Grandchildren Bring Joy

There are few things in my life that bring me more than joy than my grandchildren. They spent two days with us and delighted us again with their perspectives and their personalities. 

Antonia stated that she now knew how to sit like a lady and could wear a skirt without a pair of shorts underneath. We were treated to fine art work from the boys, kitchen help with meals and dishes, and random hugs and kisses. 

I am so glad that I had my children young and that I am able to enjoy the gift of these grandchildren.

catatacts, surgery, and pirates

Aarrrrr! It’s Time to Walk the Plank 

 For the last few days I've been living with a pirate. And that pirate happens to be my husband. 

 His resemblance to a pirate is enhanced by the eye patch that he has been wearing as he recovers from cataract surgery. One eye done, the other to come. 

 The day after surgery he was assured that he would be able to work, driving would be no problem. And it wasn't. The problem came when he had to read. The eye still wearing a prescription lens could, the eye without could not. 

 Hence, not an eye patch but a yellow post-it hanging over his glass frame. Aarrrrr! Not a pretty sight.

Sleeping ok? Yup!

My youngest granddaughter doesn't like to sleep through the night. She prefers to jabber, sing, dance, thrash, and generally let her presence be known. 

At 2 she is usually ready for bed by 6 p.m. and can barely function past that time, but check her at 2p.m. and she's vocal and alert. 

 If her older brother gets up to use the bathroom she sings out, "Hi, Karl." She will report on the whereabouts of everyone in the house i.e. "Nia...sleeping. Domi...sleeping. Mama...sleeping etc." It's especially irritating if you are on the list and are awakened by her declaring that you are asleep. 

 When she's told to be quiet, she is silent, but will then lift her legs and drop them onto her mattress. Repeatedly. Over and over. Again and again.

 One night when she was over I thought I heard her cry out. I crept into the room and checked her while she lay in bed. I heard steady breathing through the darkness and ventured to ask, "Trinity, are you ok?" "Yup!" was her reply.

Freedom costs

Let Freedom ring – For Kathy’s Four New Freedoms

Whenever the 4^th of July rolls around and I participate in the festivities, I am reminded of Norman Rockwell’s famous four Freedoms paintings, depicting the Freedom to Worship, the Freedom from Fear, the Freedom from Want, and the Freedom of Speech.  I value all of those and have thought of for more that I plan to add to my personal life.

·        Freedom from Comparison.

Keeping up with the Jones’s has always meant living your life in comparison to your neighbors. Years back it meant car models, landscaping, remodeling, job advancement, and expensive vacations.  Today it is all encompassing and includes savings accounts, retirement plans, fashion, and pedigreed animals.

Sadly, it extends to children’s after school activities, clothing logos, school choice, and the electronic gadgets they possess.  My plan is to keep my rusting Kia until the death of its engine parts us.  Adding satellite is still not happening, nor is switching my VCR/DVD TV to something more digitally mastered.  My work for a  non-profit doesn’t come with fame or fortune, the work is the reward.  I will continue to scour thrift stores and clearance racks for bargains. My goal is to be content with what I have.

·        Freedom from Judgment

People have different parenting styles, hobbies, passions, likes and dislikes. Often times my ideas and ideals differ.  I’m attempting to free myself from judgment.  Although I might not consider it endearing, respectful, beneficial or necessary, parent your way.  Public of private school? Homeschool? To immunize or not? Your choice, not mine.  It’s your child and I’ve seen some wonderful children grown from what I consider wacky parenting ideals and plenty of troublemakers from sound ones.

Politics? Religion? Whole-grain or white? Processed or organic? Imagine just how long this list can be.  Classical? Opera? Country? Rock? It’s all music to someone.  Enjoy.  You live your life I’ll live mine.  But as I live mine, I will try my best to talk with you, befriend you, and listen.  My responsibility lies in being a good neighbor and only I can accomplish that.

·        Freedom from Appearance.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was a ban on the constant media bombardment on aging? Those headlines that read “50 is the new 30,””Woman, 72, is top in her field of weight lifting ”(how large is that field, I wonder) or “You too can have abs like these”. WHY????

I am making better choices than I did five years ago concerning my eating and exercise habits.  But as the years have passed I’ve acquired allergies, arthritis, and aches and pains previously unknown.  It’s happening and I’m OK with that.

I don’t want to live counting every calories and bite, refusing cake at birthday parties, wearing the lastest fashion, or stressing over aging skin.  I want to erase from my vocabulary the sentence, “I’m being bad,” when I’m referring to an eating choice.  Life is not meant to be lived at either extreme of fasting or feasting.  I’m going to celebrate life and attempt to live in balance.

·        Freedom from Perfection.

I don’t make fudge because my friend Debbie Nolan makes it really well.  Sadly, I haven’t seen Debbie in 26 years and I’m still not making fudge because I’m afraid it won’t be perfect.  There are much better quilters, writers, rug makers, bakers, home decorators, guitar players, singers, and dancers than me.

In the past, the idea of how inadequate I am compared to others has been my excuse to not attempt new things. No longer.  My home is a hodgepodge of homemade items.  Some are well done, others you need to not look at too closely.  The satisfying part is that it releases a spark within me and brings me pleasure to create something.

So for this July 5^th and onward, I am on a mission to add these freedoms to my life.  Adopt these or make your own list.  Whatever you do, begin now.  Let freedom ring.

Ring those bells!

(appeared July 5, 2012)

 

75 Years and You Never Looked So Good 

This July, Spam will be 75 years old. Yes, that’s Spam as in the canned precooked meat product made by Hormel. Since our family has been passing a can of Spam between our respective houses over the last several years, I thought it would be a good time to honor that illustrious product. 

 The name results from combining “spiced” and “ham”. Classic Spam is chopped pork choulder meat, with ham meat added, as well as salt, water, modified potato starch, and sodium nitrite. Believe it or not, 3.8 cans are eaten every second in the United States. It is sold in 41 countries, on six continents, and has a trademark in over 100 different countries. 

 During World War II since fresh meat was difficult to procure, soldiers ate Spam or as they fondly called it, “ham that didn’t pass its physical” and “meatloaf without basic training”. The Hormel Girls promoted Spam from coast to coast in through a musical venue. From 1948-1953 these women performed and in their heyday had 60 members. Some of the advertising paid off and Spam is a staple in Hawaii and Guam. 

 Today in Hawaii is it sometimes referred to as “the Hawaiian steak”: and it is on the menus at both McDonald’s and Burger King. During the last week of April they even celebrate with a Spam Jam, a carnival type celebration. 

 In our own modest way, we Rohloffs, celebrate Spam by passing our token can secretly from house to house. Through most of this last winter the Spam lay dormant with us as we waited for an opportune moment to share it with the Anthony and Elisabeth’s clan. 

 The perfect opportunity came during Karl’s 9th birthday celebration. Russ was able to sneak out to their chicken coop and, complete with a picture of an egg and the saying “Spam and egg” attached, hide it in a nesting box. Two days later Elisabeth found the can while cleaning the coop. She called the kids' in and said, “One of you needs to put your hand in that box. You won’t believe what’s in there.” “What is it?” they fearfully chorused. “I can’t tell you. But you won’t believe it.”

 After a bit of jostling, Karl bravely strode forward, reached into the box, raised the Spam high, and cried, “Bad Paacha! Look what he did! He spammed us!” The other three were delighted and erupted into cheers. Throughout the day they would chorus, “Bad Paacha! I can’t believe he did that!” 

 On Hannah’s 32nd birthday Elisabeth surprised her by visiting her in Boston. Russ and I babysat and the sisters had two whole days together. What Hannah didn’t know until three weeks later is that her loving sibling had tucked the Spam into the sheets of her massage table. Such a gift! 

 We enjoyed a recent weekend visit from Peter and Rebecca. This included visiting with Elisabeth and her family, gathering bedded plants to transport to Boston, enjoying good conversation, and savoring a delicious leisurely dinner at a local inn. 

 After Peter’s return to Boston he called to say again what a good time they had. They were safely home, the plants had survived the transport, and Hannah had taken good care of their felines. He added, “Guess what I found in the freezer? A carton of Ben and Jerry’s Spam.”

 “What? Spam?”

 “Yeah, it was an empty cart

 “It was a pretty good hiding place and we were glad to see it. It had been so long that we were beginning to feel a little left out. “ What can I say? 75 years old and tucked into a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream carton, you never looked so good, Spam.

Letterboxing

Confessions of a Slack Boxer 

 It's been six years since we first began letterboxing, and I'm still a slack boxer. 

For those of you who are ill informed, letter boxing is a sport that involves a blank notebook, as well as a personalized stamp and stamp pad. I would also recommend shoes suitable for hiking. It's best to begin this activity after mud season and end before any serious hunters arrive in the fall 

 To begin letter boxing first log onto the internet and visit Letter boxing North America. Hone in on your state and you will find directions to a multitude of boxes hidden in forests, hiking trails, rock walls, cemeteries, and parks. Gather up the directions and a compass and venture forth. 

 The goal is to follow the directives, find the box, and mark the pad within with your stamp and a greeting. You then use the enclosed stamp to describe where you found the letterbox. This is recorded in your notebook. 

 Russ and I have indulged in this activity in Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Illinois. We have discovered hidden cascades, forgotten graveyards, abandoned farmsteads, ancient trees, and acres of wetlands. Vertical climbs over monstrous boulders and evidence of moose and bear scat are part of some of my least favorite memories.

 Although we engage in this together we have very different styles of boxing. Russ, like any former Scout, is focused and determined and relentless in his search. He rarely gives up. He will backtrack over a trail looking for signs that he may have missed, remove any debris away from a possible sight, use his compass and the sun for aid, and usually find the hidden object. I have known him to cross a riverbed three times. But that was due to reading the map incorrectly. 

 I, however, am usually out for a stroll. Need I even describe my casual amble through the woods completely oblivious of any markers or signs? I mainly am aware of wildflowers, mudholes, and mosquitos. If we've searched for any length of time, I'm always happy to stop. If nothing else, I'll rest atop a fallen tree and munch on granola bars. The energetic, mind-numbing search I leave to Russ or others. This behavior has resulted in my immediate family christening me a slack boxer, or just a slacker. The term holds no derision for me. I enjoy my title and I've earned it. 

 The season began earlier this year. Our first venture was to find one of the suspension bridges in Vermont. Since there are only five, Russ did some searching on the internet before we left because the directions consisted of photos of roadways and park entrances. He left confident that he had found the correct spot, and we headed out to W. Rutland on a cool, crisp Saturday morning.

 The first marker was found and we happily followed two more into the woods to the suspension bridge. It appeared to be new and in excellent shape, and the directions clearly showed that we were expected to cross it. Two gorged river mouths boiled and frothed over the rocks some twenty feet below before passing under the bridge. Our ears were filled with the thunderous tumult of the water. 

 Russ was the first to cross the bridge. Since I've had experience and know how wobbly two people on a suspension bridge can be, I waited on the other side.  Although not fond of heights he diligently trudged ahead with his walking stick akimbo. 

 When he reached the other side he motioned for me to follow Halfway across the bridge, it suddenly dipped from my weight and the whole structure began to sway and buckle in the wind. It was then I realized that it was a very long overpass indeed. Underneath the waters roared and foamed while I halted, closed my eyes, and began to scream at the top of my lungs. For a long time. 

 After that I began to cry. "I can't move!” I cried. “ I'm paralyzed, I'm so scared!" I called to Russ. 

 "It's ok, keep coming." 

 I attempted two more steps, began another primeval scream, added some whimpering, and yelled, "I can't, I really can't." 

 "Then you'll have to turn around and go back." 

 "But I can't do that either," I wailed. 

 "At this point you have no choice. Come on Kathy,” he called. “Just look at me; don't take your eyes off me. You can do it." 

 The wind was still causing the bridge to sway while my steps resulted in more dipping. Slowly, with my eyes straight ahead I took a few steps, cried, took a few more, and bit by bit continued my erratic walk to my waiting husband. I fell against him when I arrived. 

He patted my back, saying, "You made it, it's over. I’m sorry. Are you ok? I’m so sorry." 

 "I think I am until I have to go back, but that was horrible and much longer than I thought. Do we have to go back?"

 "Fraid so, there’s only a campfire ring on this side," he replied. 

“Hmm...I wonder where we’ll sleep?” "Ok, ok, somehow I’ll go back, but, Russ, weren't you scared?" "Actually," he confided honestly, "I thought I was going to evacuate my bowels. But once I started, it seemed worse to try and turn around, so I kept my eyes forward, balanced with the walking stick, and just kept coming." 

 "But why didn't you tell me it was so bad? You knew I'd freak. I would have never come."

 "I know," he said. Being the rabid letterboxer that he is, he added, “But you had the map.”

Mama and Papa's Words of Wisdom

Thumper was the first to record it for posterity. 

 “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” And although he said it, his mama first told it to him, and I’m sure her mama gave her the same advice.

 Given enough time you will repeat or invent words of wisdom to pass on to your children. “If you don’t finish your dinner, you’ll be too full for dessert.” Remember? You’d dutifully choke down that last bite of potato, that final spoonful of peas.” You secretly wanted to send it to the starving children in China. 

 Bored? “How can you be bored, I was never bored. Why I walked uphill to school both ways. And don’t cross your eyes when I talk to you, they’ll freeze that way.” 

 Leave the door open and the query is, “Were you were born in a barn? I mean, we’re not heating the outside.” 

Be just a little too proud and you’d hear, “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.” It was a known fact that “cleanliness was next to Godliness.” “A little soap and water never killed anybody. Land sakes, you could grow potatoes in those ears!” 

 There were those times you wanted to follow the crowd, go to that party, forego a haircut, wear that faddish outfit. “As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say. If everyone took off their clothes and ran naked down Main St., would you?” 

 When the kids were young and close to tears over a broken toy, a skinned knee, a lost quarter, I would sing out, “Too bad, so sad, cut off your head, go to bed,” and a smile would follow. 

 And when wrestling with Dad whenever they tried to tickle his feet he would caution, “If you mess with the bull, you’ll get the horn.” Words he learned from his father.

 Mine recall my constant refrain of, “Life is not fair, get over it,” whenever they protested that a sibling seemed to experience favoritism. When young, one of them would ask if he/she was my favorite. I would always cheerfully insert their name and proclaim, “You are my favorite Peter.” (Or Hannah or Elisabeth) 

By the time they were teens and snarling that I liked someone better than them, I usually replied, “You’re right, I do.” That usually ended the conversation. 

 Russ always gave sound hiking advice, “Don’t step on what you can step over, don’t step over what you can step around. Never stand if you can sit, never sit if you can lie down. Never pass up an opportunity to use the bathroom.” Useful advice for more than the woods. 

 When did these words of wisdom begin? Were they stated at the dawn of time? Invented when the first child said, “No!”? When the second born cried, “Ouch!” after his brother’s punch? If not then when the children looked at each other and sang, “Nani-nani-boo-boo, you can’t touch me”, surely mama and papa spoke. 

 Somewhere, sometime, some parent stated, “Because I said so, that’s why!” And the rest is history.

 Just yesterday, my three year old granddaughter Antonia, observed her sister Trinity at a year old heading for the basement door which was slightly ajar. She lowered her voice and stated, “Trinity, don’t even think about it!” Trinity immediately stopped. Three years old and already a parent in the making.

Love Bigger Than a Chicken

Love changes over the years. It isn’t the big moments or the expensive gifts as much as it’s the little things that happen day to day. 

 When we were first married I used to buy Russ a candy bar every so often. Unfortunately, I always ate it before he got home. “Russ, I bought you a candy bar today!” I would exclaim upon his return. “Great! Where is it?” “Well, I ate it. But I bought it so that you would feel loved.” “I might feel more loved if you hadn’t eaten it.” So then I started buying two for him and I would only eat one. 

 We’ve rarely expressed our love with big gifts. The fact that we closed on a house on my birthday was a happy coincidence. It did, however, cause the lawyer to wonder aloud how Russ would ever be able to top that purchase. 

 A lot of the outward expressions of love today are manifested in renovations to the house to make our life easier, extended flower gardens that lighten the soul, acts of kindness on a daily basis, and a cedar chest filled with cards and letters. 

 When the kids were young I saved handmade cards. These would often reflect their educational growth or the reality of their daily lives. When Peter was 4, he crafted a Mother’s Day card with pictures from an old Sears catalogue. They were attached with a glue made of flour and paste. The result was a very thick card loaded with pictures of women in nursing bras. Clearly, he had been affected by the births of his 2 younger sisters. 

 In the early days when the kids earned pocket money from chores, love came wrapped with a lot of tape. Little china angels, a coffee cup filled with hard candy, a package of bath oil beads expressed their young hearts. I have a penchant for angels and bubble baths. Since I don’t drink coffee I know the selling point of the mug was the candy and the price. 

 Now that I am a grandmother, or a Monya to be exact, I find that I am more tuned in to the expressions of love that come my way. Perhaps it’s because it’s so unexpected and lavish and full. 

 My second grandson, Dominic, spent a lot of time when he was an infant in my arms. Because he was a very contented child I often rocked him to sleep while his busy mama tended to his brother who was 2 and a bit persnickety. At 6, Domi still barrels through the door on arrival and begins to hunt through the house for me. When he finds me, he launches himself into my arms and clings to my neck for a prolonged hug. When we visit at their house, he always rushes toward me to be gathered up into my arms. 

 This past summer he spent the 5 ½ hour drive to Maine clutching a book in his hands that he ‘had to show me’. Upon arrival he catapulted from the Jeep, met me at the door, and had me sit so that he could reveal to me a picture of an immense flower garden. “I wanted you to see this picture. I knew you would like it.” What can I say? I feel the love. 

 I have a relationship with each of the four grandchildren and sleep overs have routines that they’ve come to love. We read a lot. We puzzle over Hardy boy stories with Karl, search for Waldo with Dominic, chorus ‘I don’t like green eggs and ham’ with Antonia, while Trinity mimics animal sounds when she finds the correct animals in her picture books. We are constantly encountering new reading adventures at every age. And most of these will be experienced while rocking with me in Monya’s chair and snuggled in a blanket. 

 One of our family traditions is to make statements of our love. The bigger, the better. I love you as high as the sky. I love you as wide as the ocean. I love you more. I love you more than that. Antonia, at 3, is just beginning to get in on the definitions. 

 The other day she began, “Monya, I love you as high as the house.” That’s big. “I love you as tall as that tree.” Wow. “I love you as big as a chicken.” She paused, cocked her head to one side, frowned, and, “I don’t love you as tall as a chicken. That’s too little.” I agree, I love her more.