Dementia and Cheese

Posted on August 24, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Dahlia Garden, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I was in the grocery line the other day when the woman behind me pointed to my cheese.

“What a remarkable cheese,” she commented. “What is it?”

It was some Tuscan-inspired thing with herbs and pepper flakes and unidentified crusty things over the surface, outrageously expensive but on sale for a price that validated bringing it home to the Voracious Teenage Vultures.

“It is unique looking,” the checker commented, picking it up and reading through the ingredients.

The woman behind the cheese commentator spoke up,

“I really like unique cheeses.”

“Where did you get it?” the first woman asked.

“It’s on sale,” the checker offered.

For the next five minutes, a lively banter flowed amongst the four of us concerning cheese, cheese prices, cheese casseroles, and the difference in eating habits between finicky felines, toddlers, and teenagers (for the record, toddlers eat only cheese and nothing else; teenagers eat cheese and everything else, and finicky felines need to are lucky to get something, anything, out of a can).

Amber Waves, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Earlier in the store I had chatted with another woman over the price of salami, both of us marveling at the sheer size and bulk of the chub.

“Here,” she handed me the one she was holding. “Take this one; it’s bigger.”

Considering that both packages said 32 ounces, I wasn’t sure of her logic, but I appreciated that her heart was more generous than even the salami.

In the course of the shopping trip, I networked with fellow shoppers in the produce section, frozen food aisle, and the paper towel and toilet paper sub-division. All of the tête-à-têtes were initiated by the other patrons.

There’s something about the grocery store that brings out the best in people. It’s as if we realize that we’re all in this together, and it’s fun to talk food.

For several years, Tired of Being Youngest and I squired about Grandpa, who spent his last days on earth battling severe short-term memory loss and dementia.

One of Grandpa’s favorite haunts was the grocery store. A friendly and garrulous soul, Grandpa accosted anyone who breathed, convinced that he was somehow closely related to this person.

Within minutes, the jokes were trotted out, the comments and observations, the highly suspect Native American phrases that he had picked up in his youth and brought out after every single solitary family meal to the point of reducing my elegantly appointed and always-in-control sister-in-law to the verge of screaming.

Grandpa was an equal opportunity accoster, and in the five-year span during which he cornered and buttonholed total strangers who were looking at lunch meats or poking peaches or considering whether soda is a valid food choice, not one person brushed him off. You could almost gauge the moment in their eyes when they realized that this man, though he sounded like he was all there, was really locked up in the prison of his mind.

Clearwater Revival, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Tired of Being Youngest gently tugged and pulled, urging Grandpa to move along and stop bothering the person, but Grandpa unlatched his hold with great reluctance. To a man, woman and child, the accosted persons nodded, smiled and stayed put until Grandpa was done.

After Grandpa died, I was in a fast-food establishment, determining whether or not I wanted fries with that, when an elderly gentleman approached me and began chatting. He seemed lucid at first, but something he said about the local professional baseball team (we don’t have one) using onions as their batting balls clued me in. Tired of Being Youngest caught my eye and we shared a moment of complete understanding before turning our attention back to our accoster.

People need to talk — those with dementia, those without and those in between. In an era when Facebook increasingly overshadows face to face, we need to be aware of and open to the opportunities we have to connect with fellow human beings and literally touch bases. And we don’t have to talk about great things.

Cheese will do.

Exposé -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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On Small Towns, Barn Cats, Opossums, and British Lords

Posted on August 20, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Little Barn, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Between the two of us, the Norwegian Artist and I have lived in some 20-plus small towns. 

Obviously, we enjoy the experience, or we’d be in some bustling metropolis by now, something with, say, 50,000 souls and a throbbing nightlife. Quite honestly, the only nightlife one finds in a small town is the opossum scurrying across the road ahead of the pick-up. Considering that we wind down by sitting on the porch, glass of wine or cup of tea in hand, chatting about which cat caught what mouse that day, well, the opossum chase is pretty exciting. 

 Small towns have an aura and companionable energy about them that make them places worth living. 

That said, there is one aspect of small towns that is vexing enough that one has to learn to work around it, and it is best represented by the concept of barn cats and their progeny. Generally, it goes like this: male barn cat meets female barn cat and they hit the night club scene. Female barn cat has kittens, male and female. Female barn cat then links up with the original model or one of the new ones, and the initial batch of kittens hooks up with one another. This goes on, generation after generation, until you wind up with two things: 1) a lot of barn cats and 2) a tired and exhausted gene pool. 

How it works in western small towns is like this: sometime in the 1880s, two or three brothers with a last name like Bart’n, Wils’n, Griff”n or some similar bi-syllabic surname that is pronounced as a monosyllable, settled down in an area, found each of themselves a wom’n, and prolifically propagated, with an initial production of some 5-11 children per brother. Unlike cats, these children found themselves spouses who weren’t siblings or cousins, and continued the line of Monosyllabic First Families of the County. 

Obviously, if everyone stayed in one place, there would no longer be a small town, but a number of residents left for big cities and assimilated themselves into the population pot. Back on the farm, however, enough of the descendents hung around, inheriting land and the brothers’ name.  An afternoon with many of these people is filled with funny stories and memories of great-great-great-great-second cousins. The tone of the town rings to the song of these descendents. 

BayGlow, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Some of the descendents, however, operate under a sense of entitlement that, because of their association with the initial monosyllabic brothers, separates them from the Rest of the Town, to wit, people like the Norwegian Artist and me, who may only have 5 or 10 years residence in the area. 

I was at the local local mechanic’s the other day to get my car lubed and oiled — as per an appointment I had made days before — and was just handing my keys to the very young mechanic when a Monosyllabic First Family of the County Man lumbered over. “M’tahre’s flat,” he told the mechanic. 

The mechanic looked at me, looked at the MFFC, and froze. Actually, this is what the opossum does before it gets flattened by the pick up. 

“I have an appointment,” I said, “one that I made three days ago. And I need to be out of here in an hour and a half. I made that clear when I made the appointment.” 

The MFFC did not budge. 

“Um . . .” the mechanic stammered. “I’m running a little behind.” 

At nine o’clock in the morning? 

Dawn, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Actually, I sympathized with the mechanic, faced with an apoplectic male whose sense of prerogative equalled that of a British Lord (albeit one in a t-shirt and baseball cap) and an irritated woman the age and demeanor of his mother. 

So he did the presidential thing: he tried to placate both of us. 

 I don’t know, or care, about the MFFC and his “tahre,” but I picked up my car a mere 15 minutes later than earlier promised. The mechanic was smiling (with relief?), and we maintain an excellent professional relationship. 

This is more than can be said about my relationship with the area’s overbearing MFFCs, having found that the best way to deal with these people is to treat them like anyone else. Those who recognize that a distant descendental relationship to someone who, 130 years ago, settled in the area and had lots of children, is really no claim to fame or precedence, are charming friends and acquaintances. Their long association with the area, complete with colorful stories and insiders’ insight, adds to their verve and charm. 

Those who don’t get this, however, well, let’s just say that they don’t make it to the A-list. 

I mean, really, did we emigrate from the lands of Barons and Lords and Dukes and Viscounts and Tribal Chieftains and Princes and Emperors only to replace them with red-faced, heart-attack-prone, t-shirt garbed, “tahre” challenged despots in baseball caps? 

Ascension -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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Zorro Strikes Again at the Local Baptist Church

Posted on August 12, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Autumn Road, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Well, the etiquette-challenged fingernail clipper is at it again.

For those of you who have been with me awhile, my weekly church attendance experience these days revolves around cleaning the local Baptist church (What I’ve Learned by Cleaning the Local Baptist Church) — up, down, and all around; toilets, kitchens, chairs and stairs, a truly transcendent time of literal cleansing and purification.

This last week I found that Zorro had returned, a pile of his — or her — fingernails cascaded across the forest green carpet like bleached coyote bones on a groomed golf course, and about as welcome.

Especially vexing about this week’s offering is that, since I cleaned last, the only “event” at the church has been a funeral.

Does anybody else out there wonder what kind of person seriously gets into manicures (dear God, I hope it wasn’t a pedicure) during a funeral?

Equally perplexing is that the pile, usually found mid-section, stage right, this time was mounded in mid-section, stage left.

Tired-of-Being-Youngest, who attended the memorial service with me and the Norwegian Artist (that sentence is grammatically correct, by the way, for those of you who think that I should have used “I” — we’ll discuss this at length some day), tried to remember who was sitting in that location, but she, and the rest of us, drew a blank.

Our curiosity is such that I am almost willing to suspend our self-directed, increasingly longer and longer sabbatical from church attendance to actually show up at a service and clearly identify who sits in the usual offending chair, mid section, stage right.

Almost.

But not enough to give up our decadently relaxing Sunday mornings, complete with breakfasts that start around 9:30 (the same time that the service begins, interestingly enough) and end two hours and two pots of tea later, after the Norwegian Artist, Tired-of-Being-Youngest, the Son and Heir, and I (there’s that “I” again) have discussed everything from the Fingernail Bandit to the state of the world today, and how we can intelligently and sensitively respond to the people and situations in our lives.

Noontime Stroll, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

 

Despite the fingernail fiasco, this week’s funeral prodded me into translating the Sunday morning table talk into action as I dealt with the claims office for our shipping company concerning a painting that we had sent to one of our galleries in Arizona. Quite fortunately, the painting arrived unscathed, probably because the frame around it took the hit from the tires that ran over the box and cracked the frame straight through.

Well, that sure went over well with the Norwegian Artist.

I, however, am the manager, and it is my job to work my way through the claims process, something which does nothing toward improving one’s mood. When the claims officer informed me that not just the broken frame, but the intact painting as well, had been shipped back to us from the gallery (where we had immediately sent a replacement frame so that the painting could be hung in the gallery where it belonged), let’s just say that psalms and hymns and spiritual songs did not fall from my lips or my fingertips.

At that point, we took a break from work to attend the funeral, honoring a husband, father, grandfather and businessman who was known for his attitude of graciousness, understanding, and kindness.

If I had not been so busy coming to the realization that I had not been gracious, understanding, or kind in dealing with my shipping claims officer, whose job is not one of delivering fun packages to happy people, but rather, discussing run over packages with REALLY unhappy people, then perhaps I would have observed who was surreptitiously leaving fingernail clippings on the green carpet, mid-section, stage left.

Alas, that opportunity for discovery has passed, but it was not too late to send yet another e-mail to the harassed claims officer, offering a brief apology for my impatient demeanor. Mind you, I was still irritated that our package had been run over, and I wasn’t too excited about the painting that was supposed to be in Arizona leaning casually against the wall of our studio in Washington, but the claims officer wasn’t the one driving the truck.

The claim was settled, to our satisfaction. Whether or not the apology had anything to do with it isn’t really the issue, but what matters is that the claims officer and I parted on friendly, first-name terms, and I did not cause my mother to lament that all those years of teaching me to be a decent person went to waste.

One of the things she taught me, incidentally, was to not clip my fingernails in public.

Amber Waves -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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Mr. Spock Knows How to Pronounce “Exacerbate”

Posted on August 5, 2010 by This Woman Writes

I am not Spock. 

 

Aside from the obvious differences of not being male, from another planet, or possessive of pointy ears, my main divergence from the world’s most recognizable Vulcan is that I am not so fully steeped in logical thought that I am impervious to feeling stupid. 

Now there is a distinction between feeling stupid and obsessing over what other people think — regarding the latter I try to sail through life doing my own thing, not stepping on anyone’s face in the process, but simultaneously  not letting what I think other people think affect the way I act. This, I’m sure Spock would say, is logical. 

Unfortunately, I am not so thick-skinned — green or not — that I can slip on the ice in front of a group of people and limp away, dignity intact. (Quite frankly, how would Spock react in this situation?) 

But real life happens and stupid things intrude upon our lives, and we frequently find ourselves extricating our fragile egos from less than desireable situations, ones, incidentally, that we usually bring upon ourselves. 

Yesterday I was working with Scott, the Incredible Computer Man, to set up my new laptop (as far as I know, other than my parents, I am the last person in this region of the country to have a laptop), when he pointed out that I might want to purchase a wireless mouse for ease of use. 

“Okay. So show me where that plugs in.” 

One reason that Scott is such an Incredible Computer Man is that he addresses all questions as if they were intelligent ones. 

Afternoon Waves, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

 The Norwegian Artist possesses a similar talent. Years ago, in our dating days, I was being attacked by an earnest young man who wanted to drag me, trussed up and gagged, into the Kingdom by arguing me out of all rational thought. In contrast to this Attacking Apostle, the Norwegian Artist patiently answered questions that he knew the answers to and freely admitted when  he didn’t know the answers to others. 

“So did John the Baptist write the book of John?” 

You know, a good Catholic girl really should have known the answer to this, but I never could keep track of all the saints, and John is such a well-used name. The Norwegian Artist smiled and said something along the lines of No, he didn’t really have the head for that. 

This uncanny ability to phrase things in unusual ways is apparently genetic, the most memorable incident within our family involving the College Girl back when she was called the Flaxen-Haired Toddler and she wore a new dress to church. 

“So, did you get any comments on your dress?” I asked, having made the dress and wanting others to recognize its stunning impact yet amazing simplicity. 

A look of concern passed over her face as she looked down at the dress: “No. Do they wash out?” 

Tired of Being Youngest once frustrated her Pictionary partner (that would be me) by drawing a hand and a Christmas fir and circling the two over and over until the timer ran out and the pen tore through the paper to the table below. 

“It was a palm tree!” she wailed. 

Little One, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

 In addition to our ability to make memorably embarrassing comments, we all manage to mangle the pronunciation of the English language to such a degree that outsiders assume that we are first generation Norwegians and Poles, as opposed to third. 

“Sew — Krates was an amazing man,” the Son and Heir observed regarding Socrates. He was also impressed by Geh — Heng — Iss — Can. 

College Girl talked about the importance of Koop-er-ation on her first day at a new high school. 

Tired of Being Youngest wondered if the Jenners on Netflix (Genres) reflected someone’s inability to spell general titles. 

A kind friend mentioned that frequently, people who read a lot also mispronounce a lot, because much of the vocabulary that they encounter is rarely heard in everyday speech. 

Honestly, when is the last time that you said, aloud, exacerbate or egregious? 

It should not be any surprise that a good portion of us in this family look up when someone barks out, “There’s an elephant on the ceiling!” 

And while cynical and jaded people look upon this tendency as, well, stupid, I consider it a positive sign that, while we may be very very literal in the way we speak and think, we have not descended to the level of cynicism and jadedness of the jokers who laugh at our ingenuousness. We stop, realize that we have said something of less than stellar intelligence, laugh, and move on. 

Cantata -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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Taxation with Way Too Much Representation

Posted on July 30, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Emergence, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I was trolling through the library’s business section the other day and paused at a volume concerning Web design and marketing. Now what caught my interest wasn’t so much the volume in question as the one five books away: How to Butcher and Wrap Your Livestock.

Only in a small-town — a very very small-town —  does one see graphic art portrayed in two such very different manners, so close together.

And it’s only in a small town that you would find the same person checking out both books.

The Norwegian Artist and I have always lived in small towns, our largest metropolitan experience being a bustling urban landscape of 50,000 people, and for the most part, we enjoy the experience. Our first year in this one-stoplight town, we took the four progeny Trick-or-Treating from door to door in their homemade creations — a fairy princess (EVERY year), a gypsy, the Queen of Hearts, and a penguin — and at the home of Liz the Librarian, whom we had seen, maybe, five times over our initial three months, Liz announced, “Oh, look! It’s the Norwegian Artist children!”

At the library itself, the librarians rarely swipe anyone’s card, preferring instead to enter names from memory. One librarian mentioned that people frequently stopped her in the grocery store, asking her if they had any books overdue.

“We may know everyone’s names,” she said with a smile. “But that’s a stretch.”

Shortly after moving to our isolated hamlet,  I conceived the brilliant notion of camping out at the library to work on the income taxes. Libraries are quiet places, I reasoned, and I would be able to concentrate.

Bainbridge Island Sail-by, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

 

I forgot, however, that in a small, small town, the library, along with the grocery store, is a central meeting place. Hardly had I spread my papers out over the oversized oak table — eight feet from the front door and facing it — when the circus began.

“Oh, my, it looks like you’re working on your taxes,” the first interruption was Estelle, an older woman from the Baptist Church in to check out the crochet books (I suspect that she also slipped in some suspense thrillers underneath the sweater patterns, but for some reason she does not want the rest of the deaconesses to know this. I’m not sure why not. The librarians obviously know what they read).

After Estelle came a series of children in a variety of ages, all of whom wanted to know where my children were, what they were doing that day, and why they were not with me. I think I had reached line five or so on the 1040 form by this time. Several people in the 3-foot-6 range joined me at the table, wanting to color along with me.

The plumber rushed in (“Laundering your money? Ha Ha!”), the contractor (“Ah, so you’re building up equity?”), the postmistress (“Hope Uncle Sam gives his stamp of approval on your paperwork!”), several acquaintances (“Up to no good I bet!”), the dentist (“Brushing up on the old paperwork, eh?”). The sheer quantity and variety of comments related to tax preparation was dizzying.

The sheer lack of progress I was making on the tax forms was daunting as well.

Provincial Afternoon, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

A friend walked in, disengaged one of the children from a chair, and sat down to talk. “Oh my,” she commented after 10 minutes. “You’re working on your taxes.” At least she did not feel compelled to pun about it.

Mercifully, I eventually reached the end of the form before the end of my rope, collected all my papers and some of the childrens’ abandoned coloring projects, and headed home, where the chaotic energy of four chronically moving human beings under age 10 exuded an aura of calm retrospection.

Building upon this tax preparation experience, the next year I opted to stuff all my papers into a manila folder and deliver it to the accountant who during the day works as the county assessor but comes over after work to the lawyer’s office which also doubles as the title company.  I’m not sure, but they may sell raspberries and blueberries on the side during Farmer’s Market time. The assessor/accountant is part of a barbershop quartet that also includes the veterinarian and the former mayor.

Does this place sound like something you’d see in a movie?

Cantata -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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Not All Chicken Attacks Happen on Farms

Posted on July 23, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Early Spring, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

We were gathered there that day for the mindless viewing of a preponderantly female-oriented cinematograph event — in other words, it was chick flick night, and, as I do anytime my tush hits the cushion for more than 30 seconds, I pulled out my knitting.

“Oh, you knit?” the squawk, definitely not chirp, originated from a dark corner. “I would never have the patience to do something like that.”

That particular sentence — delivered in that particular way — always manages to engender a feeling of wrongdoing, as if there were something deeply sinister about my snicketing two sticks together, and worse yet, as if the patience that it takes to do so is a bad thing. After the initial, fleeting feelings of guilt comes a sense of exasperation.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, calling upon those vast reserves of patience.  Because I was raised by a mother who taught me not to assault people with personal observations about them in public, I refrained from commenting to the raven in the corner on her apparent inability to apply herself to a project that requires more than an afternoon to complete.

Before hypersensitivity is added to my list of faults (consult the progeny for the latest updated edition), allow me to point out that my fowl companion was not scratching up a compliment, but rather, pointing out to the room in general that one particular person was engaging in a pathologically obsessive activity that surely merited some form of professional psychiatric observation, whereas she, the balanced bird, was content with sitting in a chair, watching a movie, and keeping her hands, but not her mouth, still.

Oh dear. Am I pecking on this poor woman?

Okay, so add hypersensitivity to the list, but tiresome statements like this one are truly not affirmations of admiration and support, but rather, a subconscious means for the speaker to make herself feel better by making someone else feel, and look dumb. It’s along the lines of,

“My. You have such big, well-defined biceps for a woman. You must work out a lot.” (To get the full effect, this must be said by a pert blonde chickadee to the more muscularly built hen in the presence of a rooster.)

Lower Weinhardt Road, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

 

Now, before I scare off those people who truly recoil in horror at the thought of making thousands and thousands of little stitches over the course of many hours to create a finished sweater (my funny, intelligent,  warm-hearted sister comes immediately to mind), let me add that I do understand that people are convinced that they lack the patience to do certain things. I myself look at Japanese-inspired quilt masterpieces made up of confetti-sized fabric squares. These inspire in me a sense of awe as well as deep gratitude that I am not assigned that particular project.

But people who honestly believe that they cannot do something because they do not possess sufficient patience are undermining a vast stash of abilities.

I am an aggressive, assertive opinionated dynamo who frequently plows ahead without thought or foresight, and who, if I do not curb my natural inclinations, will push and pull circumstances to mold to my dictation.

Does this sound like the definition of a patient person?

That I can stand, serenely, in the grocery line while the person ahead of me waits until all of the groceries are bagged before pulling out the purse/wallet and beginning the search for the debit card, is testament to 27 years of marriage to the extremely well-balanced Norwegian Artist, as well as to 22 years of ongoing child rearing, and to 47 years of life itself.

Evening Shadows, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Knitting has played its part in slowing me down. So has watching a loved one succumb, day by cruel day, to severe dementia. Nursing-home time runs slower than outside time. Toddler-world time slips by at a slower pace as well, and the exchange of the sheer joy of a Nature Walk with the Toddler is that we won’t actually get anyplace anytime soon.

As I progress through my one-time shot through this earthly life, I learn, and I change, and I gradually improve, as can we all, especially if we remember two pieces of motherly advice:

First: Don’t put people down to make yourself feel better.

Second: Don’t underestimate yourself. You can do so much more than you think you can.

Even to the point of knitting a sweater.

LadyCamp by Steve Henderson, the Norwegian Artist, of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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White Appliances in a Red Economy

Posted on July 20, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Bay Sunset, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Several of my best friends are inanimate objects: the washing machine, the sewing machine, the car. 

These jeweled products of the Industrial Revolution do what friends do:  they’re close by; they pitch in and help; they make the day go better; and when they break down, I do my part and make sure they get the assistance they need. Admittedly, I have never called an outside source to cart my human friends off to a dumping location while another friend takes their place in the laundry room, but one can only take this metaphor so far. 

 Both of our cars — acquired used for good prices from the lot — are Silver Dull, and I have always dreamed of owning a hot, sultry, expressively sexy red vehicle. The washing machine is white — boring boring boring — and I covet a ruby-red model (what is this with red?) with a giant front piece through which I could watch the clothes tumble. 

(Incidentally, is there anyone out there who actually watches their clothes shiver and shake their way to clean in the washing machine? Anyone other than me, that is? I find the movement and gentle noise fascinating, with one scarlet sock trembling at the surface before diving down into the depths, then resurfacing, 20 seconds later, a few degrees to the right of where it descended. If this is a strangely psychological quirk, then why do manufacturers make washing machines with picture windows?) 

Do I need a hobby? 

My sewing machine is white too, and it would greatly benefit from being — what else? — hot flaming fire engine RED. 

Redbush, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

So why not buy the red appliances, lady? 

I am the product of Depression Era parents, whose combined genetic code of frugality fills every available micron of cellular space, and I could no more exchange a perfectly fine working, yet yawningly prosaic washing machine for the new model than I could feed a roasted rump roast, sliced with gravy, to the dog. 

College Girl called the other day on a new phone because the old one — 8 months old — had died. (“It lasted a long time,”  TechnoClerk told her. “A cheap $50 phone doesn’t work so good.”) I recoil as much at the clerk’s calling a $50 phone cheap as I do his abysmal grammar. 

“It’s last year’s model,” College Girl explained, “so it cost less. Some people think I’m behind the times, but it’s all I can afford.” 

Personally, I find it difficult to find anything out of date about a hand-held device that connects, via cellular towers, the voices of two people 350 miles apart. If the phone is still working — and apparently according to TechnoClerk there is no surety about this — then why toss it away for a newer model? 

Dory Beach, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

We all enjoy fun, new things, but we also have serious, inflexible budgets, and perhaps it makes sense to curb our tendency to design upgrade everything from the filing cabinet to the Marguerita blender. Not everything in our life has to match or, more importantly, be the color red, and frequently, a tool continuing to adequately do the job for which it is designed is reason enough to not buy a new one. 

My parents have this — what else? — white refrigerator that, in my childhood, held little bowls of plastic-covered pudding for after school snacks. Thirty-seven years ago I was 10 and deciding between lemon and butterscotch, and 37 years ago, my parents’ refrigerator had been around for a while. It runs better than my — white — five-year-old model. My mother does not care that her refrigerator is not red. She cares that there is enough money to put food in it. 

This is how Depression Era people think, and this is one of the main reasons that they made it through the Depression in the first place. 

Use it up, make it do, or do without. 

Reduce, reuse, recycle. 

Both say basically the same thing, but the first is a gritty reminder that life is not always about abundance, while the second is more of a preaching  poster plea from people who have too much to people who buy too much admonishing them not to use up too much. 

I prefer the homey wisdom of my Grandpa Bob: “You can talk yourself into anything, and you can talk yourself out of anything.” 

Pacific Clouds -- original oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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Black Tea with Milk Tastes So Much Better Than Boiled Persimmons

Posted on July 16, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Morning Tea, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I love tea.

Now this has nothing to do with my British roots since I am Polish, and according to my mother, she and her 10 siblings drank a lot of raw cow’s milk and ate a lot of sauerkraut, so my tea affinity is hardly my inner Pole talking.

I began years ago by enveloping myself in piles of brightly colored tea boxes at the grocery stores — anything illustrated like a children’s fairy tale found itself in the cart, oftentimes regardless of the actual flavor. I don’t know what a persimmon looks like (there were lions and dragons on the box), but it doesn’t brew into a particularly fine cup of tea.

Fortunately for my family, I discovered a mail order tea emporium based in Massachusetts. The Norwegian Artist, who hasn’t seen a persimmon either and doesn’t think it tastes good boiled, is grateful that the bulk tea leaves arrive in anonymous grey foil envelopes that have nothing to do with the Brothers Grimm.

The Son and Heir is excited about the catalog itself, which has a multi-part and neverending article on The Reversals of Fortune in the Tea Industry, with such sub-segments as Tea and Horse Trading or Robert Clive Secures Bengal for the EIC. There’s something impressive about a newsletter that captures the attention of a 15-year-old male.

River Dance, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Without colorful pictures to color my judgment, I had to base my ordering on the actual tea itself, so I read the descriptions — the tea was smokey, vegetal, herbaceous, or malty and it produced a bright finish with pungent overtones, or its liquor, smoothly sweet, led to a smooth and full-bodied cup. The terminology I have picked up enables me to walk into a winery, coffee emporium, or chocalatier’s and sound educated and informed.

As I do with anything new in my life, I dove in headfirst, enthusiastically embracing the concept of “Sample Packs.” Inexpensive and enough to make one pot of tea, sample packs start at $1 and go up from there, depending upon the rarity and fine quality (read: price) of the tea. With our budget, I opted to stay with the $1 line.

So difficult to choose — there are white teas, green teas, oolongs, and blacks, and within those categories there are morning teas and afternoon teas and single estate teas and flavored teas. I managed to pare the first order down to 30 samples, and four days after placing the order, I had my happy brown box filled with little foil packets.

There were five of us in the household at the time, and we each had one vote per tea: A, B, C, D, or F. (Incidentally, for you psychological types out there, this works better than numbering; the perversity of human thought recoils at giving anything a 5, no matter how good it is, because “nothing is perfect.” But all of us who survived Mrs. Allister’s P.E. class know what an A is.)

Stonework, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

After we had all voted, the tea received its grade point, and anything above a B was eligible to being ordered again. The only one that received a unanimous failing grade was the Chinese Lapsang Souchong, which the catalog described having an “intensely smoky flavor when the leaves are dried over a smoldering pine fire, and the result is truly memorable.”

It was memorable all right, along the lines of a boiled persimmon. Ironically, the day we poured this unforgettable brew was also the morning that the local national wildfire crested over the hill behind our house, far more smoke and smokiness than we were prepared to handle.

But tastes differ, and ours settled on varieties and variations of black tea — Irish Breakfast, Scottish Breakfast, Bond Street blend — for being Polish and Norwegian we are amazing Anglophiles, although I still think it’s silly to call a cookie a biscuit, and everyone knows that a flat is an unfortunate thing that happens on the road and has nothing to do with an apartment.

I make my order every three months or so, usually when I am dangerously low on leaves, but the brown parcel arrives in no time. Actually, it’s time to focus on ordering now, since the only thing left in the cabinet is a jasmine infested, er, infused melange that looks and sounds exotically wicked but tastes like clippings from the lawn mower.

I bought it on an impulse at the grocery store because I liked the box.

Convergence -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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In This Cat and Dog World, Are You a Kitty or a Pooch?

Posted on July 12, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Archie Goodwin

It’s hard to believe, but there are some people out there who just don’t like cats.

“Too independent,” they sniff, as if being independent were such a bad thing.

Frankly, if you’re looking for something that will sit in your lap and adore you, a shivering, shaking, quakey, insecure Chihuahua fits the bill. Our College Girl’s Ruby, which unfortunately is not allowed in any housing anyplace in any college town, has adopted me as her surrogate owner, and my derriere barely brushes the cushions before the four-pound blunder is up and burrowing beneath my shirt. Plus, she smells.

If I deposit her on the floor and head to the porch for a cat — any one from our collection; I don’t care — I am greeted by a baleful stare and measured consideration: “Yes, I would enjoy being inside the house as opposed to outside, but not if that means that I have to sit on a human lap.”

Admittedly, that attitude does grate.  But then I turn and meet the supplicating and subjugated liquidy brown eyes of the Chihuahua thing. That grates too.

Ruby, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

It goes without saying that the world needs both cats and dogs, and some people will like one better than the other. Personally, I fall at my kitties’ litterbox paws and thank them for their mouse hunting prowess.

I also like that independent streak, probably because I wear a huge swathe of it like a banner draped over my torso, as does the Norwegian Artist and our four progeny. Let”s put it this way: none of us were hugely popular in junior high, the Alpha Dog around which a couple of  Betas swarmed, maintaining order and adoration among the orbiting Gammas and Deltas.

Detatched Omicrons and Upsilons in an orbit of our own, we were the felines watching, balefully, from the sidelines.

We didn’t fit in, but that was okay, we told ourselves, because junior high doesn’t last forever. And quite frankly, we had no desire to be Gammas and Deltas. At some point, we reasoned, people grow up and think for themselves, finding a security and confidence in their own abilities and judgments as opposed to the collective reasoning of the Alpha-dominated group.

The odd thing about our society, however, is that in some segments of it, junior high does, indeed, last far beyond 7th and 8th grade. In more than one social environment we have found ourselves on the outiside looking in at Deltas and Gammas thronging around the Alpha, but the parties involved were adults, supposedly.

At work, in church, within clubs, the Betas sent the message: “You don’t work well in a Team environment. You need to learn how to work under appropriate Leadership.”

In our contemporary climate of team Team TEAMwork, we are suspicious of anyone who does not slot into the group, and our favorite sports are football, basketball, baseball as opposed to cross-country track, swimming, and yoga. Today’s mantra calls for us all to work together, similar to the children’s Sunday School ditty that is best left to its well-earned obscurity, as opposed to being the person who observes and sizes up the atmosphere before grabbing a drink off the tray and circulating into the room.

It is especially confusing in the World of Work, which vacillates between using Group Game TeamTeam talk and Fun Fresh Family Fare.

“We’re all part of the Family Team,” they sing.

Until the pink slip comes.

Then, suddenly, you are on your own, outside and Omicronned, genetically altered from a Labrador Retriever to an alley cat.

And at that point, oddly, you find yourself surrounded by other cats. Not snuggled up next to you necessarily, but close enough that you can feel their breath and their presence.

Yesterday I found Archie, our enormous neutered white cat with the black toilet-plunger tail, in a field a half-mile away from our home. The Cat of the Baskervilles, we call him, run off to an environment far from the Vile Eddie, our black cat who chased him to the neighbors’.

Garden Gatherings, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Feeling like a thief, I bundled Archie into our car and brought him back “Home,” where he promptly hid under the car. A few feet away he was joined by his Mamma, Mia  and brother, Jasper, in silent support. They flanked him and protected him from the Vile Eddie, but not at the expense of requiring him to turn canine and romp around with the Pack. Quite seriously, you can’t turn a cat into a dog.

Cats don’t travel in packs. They work best independently, but always remember their litter mates; they are there to fight for one another and sit in companionable proximity.

In the world of cats and dogs, I really prefer the cats.

Miaow.

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Noisy, Messy, Demanding People and Why We Need Them

Posted on July 9, 2010 by This Woman Writes

Breakfast, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

The other day we were sitting around the breakfast table when the Supreme Eldest walked in with the Toddler.

Instantly, we were galvanized into action. The Son and Heir grabbed dining room chairs and set up barriers. Tired of Being Youngest swept through the shelves, removing breakables and replacing them with toys. The Norwegian Artist focused on the floor, removing any small, suspicious item (excepting the Chihuahua; I’m afraid we’re stuck with her). I bustled through the kitchen cabinets, looking for crackers and applesauce and suitable fruit.

The Toddler herself plunged into the fray, within minutes reducing the house to the wreckage that makes her so happy.

How on earth did we have four of these things in the house at the same time?

Years ago, my brother commented to me, “It seems like you’re always pregnant.”

A few years later, he embellished on the initial statement: “You have this never-ending, rotating supply of teenagers.” (I think this latter has something to do with the initial “always being pregnant” part).

Carbon footprint scolding aside, yes, we have four children, and yes, in today’s world of raising our three Dobermans as if they were our children, that’s a big family. “Are they all yours?” I was repeatedly asked. (A friend of mine with a similar brood has a good answer for this: “No, I was bored, so I borrowed some”).

As my brother observed, I have a rotating supply of teenagers. Just as one grows up and has a child of her own, that youngest one hits 13, then 14, and looks to be hurtling, headlong, into 15 before another year is up.

Dancer, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Knee deep in hormones, I had forgotten what it was like in Little Person’s World, but the Toddler grabs my hand with her soft, squishy, sticky one and together we lurch and stumble our way back to a time where every living creature is a Doggie, shoes were meant to be torn off flat, fat feet (mine still look that way; and I’m a grownup), and pureed winter squash is haute cuisine.

Within minutes, she reduces me from an articulate adult to someone who says “dwinkie,” “sockie,” and “Tubby-Time!” The Son and Heir enjoys jumping like a frog around her because it garnishes the occasional smile; the Norwegian Artist melts into a puddle of helpless admiration (“Look at those soft, plump biceps!”). Even Tired of Being Youngest raises her voice an octave and arches her eyebrows when she presents to the Toddler the Puddy Tat.

College Girl calls from afar and says wistfully, “Give her a big Squeeeeeeeeeeze for me!”

Oh, we will.

“Babies are God’s way of saying that life should go on” — it’s one of those pithy proverbs on a coffee mug, but it’s a good one. There is something about the young, the vulnerable, and the helpless that brings out the best in the rest of us. Grownups become true grownups in the process of taking care of those growing up.

Built like a shoebox with arms, legs, and oversized head, the average toddler has the ability to garnish center attention from throughout the room. Every day is an opportunity to touch things, move things, break things, grab things, squash things. Sounds were made to be expressed — loudly, softly, repeatedly, through the nose, with a saucepan lid dropped onto a tile floor. Things that break, break — someone else sweeps them up while the toddler is quickly whisked away someplace else.

Madonna and Toddler, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Has anyone ever met a cynical, jaded toddler?

Didn’t think so.

Obviously, one must eventually grow out of toddlerhood. On the pathway to maturity, one leaves behind the Being the Center of Attention part, the indiscriminate grabbing and handling of other people’s stuff, the loud outraged cryof rage when one’s will is crossed.

Or one should. Some people don’t.

In the world of being an adult and expressing oneself with maturity and grace, it is the gift of interacting with children that keeps us from being stolid, solid, serious, somber, and bo—-rrrrring. Anyone who can prompt a three-piece-suited businessman to sing out, “Oh, look at the BIG Kitty Cat,” when referring to a 600-pound tiger at the zoo, is someone with a rare, fleeting, benevolent power indeed.

I know. Stocks are down; unemployment is up; there’s a lot of oil floating around the Gulf right now. The ice caps may or may not be melting and the toilet needs to be cleaned.

But in Toddler Land, none of this matters. Thank God for toddlers and for all that they have to teach us.

Captain's House -- Original Oil by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

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