Scout Moves

Small Town hosts a Halloween parade every year. It's quite a tradition with bands and costume judging and store-front decorating contests. Daughter No. 2 helped to paint elements of Monster House on the windows of an insurance agency office and won. One of the agents promised to buy them all pizza. The prize is $100 awarded to the business owner even though the kids do all the work, so one of the agents promised to buy them all pizza. He thought he should at least offer them something, but it doesn't seem likely that he'll pay up. There was free popcorn and coffee and hot chocolate given out by various groups like Hospice, and every one in the parade threw candy out to the kids. Here is a sucker that landed right in front of me. Did I grab it before the greedy little kid next to me could get her mitts on it? Of course I did. Sometimes kids think if they throw on a Freddy mask, they are all set for trick or treating, but this year the kids dressed up with thoughtfulness and

I have never been a fan of bread pudding. It's an ugly food. My mother grew up on a sparse farm in Alabama during the Depression, and her evening meal often consisted of a hunk of corn bread in a glass of milk. I imagine after soaking for a bit, that must have looked like bread pudding. But it's fall. The air is crisp, the leaves are turning, and it's time for baking and pumpkins and lovely smells from the kitchen. Does this need to bake and stock up on provisions come from my ancient ancestors who hunted and gathered just to survive through the winter, like a bear fattening up before hibernating? I'm not sure, but it does seem that I am stocking up for a long, hard winter. While at Williams-Sonoma the other day, I bought a mix for pumpkin cake. Everything from Williams-Sonoma, even their mixes, is trustworthy, so I baked it in a cake pan shaped to look like a sunflower, and I set it out on my best crystal plate. I must have baked it for too long, though, and it was nea

I am going to buy a new horn today. Do I need one? Of course not, but that's not the point. I received my first horn seven years ago from husband--an extravagant birthday present. It was a fine Yamaha horn and suited me well as I relearned the instrument. After a couple of years, I was ready for a bigger, more professional model and bought a Conn 8D through Ebay. I sold the Yamaha on Ebay as well, so it was almost an even trade. The Conn is considerably bigger and heavier and requires more air to push out the notes. But I worked with it and improved my breathing techniques enough to play in public. I have done well with this new horn, but by nature it does nothing to help with accuracy--the horn is considered one of the most difficult instruments to play because the valves are only suggestions for what note you hit, not really a guarantee like with other instruments. It can be nerve-wracking, which is why so many professional horn players are alcoholics. When I play complicated rh

Small Town's football team is about to play a game against its biggest rival, Small Town Next Door. This is something like the 103rd game, and it's tonight. Both high schools spend all week assigning very innocent tasks to help students show their support for their team, like wearing tie-dyed shirts one day and pajamas the next. It hasn't always been so wholesome. Kids used to cruise through the rival town and vandalize or honk horns at the least, but temporary curfews have stopped most of that. And kids from one town are not allowed to go to the other town during the day even for lunch at Taco Bell. Small Town kids used to have a snake dance that traveled over a mile through town like a giant crack-the-whip. They would start at the school and snake their way through streets until they reached the stadium, and God help the kid at the end of the whip. After a couple of kids were thrown into cars and broke bones, the snake dance was canceled. Now all that is left is the big f

I was inspired by Dive's Expedition post , so I have decided to present my own pictorial display of my typical morning. It was raining on the day I set out to document my experience. First, this is what I see from my garage at 7:35 am when I leave the house to deliver Daughter No. 2 to school. Day light savings time will help that a little. This is the same view later in the day time when the sun is up. This is the curvy road I take to the high school as seen after dawn. This is the high school as seen through the rain on my window, followed by what the high school looks like when the window is rolled down. This is My Favorite Place for Joe where I stop most mornings to pick up a cup and to read the editorial page of the Small Town paper. This is what the highway looks like through my rain-washed windshield, and this is what it looks like on those occasional lovely mornings as the sun comes up over the hills. And finally at my destination, this is the front door of my work place. S

I hate the word "squash." The sound doesn't inspire images of anything edible, although it does create an accurate picture of the texture of the gourd, a texture I find INedible. Having said that, I have a new love for butternut squash. I have made butternut squash risotto before, using an actual squash, but I recently discovered Williams Sonoma's butternut squash purée . I generally avoid mixes or short-cut food stuff, but this is nothing but a big jar of purée from organically grown squash. I used it to make a batch of soup, following the recipe on the label, and it was a comforting, sweet treat--apples and shallots and cinnamon all simmered in the purée and broth. Next, I will try this recipe from the Williams Sonoma site. It sounds perfect for a chilly autumn evening. Butternut Squash Chowder 4 bacon slices, cut into 1/2-inch pieces 1 yellow onion, diced 2 celery stalks, diced 1 bay leaf 1 tsp. chopped fresh sage, plus small sage leaves for garnish 4 tsp. kosher

I had the pleasure of listening to Prairie Home Companion over the weekend, one of my favorites on the radio, ever. Garrison Keillor sang a revised version of a traditional hymn, It Is Well with My Soul, changing the words to sing about tuna casserole (When woods in October are turning brown and gray, and winter creeps into my soul, I boil some water and I start to make tuna fish, tuna fish casserole). A lot of people would call that sacrilegious, but I had a fair chuckle over the whole thing. When I was a kid, there was a regularly irreverent family in my very conservative church, and when no one was looking, they would sing a version of The Old Rugged Cross that always made me laugh: On a hill far away stood an old Chevrolet Its tires all tattered and torn. And I said that day to the old Chevrolet, I'll trade you some day for a Ford. When I brought that song home one day, my mother was very displeased. It isn't nice to mess with the sacred songs of the church, she said. She

...and Scout is staying home. Well, it is just a game, isn't it? Just a past time and a source of local pride, unless you're the type to be a Yankee's fan or a Cub's fan no matter where you live. While I was rooting for the Indians, if they had been playing the Cubs instead of the Red Sox, I would have had to cheer on the team of my youth. Losers all around. When I was a kid growing up near Chicago, the Cubs were the team to love. There were no lights in Wrigley Field, so all the games were played in the afternoon. We never went to a game because my father thought "what kind of fool would want to sit there in the middle of alla that when you can watch it right here in your own house?" The games were on TV every weekend, and that was my exposure to baseball and the Cubs. That's all I knew until I moved to Chicago to go to college. On warm sunny days in the spring, my friend Wendy and I would talk big about skipping class and going to a game. When we scraped

Baseball can be so frustrating, can't it? You sit through hours of play, tense each time the opponent is at bat--in this case, that would be the Red Sox. And you're eager each time your own team has another chance to score a run--in this case, that would be the Indians. I am not a huge baseball fan, and I typically don't like to watch games on TV. I am diligently watching the American League games, though, even if I don't always last to the final inning. I knit while I watch--last night Husband said that knitting doesn't go with baseball, but I declared that knitting goes with everything. I much prefer being at the stadium, actually, even without my knitting. I like being surrounded by the noise and the lights and the smell of ballpark food. Slider, the Indians odd, indescribable mascot, will sometimes shoot hotdogs from a giant air gun, and you hope to catch one as it flies through the air. Being blindsided by an Oscar Meyer would be an unpleasant experience, I

I have had my house cleaned professionally. I probably should have done it a few years ago, but I felt like I should be able to keep my own house clean. I'm not sure why I thought that. Conditioning, I guess. My mother never had a housekeeper. She worked full time and still managed to do the vacuuming and dusting and laundry. She also took on the job of child labor organizer on Saturdays to get it all done, and I don't remember anyone ever spending any time with the detailed cleaning. I do make an effort to sweep and dust and vacuum as I see the need--same with cleaning the toilets and the showers and ovens. I'm afraid, though, that I am just not observant enough to really do the job right. So, I finally broke down and hired a service. They did the first big cleaning last Friday, and it took them more than six hours. I have to say I was embarrassed when I arrived home after work, and they were still there. They had just finished wiping off the tops of the kitchen cabinets,

It's that time of year again--it's time for corning. When you live in an agricultural region, kids find ways to amuse themselves, ways city kids would never imagine. You can get some laughs over tipping a cow, although you have to go out of your way to get to a sleepy one who just happens to be standing in a field near the road. You can wander through a corn maze, if a local farmer has been kind enough to construct one in his field. You can steal agricultural signs--Daughter No. 1 came home with a huge one that had advertised corn planted in some man's field. Or you can go corning. Corn is easy to come by this time of year. You know the phrase, "knee high by the fourth of July," which is a general rule for how corn grows? Well, by October it has been cut and sold, and dried corn kernels abound. They are easy to come by and easy to carry. For a good corning, all you really need is a pocket full. You fill your pants with corn, sneak up to someone's front door, a

When I was seventeen and sorting through the details of my final year in high school, I was sent to the gymnasium, wearing my favorite sweater--a soft, fuzzy, turquoise v-neck highlighting a small sea shell hung from a silver chain around my neck--where I posed for my senior picture. It was a simple process. Sit down. Smile a few times. Click. Click. Go home. A few weeks later, I got half a dozen proofs to choose from, and after I chose my favorite, the studio air brushed the zits and sent me my senior pictures. Done. Not so these days. Daughter No. 2 is a senior, and she sat for her senior pictures just this past Saturday. When I say "sat," I don't actually mean that she sat down for a few shots and walked away, leaving her with a small memento of her high school years. I mean that she participated in a photo shoot that would make Tyra Banks feel at home. We went to the photo studio with four outfits, a trumpet, a tennis racquet, and a basket of tennis balls. First, she

Because I sometimes have trouble saying "no," I hosted another candle party yesterday. I did that for the first time ever last January and agreed to do it one more time. I have a good friend who said she wouldn't attend because she "isn't a home party person." I'm not either, so I completely understood, but I actually had fun with this one. Ten women sitting around smelling candles, giggling, and eating pie--a ladies' afternoon. When I was growing up, in a conservative Baptist church, women were referred to as Ladies. There were Ladies' teas and ladies' lunches and ladies' trios. It was a term of respect, in some ways, but it was also a term that set proper women apart from the trashy sluts who wore too much makeup, kissed their boyfriends in public, and crossed their legs when they shouldn't. A true lady does not cross her legs in a job interview. A true lady does not put on her lipstick at the table. A true lady does not participat

On Tuesday of this week, a 17-year-old boy was arrested in Small Town for threatening to kill several teachers in the high school and for planning a day to "shoot up the school." The kid had a myspace page where he talked about these threats and where he posted a photo of himself posing with guns he had taken from his parents' safe. He managed to pick the lock on the safe and apparently returned the guns after taking the photo. He had warned a friend and said the friend would be spared. Fortunately for us all, the friend took these threats seriously, and the boy with a dangerous mind is now being held in jail. He is claiming it was all a joke, but no one else is laughing. On Wednesday of this week, in Cleveland, a 14-year-old boy who had made similar threats and promised to spare a friend on the day he would "shoot up the school," actually followed through with his plan and shot four people in his alternative high school, one funded by the Bill Gates Foundation

Yesterday, I was scouring the offices at work for something I had lost, or at least I assume I am the one who lost it. It could have been the guy who used to work there but doesn't anymore--he'd be easy to blame because he isn't there to defend himself. Either way, on the hunting route, I found some sample books that were tucked away in the conference room, books meant to inspire us to develop new product. One of these books is a little impulse book from Eddie Bauer entitled Balance . I assume it was once sold at the register next to the cologne and compasses, although I can't know for sure since Eddie Bauer closed down the store near my town because it was under performing. Anyway, this book provides simple instructions for finding balance in your life, the balance between a simple and fulfilling life and one that is more complex and might leave you wanting. Here is an excerpt from the introduction: "This book won't change your life. It won't solve any of

Daughter No. 2 came home from marching in the band at a football game, and tucked in her uniform pocket was a Swagger. Swagger is a kind of student-initiated newsletter the kids get to keep them busy on the bus when the band travels for games played out of town, and it's filled with things like crossword puzzles, inside jokes, and interviews with band members. Last week's edition has a feature entitled Ways to Know If You've Been in Band Too Long. I haven't been in high school band since 1980, so none of this would apply to me. It's for the kids. That's what I told myself as I went through the list and shook my head. So many tell-tale signs applied to me. • Someone could empty their spit valve on your shoe and you wouldn't care. There are so many musicians in my summer band, that when we perform at the park, we are crammed onto the stage elbow to elbow. It's impossible to empty your spit valve without dowsing somebody. It's part of the gig. • You don

...or Crap Show, depending on how you look at it. Over the weekend, I put in my time working at the local craft show. It's hosted by the high school band boosters every year as a fund raiser, and all kinds of people are involved. The committee to fund playground equipment for the park had a table, and there was a tent where a guy made kettle corn in huge copper kettles, staying cool under a big tent. My job was to assemble creamed-chicken sandwiches in a hot kitchen with no air flow. I had to wear a hat and plastic gloves. Jealous? All the crafters paid rent for a space on the floor and set up a booth for their wares. There were so many people selling country crafts in the form of snow men and Santas and piney trees covered in ornaments, they must have had a club. There were woven rugs and candles and things made with cinnamon sticks--I couldn't get close enough to find out what, exactly, because the smell was so strong, my eyes burned all the way through the hall. There wer

My version of lyrical Monday Melees have involved musicals, but here is one using only lyrics from the lovely Baby James. (Pardon me for posting slightly ahead of Monday--I have an early morning tomorrow) 1. The Misanthtropic : Name something (about humanity) you absolutely hate. This ability we have to hold grudges for generations: There are rifles buried in the countryside for the rising of the moon May they lie there long forgotten till they rust away into the ground Who will bend this ancient hatred, will the killing to an end Who will swallow long injustice, take the devil for a country man Who will say "this far no further, oh lord, if I die today" Send no weapons no more money. Send no vengeance across the seas Just the blessing of forgiveness for my new countryman and me Missing brothers, martyred fellows, silent children in the ground Could we but hear them could they not tell us "Time to lay God's rifle down" Who will say this far no further, oh Lord,

I'm talking about yarns here. I hear serious knitters talk about having a stash of yarn that they dip into when they are in need of a project, and their stashes are prized. I have never had a stash before. I have just had enough yarn for one project at a time, and the little bit left over isn't enough to knit an earring. But when I learned the only worthy yarn shop in Small Town was closing, I started grabbing up skeins like buying bread and water before a hurricane. I would need these things to tide me over through the winter. I would need a stash. The purple stuff will make a cardigan, the off-white stuff will make a sleeveless sweater, as will the green stuff. The dark brown stuff in the bag will make a wrap, and the bright pink stuff will make a short tie-front cardigan. My finished projects will be displayed at Stitchin' Bints . I am pretty sure the stash will get me through the winter. While some people stock up on firewood and canned fruit, I stock up on yarn.

I found this while looking for a knitting pattern. I love to play Scattergories, unless the letter rolled is N. That one is nearly impossible, and I usually re-roll to get an easier one. With this meme, each category must be answered using the first letter of your name--in my case, R. 1. Famous Singer/Band: Rosemary Clooney 2. 4 letter word: Rain 3. Street: Rodeo Drive 4. Color: Rose Red (2 points) 5. Gifts/Presents: Ring 6. Vehicle: Rolls Royce (2 points) 7. Things in a Souvenir Shop: Rally flag 8. Boy Name: Robert 9. Girl Name: Regina 10. Movie Title: River Runs Through It 11. Drink: Rob Roy (2 points) 12. Occupation: Roto-Rooter (2 points again) 13. Celebrity: Ronald Reagan (again with the points) 14. Magazine: Real Simple 15. U.S. City: Reddington 16. Pro Sports Teams: Reds 18. Reason for Being Late for Work: Ran into traffic 19. Something You Throw Away: Rotten Radishes (2 points) 20. Things You Shout: Robber! 21. Cartoon Cha

After writing about learning to play Maple Leaf Rag, I have been compelled to reminisce about Mr. Stevesand, my piano teacher throughout high school. As I mentioned, he was a math teacher, and he taught piano on weekends and some evenings. He was a bachelor and lived in a big house on a hill, so there was no one to mind a string of kids banging away at Moonlight Sonata or Fur Elise for hours on end. When I first started taking lessons there, I didn't have my drivers' license yet, so my mother drove me. She sat in the kitchen and read while I played in the living room, and afterwards she would complain that I was learning all this classical stuff but not learning to play hymns for church. Why couldn't he teach me to play hymns for church? Mr. Stevesand's cats kept my mother company, hopping up on the table and walking around on the kitchen counter. Sometimes they would eat from the dirty pans on the stove, and sometimes they would just lay around on the floor. They were

Lately, I have had it in my head to learn to play Maple Leaf Rag, the Scott Joplin classic. I have heard it several times on Sirius radio's classical pops station. Sometimes I think they have a pile of about twenty or thirty numbers they just keep repeating over and over. Anyway, I want to learn to play Maple Leaf Rag. I learned a Joplin rag in high school when I took piano lessons from Mr. Stevesand. Mr. Stevesand was an eccentric bachelor type who lived in a house out in the country. He taught math at a middle school during the week, but on weekends he taught piano on a lovely old baby grand. He must have been quite a pianist in his younger thinner days, but in his older thicker days, his fingers were like clumsy sausages, and he wasn't as accurate as he would have liked. He did help me through the rag, though. My mother heard me playing it at home one day and asked what it was. I said, "The Entertainer," by Scott Joplin. You would have thought I had said it was wri

I went to an orchestra concert this past weekend, this time sitting in the audience because that stupid Beethoven and that idiot Haydn only wrote some things for two horns. Oh well. Once in a while, it's good to hear the entire orchestra as the audience hears it instead of just how the horn section in the back row hears it. I found myself sitting behind a local icon, Jerry Marlowe. He's known as the Man with the Hats because he does not show up at a public function without one. He doesn't wear Stetsons or Fedoras or ski hats. He wears odd things, like Uncle Sam hats on patriotic occasions, or hats shaped like a chicken, or a joker's hat. Once Husband sat by him on a plane, and Jerry was wearing a beanie with a spinning propeller, just because. At the concert, he brought a hat shaped like a big purple fish with black stripes covered in sequins. He was only holding the hat, so I suppose he has a sense of decency when it comes to wearing them in doors. A dying gesture. Jer