Pickle Dish Update

One pickle slice finished -- only 8 million to go!!!

Church Ladies

We ate turkey with the Presbyterians in Walnut last night. It was Dave's first experience with a church supper and mine after a long hiatus. I'd forgotten how well church ladies cook.

It was the real thing -- real mashed potatoes, real green beans someone had canned, real pie crust -- even real plates. I missed out on that great pink salad that's mostly whipped cream and cherry pie filling with a few marshmallows mixed in, but I made up for it with the pistachio version that was all the rage in the 70s after Watergate.

We had a great time at our table comparing pie choices. I'm a sucker for coconut cream, and Dave always goes for blueberry. Nancy had a piece that I'm convinced had every fruit in it except kiwi. Apparently pie is a secret of longevity because a friend kept pointing out very spry people who were well into their nineties.

But, as always, the best part was laughing and talking with friends and playing "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" with the decorative gourds.

It was a rare occasion in the city to go anywhere and see the same person twice. Now when we go out, I'm beginning to see people I know -- my fellow quilt guild members and one of our favorite auctioneers, although I almost missed him because he was out of uniform. That's as comforting a feeling as knowing church ladies will always make cranberry salad to go with the stuffing.

Teddy Among the Auction Spoils

Bouncing Back Or Why I'll Wear a Rubber Suit if I Have To

Because my mom was my teacher for both kindergarten and first grade, she literally taught me to read. Which means, she can't give me grief for reading books at ballgames and embarrassing my sisters -- she's the one who started it.

She figured up one time -- in her forty-some years of teaching, she taught 1000 kids to read. That's a far better stat than "yards after catch" or "runs batted in". How amazing to be responsible for so much literacy in the world.

She's taken some falls in recent years. In fact, I've threatened to make her a rubber suit so if she falls again, she'll bounce back. But she does that anyway -- she bounces back. I went with her yesterday to her physical therapy appointment. She's struggles with movement I take for granted -- bending a knee or lifting a leg straight up, even walking backwards, but she never complains. When the therapist asked her to do something, she just said, "OK," and did it as best she could. That has to be refreshing for the therapist -- I'm thinking of myself as a potential whiner in the same situation.

It's also true, as one of my sisters pointed out, that Mom also wants to prove she can do it, which actually consoles me considerably because I see myself more and more in her -- the Ham family stubbornness (I get it from the Keenans too.), the smart aleckness (that might be all Mom), and the determination to get the hell out of a hospital bed and stay independent.

It struck me during this last stay in the hospital how much she's still teaching me -- how she's teaching me to always bounce back.

The Joy of Dirt

Under the category of Things That Would Never Have Happened in Ann Arbor, we have a load of dirt in our back yard ready to use next spring for a strawberry bed and hosta beds around the tree trunks.

It's all thanks to our neighbor, Ron, who knew we were planning more gardens and who pulled in our driveway yesterday to let me know that the county was digging out ditches a mile or so from us. Apparently, the county road crew is happy to recycle the dirt if you just ask, so Dave walked down and visited with the guy on the back hoe and voila -- we have dirt.

Have I mentioned lately that I'm really happy to be back in Iowa where even the people who work the window at McDonalds are friendly?!

Sold on Auctions

For a paltry amount of cash, I came home from an auction yesterday with two boxes of doilies, a box of aprons, a canner, a canister coffee pot, and a 1950s coffee carafe. I love a good treasure hunt. It's even better when the money involved registers in the "pittance" category as opposed to the "Geez, how am I going to make the car payment?"

You never know what you'll find because, of course, you can't tell from the sale bill. "Antique oak table" can translate visually into "table someone knocked together out of oak forty years ago and let sit around in the damp basement until we pulled it out for the auction and evicted the spider colony." You have to look underneath the tables, test the chairs for stability, dig through boxes, unfold the quilts, and sniff the linens. But therein lies the excitement.

I have come home with fuzzy black buttons I thought would make great applique spiders, table linens still in the dry cleaning bag with the bill attached, a cloth napkin from TWA, grape trivets made by crocheting purple variegated thread over bottle caps. Of course, I've also come home with a crocheted parrot pot holder, plastic doilies that had melted onto a vinyl tablecloth, and some really smelly old lace. Not only is it a treasure hunt -- it's a crap shoot.

Some -- I'm thinking of my oldest sister here -- might ask why I want all this "treasure". (Actually, Lynn would use a different word.) Lots of different reasons. Holding onto the crafts of the past is one. I can't make doilies or lace -- and will never try again after a rather horrific tatting incident -- so I can appreciate the work and patience that created them. I know how much time goes into handquilting, and gingham apron fabric is getting harder and harder to find.

I am also fascinated by the possibilities -- a retro party with nut cups served on luncheon plates, a backyard barbecue with long tables covered in all the white cloths I bought for $5, hanging my small quilts with the wooden pants hangers that came from the Madsen Bros. of Walnut and Minden.

Auctions, at the very least, are recycling occasions, and at the most are events of transition -- death or moves to assisted living, usually. This is someone's life splayed out on tables and lowboys for people to pick through, assess, and either dismiss or covet. It's Christmas, Mother's Day, years of collecting. These things that we auction-goers casually brush past meant something once; they possessed importance, conjured memory.

And so, having brought my trove home, I feel a responsibility to surround it with new memories, imbue it with new worth, integrate it into my history. In short, treasure it.

Pearl

Pearl is hanging out on the porch again. Pearl, the riddle. Pearl, who desperately wants to be petted, but who always seems to remember he's supposed to be scared and runs away when I get to within three feet of him.

He's a large, white and fluffy, one of the cats we inherited when we bought the place and who we named before we got close enough to determine his gender. He meows constantly to draw attention to himself; he flomps on his back submissively -- all from a safe distance. He definitely wants us to notice him but can't commit.

Pearl makes me ponder the inequity of the fates of cats. Miss Kitty was immediately affectionate. In fact, the first night we sat on the porch, she came running up and dropped a mouse in Dave's lap. Arnold, the tuxedo Teddy mimic, took a few days and then figured out that humans sitting outside drinking coffee meant head scritching and tail tickling. And then there's Teddy who has two rational adults jumping up to let him in every time he jumps up in the window, a full food dish and the best chair in the house to sleep in.

We never knew any of our cats as kittens. We have no idea what happened to them to form their quirks and personalities. Teddy is aloof, even for a cat, as if he can't afford to get too attached in case we abandon him. But Pearl breaks my heart. How much terror and betrayal has Pearl survived?

I have never understood the attitude of disposable cats. Even our farm cats had names and plenty to eat. Is it because cats don't always come when they're called? Because they purr like race cars and then turn around and bite? Because they don't fawn like dogs? I like dogs, but if I'm honest, I've always preferred the stance of cats -- "You want to pet me? You come over here." Cats have self-esteem, poise, balance. Cats have control over their emotions. They're affectionate, but it's on their terms.

I believe Pearl will eventually permit me inside his perimeter. We've gone from a half-acre barrier down to three feet. I only hope I'm worthy of the trust.