Scout Moves

I thought about posting my column here in full, but if I didn't direct you toward my local newspaper's online version of it, then you'd miss out on the delicious comments. So, here is what I've written in today's edition of Small Town Newspaper .

I spent about five days with my family in Georgia helpings my mother move out of her house and into my sister's. My mother is 85, but she is not frail—that woman can climb stairs and haul off and belt you, if she wanted, but she's showing signs of dementia, and she's lonely in her house all by herself. So, she now lives with my sister and her husband. We started on Thursday by packing up some clothes to take back to my mother's new bedroom, and we emptied the buffet that was part of her dining room set. The big thing has small drawers on the bottom that held candles that I swear were there when I was a little girl, and they haven't been lit in 30 years. We threw those away, and we sorted through 40 years of table clothes and cloth napkins and these little crocheted things. I could never figure out what those things were, but it turns out their glass cozies. You slip them on the bottom of glasses filled with sweet tea, and the glasses won't sweat on the fine furn...

I am back from Georgia with plenty of stories to tell and plenty of pictures to show, but not just yet. I'm completely worn out, and I have other tasks to perform before I can sit down and write a real blog post—my poor lot in Blogville has no more than 25 or 30 visitors a day lately, and I have only myself to blame. I haven't been very hospitable, but I'll set out the welcome mat soon and invite you all over for tea. In the mean time, go make a word cloud. After I saw a word cloud of President Obama's State of the Union 2011 address, I found this site online. It's called Wordle, and it generates the things from just about anything—a presidential speech, a newspaper article or a blog. I ran the sagging Just Sayin' through it, and this is what happened:

As I've mentioned to you before, my mother is going to move in with one of my sisters, and she has begun the process. Atlanta (and a good bit of the South) was frozen over in a storm recently, and she moved in the day the snow began falling. Now it's time to go get the stuff she didn't pack that day, to pack up some things for storage and to throw out things that can be pitched. We're going to start doing that this weekend, so I'm going to fly to Atlanta to help out. Everyone involved has a busy schedule—except for me, obviously—so we'll make Saturday the main work day, and I'm hoping I can do some preliminary packing beforehand. On Friday, though, my mother will be going to a ladies' luncheon (and no, you cannot translate that as a women's lunch in this case), and she would like me to go with her. It will be hosted by her friend, Marge, who she introduced me to when I was visiting there in November. Marge is a wonderful woman, a widow like most of t...

If you've been nosing around Just Sayin' for any length of time, you've seen this photo before. It's of my father as a soldier during World War II. We don't know much about it—exactly when it was taken or where or under what circumstances. I've heard it was taken in some kind of photo booth with an artificial background, and I'm sure it wasn't official because I assume the cigarette would not have been part of the uniform. I have always loved this picture because it is so clearly from another era. As a child of the '70s, with The Brady Bunch setting the tone and "Women's Lib" and space travel in the news, I would go home from school every day to parents anchored in the 1940s. That's not to say they weren't in tune with current events, but they were different from all the other parents I knew. Once when I was in eighth grade, my social studies teacher asked for a show of hands of all the kids with grandfathers who fought in World...

I used that phrase the other day with my sister, and she asked if she was one of the birds I had set out to kill. She was, but today, I have different birds to shoot. First bird: at the advice of my kids, I downloaded an app to my iPhone, Hipstamatic. It turns your phone into a camera that shoots nostalgic looking photos, with red casts or yellow casts to them like the pictures of your childhood. For example, here is No. 1's cat Nickolas looking like he's from 1967: And here's a scene I spotted while in Sonoma for New Year's looking yellowish with torn edges like a 1980s magazine shoot: I used this app to document a cooking experiment I recently did, and thus the second bird. I have been cooking a good deal since I've been home after the holidays. I made some great cream of mushroom soup and some really great butternut squash soup with cider cream. I've made beef fillets with a smoked cheese sauce, sauteed lamb chops and other stuff I can't remember at the m...

Let’s catch up a little bit. Since I last popped in here—checking in with a blog is sort of like stepping into a room, isn’t it?—a few things have happened. • In yesterday's edition of Small Town Newspaper, I wrote about my experience with full-body scanners at airports . The commentators make good points, and I suspect these Naked Machines might not be effective, but they're what we've got for now. And I'm not going to stop flying, and I'm certainly not going to opt for a pat down instead. What do you think? • I’ve begun knitting socks for the first time. No. 1 gave me sock yarn and needles for Christmas, and she wrote out a pattern for me to follow. As I read through the instructions, nothing makes sense, but as I knit, it all seems to fall into place. What I’m making so far has the general appearance of a sock, but it’s hardly something I’d give to another person and expect her to wear it on her feet. Let’s consider this a test run. • Eustacia came home from Roma...

When I was a kid, I only dreamed of a trip to California. I sat in my little TV-room in northwest Indiana, watching old movies and imagining Hollywood—that, to me, was what California was all about, that and Disney Land, which I only knew from watching The Wonderful World of Disney every Sunday evening. Then, after Husband and I had been married for about a year, we went to California to visit his family—his parents were living in Pasadena at the time, and they hosted a long-overdue reunion. I was 23 or so, but in an instant, I turned 10 and could hardly contain myself for all of the excitement. I'm pretty sure I literally skipped when we went places because the circumstances seemed to warrant something more festive than mere walking. Since then, I've been to California so many times, I stopped counting, and most of the shine has worn off. But trips to San Francisco and to Berkeley to spend time with No. 1 remain a highlight. For New Years, we flew to San Francisco with the kid...

As I may have mentioned, my mother will be moving in with one of my sisters soon, and she'll be leaving behind a house full of stuff. She isn't in a position of having to clear out immediately because we have a plan—we'll leave her house largely intact, and my sister's church will rent it occasionally for missionaries who are home on leave. When missionary families come back to the States after living in another country, they need a place to live for a few months or even a year, and people rent them their furnished houses. Anyway, we're not scrambling to close the place down right away, but my mother is in the process of choosing what she'll take to fill the rooms at my sister's house. She'll have a bedroom and a sitting room where she can hide out and watch TV or just take a nap, if she wants to get away from the common rooms, and she wants to make those private spaces as much like home s she can. Here is today's column in Small Town Newspaper in r...

This stretch between Christmas and New Year's, and the few days on either side of the holidays, usually has my family traveling. This year was no exception. Last week, the four of us flew to Atlanta to spend a few days with my side of the clan—we met at my mother's house, my sisters and their families and my bunch. We sat around and told stories and laughed and had the big meal and laughed and opened presents and laughed. We like to laugh, and I'm not talking about muffled chuckles. Sometimes our cackling could startle a rabbit, whatever that means. This Christmas was our last in my mother's house because she's about to move in with my sister. If this house were our family homestead, where we had all grown up, that might have been sort of traumatic for us, but my parents moved into this house after we had all left. I have no childhood memories related to it, and I don't think I'll miss it, but my mother was troubled. Despite knowing next year will be differe...

Today is all about packing and sorting out the house because we're leaving for Georgia. We go there every year for Christmas because most of my family lives there. My sister from Chicago will join us as always so that all four of the Wells Girls (my sisters and me) will be together. That feat only happens at Christmas, and I look forward to it all year long. Eustacia has been home from school for about a week, and No. 1 just arrived last night. We opened our presents from each other right away, talked for a while and then called it a night. So, now we'll combine our family unit with the other family units down south. This gathering is a tradition that we've maintained since 1974, and it has evolved as people have joined the family through marriage or birth, but this year, I wonder if we're being stretched a little at the seams. One sister has been estranged from her husband for years, but he continues to share Christmas with us because he's like a brother, and he ha...

Last Thursday, the English class met for one last session before the holiday break. Between illness and work schedules and social agency programs, only four students could attend, as the teacher suspected, so we had a light schedule. Actually, we had no schedule at all except that I showed them how to make origami Christmas wreaths . We all sat around the table and folded paper and talked and talked. The teacher asked everyone what they wanted for Christmas, and that single question led to such a discussion, we all ended up a little teary eyed. Each one of the students talked about their families, including the ones left behind in Puerto Rico and Guatemala, and how all they want is for peace and security for the ones they love. Life is good, they said, and their children are happy, and they all have everything they need, but they miss family. One of them told us her mother died when she was a little girl, and when she was just 11, her father was murdered, and she went to work in a litt...

Husband and I went to a performance of Handel's Messiah this afternoon—excerpts from, of course. Not the entire thing. It's an annual event in Small Town, with my orchestra and a community choir performing. Most of the soloists were local as well, although there was one soloist I didn't recognize. Instead of holding it in the performing arts center, it's performed in a large church, which makes it a cozy concert. The Messiah isn't as big a draw as I thought it might be around here, so gathering in a church sanctuary is about right to handle the crowd. I went to this performance last year, and I remember being put off by the tenor, who sounded as if his shoes were pinching his tiny feet and his bow tie might have been a tad snug. But this year, the soloist who replaced him was anything but pinched. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders like the side of a barn so that when he stood up, his arms hung out away from his torso. He was the only man in the choir not wea...

We aren't really the party types—we only host one or two a year, and we only attend one or two a year at somebody else's house. But this week is a week for parties. The holidays do that to you, I suppose, make you gussy up and go out on a night you when you would normally sit at home with your feet up on the ottoman, a second glass of wine in hand and a cat on your lap. This week, Husband's company hosted its Christmas party, which is always held at a lodge outside of town. The place is a lovely setting, with the entrance lined with lights that contrast against the dark and snow-covered grounds, like you're driving into a winter wonderland somewhere in the wilderness. It's actually a camp ground, but you forget that in the dark and in December. We have the dinner catered by a local restaurant that makes great appetizers and desserts people actually fight over, in a nice way. With a blazing fire in the center of the room, everyone sits around with their friends from ...

I wrote about The Autobiography of Mark Twain in yesterday's edition of Small Town Newspaper. You can read it here , if you want. This is the photograph I had in mind while I read Clemens' dictations. He really was a masterful storyteller, even when rambling on about the poorly designed door knobs in Florence or in describing the Countess Massiglia, who he described as a "pestiferous character." About her, he said, “She is excitable, malicious, malignant, vengeful, unforgiving, selfish, stingy, avaricious, coarse, vulgar, profane, obscene, a furious blusterer on the outside and at heart a coward.” And I laughed out loud.

This past weekend was just dripping with Christmas. Eustacia came home Friday for her winter break from school, which started it all off. Then the orchestra rehearsed that evening for our Christmas concert—at some point, the new performing arts center will feel less new, I assume, but at the moment, it still seems brand spanking, and I get excited just walking through the door. Then we performed the concert Saturday evening after one more rehearsal. And Sunday was filled with tree decorating and cookie baking and movie watching. As far as horn playing goes, the Christmas concert is never very challenging. A childrens' chorus is the feature, and they belt out tunes they have rehearsed for weeks. One of the boys sang a solo like a cherub—Once in royal David's city stood a lowly cattle shed—and he created such a lovely, quiet setting with just his clear and simple voice. All the other kids stood on risers and fidgeted with their hands and tugged at their clothes. They picked their...

The English class for which I tutor will be having a Christmas party next week, and we always exchange gifts. The teachers and volunteers give handmade gifts, and the students pool their money and give us each something like chocolate or a mug. Last year, I think they gave me a mug filled with chocolate, actually, and it was very nice. The main teacher always makes miniature loaves of banana nut bread because she's good at that sort of thing, and last year I made cookies for everyone. But this year, I thought I'd try something different. My friend Kyle, who writes for a weekly paper and is a wealth of information about gardening and art and cooking, included a recipe for applesauce cinnamon ornaments in her article last week, so I thought I'd give those a shot. I've never made them before but have always wanted to know how. In this recipe , you mix applesauce, cinnamon and white glue, roll, cut out with cookie cutters and bake all day long at 175˚on a baking sheet spray...

You may be wondering how my kitchen appliance dilemma was resolved, or maybe not. Maybe you have more pressing things to think about other than whether or not I have a functioning stove. Well, I'll tell you about the repair process. We bought all of our appliances at Sears years ago, so when they all began to malfunction, I called Sears repair service for one huge repair visit. Of course, because we have different types of appliances needing help, Sears sent two different repairmen, which meant two different fees for the visit. You know, they charge you for coming to your house even if they don't fix anything. The first guy was here to fix the ice maker in the freezer. It works, actually, but the bin that collects the ice has been broken for a while. So, he ordered a replacement bin, which will be here later this week. About an hour later, the other repairman came. He listened to my imitation of the sound my washing machine makes and immediately declared it to be the bearings, ...

I'm a cook. I plan meals, and I prepare them from scratch, mostly, and I enjoy it as long as I get a break now and then. I use both ovens and all four burners and generally have a good time in the kitchen. But at the moment, I feel as though I'm all thumbs. Or maybe I have no thumbs at all. And I'm wearing mittens. Picture a standard poodle, or maybe a Labrador, standing on its hind legs in front of a stove wearing mittens, an apron and a blind fold. The problem is, my stove/oven is broken, and a repairman won't be here until tomorrow afternoon to fix it. It happened on Saturday evening when I came home from orchestra rehearsal. I knew I would only have a couple of hours between the rehearsal and concert to provide dinner and get dressed, so I had made a casserole using up leftover turkey ahead of time. I turned on the top oven, and within a minute or so, sparks were flying. A small flame was working its way around the heating element and spitting like a sparkler on the...

This photo is borrowed from a friend who was seated in the audience. You won't be able to spot me here—I'm perfectly framed by the top of the red drape but camouflaged by the base drum. I swear, that thing was so forceful at one point, my hair actually moved with the sound waves. Weird. My orchestra performed one hell of a concert last night. I was going to say "heck," but the situation calls for a full-blown cuss. We inaugurated the new performing arts center with the first concert of our season, and we did it the right way—very well. The hall seats 1,100, and all tickets sold out days before the performance. We opened with Beethoven's Consecration of the House, which the horn section transposed. It has never been made clear to me exactly why, but composers used to write horn parts in keys other than F on occasion, and now modern-day horn players have to transpose on the spot. If the note on the page is an F, for example, we actually play a lower C. If it's ...