn fields throughout our rural hometown. Steve and his buddies were drinking as I sipped orange juice, pretending that the container held vodka as well. (I wasn’t a prude but I hated the taste of alcohol and my Dad had a knack for smelling beer, so the OJ).

It was getting late and Steve was getting ready to leave, slapping buddies on the back, tripping over the wood by the fire and basically being a typical loud and obnoxious drunken jerk.

We were walking towards the cars when John steps up and says, “Steve, man, you are in no condition to drive. How bout I take you and Wendy home? I’ll bring you back for the car tomorrow.”

“I’m fine, no really I can drive.” Steve grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the car.

“Come on Wendy I’ll take you home.” John reached out for my other arm.

“She’s fine.” By now drunken Steve was getting a little pissed and I had become a rope in a game of tug of war. “Wendy get in the car.”

John stepped up and put himself between Steve and me.

“I don’t think so. If you’re so stupid that you’ll take your own life in your hands then by all fucking means go ahead. But Wendy’s going home with me.”

Steve yelled at John. John yelled at Steve. In the end I road home with John. I was only fifteen.

Steve made it all the way to his house before putting the car in the ditch as he made the turn up his parents long winding drive. He was banged up and had some stitches on his forehead, but I always wondered what would have happened had he driven me home on the winding back roads.

The point of the story is that as you look back over your life, you remember those moments when someone stepped up and put your life in their hands. You remember those times when one small step in a different direction could be the difference between something good or bad happening.

John probably doesn’t even remember because he is just that type of guy. I’m sure he’s stepped in over the years to help others out, it’s just his way.

So to him and others that have made a difference in my life over the years, I say, Thank you.

I Know Where You Are (and what you’re doing, and…)

I realize that my last few blogs have been about technology and that I may come off sounding like that crazy uncle that is a conspiracy theorist. But I grew up in a time when Big Brother is Watching was coming to be a concern.

I went on Facebook today and over at the right it had ads for places I could go to fill the needs of the searches I had done earlier on the internet. It knew I needed a haircut, was looking at real estate in the area and was thinking of traveling to Hawaii.

Then up at the right were notifications about where my kids were. Brooke and Nick had checked in at Holy Smokes and Dan and Amanda were at Barnes and Noble in Boca. Lauren hasn’t checked in anywhere so I have no idea of her whereabouts, but neither does whoever is out there watching our every move. Good for her!!!!

I was writing a book about a woman who gets fed up with technology and decides to leave everything behind and start fresh. It wasn’t as easy as I thought. In the old days one would just get in a car and drive away. But now we have detectors on the turnpike recording your every move. Cameras mounted on street corners and outside businesses along with pictures taken at every ATM, convenience store, and gas station.

The cars are loaded with electronic data systems that allow your auto to be traced and don’t get me started on how the authorities can monitor you through your cell phone.

So unless you have a slew of cash, a car purchased before 1997 and know that you can have no contact through any phone with anyone from your past, you need to rethink trying to start anew. You can never use a driver’s license or social security number for any identification and you have to stay off all main highways and toll roads.

So I thought I had the scenario all laid out. My heroine could do this. She’d disappear from her life and start a new chapter in the back woods of Montana.

Then I remembered something that happened to me thirty years ago. My husband and I had moved to Ft. Lauderdale Florida from Columbus Ohio. 1200 miles away from home and on the first day there I ran into an upstairs neighbor with whom I had gone through high school. So apart from all the technology, the world itself has become such a small place. I wonder if anyone can get lost anymore.

Those Were the Days

Once when I was little I spent two weeks at my Grandparents farm in Southern Ohio. I loved it there. I would get up early and head out to the hills, exploring all the caves and hollows in the area. A couple times we got lost, but always ended up on some road that would eventually lead us home. Back then no one worried about us being out on our own for hours on end. The only thing we were told to watch out for was Copperheads. And to be quite honest I never saw a single one in the thirty some years I visited. Oh, we saw our share of Rat snakes, they were huge and Grandpa Blake had killed one that made its way into the cellar. I didn’t travel to the cellar too much after that story.

So I was staying at the farm and when we were out exploring I stepped on a thorn. It was embedded deep under the skin. I made it back to the house, probably owing and oohing along the way to let the cousins know just how much pain I was in. Grandma got out her needle to remove the culprit. The largest portion came out but the tip broke off inside.

“We should take her to the Doctor,” one of the cousins said.

I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I’d recently had stitches in my hand from falling into a bush while jumping in a large box, I know, explains so much. So the doctor was out of the question.

“No,” Grandma Blake said, “we’ll just put some milk bread on it.”

Wait, milk bread?

Everyone gathered round while she soaked a piece of white yeast bread in milk. The she put the bread on my foot and wrapped it in a piece of white cloth. We played a competitive game of 500 Rummy and had a snack of coke and potato chips then off to bed. Grandma had me keep the bandage on overnight.

The next morning I limped down to the kitchen and Grandma lovingly removed the wrapping. There, stuck in the center of the bread was the tip of the thorn. The spot where the dark piece had been lodged was clean and clear.

It was my first look at some of the old fashioned remedies that have been around forever. My other Grandmother, Sally swore by vinegar. We would stop by to visit and there was always a gallon jug by her chair. She explained that it was the only thing that worked on her arthritis so she rubbed it on her joints. She said it always made her feel better, but I always suspected it was the Highball made from Echo Springs and Diet Fresca that made the real difference. But she swore by vinegar with the passion that the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding swore by Windex.

Some other home remedies I’ve come across through my investigations:

1. Gargle with warm salted water for sore throat.

2. Meat tenderizer for jelly fish stings.

3. Egg White facial.

4. WD40 spray on aching joints…I know but my niece swears it works.

5. To stop bleeding from a cut, put it in flour to act as a clotting agent.

How about you? Do you have any home remedies to share?

I was lost...or was I?

I consider my life an adventure. Those of you that know me well know how much I HATE to fly. I start to panic just thinking about standing in lines, crushed bodies waiting to get on, and after, the rush of people pulling bags down into your space. People trying to maneuver their way off the plane around a line of bodies stacked up in the all too small isle makes me cringe. The seats jammed so close together that the last time I flew I could count the lice nits in the hair of the woman in front of me as she laid the seat back. Who else’s head has lain against that seat in which I am now sitting?

As a result of this disdain, I drive. I have driven from Ohio to Colorado taking the northern route, spending time in the Badlands and at Mt. Rushmore ending in the incredible Rocky Mountains in Winter Park. Daniel actually learned how to drive on South Dakota back roads when he was 15, as his 13 and 11 year old sisters lay down in the back seat yelling, "We’re going to die!!!" We stopped off along the way at a grizzly bear breeding compound that I just happened to come across in Wyoming. The kids and I (Kirk usually flew out and met up with us due to vacation restraints and the fact that he LOVES to fly) stopped at every state park, every free venue, every historic landmark. We had McDonald's French fries for afternoon snacks and whatever crappy fast food was available for dinner. We stayed at the cheapest hotels in rooms with two double beds and a rollaway.

I treasure these memories. Some of the best times we had were when we would go off the beaten path and get lost.

Going through Georgia one year on the way to Ohio (I’d like to have a dollar for every mile I’ve driven from Florida to Ohio and back), we were going up I-75 and there was a huge wreck. A prefabricated home had slid off its trailer. Half of a house was sitting in the middle of the interstate. I see this and exit, taking the next road hoping for a route around the standstill. I headed east towards the middle of the state.

The two lane roads seemed to get smaller as I headed deeper into Georgia. We’d packed a lunch and I was looking for a park to pull over and enjoy a break from the road. I kept driving. We passed through some small towns, but none offered a place to stop. As we came out of a town and made the turn northward,(at least I thought it was north as this was before GPS and my car didn’t even have a compass like most have now) I spied a huge pecan plantation. There out by the road were four picnic tables. Whether they were for workers or had been placed by the road for travelers to enjoy I had no idea, but we stopped and had our picnic under the enormous trees. My eldest daughter kept saying we were trespassing and would probably get shot. But no one came by to shoo us away so we spent an hour eating and talking about plantations and farming. It is one of my favorite memories. I picture a young mother and her three kids on an amazingly beautiful summer day. They are just sitting and talking spending those precious moments together that are so fleeting that when you look back it seems that their childhood was just a dream.

Over the years, we’ve found off the road dives that had fantastic food at 1950’s prices. We’ve discovered antique shops and barn sales. My youngest daughter collects teapots and many were found on one of our off the beaten path excursions.

Once, I was alone as I drove down back roads from Columbus, Ohio to Parkersburg, West Virginia. The road became so narrow that you had to pull over when another car was approaching in order to let them pass. I came to an enormous horse farm surrounded by miles of white fence. Out in the field were a horse and three men standing back watching as a colt took its first steps. I pulled the car over, grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. There, in the mist of morning, I experienced a miracle that I would never encounter dodging trucks on the interstate or from a 10 by 15 inch window at 35,000 feet.

It always reminds me of my favorite Robert Frost poem;

I shall be telling this with a sigh,

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Who Was On Your Wall?

One of the interesting aspects of growing older is that you have more time to reminisce with friends and family. The kids we shuttled around are out on their own and we are able to reach out to friends that have somehow fallen by the wayside. We have time to chat and most times we are pulled back into our younger days.

Recently, we were all talking about posters we hung on our walls in High school. Everybody did it. Our parents came from a time when money was tight so there was no extra money for frivolous wall decorations in the kid’s bedroom. Whenever you went into a friend’s room you were greeted with David Cassidy, any member of the Monkees, Bobby Sherman, or Barry Mannilow.

I was a little different. I loved sports figures. I had Roman Gabriel, quarterback for the LA Rams. I had Pete Maravich, (Pistol Pete to you) when he was with the New Orleans Jazz, and one of my all time favorite was Mark Spitz on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I can still picture him there on my wall with all those gold medals hanging around his neck.

I was weird. I didn’t really understand how my friends all thought the Monkee’s deserved a space on the wall when my boys had really accomplished something.

Except my friend Cathy. She had a life-size cutout of John Wayne in the corner of her room. That I could get behind.

I wondered about the pictures we hung. Did they somehow represent the man we would someday select as a mate? My husband was an athlete. My friends would joke that I could pick Kirk out on the practice field just by how he looked from the back in those wonderful football and baseball pants. He was competitive, but fair and as most of the guys on my walls he also was one of the “Good Guys”. Perhaps those posters were a young girl’s way to express those attributes that would be important later in life.
My daughter had the Muppets on her wall.

That explains a lot!!!!

Oldies but goodies

It happened. Just the other day, I was driving down the road, hit the search button on the radio and it stopped on an oldies but goodies station. Steve Miller Band blared from the speakers. “Fly like an eagle…” and I was jamming. My radio is usually set to the country station. If you’ve read my blog, you know I can’t get enough of Brad, Kenny, Martina, Faith, or Tim, to name a few. On this particular day I was in the mood for change. (Even though we’re old we still like the occasional change up). So, I’m listening. They are all there. Harry Chapin, Jim Croce, Dan Fogelberg, John Denver and the Beach Boys. I sing along. I know every word and each one takes me back to a special time.

The Beach Boys came to the Ohio State Fair my junior year in High School and we all went to see them. Floral shirts dotted the stadium as we sang along and danced the night away. Dan Fogelberg did an acoustic tour my freshman year in college at an outdoor venue where we sipped wine under the stars and munched on cheese and crackers.

My husband was into the louder venues. These were the bands that played the huge auditoriums. People pressed in so tightly that when one person jumped up they took the people on either side along for the ride. The Doobie Brothers, Boston, Journey, and other ear splitting bands all played accompanied by the sweet smelling smoke that filled our lungs and saturated our clothing.

On this day, as I drove around with the windows down and the “oldies” music blaring, I was taken back to that simpler time. And when I pulled up to a light and got an angry look from the “older” people in the car next to me, I just smiled and waved. Because for that moment I was seventeen and kicking back, just enjoying some tunes.

I guess I am an oldie but a goodie!!!