Resolutions

I have two perfect New Year's resolutions.

1. Don't feel guilty.
2. Don't feel guilty when you break resolution Number One.

I love men, but I must admit feeling that they don't shoulder their fair share of guilt. In fact, men seem to lack the tsunamis of guilt that overwhelm women most of the time.

Since guilt appears to be a women's problem, it behooves all of us females to help each other dodge the guilt bullets. How did we ladies get to this sorry state of, "I should have done more, I could have done more?"

In my case, I lay a huge share of the blame on those nuns who only rewarded the girls that had no life other than homework and good deeds. The sisters filled all our hours so we had no time to think of the opposite sex. I suspect my Protestant, Jewish, Hindu and Muslim friends had similar scenarios concocted for them.

Ladies, we are no longer seventh grade girls trying to please Sister Mary Innocentia. We do not have to stay up until midnight baking cookies for the bake sale. We do not have to die a thousand emotional deaths when we forget to send a birthday card. We do not have to take on volunteer jobs we have no time for, nor do we have to feel guilty when we can't be three places at the same time.

I have a few words for Martha Stewart, too. You, Ms. Perfection, are a purveyor of guilt by the truckload to your own gender. We cannot possibly live up to your "real simple" standards. Have you been talking to the nuns?

So here is my antidote. When guilt rears its ugly head, grab a good book, pour out a tumbler of wine and quickly head for the couch. And don't feel guilty; figure the couch is lonely.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Resolutions

I have two perfect New Year's resolutions.

1. Don't feel guilty.
2. Don't feel guilty when you break resolution Number One.

I love men, but I must admit feeling that they don't shoulder their fair share of guilt. In fact, men seem to lack the tsunamis of guilt that overwhelm women most of the time.

Since guilt appears to be a women's problem, it behooves all of us females to help each other dodge the guilt bullets. How did we ladies get to this sorry state of, "I should have done more, I could have done more?"

In my case, I lay a huge share of the blame on those nuns who only rewarded the girls that had no life other than homework and good deeds. The sisters filled all our hours so we had no time to think of the opposite sex. I suspect my Protestant, Jewish, Hindu and Muslim friends had similar scenarios concocted for them.

Ladies, we are no longer seventh grade girls trying to please Sister Mary Innocentia. We do not have to stay up until midnight baking cookies for the bake sale. We do not have to die a thousand emotional deaths when we forget to send a birthday card. We do not have to take on volunteer jobs we have no time for, nor do we have to feel guilty when we can't be three places at the same time.

I have a few words for Martha Stewart, too. You, Ms. Perfection, are a purveyor of guilt by the truckload to your own gender. We cannot possibly live up to your "real simple" standards. Have you been talking to the nuns?

So here is my antidote. When guilt rears its ugly head, grab a good book, pour out a tumbler of wine and quickly head for the couch. And don't feel guilty; figure the couch is lonely.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Tree

I was a lucky child. My parents always had a fight right before Christmas. Since this was the only fight they would have all year, I considered myself blessed.

The annual Christmas fight always was triggered by the same object, the Christmas tree.

We would go to the local tree lot where my frugal parents would hastily choose a tree from the bargain corner. "We only have it up for a week," they rationalized.

During the short drive home, the tree would deposit half its needles in the trunk of the car.

On Christmas Eve day, my father and the tree would retreat to the basement. Muffled curses and a lot of banging would filter upstairs. Then my grim-faced father would lug the Charlie Brown tree upstairs and unceremoniously deposit it in the living room.

My equally grim-faced mother would try to make the best of the situation... for about three minutes. "It's listing very, very badly to the left," she would say.

I won't print what my dad said. He and the tree would bang downstairs back to the basement.

When the tree made its second coming, my mother would string on the beautiful, pastel, wartime neon snowball lights. Thank goodness they did not work in series; one or two burned out every year, but we always had the rest. She finished the tree with exactly 3 dozen ornaments. Our tree never had tinsel. My mother considered tinsel to be tacky.

I will never have to worry about getting caught up in the glut of Christmas excess. My parents trained me well.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Tree

I was a lucky child. My parents always had a fight right before Christmas. Since this was the only fight they would have all year, I considered myself blessed.

The annual Christmas fight always was triggered by the same object, the Christmas tree.

We would go to the local tree lot where my frugal parents would hastily choose a tree from the bargain corner. "We only have it up for a week," they rationalized.

During the short drive home, the tree would deposit half its needles in the trunk of the car.

On Christmas Eve day, my father and the tree would retreat to the basement. Muffled curses and a lot of banging would filter upstairs. Then my grim-faced father would lug the Charlie Brown tree upstairs and unceremoniously deposit it in the living room.

My equally grim-faced mother would try to make the best of the situation... for about three minutes. "It's listing very, very badly to the left," she would say.

I won't print what my dad said. He and the tree would bang downstairs back to the basement.

When the tree made its second coming, my mother would string on the beautiful, pastel, wartime neon snowball lights. Thank goodness they did not work in series; one or two burned out every year, but we always had the rest. She finished the tree with exactly 3 dozen ornaments. Our tree never had tinsel. My mother considered tinsel to be tacky.

I will never have to worry about getting caught up in the glut of Christmas excess. My parents trained me well.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Fruitcake

Fruitcake can be very scary stuff. Let's face it, sometimes the idea of a tradition is better than the tradition itself.

Fruitcake has two basic flaws. First, the garishly colored, hard, super sticky fruit lurking in most every fruitcake. I challenge anyone to eat this stuff naked right out of its little plastic carton. This "fruit" bears no resemblance to the luscious fruits of everyday life i.e., apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, plums and grapes.

The second problem is fruitcake's density. Miss Piggy really did give the best diet advice ever uttered, "Don't eat anything you can't lift." Two square inches of fruitcake would make an admirable boat anchor.

When I was a young mother, our neighbor gave us one of her special Christmas fruitcakes every year. Naturally, my husband and two children wouldn't touch the thing. Since I was raised never to waste food, I would make noble attempts to eat this fruitcake Rock of Gibraltar. Finally, I couldn't face one more of her uninspired creations. And I hit on the perfect means of disposal. No food would be wasted, and a new tradition would be born.

On the day after Christmas, my husband and I drove to a local park at midnight. This park was where my favorite bird, crows, all gathered in the trees at dusk to roost. We stood on a high hill and shot the fruitcake like a discus into the meadow next to their rookery. I'm certain the crows enjoyed it for breakfast. The Annual Fruitcake Toss continued for many, many years.

Ironically, I do bake a small fruitcake every holiday season. All the fruit in it is recognizable and could stand on its own merit. If you try this recipe and don't like it, you now know what action to take.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Fruitcake

Fruitcake can be very scary stuff. Let's face it, sometimes the idea of a tradition is better than the tradition itself.

Fruitcake has two basic flaws. First, the garishly colored, hard, super sticky fruit lurking in most every fruitcake. I challenge anyone to eat this stuff naked right out of its little plastic carton. This "fruit" bears no resemblance to the luscious fruits of everyday life i.e., apples, pears, peaches, strawberries, plums and grapes.

The second problem is fruitcake's density. Miss Piggy really did give the best diet advice ever uttered, "Don't eat anything you can't lift." Two square inches of fruitcake would make an admirable boat anchor.

When I was a young mother, our neighbor gave us one of her special Christmas fruitcakes every year. Naturally, my husband and two children wouldn't touch the thing. Since I was raised never to waste food, I would make noble attempts to eat this fruitcake Rock of Gibraltar. Finally, I couldn't face one more of her uninspired creations. And I hit on the perfect means of disposal. No food would be wasted, and a new tradition would be born.

On the day after Christmas, my husband and I drove to a local park at midnight. This park was where my favorite bird, crows, all gathered in the trees at dusk to roost. We stood on a high hill and shot the fruitcake like a discus into the meadow next to their rookery. I'm certain the crows enjoyed it for breakfast. The Annual Fruitcake Toss continued for many, many years.

Ironically, I do bake a small fruitcake every holiday season. All the fruit in it is recognizable and could stand on its own merit. If you try this recipe and don't like it, you now know what action to take.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Lucia

I want to make it clear that I am not a Swedish wanna-be.

My grandfather got off a boat from Bohemia, and my grandmother said "Make out the lights", the literal translation from the German, until the day she died. I am almost always content to be what I am, an American of Czech / German descent.

However, on one day of the year, I long to be Swedish. That special day is December 13, St. Lucia Day in Sweden.

How St. Lucia, a very Italian saint, has come to be adored by a nation of Swedes is lost in the murky mess of history. What is certain is that she is the saint of light, and the Swedish people want her to visit their homes and bring back the light to their dark, northern nation.

The Swedes accomplish this feat by lighting up their big sisters. Early on December 13, the oldest girl in the family dons a white dress with a crimson sash, puts a lingonberry leaf crown with lighted candles on her head and serves her family breakfast in bed. Even the sweet rolls, luciakatter, are special. They are almond, raisin, saffron flavored buns.

Living in the upper Midwest, I feel a compelling need for a Lucia girl. When they were younger, my granddaughters could be pressed into doing Lucia duty. Teenagers are more skeptical about these matters.

I may have to run a classified ad. "Wanted, one Lucia girl, no experience necessary. Crown and candles provided. Just bring back the sun."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Lucia

I want to make it clear that I am not a Swedish wanna-be.

My grandfather got off a boat from Bohemia, and my grandmother said "Make out the lights", the literal translation from the German, until the day she died. I am almost always content to be what I am, an American of Czech / German descent.

However, on one day of the year, I long to be Swedish. That special day is December 13, St. Lucia Day in Sweden.

How St. Lucia, a very Italian saint, has come to be adored by a nation of Swedes is lost in the murky mess of history. What is certain is that she is the saint of light, and the Swedish people want her to visit their homes and bring back the light to their dark, northern nation.

The Swedes accomplish this feat by lighting up their big sisters. Early on December 13, the oldest girl in the family dons a white dress with a crimson sash, puts a lingonberry leaf crown with lighted candles on her head and serves her family breakfast in bed. Even the sweet rolls, luciakatter, are special. They are almond, raisin, saffron flavored buns.

Living in the upper Midwest, I feel a compelling need for a Lucia girl. When they were younger, my granddaughters could be pressed into doing Lucia duty. Teenagers are more skeptical about these matters.

I may have to run a classified ad. "Wanted, one Lucia girl, no experience necessary. Crown and candles provided. Just bring back the sun."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Peacock

My neighbor the next road over got a free peacock, or more correctly, a free peahen. She did not win this bird in some oddball raffle or sweepstakes. The peahen just walked into our neighbor's yard and decided to stay. Maybe this bird was just tired of looking at some guy's big tail.

The peacock joined the chicken which arrived three years earlier in a similar fashion; i.e., out of the blue.

No one in our neighborhood has reported any missing peacocks. And no signs have appeared on telephone poles with a fetching photo and the words, "MISSING, our beloved peacock, Persephone. Reward."

Maybe our homes have giant, invisible animal magnets. My neighbor's house has an avian magnet; ours is decidedly feline.

Peacocks are native to India, a place with a much toastier climate than here in Wisconsin. Our winter is setting in. Another neighbor has offered the peacock and chicken heated quarters for the winter. The trick will be luring them in. After all, they are birdbrains.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Peacock

My neighbor the next road over got a free peacock, or more correctly, a free peahen. She did not win this bird in some oddball raffle or sweepstakes. The peahen just walked into our neighbor's yard and decided to stay. Maybe this bird was just tired of looking at some guy's big tail.

The peacock joined the chicken which arrived three years earlier in a similar fashion; i.e., out of the blue.

No one in our neighborhood has reported any missing peacocks. And no signs have appeared on telephone poles with a fetching photo and the words, "MISSING, our beloved peacock, Persephone. Reward."

Maybe our homes have giant, invisible animal magnets. My neighbor's house has an avian magnet; ours is decidedly feline.

Peacocks are native to India, a place with a much toastier climate than here in Wisconsin. Our winter is setting in. Another neighbor has offered the peacock and chicken heated quarters for the winter. The trick will be luring them in. After all, they are birdbrains.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Minimalist

I am a minimalist. I try not to have more stuff than I can care for.

To that end, I frequently say to myself, "Do I really need this?"

The answer is frequently negative. For example:

• Television - Not needed as it has the frightening capacity to bring Nancy Grace into my house.
  
• Dishwasher - Also not needed. How many dishes can two people make?
  
• Microwave - I have a really big one. It's called an oven.
  
• Bathtub - Absolutely unnecessary. I agree with the Japanese... why sit in your own scum?
  
• Ice cubes - Doesn't the refrigerator make all drinks cold?
  
• A barbecue - Too dangerous. I should never be left alone with charcoal starter.
  
• Air conditioning - It's called Lake Michigan.
  

Since I have so little stuff, lots of room is left for cats and books. Cats don't have to be dusted or washed. They are great heating pads and can also perform mouse duty.

The rest of the empty space is filled with books. In this regard, I'm a total maximalist.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Minimalist

I am a minimalist. I try not to have more stuff than I can care for.

To that end, I frequently say to myself, "Do I really need this?"

The answer is frequently negative. For example:

• Television - Not needed as it has the frightening capacity to bring Nancy Grace into my house.
  
• Dishwasher - Also not needed. How many dishes can two people make?
  
• Microwave - I have a really big one. It's called an oven.
  
• Bathtub - Absolutely unnecessary. I agree with the Japanese... why sit in your own scum?
  
• Ice cubes - Doesn't the refrigerator make all drinks cold?
  
• A barbecue - Too dangerous. I should never be left alone with charcoal starter.
  
• Air conditioning - It's called Lake Michigan.
  

Since I have so little stuff, lots of room is left for cats and books. Cats don't have to be dusted or washed. They are great heating pads and can also perform mouse duty.

The rest of the empty space is filled with books. In this regard, I'm a total maximalist.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Stuffing

I believe I hate turkey dressing as the result of a big misunderstanding when I was 4 years old. Seated at my grandmother's well-laden, lace tablecloth covered table, I spotted a big bowl of brown stuff. "I want that, please," I said to my mother. "You're not going to like it, "she replied. I might note that in her entire life, my mother never made a turkey or dressing. "Please," I begged.

She put a big scoop on my plate, and I was shocked when I tasted it. I was certain the brown stuff with celery was one of my favorite foods - tuna salad. I've never recovered from that moment.

Fortunately, my grandmother made mounds of mashed potatoes and schlag laden pumpkin pies. She also had the best salt and pepper shakers in the world, a pair of Nippers, the RCA Victor Dog. I inherited them and still find them charming.

When my grandmother could no longer produce the Thanksgiving feast, I grew up on chop suey or Swiss steak for the big day. Yet, I longed to be like everyone else in America with a big turkey and mashed potatoes. I could simply say, "No dressing, please."

As a newlywed, I vowed never to have a Thanksgiving sans turkey. Wild rice would be the stuffing. My first excursion into turkey cookery was memorable. Who would imagine someone hiding a plastic bag of neck bones, hearts and gizzards INSIDE a bird? Not me. I roasted them.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Stuffing

I believe I hate turkey dressing as the result of a big misunderstanding when I was 4 years old. Seated at my grandmother's well-laden, lace tablecloth covered table, I spotted a big bowl of brown stuff. "I want that, please," I said to my mother. "You're not going to like it, "she replied. I might note that in her entire life, my mother never made a turkey or dressing. "Please," I begged.

She put a big scoop on my plate, and I was shocked when I tasted it. I was certain the brown stuff with celery was one of my favorite foods - tuna salad. I've never recovered from that moment.

Fortunately, my grandmother made mounds of mashed potatoes and schlag laden pumpkin pies. She also had the best salt and pepper shakers in the world, a pair of Nippers, the RCA Victor Dog. I inherited them and still find them charming.

When my grandmother could no longer produce the Thanksgiving feast, I grew up on chop suey or Swiss steak for the big day. Yet, I longed to be like everyone else in America with a big turkey and mashed potatoes. I could simply say, "No dressing, please."

As a newlywed, I vowed never to have a Thanksgiving sans turkey. Wild rice would be the stuffing. My first excursion into turkey cookery was memorable. Who would imagine someone hiding a plastic bag of neck bones, hearts and gizzards INSIDE a bird? Not me. I roasted them.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dishes

My grandmother was poor, but she had one prized possession, her 150 piece set of Homer Laughlin dishes. Like many women of her era, she set an abundant table with a dish for every purpose. Scores of dishes including two gravy boats, celery plates, and gigantic meat platters proved that the American dream was real.

My mother decided to go modern when she was married in the height of the Depression. She bought Homer Laughlin dinnerware, too, but hers was the radical new Fiesta® Dinnerware (click here) .

How lucky I was to eat every meal of my childhood off those Matisse colored dishes. By the time I was five, I decided that the deep cobalt blue plate was the most prized. If I didn't get the blue one, then red, green, yellow and white were my favorites in descending order. Perhaps I veered to a career in art because of those paintbox colored plates.

I started marriage with a small set of earth tone dishes. But my dish philosophy took a radical turn one day in a delightful Montreal restaurant. Our family ordered different entrees, and each came on unique dishes. The Asian inspired food graced a Chinese plate. An elegantly flowered plate set off the French entree. And the creamy white pasta arrived on a sleek, black platter.

Not being strapped with 150 matched dishes, I decided then and there to go home and comb the thrift stores for unique plates that matched my cooking.

Like my grandmother, I now have many, many dishes. Unlike my grandmother, I have cupboards full of mismatched plates. I wouldn't dream of serving mac & ched on white china.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dishes

My grandmother was poor, but she had one prized possession, her 150 piece set of Homer Laughlin dishes. Like many women of her era, she set an abundant table with a dish for every purpose. Scores of dishes including two gravy boats, celery plates, and gigantic meat platters proved that the American dream was real.

My mother decided to go modern when she was married in the height of the Depression. She bought Homer Laughlin dinnerware, too, but hers was the radical new Fiesta® Dinnerware (click here) .

How lucky I was to eat every meal of my childhood off those Matisse colored dishes. By the time I was five, I decided that the deep cobalt blue plate was the most prized. If I didn't get the blue one, then red, green, yellow and white were my favorites in descending order. Perhaps I veered to a career in art because of those paintbox colored plates.

I started marriage with a small set of earth tone dishes. But my dish philosophy took a radical turn one day in a delightful Montreal restaurant. Our family ordered different entrees, and each came on unique dishes. The Asian inspired food graced a Chinese plate. An elegantly flowered plate set off the French entree. And the creamy white pasta arrived on a sleek, black platter.

Not being strapped with 150 matched dishes, I decided then and there to go home and comb the thrift stores for unique plates that matched my cooking.

Like my grandmother, I now have many, many dishes. Unlike my grandmother, I have cupboards full of mismatched plates. I wouldn't dream of serving mac & ched on white china.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Security

The other day a friend of mine was venting her rage over the convoluted security rituals we all endure at airports. My only advice was the classic St. Francis line about learning to accept what we cannot change.

On reflection, however, there are a few concrete measures that can improve life in the security line.

The most obvious is, unfortunately, not feasible. Flying in the nude isn't legal. But I do try to come as close to this ideal as I can. Stripping down to the bare essentials does send a visual message to the authority figures that there is not much left to mess with. In summer I can pare down to only two items of clothing, one being a dress. (Shoes don't count, because they are coming off.)

Diamonds and jewelry are not a girl's best friend at the airport. The other day I had the misfortune of being behind a woman who apparently did not know that jewelry aficionados are prime terrorist suspects. It took her three trips through the scanner to locate and cast off all her multiple rings, bracelets and necklaces. She definitely needs a class in bead and string jewelry making.

Other accessories also can make you an instant center of attention. Giant belt buckles and big metal buttons send a person directly to the pat down line as do western style hats, jackets and skirts decorated with metal studs. Metal hair hardware is a real alarm ringer, too.

Shoes deserve special mention. Face it, you will probably have to take them off. Would it be wise to wear those cute, high boots that lace all the way up to your knees? No wonder I see lots of people wearing flip-flops at airports … in the dead of winter. These people aren't slobs, they are just patriots.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Security

The other day a friend of mine was venting her rage over the convoluted security rituals we all endure at airports. My only advice was the classic St. Francis line about learning to accept what we cannot change.

On reflection, however, there are a few concrete measures that can improve life in the security line.

The most obvious is, unfortunately, not feasible. Flying in the nude isn't legal. But I do try to come as close to this ideal as I can. Stripping down to the bare essentials does send a visual message to the authority figures that there is not much left to mess with. In summer I can pare down to only two items of clothing, one being a dress. (Shoes don't count, because they are coming off.)

Diamonds and jewelry are not a girl's best friend at the airport. The other day I had the misfortune of being behind a woman who apparently did not know that jewelry aficionados are prime terrorist suspects. It took her three trips through the scanner to locate and cast off all her multiple rings, bracelets and necklaces. She definitely needs a class in bead and string jewelry making.

Other accessories also can make you an instant center of attention. Giant belt buckles and big metal buttons send a person directly to the pat down line as do western style hats, jackets and skirts decorated with metal studs. Metal hair hardware is a real alarm ringer, too.

Shoes deserve special mention. Face it, you will probably have to take them off. Would it be wise to wear those cute, high boots that lace all the way up to your knees? No wonder I see lots of people wearing flip-flops at airports … in the dead of winter. These people aren't slobs, they are just patriots.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Witches

Most everyone knows that witches are make believe. Those that don't have created much havoc down through the ages right up to the present day. Poor Harry Potter gets censored, and Halloween parades get cancelled.

Thanks to L. Frank Baum, we know that witches come in two varieties, the wicked ones and the good ones. My favorite wicked witch is from Russian folklore. Her name is Baba Yaga, she has iron teeth and flies in a mortar and pestle. But the best part is her house; it stands on giant chicken feet and can spin around. (click here if you are feeling brave)

If witches were real, there is still nothing to fear. The defense is found in almost every adobe house in our own American Southwest. You simply paint the doors bright blue. Blue doors keep the brujas away.

I've spent considerable time being a children's storyteller, and Halloween stories are among my favorites. But I always preface these storytimes by telling the kids my viewpoint — "I hate really scary stuff. So we will only do fun scary stories."

One day when reading a silly witch story to a group of youngsters, I discovered a latent talent. I can make the best witch voice in the world. Sadly, I am not bragging - it's true.

When I switched to my witch voice in the story, one of my storytime kids burst into hysterical sobs and shrieks. The nice storytime lady had turned into a witch! When you've got a gift, you must use it with great care.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Witches

Most everyone knows that witches are make believe. Those that don't have created much havoc down through the ages right up to the present day. Poor Harry Potter gets censored, and Halloween parades get cancelled.

Thanks to L. Frank Baum, we know that witches come in two varieties, the wicked ones and the good ones. My favorite wicked witch is from Russian folklore. Her name is Baba Yaga, she has iron teeth and flies in a mortar and pestle. But the best part is her house; it stands on giant chicken feet and can spin around. (click here if you are feeling brave)

If witches were real, there is still nothing to fear. The defense is found in almost every adobe house in our own American Southwest. You simply paint the doors bright blue. Blue doors keep the brujas away.

I've spent considerable time being a children's storyteller, and Halloween stories are among my favorites. But I always preface these storytimes by telling the kids my viewpoint — "I hate really scary stuff. So we will only do fun scary stories."

One day when reading a silly witch story to a group of youngsters, I discovered a latent talent. I can make the best witch voice in the world. Sadly, I am not bragging - it's true.

When I switched to my witch voice in the story, one of my storytime kids burst into hysterical sobs and shrieks. The nice storytime lady had turned into a witch! When you've got a gift, you must use it with great care.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Spiders

I confess to a great fondness for spiders. Spiders are creators of great beauty, and I'm a sucker for visual delights.

The Navajos have a lovely story about Spider Woman who lives under the ground. Changing Woman visits Spider Woman and is taught how to weave, with one condition. Changing Woman must teach other Navajo women the art of weaving. Since Navajo women are some of the greatest weavers in the world, Spider Woman must be pleased.

On certain magical mornings, when the dew covers our meadow and the sunrise is just right, everything in the yard is looped with webs outlined in sparkling drops. That's when I remember that we live absolutely surrounded by spiders all the time.

The spiders on the outside walls of our house and I carry on a polite ballet. I hate to destroy their gorgeous handiwork. But if I don't occasionally cleanup, they proceed to "seal" all our outside doors and windows with their lacy webs. After my gentle cleaning, they can spin new orb webs in about an hour.

As I explain to kids in my science classes, spiders don't chase people. Their venom is for getting lunch. All spider bites are accidents, so it behooves us large-brained mammals not to stick our body parts in dark corners or lonesome woodpiles.

The largest spider I've ever met was the size of a teacup. It was curled up taking a daytime nap in a rainforest tree in Costa Rica. This tarantula was definitely not a woman-eater, and I feel privileged to have encountered it.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Spiders

I confess to a great fondness for spiders. Spiders are creators of great beauty, and I'm a sucker for visual delights.

The Navajos have a lovely story about Spider Woman who lives under the ground. Changing Woman visits Spider Woman and is taught how to weave, with one condition. Changing Woman must teach other Navajo women the art of weaving. Since Navajo women are some of the greatest weavers in the world, Spider Woman must be pleased.

On certain magical mornings, when the dew covers our meadow and the sunrise is just right, everything in the yard is looped with webs outlined in sparkling drops. That's when I remember that we live absolutely surrounded by spiders all the time.

The spiders on the outside walls of our house and I carry on a polite ballet. I hate to destroy their gorgeous handiwork. But if I don't occasionally cleanup, they proceed to "seal" all our outside doors and windows with their lacy webs. After my gentle cleaning, they can spin new orb webs in about an hour.

As I explain to kids in my science classes, spiders don't chase people. Their venom is for getting lunch. All spider bites are accidents, so it behooves us large-brained mammals not to stick our body parts in dark corners or lonesome woodpiles.

The largest spider I've ever met was the size of a teacup. It was curled up taking a daytime nap in a rainforest tree in Costa Rica. This tarantula was definitely not a woman-eater, and I feel privileged to have encountered it.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Style

The difference between style and fashion is easy. Fashion is someone else telling you what to wear. Style is you creating your own personal look. I will vote for style every time.

Growing up, I had the perfect role model to exemplify pure, uninhibited style. My Aunt Vi created a look for herself as a young woman and remained unabashedly true to her style until she died at age 89.

The major elements of Vi style were tailored suits in primary colors (Kelly green and red were her favorites), faux leopard accents, large hoop earrings, piles of real Navajo silver and turquoise bracelets and stiletto heels. Tabu perfume was the olfactory complement to her look.

Aunt Vi also had a real leopard skin coat in the days before conservation was a household word. When I inherited that coat, I was torn between my love for Aunt Vi and my love for animals. To solve this dilemma, I buried the leopard coat in our backyard.

My cousin Linda is one of the style stars in my life now. Her style is so fabulous that she has her own fan club. A group of young girls in her church can't wait to see what Linda will be wearing when she does the weekly reading.

Linda's clothes are boldly colored and patterned tops and skirts made of flowing chiffon. She complements these outfits with big, chunky, bead encrusted jewelry and amazing purses - one handbag is shaped like a teapot. Linda is a walking art show. I'm one of her groupies, too.

Among my many stylish friends, Donna has to be the absolute Queen of Style. Who else do I know that can pull off wearing a full length white, turkey feather coat?

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Style

The difference between style and fashion is easy. Fashion is someone else telling you what to wear. Style is you creating your own personal look. I will vote for style every time.

Growing up, I had the perfect role model to exemplify pure, uninhibited style. My Aunt Vi created a look for herself as a young woman and remained unabashedly true to her style until she died at age 89.

The major elements of Vi style were tailored suits in primary colors (Kelly green and red were her favorites), faux leopard accents, large hoop earrings, piles of real Navajo silver and turquoise bracelets and stiletto heels. Tabu perfume was the olfactory complement to her look.

Aunt Vi also had a real leopard skin coat in the days before conservation was a household word. When I inherited that coat, I was torn between my love for Aunt Vi and my love for animals. To solve this dilemma, I buried the leopard coat in our backyard.

My cousin Linda is one of the style stars in my life now. Her style is so fabulous that she has her own fan club. A group of young girls in her church can't wait to see what Linda will be wearing when she does the weekly reading.

Linda's clothes are boldly colored and patterned tops and skirts made of flowing chiffon. She complements these outfits with big, chunky, bead encrusted jewelry and amazing purses - one handbag is shaped like a teapot. Linda is a walking art show. I'm one of her groupies, too.

Among my many stylish friends, Donna has to be the absolute Queen of Style. Who else do I know that can pull off wearing a full length white, turkey feather coat?

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Holland

When I think of Holland, I do not visualize tulips and windmills. I think of cats and giants.

Dogs may visit French cafes, but cats live in many Dutch restaurants. The resident cat may be asleep on the chair you pull out or be rubbing against your legs as you dine. Cat lover that I am, this situation makes me feel right at home. If you are repulsed, remember that Holland is a land of canals, and cats perform valuable mouse duty.

The giants are everywhere as the Dutch are officially the tallest people in the world. It's not as though they have a lot of growing room. The Netherlands is the size of two New Jerseys with a population of about 16 million. It is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. No one knows why the Dutch tower over the rest of the world, but good nutrition and health care are probable guesses.

Most young men in Holland have the stature of NBA basketball players, but it's the women who are particularly striking. When Dutch women stride down the street, they resemble lithe giraffes. Their trim jeans on their trim legs seem to be never-ending.

The growth spurt must start early. Children with 7 year old faces have the legs of our 12 year olds. If only our American kids' growth was going up instead of out!

Height is not reserved for the younger generations. People my age are also extremely tall. I did eat my peas when I was a kid, but, by Dutch standards, I seem to be missing about seven inches.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Holland

When I think of Holland, I do not visualize tulips and windmills. I think of cats and giants.

Dogs may visit French cafes, but cats live in many Dutch restaurants. The resident cat may be asleep on the chair you pull out or be rubbing against your legs as you dine. Cat lover that I am, this situation makes me feel right at home. If you are repulsed, remember that Holland is a land of canals, and cats perform valuable mouse duty.

The giants are everywhere as the Dutch are officially the tallest people in the world. It's not as though they have a lot of growing room. The Netherlands is the size of two New Jerseys with a population of about 16 million. It is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. No one knows why the Dutch tower over the rest of the world, but good nutrition and health care are probable guesses.

Most young men in Holland have the stature of NBA basketball players, but it's the women who are particularly striking. When Dutch women stride down the street, they resemble lithe giraffes. Their trim jeans on their trim legs seem to be never-ending.

The growth spurt must start early. Children with 7 year old faces have the legs of our 12 year olds. If only our American kids' growth was going up instead of out!

Height is not reserved for the younger generations. People my age are also extremely tall. I did eat my peas when I was a kid, but, by Dutch standards, I seem to be missing about seven inches.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Pennies

People can be divided into two basic types - those who bend down to pick up a penny and those that do not bend down to pick up a penny. I belong to the former group. Never marry the latter.

I cannot conceive of turning down a gift, no matter how small. Not bending down is certainly an affront to the gods of good luck who have graciously put that penny in my path. And I know just what to do with good luck money.

When my Aunt Vi died, I executed her estate. In a dresser drawer I found a box labeled "found money". I had to ponder its meaning a moment, but then the light went on in my brain.

Aunt Vi was a great walker. After retirement, she hiked five to ten miles a day. She lived to be 89. My Aunt had lots of years to pick up all those stray pennies, dimes, quarters and even dollar bills that fate placed in her paths. To her, unearned money was special and not to be tossed casually into her tattered, black coin purse.

I immediately started my own found money box. The coins pile up year after year, each one never failing to deliver a moment of joy when spotted and claimed. But, unlike Aunt Vi, I periodically count up and spend the stash... always on something special or frivolous. After all, it is a gift, not grocery money.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Pennies

People can be divided into two basic types - those who bend down to pick up a penny and those that do not bend down to pick up a penny. I belong to the former group. Never marry the latter.

I cannot conceive of turning down a gift, no matter how small. Not bending down is certainly an affront to the gods of good luck who have graciously put that penny in my path. And I know just what to do with good luck money.

When my Aunt Vi died, I executed her estate. In a dresser drawer I found a box labeled "found money". I had to ponder its meaning a moment, but then the light went on in my brain.

Aunt Vi was a great walker. After retirement, she hiked five to ten miles a day. She lived to be 89. My Aunt had lots of years to pick up all those stray pennies, dimes, quarters and even dollar bills that fate placed in her paths. To her, unearned money was special and not to be tossed casually into her tattered, black coin purse.

I immediately started my own found money box. The coins pile up year after year, each one never failing to deliver a moment of joy when spotted and claimed. But, unlike Aunt Vi, I periodically count up and spend the stash... always on something special or frivolous. After all, it is a gift, not grocery money.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Murder

We had a rash of murders at our house lately, and I definitely wanted them to stop.

For the past several weeks we would go downstairs to the cats' room in the morning and find one of the following:

• A mouse tail without a body
• A mouse head without a body
• No mouse body, but a little trail of mouse blood

When asked about this disgusting situation, the Tooley Cats just smugly licked their whiskers.

My husband and I suspected that our local field mice either have the IQs of zucchinis or masochistic tendencies.

Action was clearly needed. We applied people logic and concluded that the mice must be coming in from the garage which is attached to the house. A long afternoon was spent in the garage sealing tiny cracks and looking for evidence of mice habitation. Oddly, there were no signs of mice. The mouse massacres continued unabated.

It was time to start thinking like felines. And that's how we solved the case of the murdered mice. The mice weren't running into the house. They were being carried into the house.

The Tooley Cats have a wonderful outdoor "porch", a huge dog crate accessed via a cat door set into a basement window. Apparently, while we were sleeping, the cats were spending their nights trolling for hapless mice who wandered too close or into the dog crate. Naturally, any self-respecting cat would bring their treasures inside.

The cat door is closed every night now. Mornings are much pleasanter.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Murder

We had a rash of murders at our house lately, and I definitely wanted them to stop.

For the past several weeks we would go downstairs to the cats' room in the morning and find one of the following:

• A mouse tail without a body
• A mouse head without a body
• No mouse body, but a little trail of mouse blood

When asked about this disgusting situation, the Tooley Cats just smugly licked their whiskers.

My husband and I suspected that our local field mice either have the IQs of zucchinis or masochistic tendencies.

Action was clearly needed. We applied people logic and concluded that the mice must be coming in from the garage which is attached to the house. A long afternoon was spent in the garage sealing tiny cracks and looking for evidence of mice habitation. Oddly, there were no signs of mice. The mouse massacres continued unabated.

It was time to start thinking like felines. And that's how we solved the case of the murdered mice. The mice weren't running into the house. They were being carried into the house.

The Tooley Cats have a wonderful outdoor "porch", a huge dog crate accessed via a cat door set into a basement window. Apparently, while we were sleeping, the cats were spending their nights trolling for hapless mice who wandered too close or into the dog crate. Naturally, any self-respecting cat would bring their treasures inside.

The cat door is closed every night now. Mornings are much pleasanter.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Abandoned

I am fascinated by old, abandoned farmhouses. They dot the American countryside from east to west. If they are haunted, it is only with memories.

Deserted homesteads, crumbling into the ground, are poignancy made visible. Who can pass one without wondering what dreams, loves and heartbreaks occurred within the walls?

Adobe buildings are particularly metaphorical. The adobe bricks are made from earth and water, dried by the sun. Generations can live within the earthen walls, but when the home loses its people, it soon recycles itself back into the ground.

Our Midwestern, clapboard farmhouses are a heartier breed of dwelling. The sun's energy is still stored in those boards, and decay takes its time. Only broken windows, sagging porches, peeling paint and collapsing roofs tell the world that no one is left to care.

A few miles from our house is a humble and intriguing little cottage. It stands alone and decrepit in a field. Yet someone carefully plants and harvests the alfalfa around it. It's an island in a sea of grass.

I've asked around the local grapevine about the house's history to no avail. The house is in a different township from mine, and local history here seems to end at the town line, or in this case, the range line.

The house exerts a magnetic pull on me. Even though my photography skills are few, I take the home's picture at different times and seasons. I get a surge of happiness every time I drive over to visit the little house and find it still braving the elements.

Click on the images for a larger view.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Abandoned

I am fascinated by old, abandoned farmhouses. They dot the American countryside from east to west. If they are haunted, it is only with memories.

Deserted homesteads, crumbling into the ground, are poignancy made visible. Who can pass one without wondering what dreams, loves and heartbreaks occurred within the walls?

Adobe buildings are particularly metaphorical. The adobe bricks are made from earth and water, dried by the sun. Generations can live within the earthen walls, but when the home loses its people, it soon recycles itself back into the ground.

Our Midwestern, clapboard farmhouses are a heartier breed of dwelling. The sun's energy is still stored in those boards, and decay takes its time. Only broken windows, sagging porches, peeling paint and collapsing roofs tell the world that no one is left to care.

A few miles from our house is a humble and intriguing little cottage. It stands alone and decrepit in a field. Yet someone carefully plants and harvests the alfalfa around it. It's an island in a sea of grass.

I've asked around the local grapevine about the house's history to no avail. The house is in a different township from mine, and local history here seems to end at the town line, or in this case, the range line.

The house exerts a magnetic pull on me. Even though my photography skills are few, I take the home's picture at different times and seasons. I get a surge of happiness every time I drive over to visit the little house and find it still braving the elements.

Click on the images for a larger view.
Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Cake

I can only bake one cake. Fortunately, it is a very luscious cake. It is definitely not a layer cake.

How anyone can put a layer cake together is a mystery to me. I am in awe of my son-in-law and all the French bakeries that can turn out gorgeous, multi-layered masterpieces.

A myriad of things can go wrong when making a layer cake. For example, the layers should be the same height. When I'm not looking, a little extra batter seems to creep into one of my cake pans. Or I take my pans out of the oven to discover that the baking powder has gone ballistic. One side of a layer is three inches high, the other a mere inch and a half. There is only so much frosting you can add to fix that situation.

If by some miracle the cake layers come out of the oven level and equal, you can be assured they won't come out of the pan. A big, ragged chunk of cake will remain firmly stuck on the bottom.

And the final disaster, crumbs in the frosting. How do those master cake bakers keep jillions of cake crumbs from merging into the frosting?

For all of you out there who share my layer cake trauma, click here for my grandmother's totally easy, foolproof and guest pleasing apple cake recipe.

If you ever need to sell your house, bake this cake an hour before the showing.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Cake

I can only bake one cake. Fortunately, it is a very luscious cake. It is definitely not a layer cake.

How anyone can put a layer cake together is a mystery to me. I am in awe of my son-in-law and all the French bakeries that can turn out gorgeous, multi-layered masterpieces.

A myriad of things can go wrong when making a layer cake. For example, the layers should be the same height. When I'm not looking, a little extra batter seems to creep into one of my cake pans. Or I take my pans out of the oven to discover that the baking powder has gone ballistic. One side of a layer is three inches high, the other a mere inch and a half. There is only so much frosting you can add to fix that situation.

If by some miracle the cake layers come out of the oven level and equal, you can be assured they won't come out of the pan. A big, ragged chunk of cake will remain firmly stuck on the bottom.

And the final disaster, crumbs in the frosting. How do those master cake bakers keep jillions of cake crumbs from merging into the frosting?

For all of you out there who share my layer cake trauma, click here for my grandmother's totally easy, foolproof and guest pleasing apple cake recipe.

If you ever need to sell your house, bake this cake an hour before the showing.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dogs

When I was three, our neighbor's dog knocked me down and stole my graham cracker. I was traumatized and immediately developed a fear that all dogs were graham cracker grabbing monsters.

This phobia continued well into my middle age. "Cross the street, even in mid block, but don't walk past a dog," was my rule.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that this behavior needed serious modification. I started making friends with dogs. Dog guests are welcome visitors at our house now. The first dog visitor came alone. Late one afternoon, I heard a persistent scratching at the front door. Going to see who was there, I saw a large, white dog with a big doggy smile enthusiastically pawing the glass.

I went outside on the porch and asked him to sit. He did. Then he shook paws and gave me some dog kisses. Had the pet goddess sent me the perfect dog?

Our local radio station and constable helped us find the dog's owners. This lovely dog, a Samoyed, had been stolen from his yard, fourteen miles from our house. How he ended up on our front porch will remain a mystery.

Quill is our favorite dog visitor. After flunking out of guide dog class for chasing a porcupine, Quill was adopted by a good friend of ours. Quill loves coming to our country house and even tries to help her lady with the 70 mile drive. "Back seat" and "Stay" are difficult concepts, but Quill is learning.

The Tooley cats have let us know quite emphatically that they are not in favor of us acquiring a Tooley dog. However, our son and his family in San Diego have a great Tooley dog. Her name is Della, and she choose to live at our son's house. She started out to be the neighbor's dog who came over to visit. But one day, she just forgot to ever go home again.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Dogs

When I was three, our neighbor's dog knocked me down and stole my graham cracker. I was traumatized and immediately developed a fear that all dogs were graham cracker grabbing monsters.

This phobia continued well into my middle age. "Cross the street, even in mid block, but don't walk past a dog," was my rule.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that this behavior needed serious modification. I started making friends with dogs. Dog guests are welcome visitors at our house now. The first dog visitor came alone. Late one afternoon, I heard a persistent scratching at the front door. Going to see who was there, I saw a large, white dog with a big doggy smile enthusiastically pawing the glass.

I went outside on the porch and asked him to sit. He did. Then he shook paws and gave me some dog kisses. Had the pet goddess sent me the perfect dog?

Our local radio station and constable helped us find the dog's owners. This lovely dog, a Samoyed, had been stolen from his yard, fourteen miles from our house. How he ended up on our front porch will remain a mystery.

Quill is our favorite dog visitor. After flunking out of guide dog class for chasing a porcupine, Quill was adopted by a good friend of ours. Quill loves coming to our country house and even tries to help her lady with the 70 mile drive. "Back seat" and "Stay" are difficult concepts, but Quill is learning.

The Tooley cats have let us know quite emphatically that they are not in favor of us acquiring a Tooley dog. However, our son and his family in San Diego have a great Tooley dog. Her name is Della, and she choose to live at our son's house. She started out to be the neighbor's dog who came over to visit. But one day, she just forgot to ever go home again.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Bugs

If you are squeamish about insects, stop reading right now.

You've probably heard that only insects would survive a nuclear war. I'm personally convinced this is true.

I never understood insect power until we moved to the country next to a big lake. We arrived during early summer. We left lots of lights on that first night and weren't quick coming in and out of the front door.

Voila! Our nice white living room walls (2 stories tall) were instantly covered with gnats. It looked like an explosion in a pepper factory. A shop vac, tall ladder and two hours of wall vacuuming were required to turn our house back into a home. Apparently living close to nature wasn't going to be all fluffy bunnies and monarchs.

All summer long various bugs rule, and we've learned to cope. Legions of ladybugs usher in spring. Black undulating clouds of gnat hatches announce summer. Millions of weird beetles cover the beach for several days in July. Flies are a terror the third week of August.

On late summer and fall nights, our yard fills with noisy bugs. As the days grow shorter, the insect voices grow louder and louder. Their cacophony is definitely a last hurrah before the frost comes, silencing most of them forever.

Our California granddaughter visited last week. One of the first topics we had to address was the arthropod situation. "Don't," we said, "don't ever leave any door open a second longer than necessary." But the message didn't really make an impression until I was washing the dishes the first evening of her visit. The window screen over my sink was completely black and writhing with bugs.

"Disgusting!" she said.

"Even worse if they are on the inside," I replied.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Bugs

If you are squeamish about insects, stop reading right now.

You've probably heard that only insects would survive a nuclear war. I'm personally convinced this is true.

I never understood insect power until we moved to the country next to a big lake. We arrived during early summer. We left lots of lights on that first night and weren't quick coming in and out of the front door.

Voila! Our nice white living room walls (2 stories tall) were instantly covered with gnats. It looked like an explosion in a pepper factory. A shop vac, tall ladder and two hours of wall vacuuming were required to turn our house back into a home. Apparently living close to nature wasn't going to be all fluffy bunnies and monarchs.

All summer long various bugs rule, and we've learned to cope. Legions of ladybugs usher in spring. Black undulating clouds of gnat hatches announce summer. Millions of weird beetles cover the beach for several days in July. Flies are a terror the third week of August.

On late summer and fall nights, our yard fills with noisy bugs. As the days grow shorter, the insect voices grow louder and louder. Their cacophony is definitely a last hurrah before the frost comes, silencing most of them forever.

Our California granddaughter visited last week. One of the first topics we had to address was the arthropod situation. "Don't," we said, "don't ever leave any door open a second longer than necessary." But the message didn't really make an impression until I was washing the dishes the first evening of her visit. The window screen over my sink was completely black and writhing with bugs.

"Disgusting!" she said.

"Even worse if they are on the inside," I replied.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Grass

This is the blog the neighbors are waiting for me to write. It's a known fact in our neighborhood that my husband and I cannot grow grass.

We bought our beautiful meadow on Lake Michigan over 30 years ago. The acre and one-half of waist-high native grasses, flowers, milkweed and goldenrod had been untouched and beautiful for decades. We vowed to keep it natural forever.

But then we got selfish enough to want to be surrounded by this beauty all the time. To build a modest sized house and dig a well, holes would have to be dug in the ground. We implored the builder to make as small a "footprint" as possible.

After moving in, we naively assumed the havoc caused around the building site would be magically healed by nature and seamlessly blend in with the mostly intact meadow. Nature had other plans. She gave us a 10 foot tall crop of white clover the first year, definitely not a match.

Subsequent years saw other landscapes come and go but none that faintly resembled the untouched part. It became apparent that we would have to intervene and help out Mother Nature.

The neighbors loaned us a rototiller and my husband diligently tilled, planted and watered prairie grasses. Sometimes they grew; sometimes they didn't. Even when they did grow, they totally betrayed us by not returning the next year. We probably should have just bought that rototiller.

Not too surprisingly, this spring we had to start over again on the blighted part of the homestead. We know that idiocy is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Something had to change. So we got a different blend of seeds, the Native Wisconsin mix.

At this moment, we've got a gorgeous, waving field of grass interspersed with glorious cosmos. (If you've got to dig up your front yard every year, you might as well throw some lovely annual flower seeds in the mix!)

We are praying to all the garden goddesses that this grass feels at home. But, we'll be holding our breaths until the snow melts and the sun warms next spring. If we see green, there will be one big lawn party.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Grass

This is the blog the neighbors are waiting for me to write. It's a known fact in our neighborhood that my husband and I cannot grow grass.

We bought our beautiful meadow on Lake Michigan over 30 years ago. The acre and one-half of waist-high native grasses, flowers, milkweed and goldenrod had been untouched and beautiful for decades. We vowed to keep it natural forever.

But then we got selfish enough to want to be surrounded by this beauty all the time. To build a modest sized house and dig a well, holes would have to be dug in the ground. We implored the builder to make as small a "footprint" as possible.

After moving in, we naively assumed the havoc caused around the building site would be magically healed by nature and seamlessly blend in with the mostly intact meadow. Nature had other plans. She gave us a 10 foot tall crop of white clover the first year, definitely not a match.

Subsequent years saw other landscapes come and go but none that faintly resembled the untouched part. It became apparent that we would have to intervene and help out Mother Nature.

The neighbors loaned us a rototiller and my husband diligently tilled, planted and watered prairie grasses. Sometimes they grew; sometimes they didn't. Even when they did grow, they totally betrayed us by not returning the next year. We probably should have just bought that rototiller.

Not too surprisingly, this spring we had to start over again on the blighted part of the homestead. We know that idiocy is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Something had to change. So we got a different blend of seeds, the Native Wisconsin mix.

At this moment, we've got a gorgeous, waving field of grass interspersed with glorious cosmos. (If you've got to dig up your front yard every year, you might as well throw some lovely annual flower seeds in the mix!)

We are praying to all the garden goddesses that this grass feels at home. But, we'll be holding our breaths until the snow melts and the sun warms next spring. If we see green, there will be one big lawn party.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Opera

I have a lifetime goal of learning to appreciate opera. The quest got off to a rocky start.

My mother listened to opera on the radio, and, as a child, I asked her, "Who is Carmen?"

"She's a bad girl who works in a cigarette factory and breaks men's hearts," was her reply. I didn't believe a word she said. My mom was prone to exaggeration. Surely, no adult could compose an opera about a cigarette girl.

Well, it turns out they did. I've learned since that the storyline is not the main event in opera. The singing and spectacle carry the show.

My scheme to become opera educated is beautiful in its simplicity. Go to New Mexico every August. Buy tickets for the Santa Fe Opera which is performed outdoors on a mountaintop. Listen and look. If the opera proves inscrutable, the scenery and sunset are worth the trip.

This summer will mark our 28^th consecutive summer in attendance. I'm making some progress. I know the The Magic Flute is, indeed, utterly magical. Papageno and Papagena, the birdman and woman, are completely delightful with deliciously human failings. My all time favorite character is The Queen of the Night. Talk about a screwed up mother-daughter relationship. But the Queen's big aria is totally thrilling.

I've also figured out three things that should never happen at the opera. First, Madame Butterfly should not have the heft of a Valkyrie. Second, The Queen of the Night must never, never wear a white costume. (Was that a PC gesture on Santa Fe's part?) Third, Carmen should not be sung by a blond. Actually, I'll amend that. If a blond sings the role, she needs a dark wig and a stint at a tanning salon.

Give me another 20 years at Santa Fe, and I might be ready to tackle The Ring Cycle.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Opera

I have a lifetime goal of learning to appreciate opera. The quest got off to a rocky start.

My mother listened to opera on the radio, and, as a child, I asked her, "Who is Carmen?"

"She's a bad girl who works in a cigarette factory and breaks men's hearts," was her reply. I didn't believe a word she said. My mom was prone to exaggeration. Surely, no adult could compose an opera about a cigarette girl.

Well, it turns out they did. I've learned since that the storyline is not the main event in opera. The singing and spectacle carry the show.

My scheme to become opera educated is beautiful in its simplicity. Go to New Mexico every August. Buy tickets for the Santa Fe Opera which is performed outdoors on a mountaintop. Listen and look. If the opera proves inscrutable, the scenery and sunset are worth the trip.

This summer will mark our 28^th consecutive summer in attendance. I'm making some progress. I know the The Magic Flute is, indeed, utterly magical. Papageno and Papagena, the birdman and woman, are completely delightful with deliciously human failings. My all time favorite character is The Queen of the Night. Talk about a screwed up mother-daughter relationship. But the Queen's big aria is totally thrilling.

I've also figured out three things that should never happen at the opera. First, Madame Butterfly should not have the heft of a Valkyrie. Second, The Queen of the Night must never, never wear a white costume. (Was that a PC gesture on Santa Fe's part?) Third, Carmen should not be sung by a blond. Actually, I'll amend that. If a blond sings the role, she needs a dark wig and a stint at a tanning salon.

Give me another 20 years at Santa Fe, and I might be ready to tackle The Ring Cycle.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Opossum

I am starting an opossum fan club. I'm hoping all of you will join.

There will be no dues, meetings or cute T-Shirts. The membership requirement is quite simple: always speak kindly (and knowledgeably) about opossums.

Possums need all the love they can get. I include information on these shy creatures in many of my natural science programs for children. Kids are always coming up to me after the programs to tell me about possums who wandered into their garage or under their porch. How the kids' big macho dads handled the situations is invariably stomach-turning.

As one of the proprietors of the Tooley Cafe, I've lived side by side with opossums everyday for years. They are one of my favorite animals to watch, although observation has to be at night as these critters are nocturnal. Their faces always remind me of little Draculas. Their "hairlines" are pointed exactly like his. If caught in a light, their eyes shine red, another Halloweenish feature.

To help you market love for opossums, I will arm you with these splendid, scientific facts:

• Opossums are America's only marsupials. (No need to go to Australia to see a genuine pocket mammal, there may be one in your backyard.)


• Possums have handy prehensile tails which they use as a fifth hand for support and holding things. They do not sleep hanging from trees.


• Opossums are highly adaptable and will eat almost anything, even rattlesnakes.


• Mom has as many as 18 or more navy bean size babies. They immediately climb into her pouch, but only an average of 9 will survive.


• After about 2½ months, the babies are weaned and ride around on mom's back.


• The adult opossum weighs 2,000 times its birth weight.


• Possums put on a threat display when cornered. They pull back their lips showing their 50 pointy teeth and hiss. Leave it alone, and the frightened opossum will be happy to exit.


• Playing dead is an involuntary coma-like state brought on by fear.


• The tips of the opossum's furless tail and ears often get frostbite during winter, turn black and fall off.

I hope by now you're ready to be opossum fan club members. And I won't even ask you to knit tail warmers and earmuffs!

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Opossum

I am starting an opossum fan club. I'm hoping all of you will join.

There will be no dues, meetings or cute T-Shirts. The membership requirement is quite simple: always speak kindly (and knowledgeably) about opossums.

Possums need all the love they can get. I include information on these shy creatures in many of my natural science programs for children. Kids are always coming up to me after the programs to tell me about possums who wandered into their garage or under their porch. How the kids' big macho dads handled the situations is invariably stomach-turning.

As one of the proprietors of the Tooley Cafe, I've lived side by side with opossums everyday for years. They are one of my favorite animals to watch, although observation has to be at night as these critters are nocturnal. Their faces always remind me of little Draculas. Their "hairlines" are pointed exactly like his. If caught in a light, their eyes shine red, another Halloweenish feature.

To help you market love for opossums, I will arm you with these splendid, scientific facts:

• Opossums are America's only marsupials. (No need to go to Australia to see a genuine pocket mammal, there may be one in your backyard.)


• Possums have handy prehensile tails which they use as a fifth hand for support and holding things. They do not sleep hanging from trees.


• Opossums are highly adaptable and will eat almost anything, even rattlesnakes.


• Mom has as many as 18 or more navy bean size babies. They immediately climb into her pouch, but only an average of 9 will survive.


• After about 2½ months, the babies are weaned and ride around on mom's back.


• The adult opossum weighs 2,000 times its birth weight.


• Possums put on a threat display when cornered. They pull back their lips showing their 50 pointy teeth and hiss. Leave it alone, and the frightened opossum will be happy to exit.


• Playing dead is an involuntary coma-like state brought on by fear.


• The tips of the opossum's furless tail and ears often get frostbite during winter, turn black and fall off.

I hope by now you're ready to be opossum fan club members. And I won't even ask you to knit tail warmers and earmuffs!

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Names

My name is Mary because my mother was not a risk-taker. If her wishes had come true, I would have attended an Ivy League school and joined the ranks of the elite. Mom knew that the young ladies who grace the halls of the Seven Sisters are not named Sunrise or Moonbeam.

Doing programs for almost 20,000 children a year keeps me abreast of the trends in names. I confidently can state that the two largest sources of current, non-traditional names are western geography books and nature preserves. I have taught scores of Cheyennes, Codys and Dakotas. More recently, I've met Montana, Wyoming and Phoenix. Can Sioux and Billings be far behind? Some classroom roll calls resemble departure gate announcements at a western airport.

The nature names can be explained by this experience. I walked into a classroom a while back, and the teacher told me she had her own park. Tree, Forest and Branch were all students in her class. And just last week I met two lovely little girls, Clearwater and Rainbow.

Of course, I'm jealous. I would just love to be Sky, Sonora or Sedona. The only family member of mine who exercised creativity when naming children was my paternal grandmother. She named her sons after British kings and her daughters after flowers. I missed being Peony by a generation.

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Names

My name is Mary because my mother was not a risk-taker. If her wishes had come true, I would have attended an Ivy League school and joined the ranks of the elite. Mom knew that the young ladies who grace the halls of the Seven Sisters are not named Sunrise or Moonbeam.

Doing programs for almost 20,000 children a year keeps me abreast of the trends in names. I confidently can state that the two largest sources of current, non-traditional names are western geography books and nature preserves. I have taught scores of Cheyennes, Codys and Dakotas. More recently, I've met Montana, Wyoming and Phoenix. Can Sioux and Billings be far behind? Some classroom roll calls resemble departure gate announcements at a western airport.

The nature names can be explained by this experience. I walked into a classroom a while back, and the teacher told me she had her own park. Tree, Forest and Branch were all students in her class. And just last week I met two lovely little girls, Clearwater and Rainbow.

Of course, I'm jealous. I would just love to be Sky, Sonora or Sedona. The only family member of mine who exercised creativity when naming children was my paternal grandmother. She named her sons after British kings and her daughters after flowers. I missed being Peony by a generation.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Elsewhere

Maybe it's because we are a frontier people, or maybe it's our flagrant love affair with cars. At any rate, it seems that a great number of Americans want to be anywhere they are not.

I first discovered this strange phenomenon many years ago via motel room art.

Walking into a New England motel room, I was greeted with pictures of lacy New Orleans scenes. Similarly, southern motel room walls were adorned with desert sunset art. California inns sported pictures of Paris. It's a delightful relief to find a room where the art on the walls actually matches the scenery outside the door.

The other night I ran into another hilarious variant of this mindset. My husband wanted to stop off at a Sheboygan nursery to pick up some day lilies. I had never been to this nursery before and was speechless when we pulled into the parking lot. I was staring at a life-size saguaro cactus.

Since real saguaros only grow in the Sonoran desert, this Sheboygan saguaro needs some explanation. It was a topiary saguaro. An unlucky evergreen had been wired, clipped, bent and tortured into a replica of the world's largest cactus. Wouldn't a topiary bratwurst be more appropriate for Sheboygan? Click here to see this botanical wonder!

Of course, the ultimate "I'm here but I want to be there place" is Las Vegas. Why else would Americans pay big bucks to fly to Vegas so they can visit Paris, Venice or New York, New York?

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Elsewhere

Maybe it's because we are a frontier people, or maybe it's our flagrant love affair with cars. At any rate, it seems that a great number of Americans want to be anywhere they are not.

I first discovered this strange phenomenon many years ago via motel room art.

Walking into a New England motel room, I was greeted with pictures of lacy New Orleans scenes. Similarly, southern motel room walls were adorned with desert sunset art. California inns sported pictures of Paris. It's a delightful relief to find a room where the art on the walls actually matches the scenery outside the door.

The other night I ran into another hilarious variant of this mindset. My husband wanted to stop off at a Sheboygan nursery to pick up some day lilies. I had never been to this nursery before and was speechless when we pulled into the parking lot. I was staring at a life-size saguaro cactus.

Since real saguaros only grow in the Sonoran desert, this Sheboygan saguaro needs some explanation. It was a topiary saguaro. An unlucky evergreen had been wired, clipped, bent and tortured into a replica of the world's largest cactus. Wouldn't a topiary bratwurst be more appropriate for Sheboygan? Click here to see this botanical wonder!

Of course, the ultimate "I'm here but I want to be there place" is Las Vegas. Why else would Americans pay big bucks to fly to Vegas so they can visit Paris, Venice or New York, New York?

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Beachglass

I admit to being addicted.

Fortunately, my addiction is not illegal, expensive or fattening. I'm hooked on beachglass.

I discovered the wonders of beachglass at an early age. My parents would take me to one of Milwaukee's Lake Michigan beaches where I would construct a fiefdom of sand castles and spend hours sorting shells and rocks. And then, to my sheer delight, I discovered bright jewels mixed in with the earth-toned rocks and pebbles.

Showing these priceless gems to my mother, I was informed that they were "just old beer and soda bottles polished by the sand and waves." I was unabashed; fortunately, I could recognize beauty regardless of its provenance.

Fast forward forty-six years. My husband and I had the incredible luck to move into our new home on Lake Michigan. I found myself living in beachglass heaven.

Each year, from spring until winter when the ice shelves cover the beach, we are beachcombers. A diamond from Tiffany's couldn't possibly make me as happy as finding a tiny piece of RED beachglass. My husband scored a huge, elegantly smoothed piece of PURPLE beachglass on his birthday last year.

I would certainly agree with Robert Louis Stevenson, "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Beachglass

I admit to being addicted.

Fortunately, my addiction is not illegal, expensive or fattening. I'm hooked on beachglass.

I discovered the wonders of beachglass at an early age. My parents would take me to one of Milwaukee's Lake Michigan beaches where I would construct a fiefdom of sand castles and spend hours sorting shells and rocks. And then, to my sheer delight, I discovered bright jewels mixed in with the earth-toned rocks and pebbles.

Showing these priceless gems to my mother, I was informed that they were "just old beer and soda bottles polished by the sand and waves." I was unabashed; fortunately, I could recognize beauty regardless of its provenance.

Fast forward forty-six years. My husband and I had the incredible luck to move into our new home on Lake Michigan. I found myself living in beachglass heaven.

Each year, from spring until winter when the ice shelves cover the beach, we are beachcombers. A diamond from Tiffany's couldn't possibly make me as happy as finding a tiny piece of RED beachglass. My husband scored a huge, elegantly smoothed piece of PURPLE beachglass on his birthday last year.

I would certainly agree with Robert Louis Stevenson, "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Swimming

My parents were jocks. They were not into team sports, but they believed in individual fitness.

Muscle building and gymnastic feats were my father's forte. He could do handsprings and twirl my mom around in the air. My mother was the high diving board champ.

Both of my parents were powerful swimmers. When we visited my aunt's lake cottage, their idea of a good swim was across the lake.

My mother was also a Red Cross swimming instructor. She taught women who were afraid of water. Her success rate at teaching the terrified to swim was impressive.

And then I came along. What a disappointment my lack of athletic ability must have been to my parents!

My mother began my swimming lessons. The harder I tried to please her, the faster I sank. She had visions of my perfect Australian crawl stroke, but I more closely resembled a mixmaster gone berserk. This sorry state of affairs lasted about three years. Finally, one day, my mother gave up on me. "I'll teach you the lazy man's stroke," she sadly said. There would be no gold swim medals for her daughter.

I'm happy to report that if I fell out of a boat today, I could save myself. The sidestroke may be for us unathletic types, but it certainly does the trick for survival and fun in the water.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Swimming

My parents were jocks. They were not into team sports, but they believed in individual fitness.

Muscle building and gymnastic feats were my father's forte. He could do handsprings and twirl my mom around in the air. My mother was the high diving board champ.

Both of my parents were powerful swimmers. When we visited my aunt's lake cottage, their idea of a good swim was across the lake.

My mother was also a Red Cross swimming instructor. She taught women who were afraid of water. Her success rate at teaching the terrified to swim was impressive.

And then I came along. What a disappointment my lack of athletic ability must have been to my parents!

My mother began my swimming lessons. The harder I tried to please her, the faster I sank. She had visions of my perfect Australian crawl stroke, but I more closely resembled a mixmaster gone berserk. This sorry state of affairs lasted about three years. Finally, one day, my mother gave up on me. "I'll teach you the lazy man's stroke," she sadly said. There would be no gold swim medals for her daughter.

I'm happy to report that if I fell out of a boat today, I could save myself. The sidestroke may be for us unathletic types, but it certainly does the trick for survival and fun in the water.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Pyromaniac

One night each year my gentle, soft-spoken, peace-loving husband turns into a total pyromaniac. That night is the Fourth of July.

The preparations start about three weeks ahead of the grand day when we take a 40 mile drive to the fireworks superstore. I admit to enjoying the exuberant, graphic art of the fireworks packaging. Names such as "Tears in Heaven" and "Fishbowl Commotion" are intriguing. But that's not the real reason I tag along. I go to make sure my spouse doesn't buy anything he can't lift.

He's happy as a cat at a mouse convention making his selections. He's also serious about getting the most bang for his buck... literally. Wimpy little cherry bombs and sparklers are not on his shopping list.

The size of our purchases always entitles us to a "free" gift or two. That's how we acquired more beach balls than a Sandals Resort, numerous T-Shirts that say "Light Me Up" and a case of 100 Super-Charged Crackers. (How we disposed of these is a separate story.)

You are all invited to the glorious show. Just bring your folding chairs, blankets and marshmallows down to our beach at dusk on the Fourth.

My husband used to provide one solid hour of non-stop aerial wonders until I gently reminded him that most people might find this a bit much. So he cut back the show to a half hour and tripled the size of the displays.

I can only hope that the garage doesn't blow-up before the big night.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Pyromaniac

One night each year my gentle, soft-spoken, peace-loving husband turns into a total pyromaniac. That night is the Fourth of July.

The preparations start about three weeks ahead of the grand day when we take a 40 mile drive to the fireworks superstore. I admit to enjoying the exuberant, graphic art of the fireworks packaging. Names such as "Tears in Heaven" and "Fishbowl Commotion" are intriguing. But that's not the real reason I tag along. I go to make sure my spouse doesn't buy anything he can't lift.

He's happy as a cat at a mouse convention making his selections. He's also serious about getting the most bang for his buck... literally. Wimpy little cherry bombs and sparklers are not on his shopping list.

The size of our purchases always entitles us to a "free" gift or two. That's how we acquired more beach balls than a Sandals Resort, numerous T-Shirts that say "Light Me Up" and a case of 100 Super-Charged Crackers. (How we disposed of these is a separate story.)

You are all invited to the glorious show. Just bring your folding chairs, blankets and marshmallows down to our beach at dusk on the Fourth.

My husband used to provide one solid hour of non-stop aerial wonders until I gently reminded him that most people might find this a bit much. So he cut back the show to a half hour and tripled the size of the displays.

I can only hope that the garage doesn't blow-up before the big night.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Moon

I don't make a habit of driving my husband crazy. But, occasionally, I cannot resist playing my moon game.

"Hey honey," I say as we are as we are looking at the moon together, "what's the moon doing tonight?"

Silence follows. He's too smart to fall into this trap again. He has no idea what the moon is doing. "That's OK," I gently say, "it's a girl thing... la Luna, monthly, menses. By the way, the moon is waxing (or waning) tonight."

My husband is a science guy. He is far brainier than I am about astronomy, chemistry and physics. But, I know my moon.

It's easy ladies:

1. Look up at the moon.
2. If the left side is lighted up it's losing or waning.
3. If the right side is lighted up it's waxing or increasing.

Few men believe these rules work, but the system is foolproof! So go ahead, drive your guy crazy. After all, it is our moon.

Moon

I don't make a habit of driving my husband crazy. But, occasionally, I cannot resist playing my moon game.

"Hey honey," I say as we are as we are looking at the moon together, "what's the moon doing tonight?"

Silence follows. He's too smart to fall into this trap again. He has no idea what the moon is doing. "That's OK," I gently say, "it's a girl thing... la Luna, monthly, menses. By the way, the moon is waxing (or waning) tonight."

My husband is a science guy. He is far brainier than I am about astronomy, chemistry and physics. But, I know my moon.

It's easy ladies:

1. Look up at the moon.
2. If the left side is lighted up it's losing or waning.
3. If the right side is lighted up it's waxing or increasing.

Few men believe these rules work, but the system is foolproof! So go ahead, drive your guy crazy. After all, it is our moon.

Midsummer

As usual, Shakespeare has it exquisitely right; Midsummer Night's Eve is a magical time. Those of us who live in the northern latitudes also know Midsummer as a glorious, cosmic reality not a dream.

The apex of our star, the sun, will occur this Thursday, June 21. It's time to take our cue from the Scandinavians, experts in Midsummer revelry, and celebrate!

My most memorable Midsummer's night was spent in Sweden at a wedding. The bride was radiant, the wedding was in a real castle (complete with moat), the sky was luminous at 11:30PM and everyone involved was still speaking at 1:30AM.

Wherever you are in the Northern Hemisphere, the time has come to buy some bottles of Riesling or bubbly stuff and a case of strawberries. Drag the kitchen table and chairs outside. Invite the neighbors over to watch the sun go down at its highest northern point. (In our case the telephone pole to the right of our neighbor's barn). Any children present can be put to work weaving flower crowns. Toast the longest day.

Of course it's all downhill from here. We'll be losing one minute of daylight each day from now until the winter solstice. But for now, consider your glass half full, or, better yet, fill your glass to the brim. Just don't fill it so many times you feel like a donkey head the first full day of summer.