Scout Moves

The return to school inspired me to write this column for Small Town Paper. So far there is only one online comment, but it's early, and maybe the cranky types just haven't gotten to their computers yet. I really do have a sense that back-to-school is a season as much as summer and autumn. Just the approach of Labor Day triggers something that makes me want to buy new school clothes and shoes and supplies. My mother made my clothes when I was in elementary school, and she would take me to the fabric store to look through the pattern books and to hunt for fabric that was suitable for my age. She was always concerned that I not choose material that was meant for adults. When I was in eighth grade, she stopped sewing so much, and I was allowed to actually buy clothes at a store. She would allow me to buy one pair of shoes for the classroom and one pair for gym class, which only somewhat took the sting out of the trauma of gym class. If I had outgrown my Sunday shoes, I would have

While working our way through a series of airports this past weekend, I found myself wanting some mindless reading to occupy me during a two-hour layover. Actually, with a flight delay due to rain all over the blasted country, it might have been longer than two hours. So, I bought a magazine and settled in at the gate. I chose Real Simple knowing full well it would be full of ads but maybe not as many as an issue of Vogue or Glamour which are nothing but ads. In the September issue of Real Simple, there is a section on meatless meals, and I have dogeared some pages to see if the recipes are worthy of my kitchen. That phrase may sound vain, but what I really mean is, do I want to bother cooking the stuff, or is it crap? The first recipe I followed was for a wilted red cabbage slaw to be served with prepared pierogies. It was fine. The next recipe was for a vegetable tart which I think is more than fine, so I'll share it here. Suggestion: make your own pie crust because using a store

We are in week six of 500 Words, a game Lynn and I devised in which we write 500-word stories based on a literary sentence provided by Dive. Here is my story for this week, with the provided sentence in italics. Undiscovered Genius When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. I stood with the wooden spoon in my hand, not quite ready to stir the custard for the Champagne torte, and wondered how best to use this gift I had developed, the seemingly magical ability to draw people in with my cooking skills. Towns people would hear that I was planning a dinner party with roasted salmon and butternut squash and the creamiest risotto for miles around followed by a flourless chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream made with beans fresh from Madagascar, and they would hope to be one of the blessed few to be invited. They would sample my macaroons or lemon-glazed scones or blueberry tarts at the coffee shop c

Look at this face? I mean, just look at it. Don't you just want to kiss the little guy's nose and rub his fluffy tummy? I know you do. Big Fat Mike has some physical issues, one of which is obviously his size. He weighs in at 22 pounds, and lifting him up off of the floor can give a person a hernia. He doesn't like to be held, though, so lifting him up is not something we do very often. The other day, Husband referred to him as a $5,000 Cat and suggested he be done in. Pashaw, I thought. Certainly we have not spent $5,000 on the big guy. But then I began mentally itemizing the vet bills over the last few years, and this is what I discovered: 1) $2,000 a few years ago when Mike had his itty bitty penis removed on account of some kidney stones 2) $1,200 last Christmas when Mike had a serious bladder infection with arthritis and elevated blood/sugar levels, and he spent two weeks in the hospital 3) $850 in July when he had another serious bladder infections with elevated blood

So, we went to the Grand Canyon. Here's how it went. Because we didn't plan ahead but put this all together literally the night before we left, we didn't get a direct flight from Cleveland to Phoenix. That meant it took us 12 hours to get there. Oh well. The next morning, we rented a car and drove three hours or so north to the canyon. We checked into the hotel, The Grand Hotel, which is not to be confused with the hotel on Mackinac Island. This one is a newer place meant to look like a traditional western lodge, and it's not even a mile from the southern entrance to the canyon park. In the hotel restaurant, there is a stage labeled "Buck's Stage," and Buck sings there at night with his guitar and harmonica accompanying. He's not bad, especially with the Johnny Cash songs, and he takes requests. Across the street from the hotel is a National Geographic station, sort of like a rest stop with a food court and gift shop. They also sell tickets to the park

Sitting in the Phoenix airport, I see that I have angered someone in Small Town with today's editorial. Seriously, I don't understand this kind of reaction. Here 's the piece—what do you think? Am I a hypocrite? I might have written this same sort of piece during the Bush years if I had space in the paper then, but I was busy designing book covers back in those days.

So, last night I was making dinner (grilled clams, by the way, which are delectable with ginger butter), and husband asked if we had plans for the weekend. We hardly ever have plans for the weekend, so no. He suggested we get on a plane and go somewhere–leave Friday, return Monday. I thought about New York because we love Broadway, and New York is even more fun after several visits when you don't feel like you have to see absolutely everything all at once. But the weather looks unpleasant there the next few days, so I thought about Hilton Head. I've never been there, and a couple of days at the beach might be just the ticket. But then Husband suggested the Grand Canyon. So, here we go. We'll fly to Phoenix tonight, spend two days at the Canyon, and fly home on Monday. We can do that because the kids are gone, and as Husband says, "We're young." With my fear of water, I don't see us going on a rafting trip, and with Husband's fear of heights, I don'

We are in week five of 500 Words, a game Lynn and I devised in which we write 500-word stories based on a literary sentence provided by Dive. Here is my story for this week, with the provided sentence in italics. The Luckless Mr. Bloom Mr. Bloom set down his money on the counter, and he picked up a cardboard cup of hot coffee with steam rising so high up into the air from its oily surface that a film of moisture clouded the face of his eyeglasses. Mr. Bloom was not a tall man, and the close proximity in which his face generally appeared only slightly above the counter nearly guaranteed an eyeglass-fogging with each morning coffee. “You see that old wreck of a boat tied up out there, Mr. Bloom?” said Maura, the coffee shop matron. “See it there, the bucketdredger?” Mr. Bloom turned to look out at the docks and to see the boat of interest. It was of rusty construction but still looking sturdy and suited to its task. He nodded to Maura to signal he did indeed see it. “It’s historical, t

In all of my music education these last several years, the term I've learned that has proven most helpful is rubato. When it appears on a page of music, it signifies the freedom of rhythmic flexibility. One music dictionary defines rubato as meaning not strictly on the beat, and any notation that lets me miss that often elusive pulse is just fine with me. Literally, the Italian word translates as stolen or robbed, as in stolen time. In music, you can steal time from a measure in order to express a certain emotion. I don't often use this notation with my horn playing because most of that is done in a group setting, although I have tried to get away with it in lessons. Try being free with the tempo while other people are playing with you and see how happy they are about the time you've stolen from them. It's actually when I sit down at the piano that I find "rubato" most helpful. I use the technique freely when I play regardless of the music at hand. I say that

We took Eustacia back to school last Saturday, so here we are again with no children within our reach. That's no fun. I clearly remember taking Eustacia to school last August for her freshman year, and it was excruciating. We left her in her dorm and drove home with No. 1 keeping us company. But then the next day, Husband left on a business trip, and No. 1 went back to Columbus, leaving me here in this house all by myself for three days. I could barely stand it. I dragged out the sewing machine and made some of the ugliest clothes you ever set eyes on. When I thought I was making interesting jackets out of batiks, I was actually making hideous things that looked more like contemporary nurse uniforms than anything I should be wearing. I held my own with a bottle of Chardonnay, I cooked salmon, and watched all of my favorite Gene Kelly musicals—On the Town, An American In Paris, Singin' in the Rain. Turner Classic Movies had devoted an entire day to Kelly. This year, the movie ch

For some reason, Small Town Newspaper has been putting my editorials on the main editorial page lately. My stuff is usually somewhere else in the system because I don't write about current events as much as I ponder general small town life and family life and personal observations. I'm not complaining—I'm actually amused that one day you can read Cal Thomas ranting from the right in this spot on the page, the next day read Maureen Dowd ranting from the left and the next day read me going on about sending my kids off to college or how I think we should all volunteer more. Today, I'm talking about the big, fat summer band— here. Tomorrow, I won't be in the paper, but I will be back here telling you all about how we sent Eustacia off to college over the weekend.

Confusion is not an unusual state for me, but this morning's bout relates to this article. A young seminary student has been convicted of aiding illegal aliens and littering, and his punishment is 300 hours of community service and a year of probation. Did he smuggle a truck-load of illegals over the border and try to sell them into slavery? Did he buy one or two to keep as his own indentured servants? No, he left water bottles for them in a national wildlife refuge because when people cross the border by foot, as most of them do, and walk hundreds of miles through the desert, they quite often die of dehydration. The federal prosecutor said these actions "are not about humanitarian efforts, but about protesting the immigration policies of the United States, and aiding those that enter illegally into the United States." If the group the student littered on behalf of had made a spectacle of themselves when he left the bottles, that would be a protest. What this guy did ins

We are in week three of 500 Words, a game Lynn and I devised in which we write 500-word stories based on a literary sentence provided by Dive. Here is my story for this week, with the provided sentence in italics. Lucho Makes A Friend Lucho Abril Marroquin settled onto the park bench, the one on the northeast side of the square that was shaded by oaks trees. He opened his paper sack and pulled out a fresh blueberry muffin he’d bought at the bakery a block down the street. He set his cup of tea on the bench beside him, and he spread a paper napkin on his lap. He looked just to his left and saw a woman sitting on the next bench. She was wrapped in a shawl and was wearing tight leather gloves, and she’d placed her purse and a cup of tea tidily beside her. She held a book in her lap, and she was looking up the street as two gentlemen bickered loudly over who would repair the fender the other had just damaged. “Good morning,” Lucho said. “It’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” “Oh, good morning.

I have an editorial in Small Town Newspaper today—you can read it here . Make sure you catch the comments afterward to see how some people here interpret my piece. Suddenly, I feel less love for Small Town. UPDATE: I have received two notes in the mail thanking me for writing this piece. The people who take the time to write a note, put a stamp on the envelope and mail it—theirs are the comments that matter.

Small Town is east of a huge Amish community, very Dutch/Swiss/German in its architecture, food and heritage. But cross the interstate in the other direction, and you run into Italians, people whose parents moved here from Italy years and years ago and even some people who came here straight from the country themselves. They make pizza (although so do the Amish, oddly enough) and spaghetti and cannolis. They dance to Italian polkas, and they make wine. Unfortunately, their influence hasn't affected what the local grocery stores offer, and you can't find prosciutto here to save your life. With this heavy heritage, we have an Italian-American festival every summer. Small Town closes down a few streets, and food vendors move in. People set up tents, and bands play—all kinds of bands and musical groups who don't really classify as bands. The other night, I heard a few minutes of two mature but platinum blond sisters squeezed into red sequin gowns singing what sounded like a Bet

In another case to prove you just never know what's going to happen to you on any given day—I was sitting here on my couch this morning, having a second cup of coffee and watching an Andy Hardy movie, when my phone rang. Small Town Newspaper's news editor called to see if I could handle a story today, and I was on it like flies on a dead deer—a rotting, stinking gut-shot deer with no remaining eye balls and bones protruding from gaping holes. I give you that graphic description because that basically describes the story I had to cover. I can't go into detail at the moment because of a pending investigation, but this story had me out in the country side with a bunch of farmers. They were gentlemen, every one, and they sat with me in a barn and told me their gripe with a neighbor over some deer that have been shot to prevent crop damage, and the carcasses were left to rot on their property. One of them invited me to hop on his ATV, and we rode out into a field so I could see

We are in week three of 500 Words, a game Lynn and I devised in which we write 500-word stories based on a literary sentence provided by Dive. Here is my story for this week, with the provided sentence in italics. ••• Murphy Takes the Train Murphy stood just inside the doorway of the train car and looked left and then right, scanning for an open seat. He would only have a few seconds before the train lurched forward, but he wanted to make sure he selected wisely. He would be sitting in one spot for a full hour and a half, and the ride would feel much longer if he chose the wrong roost. There were two open seats half-way down on the right, and he made his way toward them flat footed, staggering from one side to the other as the train picked up speed, grabbing the seat handles and trying to avoid touching the shoulders of the other passengers. Once planted, he plopped his briefcase down into the seat beside the window and leaned his head back as he closed his eyes. That dim-witted brot

A couple of weeks ago, the family took a break from painting and furniture shopping to spend some time in Sonoma about an hour from Berkeley. It was a delightful little break. We stayed at the Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn and Spa, a sprawling place focusing on a full-service spa which we basically avoided. No. 1 got a manicure on her birthday, but that was the extent of our visit there. Here we are on the grounds: We had a perfect dinner at The Girl and the Fig in downtown Sonoma, eating outside on the patio that felt like someone's happy back yard—great food and atmosphere with lots of good wine and cheese. The next morning, husband and No. 1 went on an 11-mile bike tour of the area while Eustacia and I enjoyed room service. This is my fruit and bakery plate which I enjoyed on our personal patio: The grounds of the inn are filled with little nooks and fountains and so many full-grown trees, you forget you're staying at a posh hotel and not in a private hideaway. The plants were

As read in today's edition of Small Town Newspaper: My daughter and I were floating around in the pool the other day, and we remarked to each other that we were spoiled. It was a sunny day in July, the birds were singing, a pleasant breeze was brushing over the tops of our heads and we were doing nothing more than relaxing with a book in hand. Since then, I’ve been wondering why it is we think we’re spoiled. Is it because not everyone has a pool to enjoy? Or is it because not everyone has time to laze around on an afternoon, especially during a recession when people are scrambling to work as many hours as possible just to cover the basics? Or maybe our slight sense of guilt runs deeper than that, and the Midwestern work ethic I learned as a child is so engrained in us that not spending every waking moment in productive activity seems wrong? My father used to employ various phrases to wake his daughters in the morning. On some days, he would knock on our bedroom doors and yell, “Get

For those of you who haven't witnessed the social mayhem on the pier in San Francisco. The video isn't very long, but you get the idea—this goes on all day through the wind and the gawkers.