Scout Moves

I have a small article in today's edition of Small Town Newspaper about a local non-profit that meets with kids in fourth grade and talks to them about self-esteem and how drugs and alcohol will never be the answer to what troubles them. The women who run the program told me that the kids who meet with them in a kind of school club are hungry for adult affirmation, the kind of affirmation people used to find at home (at some homes, anyway) but don't so much any more, especially in homes hit hard by the recession. One of the women said that parents used to spend quite a bit of time talking to their children one on one, but now, in the average American household, parents spend 16 minutes a day talking to their child, and 14 of those minutes are spent criticizing them. So, these smart, funny, warm-hearted women fill the void. The online version of the story has a photo of the women, and some asshat commented that, because the women aren't as slender as he/she thinks they ought

I have interviewed some older people lately who have talked about passing on certain principles to the next generation. They've talked about the values they taught their children that were then passed on to their grandchildren, and these people have shared stories and songs and family traditions. So, what did I pass onto my children? What stories and songs do they remember from their younger years? None, apparently. Husband and I both play at the piano, and the girls remember that from their childhood even if they can't put their finger on a specific song. That's nice. But I used to sing lots of songs to them, and I had hoped some of them might stick. I can go about tasks on any given day and break out in a quiet song at random moments. "California is a garden of Eden. It's a paradise to live in or see. But believe it or not, you won't find it so hot, if you ain't got that do re mi." That's a particular favorite, and so is this one: "Well, sit

This post first appeared March 20, 2007. Since then, we have replaced the noisy coffee maker with one even more ferocious, and Mike nearly collapses every time it grinds the beans. I have a new coffee maker--a Cuisinart Automatic Grind and Brew. At night, I fill the thing up with beans and water, set the timer, and magically the coffee appears at 6:40 the next morning, hot and fresh. An entire night's sleep has gone by since I set it up, which is enough time for me to forget what I have done, so it's as if I had a coffee fairy in my kitchen. But this isn't about coffee. It's about fear. My cat Mike is afraid of most things but mostly men. If he hears a man's voice, he hides. If he hears heavy shoes on the floor that might be man shoes, he hides. If he hears loud, boisterous laughter that might be from a man, he hides. If he hears anything unusual coming from a room, even a room he enjoys like the kitchen as it contains his food, he hides. My cat Mike also loves foo

For nearly three years I have posted an assortment of memories and school pictures and recipes. I have reviewed my favorite films, shown you drawings I made when I was five, made you listen to me sing and play the piano, revealed my worst fears, described the events and sights and characters of Small Town. I have poured my heart out. But ask me what gets the biggest hits from web searches? Go ahead. It's Johnny Marzetti , a rustic recipe made with pasta, ground beef, cheese and diced vegetables. This is basically goop in a pot, and yet it seems to be what people on the Internet crave. Every single day without fail, I find people arriving here after searching for Johnny Marzetti. Just yesterday, I got seven hits because of this recipe. I don't know if they're copying my recipe, but I do know they aren't sticking around to read my other stuff, stuff I think isn't goop. I don't think I've gotten a single hit from someone looking for pear trifle or leek tart. Th

The big old community band put on a concert at the park last night, and we had a great time. I did, at least. We smushed all 85 of us on the stage and played our hearts out. I felt like we hardly missed a beat, except for the occasional something that fell into a rest now and then. I know I like to make fun of this band (thus the title of this post), but I really think we're improving with each season. And there are some brilliant individual musicians in each section. Maybe it's the overall atmosphere of the group that makes me think we could set fire to Carnegie Hall just by walking in the front door. Maybe I equate this band with a bulldozer because we have a trombone section that laughs and talks during concerts and does everything but reenact Animal House in their back row. When one of them is announced as being part of an ensemble that's about to perform something nice, they all bark by shouting, "Woof! Woof! Woof!" And the conductor just smiles. I think he&#

This morning beginning around 10:00, Small Town will do what it always does for Memorial Day. We'll assemble a short parade with the marching band, color guard members from the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars, for you non-Americans), and some other people here and there. It's a solemn display with everyone practically silent. The band plays an occasional patriotic piece, but for most of it, a cadence keeps everyone in step. Sometimes there are Civil War reenactors marching in uniform, and today there will be an 87-year-old WW II veteran who is living in a nursing home against his will. He'll ride in the back of a convertible with his name plastered on the side. The parade ends at a cemetery where the VFW has assembled a dais on a flatbed truck. We'll watch the traditional elements of the ceremony—laying of the wreaths by veterans, the National Anthem by the band, a 21-gun-salute, the Gettysburg Address read by an 8th-grade boy, and In Flanders Field read by an 8th-grade g

I suspect "memoria*" is not an actual word, but I like the sound of it. I should be outside enjoying this beautiful weather, but I'm feeling slightly puny, as my mother would say, with a slight headache and general malaise. So, instead of sitting out in the sunshine with the butterflies, I am inside watching Band of Brothers on the History Channel. Even the theme song speaks to me. When I was in college, I interviewed my father for a writing assignment. We discussed his experiences as a soldier in WW II, and he told stories I had never heard before. I found the resulting paper just a few days ago, and I have copied a few excerpts below in honor of my father and the Greatest Generation and Memorial Day. "While staying in a small village in England, Alabama-born Elmer Wells and a few other U.S. soldiers visited the home of the local mayor. While waiting in the high-ceilinged parlor, Elmer sat in a straight-backed chair, his friends standing around him. Near the chair w

Yesterday I went to English class for immigrants, and I helped out with a few projects—we discussed how to read through the want ads and sort through garage sale ads in the paper. We talked about all the great things we'll find at the new farm market opening in June. I administered two spelling tests. And we talked about rhubarb, which apparently doesn't exist in Central America. It was an eventful morning. In the middle of all of it, I caught sight of the T-shirt one of the Guatemalan women was wearing. It was emblazoned with the phrase—"I don't care about your blog." I'm sorry. What? You don't care about my blog? Are you telling me this thing filled with my personal photos and stories and ideas and general word vomit doesn't interest you? I'm crushed by such blanket rejection. I decided this woman was wearing the shirt not because she was fed up with bloggers forcing her to listen to them go on and on about their online rambling, but because it

My humble blog will soon turn three–I think the anniversary date is in early August—and while I'm amazed I still haven't run out of stories and conjecture and general blabber, I think it's time I harvest the archives and start posting old things. They'll be called "Reruns," and I'll post them on Thursdays. Here is the first installment, which originally appeared September 1, 2006. Last evening after dinner, I let my cat Tiger out to roam the patio. Not a big deal for many cats, but for Tiger, it is the same as if someone were to let me sit on the stage with the Cleveland Orchestra for 30 seconds. Oh my gosh, what to do first, what to look at first, what to sniff first...or in the case of the orchestra, where there would be no sniffing, which horn player to admire first. Tiger is an inside cat with no front claws and no street sense, but he does love the patio. He pushes his boundaries by hopping onto the retaining wall or peeking under the gate. Daughter N

I'm taking a brief break from horn lessons while my teacher vacations in Florida and does whatever else he does when he isn't teaching, but while I'm waiting for a lesson in June, I am supposed to be buying new music. The man didn't tell me what, exactly—he just said to go buy stuff. I found a list of essential pieces every horn player at a certain skill level should know, and I chose three things pretty much sight unseen. Well, one of them arrived just yesterday, and I'm thinking I overshot my skill level. Holy moly. For the last couple of weeks, I have been playing through things I keep on my music stand all the time—Strauss' Nocturno because it's beautiful, Vinter's Hunter's Moon because it's spritely and an emotional antidote to the Nocturno, the Beethoven sonata, Mozart concertos and other things I enjoy playing even if I will not allow anyone else to listen in. On some level, I can handle the notes and rhythms and tempos (sort of) on every

Eustacia is home for the summer, and now I have to hear a phrase that makes those little hairs on the back of my neck bristle—"I'm bored." I've been told that if you're bored, you're boring, but I don't believe that's quite true. And even if it is, it's an unkind retort to someone who's accustomed to activity and people and raucous noise and then has to spend the summer in a quiet house so devoid of activity that in the mornings when the porch doors are open, it sounds like wilderness with nothing to hear but chirping birds and agitated squirrels. The other day, my reply to Eustacia's whine was to suggest she clean up the pile of DVDs she had dumped on the dining room floor. I was envisioning an entire summer having to walk around the things, and I think it isn't unreasonable for an unemployed person to get off her slothful rear end and pick up after herself. Anyway, she decided that instead of shoving the movies in a cobwebby box fro

My baby turns 19 today. So much for being a baby. I'm hopeful she'll never really grow up, though, because she's good at holding on to the best parts of being childlike. Eustacia gives people the benefit of the doubt, overlooks their flaws and loves them unconditionally. She isn't cynical or warn down by disappointment or vindictive. She can be surprisingly impish now and then. She got her gift on Saturday, a shopping trip to Columbus and dinner in the city. She ordered duck, and her sister, who she typically tries to irritate, ordered salmon. Eustacia said, "My dinner eats your dinner," and the rest of us sat there pondering the brain that thinks in those terms. The kid doesn't want a cake today but has asked for rice-krispy treats instead. Of all things. I offered to bake or provide her heart's desire, and this is what her heart wants. The particular stuff she's craving comes from a recipe a former neighbor gave us when all the neighborhood kids

Is it the stage of life or the season, or is it just me? I'm not sure what's going on, but lately it seems I keep making people cry. I'm one of those people who cries when I see someone near me crying—it's contagious like yawning—so I have had to choke back a few tears recently. I suppose I could just join them, but I prefer to shed tears in private. You can politely conceal a yawn, but it's difficult to hide blubbering. Yesterday, I had lunch with a woman who wanted to thank me for some graphic design work I had done for her. I wouldn't accept cash, so we agreed on lunch instead. We don't know each other well, so the subject matter was uncertain. She's conservative in every area of life except her stand on immigration, so I wanted to be careful what topics I introduced. With one hand tied behind my back, I threw out Alzheimer's disease. Nice, huh? Want to meet me for a sandwich? I'm a load of laughs. Alzheimer's led to death, which led to t

What kind of sadistic fool watches HBO's Alzheimer's Project ? I ask you! I watched last night's episode—they really need to make some kind of hopeful message part of each segment instead of leaving you feeling completely drained. Just to clear the air a little, I'll watch this because it makes me happy. You should, too. This horn player teaches at a college in Oklahoma, and he records solos (and in this case, quartets) on youtube for his students to use as reference. He's amazing. Happy Friday

It seems I am a few days behind in everything this week. I didn't mention Mother's Day until Wednesday, and now I am about to tell you about a philharmonic concert from last Saturday. My orchestra performed its final concert of the season, a Broadway show featuring two soloists who grew up around here but are now in college. Incidentally, they both attend Eustacia's college, which has a well-known conservatory. In this photo, which I lifted from Small Town Newspaper without permission, I am the third horn player from the left, such a feature, the photographer (mother of the soloist) cut off my head. We played things from Carousel, Phantom of the Opera, Music Man, Candide... The soloists sang A Little Priest from Sweeney Todd, and it was a big hit. Because there was no 2nd horn part for that number, I could relax and listen. I couldn't relax and listen when we performed Glitter and Be Gay from Candide, though. The soloist was so expressive and so delightful in her perfor

A few days later...I had a lovely mother's day on Sunday. I woke up with a fat cat hogging the pillow, and I had a leisurely breakfast and a cup or two of coffee. Then Eustacia woke up and gave me the picture she had painted and hidden until the big day. Cute, huh? The sunset-sky is so well blended, I think I need to ask her for a painting lesson. We watched a movie together—Bedtime Stories, which is one of the worst "family" movies ever made. Movie makers must think families are morons. Then we had a leisurely lunch of chicken salad and grapes. Then we went to a little show put on by a local dance studio with a jazz trio in the background for the first part. It was cute, but we felt a little weird when we realized we were probably the only people in the audience not related to any of the dancers. Then I called my mother. Then No. 1 called me from California and sent me flowers via Facebook. Then we drove out to the lake for dinner. Then we came back home and watched anot

My mother likes to say "when it rains, it pours" in the context of bad things happening. It does seem like that sometimes, that bad things happen in waves or are brought in with the tide. I think bad things happen all the time just like good things, but you don't always know the people they're happening to. And when you do know them, you feel like you should do something to help. Daughter No. 1 and Husband were in California over the weekend scoping out apartments for when No. 1 goes to Berkeley for grad school. No. 1 called to wish me a happy mother's day, and before we hung up the phone, I had blabbed such a litany of bad news, I felt like those old people who, when you say hello, start naming all of their ailments or telling you how many of their friends died just last week. And all you can do is respectfully listen and think about what pleasant thing you'll do next as an antidote to their monologue. Well, I couldn't help it. It's been raining bad n

This newspaper gig has brought some interesting things. Because of it, I have met all kinds of people and learned all kinds of things. I have interviewed a potter, a stained glass artist, a horse barn owner, Guatemalan immigrants, winery operators and a woman with two uteruses. That last one may seem odd, but she's one of the few women in the world who has given birth to surviving twins, each developing in its own womb (you can see the adorable kids and read the article here ). I have learned about antique steamer trunks, dandelion wine, the history of steel drums and that people in Papua New Guinea are being evacuated from their island because of rising sea levels. I've read books on the repercussions of factory farming, and I've researched childhood obesity—did you know that Ohio ranks 17th on a list of US states in order of weight? Yet, someone in my own town would comment online suggesting we leave our poor kids alone. The other day I was in a court room to cover a case

It's Friday, so eat something that makes you happy. In my case, it's this—a lemon-curd trifle. Anything with lemon curd is magnificent, but this combination of stuff is wonderful. I actually made it for Easter but didn't get around to sharing it until today. I modified a recipe for lemon and white chocolate mousse parfaits and constructed the ingredients in a trifle dish using a pound cake in the layers. Yummy—there's nothing like lemon curd, except maybe lime curd Here is the recipe as it's written. Lemon and White Chocolate Mousse Parfaits Makes 8 (or one trifle) 5 large egg yolks 1/2 cup sugar 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice 4 teaspoons finely grated lemon peel Pinch of salt 1/4 cup plus 2 2/3 cups chilled heavy whipping cream 1 3.5-ounce bar high-quality white chocolate (such as Lindt or Perugina), finely chopped 5 cups sliced hulled strawberries (about 2 pounds) Whisk egg yolks, sugar, lemon juice, lemon peel, and salt in medium metal bowl to blend. Set bowl over sau

I think that when someone uses the word "humbly" about themselves, they don't sound very humble, but I am truly humbled by an award given to me by Savannah . It's the Noblesse Oblige award. One definition of "noblesse oblige" reads "One must act in a fashion that conforms with one's position, and with the reputation that one has earned." Jiminy. Here are the qualifications: 1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs. 2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage and offers solutions. 3) There is a clear purpose at the Blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture and Sciences and Beliefs. 4) The Blog is refreshing and creative. 5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking. So, can you see why receiving this award might be humbling? The Blogger who receives this award will need to perform the following

Last week, I participated in a horn choir at a college not far from Small Town. I've already written about that experience, but I neglected to show you pictures. My horn lessons are from 4:00 to 5:00 in the afternoons, and since rehearsal for the choir didn't begin until 5:30, I had some time to wander and see things I normally don't see. When I go to my lessons, I usually try to get in and get out unnoticed by walking in a straight line through the hallway—I go to the performing arts building, and there are always college-age kids sitting around talking and laughing in all the seating areas. I feel like their mother,or an intruder or somebody who's about to ask if they have cleaned their rooms or scold them for behaving badly at parties, and I feel out of place. But last week, the lobby was clear, and I got my first look at the courtyard that sits in the center of the building. It was a sunny, warm day, so I sat out there for a little while and took notice. It was quie

Do you know what this is? I thought everyone knew, but I understand it's a mystery to some. Or maybe it's just the meat that's in it that is the mystery. This is Trail bologna. Trail is capitalized because it's named after the little town of Trail, Ohio which is a bit like a smudge on the road. I'm not disparaging the town so much as I am trying to describe the size of it. I've read the town was named for a well-known trail that native Americans had beaten down before the Europeans moved in. In 1912, the Troyer family started making this bologna in Trail, and the family still has quite a little general store and meat processing business. During hunting season, you can take your deer kill to the store, and they'll butcher it for you. They'll even turn the whole animal into bologna, if that's what you like. People who serve Trail bologna usually slice it kind of thin and serve it on a platter with cubes of Swiss cheese. Central Ohio is full of all kind

Last night, I attended the first summer band rehearsal of the season. In case you weren't around last summer or forgot what this band thing is all about, let me fill you in. Small Town, but not excluding people from surrounding small towns, has a community band that gives concerts in the park or in the street at festivals through the summer. We start rehearsing about now, and run through the middle of August when all the college kids take off and all the high school band directors start focusing on the new school year. We meet once a week in an unairconditioned band room, and all 100 or so of us rehearse for 2 1/2 hours. We're loud and obnoxious, with each section trying to outdo the next. To contrast the group—during a rehearsal for orchestra, when the conductor stops the group to discuss a problem, the musicians are quiet and attentive. At band, when the conductor stops the group to discuss a problem, everyone immediately starts chatting with their neighbors, and the guy on b