Peanut Butter Fishes
There is nothing quite like the smell of toast on a chilly morning. I like it better than raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. It makes me think of peanut butter fishes.
Have you ever had peanut butter fishes?
My Grampap Daugherty made them best. I believe it was his own recipe. And, by recipe, I mean something he thought up on the spur of the moment one morning long, long ago.
In the ’60s, more so than now, meals were handled almost exclusively by the womenfolk and mealtime was a structured thing: A time to behave, a time to eat your vegetables and clear your plate, a time to mind your manners, a time when it might be your turn to stop playing and come set the table.
But, sometimes, Grampap made breakfast.
It is an inexplicable, wonderful bit of magic how some memories can pop out clear and whole. My desk feels like a table cloth, and I am small and young. I can hear my brother and sister and I being rowdy and greedy and silly. I can hear my grandfather’s chuckle. I smell toast. Grampap is making us peanut butter fishes. And we are gobbling them up.
RECIPE FOR PEANUT BUTTER FISHES
Make toast. Spread peanut butter on toast. Cut once horizontally and multiple times vertically. 
We’d yell for more. And he’d make more. I think he would have made peanut butter fishes for us all day long.
It wasn’t that we loved toast. Or fish. And I seriously doubt that peanut butter tastes good on any sort of fish except the imaginary ones. The wonderful thing about peanut butter fishes was the novelty of having our grandfather do the cooking. It was a break from the rules, a diversion from the norm. It was silly and fun and joyful and a thing we can only fully understand in retrospect: those glimpses of grown-ups acting like kids.
Being a grown-up isn’t easy. Sure you choose your own bed time and you can drive a car and you can kiss a boy without getting into great big trouble with the kindergarten teacher. But you have to pay taxes and buy groceries and clean an entire house. You don’t get three months off every summer. There is no Santa. The homework is a lot more complicated. Your allowance is, relatively, smaller. Your stresses are bigger. You have to cut grass and rake leaves and shovel snow. And you still have to get a bath and brush your teeth every day.
With all of that going on, some days, it can be hard to get out of bed. Some days, you wake up feeling tired and defeated and overwhelmed by grown-up life. And you just know it’s going to be a bad day.
That’s when I make peanut butter fishes for breakfast.
I can hear my Grampap chuckle. And I remember not to take it all too seriously. I smell toast. And I know everything is going to be okay.
Name 10 Books
Bless me father, for I have coveted books. And I am likely to continue to do so.
I love books. I love to read books. Sometimes I hug books. I have a fair number of books. I want more books.
You may look at my books. I may even let you touch my books. You may not borrow my books.
In short, I love books more than I hate chain letters. So having been tagged via facebook to name 10 books that stayed with me, I wanted to do it. Although, as you will see, I failed miserably at the game’s rule to “not give it much thought.”
Asking me to name books is like asking a kid in a candy store to name candy. And, like M&Ms and my hips, more than 10 have stayed with me.
I did not begin reading with Dick and Jane. I began reading with Al and Kay. Snuggled on the couch or tucked in bed, being read to is one of my very earliest memories, binding forever the concepts of love and comfort to bits of paper and board.
(i.e., Dammit, I could pick 10 books that have stayed with me since before I could even read them.)
When I was seven years old, doctors still made house calls, and I was diagnosed as “reading too much.” The word dismay was not yet in my vocabulary, but I felt its meaning. I also felt it ease when Mom and the doctor left the room without noticing the book on my nightstand.
I got better. But I was not cured.
A few years later, I had a friend over for a play date. When she asked me what we should do, I suggested “reading.”
Reading is a most excellent past time. But it is important to also interact with real people. Else, you might go through life saying dis-heave’ld when you mean to say disheveled.
Aside from vocabulary, books will expand your soul. Books can make you laugh out loud. Books can make you sigh. Books will ping your heart with truth. Books are life preservers. The good books I have read, as much as my Daugherty hair and my Schmidt nose, are a part of who I am.
I have often thought it would be a great idea to get a book journal and keep track of what I’ve read, to capture where these bits and pieces of me came from.
I wish I’d done it long ago. But I finally ordered one from amazon.com — at 2 a.m. last night when my list of 10 books was stuck firmly at 47 and I gave up for the night.
So, finally, agonizingly, and with a ridiculous amount of self-inflicted, painstaking consideration, here is my list of 10 books that have stayed with me.
The Mystery at the Lilac Inn, Carolyn Keene
A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin
Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
Illusions, Richard Bach
Touch Not the Cat, Mary Stewart
Coyote Blue, Christopher Moore
Herb & Lorna, Eric Kraft
Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
I tag Tracy D., Valerie G., and Dan T. Good luck.
It Is Still A Beautiful World
I have been trying to put my thoughts into words for a blog post tomorrow — which then became today as I crested 8 hours of writing and rewriting in a day when I had way too many other, more urgent things to do. And, just as I thought I was getting close to what I wanted to say, I realized that Max Ehrmann had already said it far better than I ever could. So, as we each face this day, I share his words instead of my own.
Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Go Ahead, Make Fun of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
Some people sniff out enthusiasm like a dog looking for a place to poop. You knew it was only a matter of time until the Negative Nancies started in on the Ice Bucket Challenge for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.
Well, go ahead and make fun of me. I’m not embarrassed that I did the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Amazingly, I’m not even embarrassed that I displayed my fat body sopping wet on facebook.
I was challenged by a good friend, so there was peer pressure. I am also a silly-leaning human who has worked in both marketing and fund-raising, so the campaign itself caught my interest.
But the reason I made extra ice and charged up my video camera last week was for my Uncle Tom.
He was a wonderful human being. He was kind, funny, generous, and very active. One of those people who always had something going on, places to go, things to do, pranks to set up. He was my Dad’s best friend. He was my cousins’ loving father. He was one of the good guys.
I should note that the doctors never specifically diagnosed what he was going through. The only explanation they were ever able to give was that it was “like ALS.” And, like ALS, the connections from brain to spine to muscles were being disconnected one by one. Click, your feet don’t work. Click, your eyelids won’t stay open even when you’re awake. Click, you’re not allowed to drive anymore. Click, people can’t understand what you’re trying to say. Click, you can’t climb stairs. Click, you’re not allowed to live in your home anymore. Click, you can no longer swallow food. Click. You were gone much too soon.
I did the challenge for a guy who, even in his toughest moments, would have gotten a good laugh from seeing people pour a bucket of ice water over their heads. He would have liked the creativity. He would have understood the math of how word spread. He would have gotten a kick out of the fact that silliness can be a power for good.
I did the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Feel free to make fun of me. Make fun of everyone who took a moment out of their day to honor a friend or help raise funds. Go ahead, because even your sarcasm will help raise awareness.
Links:
To donate: http://www.alsa.org/donate
Here’s a great blog post about the challenge: What an ALS Family Really Thinks about the Ice Bucket Challenge
The best challenge video I’ve seen: Bill Rudy
Have a Nice Day
Used to be, you needed something, you went to a human being. Bank teller, gas station attendant, store clerk. The list of jobs that have dwindled or disappeared because of technological improvements is long and getting longer.
Let me say it up front: I’m not against technology. I love some bits of it. For one example, I think the option to renew vehicle registration online is a modern-day miracle. (I have this friend; she’s a bit of a procrastinator.)
I really do appreciate many aspects of speed, convenience, and independence that have come into being because of technology. But it has begun: Companies are no longer offering convenience as a competitive differentiator; they are selling it. The easy-breezy options we have grown accustomed to are now a potential trap.
Gas pumps are up-selling — Would you like a car wash? — and researching — What is your ZIP code? Some pumps are now programmed to ask so many dang questions, it’s easier to get away from a Jehovah’s Witness.
Banking machine charges keep going up, and they too are being programmed for sales — Are you interested in a loan? (How long did you stand there waiting, and how many people were behind you in line, the first time a bank inserted an advertisement on its ATM?)
What do we actually gain by ringing up our own groceries? Especially when, nine times out of ten, the person who used to do that job is forced to stand there and watch you fumble about while politely asking if you’d like any help doing his/her job.
Today, I was trying to order some concert tickets on a website. There was a problem, so I ended up calling and getting the tickets by phone. Nice surprise: It was cheaper by $6/ticket because there was no processing fee.
So . . . getting rid of human beings doesn’t increase profits enough? Now, you want to charge a fee for an interaction with something incapable of problem-solving? And, so . . . if not for there being a processing glitch, I would never have known I could avoid the processing fee?
Boing!
Let me say it again near the end: I’m not against technology. I could hardly write a blog without it. And I’m not suggesting it would be better to be some sort of crazy hermit (even if there are days when I think I’d be really good at that). But perhaps we should do a little something to stem the tide?
How about this: How about, once a week, skip the touch pad and do something the human-being way. See what happens. Maybe you’ll save some money. Maybe you’ll save some time. Maybe you’ll hear a joke or meet someone interesting. Maybe you’ll get a free mint.
Give it a try. Maybe you’ll have a nice day.
Kiss Me, Baby!
Every August, from when I was 6 months old until I was 18, my family and my cousins’ family rented a cottage together at a place called Sandy Lake. It would take a gazillion hours to tell you all about it, longer still for me to stop talking. But, in honor of the time of year, let me share a glimpse.
One day during our 1975 vacation, my Dad went in to shave. When he was all lathered up, he dashed out into the cottage and yelled, “Kiss me, baby!” The rest, I think you can figure out for yourself.
Here’s to surprises and revenge and tradition. Here’s to the funniest people I know. And, here’s to Sandy Lake, still my favorite place on Earth.
Note: Yes, it was the first place I ever wore a life preserver, and, yes, it’s the inspiration for this blog.
Happy Birthday America
Soon as I got up today, I went out on the side porch to hang the flag. Realized that the once-a-puppy dogwood tree growing next to the porch had grown so much that the flag would drape over the leaves and branches.
Went down to the garage and got clippers. Hacked away for a while and realized that, without a chain saw, I probably wasn’t going to be able to make enough room for the flag to fly properly.
Went down to the garage and got my sonic screw driver. Unscrewed the screws that hold the brace to the porch railing and moved the brace a foot or so to the right. Attempted to reattached the screws.
Went down the porch stairs to retrieve the brace and screw; then, went down to the garage to get a hammer and nail to make starter holes. Voila! Two of three screws are back in perfectly snug and the third is halfway in and stripped. But it holds the flag just fine.
Might seem like a lot of effort . . . but, of course, relatively, that was nothing — less than nothing — less than 1/1,000,000th of nothing — compared to the brilliant and brave who gave us our land of the free and those who have kept it that way for more than two centuries. To the U.S. soldier who sent me this flag and all our founding father and military life preservers, I say:
I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which it stands,
one nation, under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
Happy Birthday America.
Good-night, Flo McCluskey
“Blink the lights when you get there.”
That’s what I put on the card. For the flowers. For the funeral home. For my friend Florence (Flo), who passed away last week.
She used to stand at her door to watch me home safe, until I blinked my porch lights. This was not so much a safety precaution as a gesture of friendship, an affectionate tradition, one last good-night. I only had to cross the street.
It was of course the same street that Flo crossed — arm in arm with her husband Win — to welcome me to the neighborhood 16 years, 10 months, and 1 day ago.
Despite a 40-year difference in our ages (and the loudness and lateness of my move-in party the night before), they seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. And, it is not sugar-coated hindsight to tell you, I adored them immediately.
It’s rare, but liking some people is like that: Easy and quick. And, rarer still, unchanging. I crossed that street many times over the years, to chat, to give out Halloween candy, to enjoy a home-cooked meal or a glass of lemonade. I crossed that street to borrow a cup of sugar. (I swear it’s true.) I crossed that street to borrow a magic snow shovel. (I swear that’s true, too.)
When I crossed that street, more often than not, I came home with more than I’d arrived with, be it fresh-picked tomatoes, a cute scented candle, or a new wish to have such a bright mind, such mischievous eyes, such a smile, such a positive attitude — or such a well-kept house! — when I am in my 90s.
I crossed that street to say good-bye to Win before he passed, four years ago. And I crossed that street on Monday, after Flo’s funeral, to spend time with her family.
For the past few nights, as I’ve turned out the lights and walked through my house on the way to bed, I’ve lingered a moment at my dining room window (half hopeful, half cynical, and wholly embarrassed to admit it) to see if any lights blinked on and off across the street.
No. They didn’t.
Last night again, I was standing at the window. It was midnight. There were no blinking lights inside the house across the street.
But, above that house? Well.
I saw a flash. And another. And another. It took me a moment to realize I was seeing lightning from a distant storm.
There wasn’t a sound. No thunder, no rain, no wind. The lightning wasn’t in jagged streaks and electric, sparking forks. It was within the clouds, lighting things up from the inside out.
This was not a typical storm. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like fluffy, monotone fireworks. Like fireflies in a jar of cotton balls. Like flickering streetlamps lost in a swirling fog. Like flash bulbs going off underwater, snapping black and white photos of a wild and fantastical sea. Bright-as-day clouds billowing behind pitch-black silhouetted clouds. Appearing. Disappearing. Reappearing. On and off, again and again. And, just when you’d think it was over, again and again and again.
I stood there for an hour — jaw-dropped, teary-eyed, goofy-grinned, and goose-bumped.
This was not lightning striking. This was lightning laughing. This was lightning dancing. This was a midnight party.
This was a celebration in the heavens.
Good-night, Flo. And thanks for everything.
I Got a Charge Out of It
When iPods first came out, I did want one. However, as the current or former owner of two portable record players, three transistor radios, approximately seven different clock radios, two boom boxes, a stereo (with tuner, turntable, cassette player, CD player, then dual cassette player, then five-disc CD player), a Walkman, three different portable cassette players, a portable CD player, a CD player-radio that hangs on the wall, a TV cable package with stations that play uninterrupted music, and two computers able to operate iTunes — not to mention a piano, a harmonica, an accordion, and a decent singing voice — I wasn’t exactly camping out or breaking open the piggy bank to be among the first to own one.
In fact, I only got an iPod Shuffle about five years ago. Thanks to Apple’s annoying habit of updating iTunes so often that sorting out which computers had which music and which version to sync with, it was actually 2013 before I had an iPod — with music on it.
I used it exactly once. And forgot to turn it off.
So, the next time I went to use it, a couple of months back, it would not play. I read the instruction booklet and realized I needed to charge it using the USB cable that it came with. Hmmm. I checked the box it came in. I searched the drawer where the box was stored. I searched the rest of my home office. I searched other rooms and other drawers and even dragged from the living room closet the big, bad basket of tangled, writhing, Indiana-Jones-awaiting, possibly-useful-but-unlabeled gadget cables.
I did not find it. I could not think of where else it might be.
To be fair, my thinking is done with a brain old enough to have bounced in my skull as I danced in the backyard with my little sister and a transistor radio playing that cool, new hit single, Benny and the Jets. My memory being what it is, I couldn’t be sure enough to call Apple and say it hadn’t come with one; I couldn’t be sure enough that it had come with one to justify additional searching. Feeling a bit despondent about the charger — and my mental faculties — I gave up.
After stumbling over the big basket of miscellaneous cables for a couple of months, I decided to sort out all of The Things that creep and crowd into the living room closet when I’m not looking. (And the things I cram in there when company is coming.)
As any one who has owned a home for more than two years knows, efficient, effective clean up is all about moving your stuff from one place to another. And, so, I decided to move all board games from the closet onto some living room book shelves. (Think of it as a game of Blockhead and Jenga and Old Maid cussing.) Among the stacking and fitting of various (why the hell can’t the board game people decide on a standard size?) boxes, there was a card box. Just a little wooden box, decoupaged by my Mom back in the Elton John days, to hold a deck of playing cards. The last time I recall opening the box was when I placed an un-used, souvenir deck into it and closed the lid, probably eight years ago or so.
I truly do not know what compelled me to open the box. Sentimentality? A Pandoric curiosity? Some not-dead-only-sleeping brain cell? Who knows. But, I opened it, and, lo and behold, it held: a deck of cards. And the iPod Shuffle charger!
How in the heck did it get there? I’ve had no Eureka moment, no recollection, no memory. Nor can I think of one reason why, on any given day, in any situation, I would have considered a deck of cards as the right spot for part of my Shuffle.
Today’s life preserver is: The giggle-inducing discovery of an unintended pun.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Eye Carumba
I need new glasses. But I am bad at picking out frames.
No, really, I am. A very dear friend said so behind my back shortly after I got to school wearing glasses for the very first time in my life. I doubt she reads my blog. But, if so, I should say, Hey, no hard feelings and I’m just being funny when I mention that I heard what you said about my glasses and how everybody laughed at what you said even though I never told you that I knew. So, please don’t worry that you did permanent damage to my self-esteem or gave me trust issues. I mean, it was 30-some years ago, right? And as a confident, wise woman, I am, pfft, so over it. It totally does not come back to haunt me every time I need to get new glasses. Really.
So, anyway, for some reason, I always wait until it’s an absolute necessity before going to get new glasses. The current pair has one fogged lens, one scratched lens, and a broken nose guard. I would go back to my even-older pair if I could only ever manage to have the right sort of super glue and all of the pieces in the same place at the same time. But I can’t count on that happening before my current vision coverage expires, so all right, I’ll go get new glasses.
I can do this.
I’ll be organized and have a positive attitude. I’ll do online research and try frames on virtually, here at my desk, so I won’t feel dorky and awkward while looking in a mirror in public to oh-so-carefully check to see if I resemble “a giant bug.” If I’m looking online, no one will say, “They look great!” when I’ve inadvertently picked out (and they have already made the lenses for) frames from the children’s section.
Okay. I have a notebook, and I’ve taken tidy little notes. I have brand names and style codes, including one pair with a color and a shape that, dare I say, actually look kind of fabulous?
Oh, chair dance and an exclamation of Awesome! I love these glasses! That was easy! All I have to do now is call and make an appointment.
Ahem.
Republicans are not the problem; democrats are not the problem; doctors are not the problem; insurance companies are not the problem. The problem with navigating health insurance coverage of any kind is a complete and utter lack of synchronization. (And really bad web design.)
7,302 windows open in the browser and 3 hours later . . . I remain mostly baffled as to which company would accept my insurance, where the doctors listed by my insurance company actually do their work, what services are offered where, and whether or not anyone who accepts my insurance also carries those groovy frames that I liked so much.
So, I thought, “Well, maybe I should just go back to the store where I got my last pair.”
Sure, I went in there to get frames repaired, and they said I had to have a full eye exam first. Sure, after the exam, they said I needed a new prescription (which I still don’t like as much as the old one) and I said I wanted the new lenses put into the old frames, and they said that was impossible. Sure, they misadjusted my new frames so badly that I had crippling headaches for days. Sure, they talked me into restocking on contacts, even though I didn’t need them. And, sure, they assured me that they were experts on insurance coverage and that my contacts wouldn’t cost me a dime . . . until they called back a few weeks later to say, “You owe us hundreds of dollars!” and “No! You can’t return contacts!” And sure, the coating they added to the lenses (which I said I didn’t want but they said was vital and mandatory) crackled and fogged over on one side and people just kind of stare for a second and then glance away as if there is nothing weird about my face.
Sure, the place where I got my last pair of glasses does not deserve repeat business . . . but . . . I know without banging my head against a wall for 3 more hours that they accept my insurance.
So, I’m all set. By tomorrow, I’ll have new glasses.
They’ll probably look ridiculous.
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October 20, 2014 at 11:08 am Leave a comment