Every winter, when our local family tends to hibernate like black bears; we emerge from spring shaking loose the sleep and extra pounds and wonder where the time went. To combat that boring patch of time we call January and February, we decided to gather and call it “I Remember Grandma and Grandpa Night”

Now, to be honest, this was something that my sister Audrey and my Aunt Ursie (I know, don’t you love the names in my family?) and I would gather on an obscure evening (hot, cold or in between) and wear something of Grandma’s, drink instant iced tea from these ridiculous aluminum bar glasses she had, eat braunschweiger on rye or pumpernickel (liver sausage to you lay people) and pop in “The Sound of Music.” Or if we were lucky, scan the odd channels on cable for an old (really old) episode of “‘The Lawrence Welk Show.” I can still hear Grandma ‘sigh’ as that blond god (Bobby? or Tommy?) would appear each week and smile, complete with dimples and twinkle, for the camera and begin to warble. Grandma would say in her still heavy German accent, “Och, vhat a bee-u-tee-full voice he hast.”

Right, Grandma! We got our number even back then. My aunts would twitter (the old term, not the new) behind their hands; while my dad and uncles would shift uncomfortably in their seats at the bar my Grandpa built in the basement. My Grandpa was usually obvious to her sighs (like most husbands, I think) and continued to serve shots of Courvoisier from its glorious and infamous canon. He was simply content to have his family around him every Sunday. He also sang every song during Lawrence Welk – much to Grandma’s dismay. In truth, they both had beautiful voices and sang in the church choirs, or should have.

Both Grandparents had quite a story to tell and we were fortunate enough to get that story on audio tape (all credit to Uncle Jack and Aunt Rose) fleeing Germany and leaving their families behind. While Grandpa’s family always saw life with laughter and took time to enjoy life, Grandma’s father was a taskmaster being a principal in a school. He made his children rise while it was still dark and light fires in the classrooms, and then clean is what she described as constantly. Because if they weren’t studying; they were cleaning or doing work of some kind. There was no leisure time, no hiking, no laughter.

Something happened when Grandpa retired – semi-retired – because he died at work in the middle of a busy day. Just as he’d like to go, I’d like to think. No long lingering illness for him. Hale and hearty George, with a smile on his face.

Upon retirement Grandpa pursued his new found passion for fishing which I suspect my Uncle Larry ignited within him. Grandma must have decided she would join him, for soon she cast off her awkward loafers and donned the classic white Keds. She kept her round lilac sunglasses from the sixties however.

Now, as my siblings and cousins read this, they are probably snickering or howling with laughter right now. Because my grandmother made her own clothes – house dresses, in reality – the same pattern – but in a variety of the cheapest, ugliest material the sixties, seventies and eighties could produce. If it had an off shade of orange or puce, Grandma was all over that fabric. If the purple looked more like rancid raspberries than loving violets, she carried that bolt of fabric to the cutting counter, adding up her savings in her head before you could move the wheel in your shopping cart to the next aisle.

So switching to the white Keds was a safe fashion choice, no doubt.

She went through more metamorphosis as time went on. She ate French fries – proclaiming them “absolute heaven!” She was a marvel.

As she aged and she needed a companion, we hired a stream of Polish caretakers. I’m not sure how well that was working, but the stories only improved Grandma’s street cred.

Grandma’s Polish was non-existent and Julia’s (the first caretaker) English was just a bit better than that. When the washing machine suddenly stopped working, Julia came upstairs from the basement babbling in Polish about it, my Grandmother took that to mean there was a man in the basement. Instead of calling the police right then and there, she waited an hour for the neighbor’s daughter to stop by her mother’s and call out to her announcing to the whole neighborhood there was a man in the basement. Betty, the neighbor’s daughter, showing extreme intelligence, said, “Get the hell out of there!” The police were called (not sure who called – that part of the story is unclear) and when the policeman arrived, Julia must have followed him downstairs, babbled to him in Polish about the washing machine. He most likely did his best nodding, most concerned look at this point; probably pushed a button and the washing machine sparked to life.

No man was ever found in the basement.

Another Polish woman made pierogies and my Grandma invited my sister Audrey over for lunch. Audrey thought they tasted a little funny, but ate them anyway. She asked Julia #2 what she used to cook the pieogies with, Julia #2, whose English was better, pulled out a bottle from the pantry, clearly labeled, Mineral Oil.

Which reminds me of when and why we decided she was in need of help around the house.

When I was seven or eight months pregnant with my son, I came over to have lunch with Grandma. She asked me to go downstairs into another pantry and bring up a can of fruit cocktail (oh yum! Can you hear the sarcasm?). Well, providence shined down upon me that day because when I got to the pantry, half a dozen cans were bulging. Bulging. Now, in my lifetime, being raised in a house of seven kids, never did we ever have a can bulging. Even now, as an empty nester, have I had a can that bulged in my pantry. I knew then we needed to address her medicine cabinets. God only knew what lay hidden there.

How this bottle of mineral oil was hiding in the kitchen pantry will forever remain a mystery.

There are more Grandma stories, but I will tell them to you tomorrow….

In an earlier post, I lamented about an online quiz I took where the result ended in the quiz saying I was 63 when I’m CLEARLY 50…something.

Yesterday, the online quiz asked if they could tell which state I lived in within 11 questions. The results were staggering for this Midwest girl. Er, woman.

Florida.

Now, did they say Florida because they think I’m 63 and so I moved there? Or because I identified the picture of small red crustaceans in a bucket as crawfish – not crayfish, or crawdads.

I guess I’ll never know.

I’ll stay here in Illinois where there are four seasons – even when May shows up in February for a few days. Here, I’m closer to my dad, stepmom and most of my siblings. Illinois is also centrally located to Denver, Louisville, Baltimore and San Antonio (and Berkley is just so far away).

For now Florida is safe.

I have a colleague, or associate I will call her, who gives presentations at library conferences on the elusive non-card holder.

I’d like to add to her portfolio. The elusive teen writer.

I know they are out there. I was one of them; and in doing the informal research for this project of creating a teen writers guild at the Zion Library, I learned a few things.

1. Zion had one in position all along but little or no participation;
2. From the websites of neighboring libraries in the county, I couldn’t find any other groups like that; and…
3. I wish had a support group like that when I that age.

In fact, post graduation, I had the opportunity gifted to me by one of my former English teachers. And even though I was honored at the time, I kick myself for not taking those sessions with her and her writers group more seriously.

I was eighteen, working full time and having fun. So in retrospect, I wasn’t much more different than these teens are today.

But I never underestimate the power of peer pressure. If a small nucleus of writing adolescents were to gather once or twice a month and share critiques, ideas and techniques, they might not drop the craft so completely like myself. There’s nothing worse than picking it up again thirty years later when you’re faced with an empty nest and more time on your hands.

But the advantage of writing at this time of my life is that I have opportunities to write outside fiction that I never thought would present themselves before in my lifetime. And with each of these challenges, I’m finding the wheels are turning; my critics are there to help me stretch and grow when the piece is not quite there yet.

I guess I just don’t want these chances for kids to pass them by, for elusive teen to come in from the cold and find a writing home here.

Contact Elise Martinez at the Zion Library (check the website).

A few weeks ago I had an idea that woke me up at 3:27 a.m. (see previous blogs). I mulled the idea over, looked into possibilities and now I’m no longer jumping off the cliff…

…I’m sitting on the edge of the pool watching the water do its thing. And I’m mildly frustrated by it.

Here’s the idea: expand the writers group we have in Zion to teens. Give them ownership of one in partnership with the library.

Here’s what I found out:  1) the library already had a teen writers group but maybe one person would show up if at all, 2) Libraries in the area do not have an active teen writing group, and 3) when you reach out to teachers, you get no response.

No so with the library. The library is trying to get the teens in. It just hasn’t found what works, yet.

There are many issues with teenagers. Their time with school assignments, with sports and friends can cut into any free time for extras like this type of group.

But I have to believe (in my Pollyanna existence) there MUST be at least three or four teens out there who are writing stories or songs, poems or even a novel and might like some guidance.

If you’re out there – I’d like to tell I know how scary it is to share your work to get feedback. You already get from your creative writing teacher, but come out of your comfort zone just a bit more and let us hear your powerful words too. Once you do it, you’ll find it freeing, empowering and there will be challenges. That’s how you develop and deepen the craft.

Let us help you.

The Zion Benton Writers Group meets the first and third Saturday of the month at the Zion  library’s The Hive – creativity central. What you can expect to find is people who are ready to listen and share ideas of what worked and what didn’t. We share writing resources and opportunities to learn.

You can bring anything. We do not judge.

Last night I was reminded again of how blessed I am with the abundance of family – blended, of course.

This family member I stole from sister.

My nephew Steven is actually my sister Audrey’s nephew. But she’s almost 2000 miles away, so I claimed him and he’s MINE.

Steven also happens to make my favorite drink for me.

Did I mention Steven is a bartender? Truly, this is my sister’s loss; my gain.

Last night Steven made me a Woo-hoo. It’s a fave. If you don’t know it, look it up. Since I experienced it in Dublin, Ireland with my mother and two of my other sisters, Steven has placed it on file at the Q. I’m protecting my watering hole by not giving you the full name so all you crazies out there don’t storm the place and ruin it for me. (Call me though, and I’ll meet you there.)

It was delicious! And even better, when he makes it, there’s usually a little bit left over, and when I turned around after a few sips – Presto! Change-o! more of that beautiful cold pink liquid magically appeared in my glass!

Besides the magic that Steven performs everyday for everyone – not just me, he’s caring, and funny and can dish it out to my husband – and myself. When I come into the Q, Steven looks after me.

I love that boy.

Yesterday I took a quiz online (another confession – a minor addiction) that boastfully asked, “Can we guess your age by your general knowledge?”

At the end of the quiz, about twenty questions (I’m too traumatized to remember the exact number now) I was told: “You are a loving and confident 63 years old!”

Now, (cough, cough) I’m not even close to 63. I happen to be 5o… something. So, the question I am left asking myself is: How am I supposed to feel about this? Is it my fault that trivia (another minor addiction) is stored up in my brain pushing out important appointments and birthdays?

I asked my all knowing female half of my boss team and she said I should look at the fact that I’m considered smarter than my years. Okay, I can reluctantly accept that. And if you look at the description of “me”, I’m a loving person – very true. Confident? I’m still working on that. But we come back to that dreadful number.

That number is two years away from collecting Social Security – or my steadfast thinking of it. It’s time when the joints are going to get ‘fussier’ than they are now. In fact, that hip still isn’t happy with all the dancing I put it through in October. What’s so great about being 63? And you don’t even want to get me started on the cost of health insurance at THIS age, let alone THAT one!

I had almost forgotten all about it on the way home because I immersed myself in my audiobook (yeah, @Sebastian York). Until I got home last night and mentioned it to my husband.

To those of you who haven’t met him or know our situation, he is “the older man”. So when he suggested maybe he take the quiz, my heart raced and my pulse quickened for all the non-romantic reasons on Valentine’s Day – the last thing I need is for him to get the same answers (I was 100% correct, so I know he would be, too).

I don’t need a seventy-something crowing around the house that he’s a loving and confident 63 years old!

I think the dog may take umbrage with that. She knows exactly how old he is, too.

She’d have to stand in line.

I just returned from a wonderful afternoon at my brother and sister-in-law’s celebrating my Godson’s (gasp!) 15th birthday.

Of course, the first thing that always comes out my mouth is “Where did the time go?”

He was just a baby. Just yesterday.

Of course, I said that about my son and that was twenty-seven years ago.

But what’s always grand about these gatherings, is getting together with my sister-in-law’s family. They are so much fun and fit in well with our nutty group. After all, our family motto is “We put the FUN in dysfunctional.”

This time we missed my father and stepmother. My father, 80 years young, found traveling today difficult and we were without the pleasure of their company. It was quieter, but they were not forgotten. It just reminded us that my sister-in-law’s family no longer has either of their parents, and so we were all riding without our folks sitting shotgun tonight. And trust me, if you ever had her mother’s pina colada’s you’d be missing her parents too! Such lovely people!

The truth of the matter is that my family has been blending strays and in-laws into it for decades.

When my parents divorced, each remarried and the blending occurred instantly with stepparents and stepbrothers. Time went by and my half sisters appeared on the scene. As they grew up and married, more fell into the fold. All of these talented and funny people make this family the glorious patchwork quilt we are today. I wouldn’t trade any of them.

Just as special are the strays who have joined us along the way. Our Southern Son “adopted” into our family is an example. He spends Christmas at our house and we wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s enriched our lives and reminds us to spread our arms a little wider.

And really, isn’t there always room for one or two more?

The past few days have been filled with addiction. An obsession so strong I found myself staying up late and getting up early. I even found myself going to sleep with someone else’s characters in my head rather than my own.

I read a book from cover to cover in three days. I haven’t done that since vacation in June.

It’s usually a half hour here, twenty minutes there and ‘presto change-o’, two weeks later, I’ve read a book. Reading is more sporadic than writing these days. Especially when working full time.

My bigger concern was that it’s been a long time since I’ve listened to a book. We recently bought a new car with the syncing tech that I barely begin to understand which means my husband has NO comprehension whatsoever.

I miss listening to a book. If you’ve never done it, I find there’s nothing like being cocooned in the voice of a great narrator as the author’s words dance in your head to form the crystal clear picture he or she meant for you to see.  For me it might be Rosalind Landor reading Mary Balogh or the sexy voice of Sebastian York reading…the telephone book. Seriously, that man has read so many contemporary romance novels I’ve listened to, I can tell you the authors, but the titles…when you hear his voice, who cares!

But that being said, there are books where the narrator has killed the book – and not in a good way. Some narrators like Rosalind can do a great job of voices of the opposite sex; others, not so much. And some voices just grate on you, and not matter how beautiful the words, the voice ruins it. I cite the narrator in the The Borrower by Rebecca Makkai.

So, my goal today, besides working closer to the end of my first draft, is to listen to an audio book again today. I’ll commit to spending five minutes in the morning figuring out my phone audio apps synced with the car. Today I being listening again.

Now onto the next book to read…and finish that first draft…and finish my revisions.

What makes me see things with the glass half full? Invisible rose colored glasses? Or my Pollyanna existence?

Is it that I still believe I can make all those blue skies appear on cloudy days just by being cheerful like Hayley Mills? Can I hold own against people like her curmudgeon of an Aunt? When in truth, if I had to think deep enough about Disney glazing over life for kids, the real reason Jane Wyman (the Aunt) in Pollyanna  was so crabby was still had her V card!! You’d be miserable too if you were a spinster raising that endless jabbering of sunshine and suddenly handsome Richard Egan comes back into the picture proclaiming he never stopped loving that sourpuss.

My Pollyanna life is different – I think. I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t think more positively like me. Or why they don’t put more effort into life. For instance:

I am working with a few people on a fundraiser. Now, first of all, the amount of money we need to raise boggles my mind in the first place, but we’ll move past that. Second, I’m surprised for an organization that’s as old as this one is, there isn’t a binder or master calendar to guide the committees. It would assist the newbies when the oldies move on and don’t make themselves available to help.

I’m full of great ideas. I could go on all day…..

But circling back to my inner Hayley Mills. How did she do it? When you get the Debbie Downers bursting your bubble, complaining about ticket prices and lack of information that’s been out and announced for the last three weeks, how do you find the Pollyanna inside you?

My first place to look would be inside a glass of wine. Don’t judge me – it’s Friday night! The next place will be to escape inside a book for an hour or so. Combined with wine sounds like a win-win to me.

Then everything will look so much better in the morning.The sun will be shining – I hope.

This morning I got a call from a wonderful man thanking me for his birthday card and sign. He said he didn’t deserve anything like that. I told him we all do, and when we all come together, we make each other shine.

When I hung up, I realized how true that was and how Pollyanna that sounded. Maybe I should have my rose colored glasses adjusted.

After this glass of wine.

So I went to get my lunch together this morning – anticipating the delectable stuffed manicotti leftovers that would overwhelm the office and in turn make me the envy of all present as the aromas filled the space. Just as my lunchtime daydream was coming with full anticipatory sensory, it burst. (I was about to say busted – but my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Shilkis would probably have a stroke if she were alive)

It burst because I lacked something.

I lacked the proper lid or a container that matched a lid I held in my hand.

How did that happened?

It’s like folding laundry and coming up one sock short. Where did it go? The inner workings of the dryer? Can that Maytag Repairman on television tell me? He seems omnipresent, right? He should have the answer – unless he’s really a bald-headed snake oil salesman behind a curtain.

Back to my plastics container dilemma: where did these pieces disappear to? The dishwasher? Do the dryer and the dishwasher belonged to a secret society of household appliances and must produce sacrifices to their gods? A plastic lid here, a cotton sock there. “She won’t miss this teaspoon,” or “Nobody uses monogrammed hankies anymore” is what the appliances must say to themselves.

Or is my husband, the science nerd elbow deep in a nefarious experiment involving my plastic container lids tucked away in his corner of the basement?

So what does the refrigerator say?  Did it give up to the appliance gods the last of the chocolate pudding I looking for at eleven o’clock? Knowing the fridge, she probably declared in a snarky tone, “that Bitch needs to work out, not eat this pudding! I’m doing her a favor!”

Well, that hurts – she’s built like fridge. Has she looked at herself lately too?

See what happens when you give them computers chips for brains?

I didn’t know I would miss an inanimate object like a plastic lid until now. Does that put me in the pathetic column?