The first part of July was very full of relatives here at the homestead, and my relatives run the gambit in ’size’ designations between morbidly obese and thin as rails. I’m a sort of in-between person. Weigh the same now (approaching my 40th anniversary next month) as I did the day I graduated from high school and the day I got married. Don’t tend to gain or lose and never have. Hubby is one of those ‘high metabolism’ sorts who could look like a starving Ethiopian with little trouble just by skipping a few meals, but keeps firm muscles under the no-fat covering by getting way more exercise than most guys these days. Comes from the homestead lifestyle, heating with wood (thus cutting and splitting), maintaining the acre of up-and-down yard, and playing lots of ‘challenging’ disc golf.

Our daughter takes after him. You’d swear she’s got a giant tapeworm or something watching her woof down more food in a single sitting than I’m likely to eat all day (or over two days!), never gains an ounce and has to eat lots to maintain what little she’s got. Her son takes more after his father, and could easily put on significant weight if he’s not careful. Of course his diet is worse than ours – he likes fast food burgers, fries and soft drinks, whereas we are mostly vegetarian, seldom eat out, and drink primarily our great spring water in herb/green teas or plain, or mixed with straight fruit juices like blueberry, cranberry, pomegranate or some combo. All of us get sugar cravings occasionally and are known to pig out on chocolate or other candy, but that’s rare enough not to be a big deal, living as far from town as we do. Daughter likes a little coffee in her sugar, when she’s not here a pound of sugar can last for months. Hubby and I don’t use it in coffee or on cereal (though we do like fruit on our Cheerios), and don’t drink milk straight-up ever. Daughter can consume a gallon a day without even trying.

Out of five kids in my family, 4 of us siblings tend to be slender like me. Yes, the poundage has rearranged quite a bit over the course of my 58 years, but you’ll have this (it’s a gravity thing, I think!). The youngest, my baby sister who had a 17″ waist when she got married, is now morbidly obese. She and her three children spent four days here, took grandson back with them to Florida. Her two sons are like her hubby, high metabolism guys whose plain old nervous energy keeps them skinny. They don’t exercise or even go out of the house much at all, so that’s not a factor. Her daughter is just now ‘chunky’, risks being fat as she gets older if she isn’t careful. Our parents weren’t fat folks, in fact, Mom was a runway model with long legs and perfect posture, lots of grace and beautiful chestnut hair – a real beauty. Grandparents weren’t particularly large on either side, though my father’s sister was a fat woman as was my mother’s grandmother. So there are no doubt a few fat genes in the mix, where there seem to be none on my hubby’s side.

And indeed genetics do play a role. Primarily, I suspect, in how metabolism is regulated, along with hunger signaling and tendencies to store fat. But my observations also tend to support my strong suspicions that most of it is diet and exercise habits. Primarily diet. This was doubly confirmed during their four-day visit, when we had to be the food suppliers.

Now, I’ve an ample garden and the apples are ripe, the pears are dropping, and there’s plenty of juice, tea, milk, cereal (Cheerios and plain Shredded Wheat), whole grain bread, cheese, pickles, canned veggies, etc. I cooked dinner every night, usually a bean dish (Mexican), potato soup, salads, vegetable plates, linguini or ravioli, etc. None of them would eat a bite of any of it. Over those days the bring-home from work for hubby consisted entirely of a 24-pack of Coke, a gallon of whole milk and two giant-size boxes of Frosted Flakes. Sis and her daughter ate bowl after bowl after bowl, finishing off both boxes every single day. Niece also whined constantly for someone to drive to McDonalds and get her bacon cheeseburgers, though we never did.

When I visit them I observe their diet too. Bags and bags of fast food burgers and crap piled on the kitchen table, cabinets chock full of snack foods, a fridge full of fatty lunchmeats, ice cream, chocolate milk, etc., and boxes, bags and wrappers piled in corners and along the walls of every room. They haven’t had a working stove/oven in 15 years, but sis doesn’t cook anyway so there’s no need for anything more than the hot plate her hubby and sons use to make themselves occasional Campbell’s Soup or canned spaghetti and meat sauce or beef stew. Adding it all together in my head, I figure they must spend 5 times what we do for a week’s worth of food, and not a single bit of it is what I’d considered healthy.

This of course isn’t everybody’s story, but it certainly plays a part in most of the “obesity epidemic” in this country. Bad food, bad habits, bad choices. And sis, being an RN who actually knows the reality of such things, expects just like most of the rest of ‘em that medical science will simply come up with a “fat-pill” one of these days that will keep them skinny without them ever having to change a single thing about their choices in life. I find that terribly sad.

Now, I’m ten years older and will probably die long before she does of something or other. She could well be like my great-grandmother, who we called “Big Mama” and who lived to be an obese, chain-smoking (corncob pipe), happy and semi-healthy 100. So general health isn’t a terribly good argument to use if the person is perfectly happy as they are. She does have some issues with depression, but not considerably large ones (no more than the rest of us, I’d say). She and hubby love each other just as they are, the kids are well-adjusted enough to function, they seem to enjoy their life fine. So I don’t bitch, I just stand in awe and wonder.

I do perceive an odd American mindset in all this. Sort of flagrant indulgence in the deadly sin of gluttony (as popular these days as lust, greed, wrath, sloth, envy and pride) as a way of life, with full expectation that somebody will ‘cure’ the deadly results without the person having to give up the sin. I also am guilty of not feeling too sorry for the greedheads on Wall Street (who DO NOT deserve to be bailed out with my hard-earned money!), the lusty free sex addicts and serial semi-monogamists, the angry old racists who disrupt Town Hall meetings with their hatred, the evil torture-enablers who want to be tyrannical dictators, or the fat folks who live in a pile of empty food containers they can’t even manage to throw away.

That’s probably pride on my part, though I’ve nothing much to be proud of, so I’ve my deadly sin too. I don’t tend to fat. That’s because I don’t eat a lot, and I don’t eat junk. But if I WERE constantly hungry and DID eat junk, I’d weigh what she does. I’m too dumb to be greedy and too lazy to be rich, though I’d sure love to be not-poor for a little while in my life. Not ever likely to happen, though. Maybe I’d have been a loose woman had I not found my soul-mate early in life, so I can’t too much fault those still actively seeking The One in their own lives. And if I didn’t mind living in filth, I probably wouldn’t ever clean my house (or my daughter and grandson’s rooms, which qualify in spades for the ’sloth’ designation). I do get mad enough to be considered ‘wrathful’, often at things I can do nothing about and sometimes at things I could do something about if I approached them differently. The Irish in me is just an excuse, so I’m no doubt guilty of that one as well. We’ve all got our issues and our weaknesses – our deadly sins – one is no better or worse than another.

So I just love ‘em. It’s all I can do. Try to encourage them to get more exercise or eat better when they’re here, but giving in and buying them most of the junk they want anyway just so they’ll be happy. Simply like being around them when I can, try to understand where I am overstepping and shouldn’t interfere, accept them as they are and as they come just because I love them. Life is hard on all of us, for sure. And no one can live anyone else’s lives, nor reasonably force them to be someone they’re not. So through the years I’ve learned to take things with a grain of salt, enjoy what little time I get with people I love, and try most of all to encourage their happiness. If what would make them happy is not something I can provide or they can ever provide for themselves, they’ll just have to learn to do without.

Like when some young relative who dropped out of school because he thought the requirements too stringent bitches that Bill Gates hasn’t yet made him the multi-billionaire VP of Microsoft (or some such ridiculousness), I just laugh. What’s the point of pointing out how silly that sounds? Or when another young relative bitches that nobody is giving her a nice car for free when she’s got two DUIs and wrecked the last one and is too drunk most days to hold a real job, what’s the point of suggesting that she quit getting drunk all the time, get a job and buy her own damned car? Or when another relative complains about achy knees and a bad back that make the stairs to the bathroom too difficult while weighing three times what a normal person weighs, what’s the point of pointing out that’s probably why she’s sore? All these things are entirely self-evident. They know that as well as I do. So they’re just sounding off, I make small noises of sympathy, then distract them with some other topic or project.

Still loving them, still glad to have them in my life, still thankful for the time in life I get to spend with them. And in return, I’m thankful that they don’t spend much time on my deadly sins and giving me advice I won’t take about how to ‘fix’ my life. Who knows? Maybe someday somebody really will invent a sin-pill we can all take to fix what our indulgences do to our lives and health!

Pictured is Grandson #2, Michael, who graduated from high school last month and will be attending a college for the artistically gifted, which of course he is. This marks two grandchildren to make it to college, two with rather extreme artistic talents who ought to do very well in the world, and one very, very proud grandma!

We’ll be seeing Mikey and his folks and sister for the week following the 4th of July. Now this is going to be a little bit tricky, but I’m looking forward to Mikey’s complaint-less help in harvesting blackberries for the cobbler he loves so much. We are leaving this coming Saturday for Oklahoma to visit Great-Grandma, who will be 87 in August. We’ll be on our second day homeward on the 4th, and will have to swing through Kentucky on the way home to meet with other sisters, brother-in-laws, nieces and nephews to send my little sister’s ashes over Cumberland Falls, something she made us promise to do before she died a couple of years ago. It’ll be the first time we’re all together since then, and I’m really looking forward to it.

Meanshile, Mikey and family will be leaving Atlanta on the 4th to come here. I’m going to give them the ‘break-in’ secret for getting into the house if we’re not home yet (and we might not be), because we’ve been having a bit of bear trouble this year. Don’t want them camping in the yard, for very good reason.

Usually it’s copperheads that make summer risky around the homestead, and Mikey knows that because he spent his 13th birthday in the hospital from copperhead bite. Only get bears passing through spring and fall, on their way to somewhere else. We’re right in between slices of National Forest, so that is to be expected. But in late April we were visited by a 300-pound she-bear who wasn’t just into dragging the trash from the bin up and down the mountainside. She’d come right onto the porch, sidle unconcerned between the bank and the truck just feet from the front door, and refused to be scared when we yelled at her. Even loaded up the shotgun and fired it off a few times in the air hoping she’d be scared, it didn’t impress her at all.

But she finally moved on a couple of weeks ago, we thought we were in the clear until pear season. Then a 250-pound youngster decided to show up and rummage through the compost. I’m thinking he’s a teenager she’s dropped off in the bottomland, and he thinks she gifted him with our place. ARGH!!! The bear population is booming – have seen more on the back road and here than ever before. A lady in our nearby town was injured just last week in her own driveway when she tried to save her little dog who was dumb enough to get between a trash-foraging she-bear and her two cubs.

It’s gotta be because our beloved 12-year old Lucy dog died. Bears will stay away from dogs. But we aren’t anxious to adopt another so soon, though we may have no choice. At any rate the wandering and camping will be a bit constrained this season due to bears. Just as well, I think.

Happy family fun to all my readers, may you enjoy ample family, lots of fun and fireworks, and heartfelt hugs from your wonderful grandchildren!

In true Rainbow Traveling Show style, there was much fireside sitting, heavy binge drinking, tearful goodbyes and storytelling belly-laughs at Papa Dollar’s Memorial and Wake in sunny Florida on Wednesday, February 25, 2009. With just about every one of the ‘usual suspects’ up to no good from start to finish.

Not the least of which was when the heir-apparent put my daughter Tash in charge of the blank-book in which we were all supposed to write something pithy about our old friend’s multi-storied life and times. She asked him what day it was so she could use her beautiful calligraphic skills to etch the title page, and he told her it was February 29, 2009. She (not paying attention to dates much) believed him. And now the precious family keepsake is forever dated Leap-Day in an Odd Year, something that’s never once actually occurred in the entire history of date-keeping!

But the best – better even than the formal Medicine Show eulogies – was the balloon launch, something Ras Papa was internationally infamous for. For this one it had been decided to launch Papa’s ratty old hat with the balloons. Which the 120 or so people present had to shuttle from his front porch helium tank to the mower polo field so they could be tied together into a freeform… thing. The animal balloons had sat in the sun too long, mostly exploded before they could be filled, but we did get a few. People drew or wrote things on the regular balloons with Sharpees before filling them, each with a personal note or charicature that related to Papa’s life.

As the old-timers and Jason built the construction, Odin the aero-engineer kept trying to tell them that they had to move to the other side of the field in order to launch, or they’d end up in the power lines. But NOOOOOO… mass of shape-shifting balloon sculpture and a ratty old hat finally was let loose, only to become hopelessly entangled in the power lines in record time. I was almost rolling on the grass with laughter, this was something Papa would have been absolutely livid about.

Not to be undone by grief-induced dumb-ness, the perps almost immediately decided to shoot it down so they could start over with fresh balloons from a more reliable vantage point. As we backed up in awe, they began setting off major fireworks right smack dab underneath the trapped balloons, missing them badly while causing the crowd to flee in panic (if they weren’t laughing too hard to move). Once it became apparent that the big boomers weren’t doing the trick, someone brought out the Roman candles. The sheer audacity of the cross-fire was amazing, considering nobody got hit!

More of us fell laughing to the ground, it was just too too funny. Eventually they managed to pop or deflate all but one of the balloons, but the mess was still firmly attached to the power line with a sad and ragged hat dangling forlornly underneath. It’ll be there for at least 20 years, I figure. Or until the next time the power company turns up. The face drawn on that last balloon standing was a tragic clown. Perfectly cosmically correct.

Back to the fire and more revelry, and everything went great until someone (who shall remain judiciously unnamed) set off a box of leftover fireworks on the bar of Papa’s Cantina. I figured it would burn down (and some of us were still sober enough to do a bucket brigade from the hot tub out front), but somehow it survived. The visual of major fireworks secondary boomers coming out from all directions as people were running and ducking is one that’ll stay with me forever. Not cosmically correct, but definitely cosmically incorrect enough to go down in history!

We’ll miss you being in the world every day for the rest of our lives, old friend. But you’ll never be far from our fond (and/or slightly singed) memories. Wooly Bully, Amen.

Three of my kids who will not be here for Thanksgiving have called in the past week to ask me what to do with the turkey carcass once everybody’s done eating the Big Dinner. So while there are about a million things you can do with the leftover chunks and slices of turkey meat (turkey sandwiches, turkey & gravy on a shingle, etc.), not that many young people these days know what to do with all those bones and the gelled goo and the fat and skin and stray bits of possible meat that may cling, other than to put the whole mess into a plastic garbage bag and toss it into the dumpster. Or bury it in the back yard. Heck, even the cats won’t clean it off well enough to bleach any bones, and you sure shouldn’t feed it to the dogs!

So here’s the basics to brew yourself up some good turkey broth from this leftover yuck, which in turn can be used to make future gravy, future soups (any kind), or just poured over the dry dog food and mixed to give Fido a feeling that s/he has a feasting holiday too. It’s not hard, you just need a stock pot (or canner) big enough to hold all the ’stuff’ scraped off the platter and roasting pan.

1. Scrape the carcass, loose bones and leavings off the platter and roasting pan into the pot. Add enough water barely cover.

2. If you’ve leftover crudités (carrot and celery sticks, roasted garlic cloves, etc.) put them in the water too. If you’re planning future soup broth, chunk up an onion and put it in with the rest, along with ~2 teaspoons of salt. Also add 2 bay leaves, some rubbed (or fresh sage), rosemary if you like it, and 1/4 teaspoon of white pepper.

3. Let ‘er boil, turning the bones occasionally, for at least an hour. Add water if necessary.

4. Lift out the bones and bits, package for disposal. Strain the broth into jars and refrigerate. Use within a month or so, for whatever dishes need gravy or broth. This can include collards/kale, hopping john and other dishes you’re likely to cook for the rest of the holidays, make a white gravy with some broth for breakfast biscuits. If you’re just planning to use the broth to flavor up dry dog and cat food, leave out the salt, pepper, herbs and onion, but do include the carrots and celery.

See how easy that is? Sure, it’s a project, but worth it not to waste anything from your big feast. And don’t forget as we move into flu season that Mom’s Turkey Soup is every bit as soothing and phlem-clearing (this is true, look it up!) as Mom’s Chicken Soup. In fact, every time we get a whole chicken around here I do the same thing, and use the broth for soup.

As the world financial situation looks to be bad and getting worse, there may not be much consumerist excess for Christmas this year. So the traditional feasting and other such food goodies are going to be even more appreciated than usual. My mother’s generation lived through the Great Depression by not wasting anything, and the better able our generations today are to do much the same things, the better we’ll survive intact. When you can’t just jump into the SUV and drive to the store for a single item, your best bet is to process your own items from what you’ve got, then USE them.

Turkey Broth and Other Leftover Turkey Recipes

Here’s hoping that all my readers had a happy, safe and brightly-lit Independence Day this year! Ours was particularly great, with Grandson #2 (two months younger than #1), his Mom and soon-to-be official Stepdad and 15-year old sister we’ve only met once before. Other guests were at a minimum, which allowed us to just hang out together, tell stories and talk about ’stuff’, hike on the Mount Mitchell Trail a bit, and break in my brand new deck.

We hadn’t seen grandson Michael for four years, which is way too long! Last time he was here – for the 4th of July – he got bitten by a copperhead on day-1 and had to spend the next three days in the hospital. Not much of a birthday vacation! Luckily, copperheads have thus far been absent this year (knock on wood), so Mike and I were able to spend good time together picking blackberries and making cobbler, accumulating lots of thorn pricks and scratches in the process. We only looked slightly war-weary by the time the cobbler was done, badges of honor around here!

He’s grown into a fine young man (18 now). Very good-looking, with our son’s high forehead threatening to turn into Ben Franklin by the time he’s 30. Runs in the male side of my family strongly – Dad always grew one side long and brushed it over his bald pate, which is the silliest hairdo anybody ever invented! I figure Mike will brave it with a full Ben Franklin when the time comes. Or maybe imitate Grandpa, who shaves his head even though he does have more hair than anybody needs. He’s turned out sweet and thoughtful, bright and talented without our help, so I was sure to compliment Mom on her good job.

His father – our son – died when Mike was just two. It hasn’t been a very easy life for any of them, and I am once again very glad that for them things seem to have worked out well anyway. The teenagers built a lovely slip-n-slide down the garden out-terraces with plastic tarps and a hose, had a wonderful time getting themselves bruised as well as wet. They brought us some rain from Florida, which we desperately needed, then got to watch our neighbors’ big fireworks display on Saturday night from the geyser at the creek. Played several rounds of disc golf, had to pull Stepdad’s handicap early – he’s a natural!

Meanwhile, #1 grandson Jahsh who has always lived with us and has at least twice the hair anybody needs, has decided to do dreadlocks. Yet another Veteran of Foreign Hairdos, which, given his long, not-curly tresses, is a ‘do that doesn’t come easy (though he’ll look pretty darned cool). The photo up top is of him heading out for the prom in May as a pirate, nobody was surprised. His girlfriend did make a very lovely mermaid!

Jahsh and our daughter are heading to Florida later this month for an extended stay, he’ll start college in January instead of August. His father (whom we hadn’t seen in five years) did make it for graduation, and has offered him a job at his comic book/toy store. I figure it’ll do him good to learn how to work for a living, though I doubt he’s going to learn much other than how cool it is to be the boss’s son…

Which, when all is said and done, will leave my Chia-Hubby and I here all on our lonesome for our 39th anniversary in September. My sister and her husband will be moving into their log McMansion nearby next month, so we’ll have some family close by, maybe she and I will finally get down to planning that Materia Medica herbal book we’ve been planning for the last 40 years to write.

Hope that your summer is going as swimmingly as mine, that your grandchildren don’t drive you crazy, and that everyone goes forward to remember 2008 as one of the best years of their lives!

I don’t know about all grandmas, but I know from my own experience with other people’s kids that they often come to spend a week or two expecting to be fed precisely what they usually get fed at home, and can be positively horrified to find that Grandma doesn’t stock chocolate cereals or big bags of candy or white bread and baloney for sandwiches, and there’s not a McDonald’s or Wendy’s in sight.

Now, it’s not that I don’t make some concessions to the basic kid-diet. My non-vegetarian grands and nieces/nephews and such do have the option of a can of beef-a-roni or a frozen pepperoni pizza here and there. I’ve even been known to purchase some turkey-dogs to roast over the campfire. But the grilled burgers are black bean, there will be no “Happy Meals,” and no bacon bits for the baked potatoes.

I also stock lots of fruit, whatever’s available when they’re here. I grow strawberries in the garden, those usually get eaten as soon as they’re picked, and they only last so long into the season. I have some cherry tomatoes that went wild one year, show up in unexpected places all over the garden. Those get eaten as soon as they’re picked as well, one granddaughter swears they’re sweeter than cherries! None of the kids seem to like cooked greens very much, but they’ll eat as many peas raw from the pod as I can possibly pick on any given day.

This year I’m trying watermelons again in the garden. Haven’t had much luck with them previously, though pumpkins do just fine. These are the little ones no bigger than a cantaloupe, which I’m hoping will do better. They won’t be in until August, though, which should coincide with when the Florida niece/nephews will be here.

Thing is, I don’t think it hurts a child to understand that things at my house don’t work just the same as they do at their home. We don’t eat fast food, and don’t go out to dinner, as we live too far out in the country and don’t have that kind of money to waste on junk anyway. It’s an opportunity to introduce them to a variety of new, more healthy foods, to let them see where food actually comes from, and to allow them a new view of diet and being more conscious about WHAT they’re eating. In fact, I think that sort of thing is actually good for a child! Besides, it’s always a fun project to include the kids in menu planning as well as cooking and prep.

The toughest task I’ve found through the years (mostly friend’s kids and nieces/nephews rather than grands) is the issue of white bread versus real bread. Some of them act as if they’ve no idea that white bread actually came from wheat before it was sifted and thoroughly bleached. Or that additives to bread – like oats, flax and sesame seeds, even sprouts – won’t poison them. Yet it only takes a day or two stuck with real bread before they learn to eat it without complaint, and some even learn to like it because it makes the sandwich better!

We go through jars and jars of peanut butter when kids are here (we do that when they’re not here too, though a jar does last longer). Once they’ve been cajoled into eating that PBJ on real bread using Grandma’s homemade concord grape jam from the vines right there on the garden fence, they uniformly tell me that store-bought jam just seems like fake juice with gel in it. I don’t use the outrageous amounts of sugar most jam recipes call for, because I don’t have to. Ripe grapes produce plenty of pectin on their own, and I’m not shy of using powdered apple pectin for low-sugar recipes, available right there next to the Ball jars and lids on the grocery store shelf.

I understand that Big Medicine (and its many peripheral lobby groups and supporters) insists that there is no connection between white sugar and hyperactivity in children. I long ago came to the firm conclusion that those people don’t have children. Ask any harried Mom or Grandma, they’ll uniformly tell you there’s very much a direct link between white sugar intake and the level of hyperkinetic frenzy any single-digit midget. A 1-to-1 relationship. Moreover, any observant Mom or Grandma will also tell you that if the child has to actually digest the sugar (unrefined sugars as found in honey or fruit or molassas), it doesn’t affect them in the same way at all.

Thus I don’t deny the visiting kids sweet treats, I simply make them using alternative sweeteners like molassas, honey or dark brown sugar. Or my jam, for PBJ cookies! That way their sweet tooth gets its fix, and I don’t have kids climbing the walls all night long.

A last word of caution on this is that if you do allow your grandkids to make S’mores or roast marshmallows over the campfire, serve your evening meal early so they’ve a couple of hours to get over the sugar rush before bedtime. Otherwise, Grandma and Grandpa aren’t going to get any sleep that night.

Grandma’s Black Bean Veggieburgers
1 can black beans (or 12 oz. from dry)
1 cup rolled oats
1 large egg
1 tbsp. Worcestershire Sauce
1-2 tbsp. dark soy sauce (to taste)
1 cup chopped veggies – onions, carrots, bell peppers, zucchini or summer squash, eggplant, mushrooms, whatever
Whole wheat flour, mashed potato or flakes, or corn masa – enough to make the mixture stick together into patties

Beat the egg, add the beans and mash lightly with the other ingredients and mix well. Add enough flour or mashed potato/potato flakes to make a workable mush to form patties that don’t fall apart.

Broil 3 minutes per side or grill 2-3 minutes per side, serve on toasted buns with condiments, lettuce, spinach, sliced tomatoes, pickles, onions, etc.

And for gardening/canning grandmas out there, check out the condiment recipes over at Wise Living Journal.

We’re all suffering Blackberry Winter here in the mountains. And I do mean suffering. Grandson, daughter and I have all contracted our ‘usual’ spring colds due to radical temperature and weather shifts, and it’s simply way too cold and nasty outside for me to finish tilling a tier of the garden for tomatoes and peppers. We haven’t seen the sun in days. It’s not quite cold enough for heat, not warm enough to get out of our winter sweatshirts and sweaters. Yuck!

I found out about Blackberry Winter the first spring we spent here, in 1993. That was the year of the Great Blizzard on March 13 that buried us under 3-4 feet of wet snow and cut the electricity off for two full weeks. It was also the year of our first forest fire on April 13, exactly a month later and pretty scary (I’m used to them by now). Then, right around May 13, the lovely seasonably warm weather turned suddenly dark, damp and relatively cold (low 60s during the day, 40s at night). It lasted for nearly two weeks, and I was hard pressed to figure out what’s wrong with May around here. I’d seen May be the hottest month of the year in several states we’d lived previously!

That’s when my new friend Margaret informed me rather dismissively that it’s just Blackberry Winter. Happens every year during the first half of May, she said, and in the 15 years since I’ve found that to be true and entirely predictable every single year. See, the blackberries bloom during that time, and the cold weather always coincides with the appearance of their white blooms. Not with the crocus and jonquils, not with the dogwoods and redbuds, not with the apples, pears or cherry blooms. Always with the blackberries. As soon as you see the buds starting to open you know for a fact the weather will turn within a day or two, and stay dismal for as long as it takes for them to be pollinated and drop off.

Thus it was with joy and gladness that I received the news in my head-stuffed, achy spring illness that our daughter and son-in-law will be visiting Granny, Grandpa and an Aunt Granny nearby next weekend with baby Sunshine! Of course that means I have to scramble to finish that darned quilt, but I can’t wait to hold that baby and kiss her soft cheeks! The weather should be great by then, the blackberries are almost done doing their thing. Our colds should be well over with by then too, and we’ll disinfect the house thoroughly for the occasion.

I’ll take lots of pictures! So stay tuned all you Moms and Grandmas out there, this Grandma is ready to show off big time!

In the immediate family circle are O’Sheas and Coins and O’Cains and O’Rourkes and other names so blatantly Irish nobody could confuse the issue by the number of Rastas and Buddhists and Presbyterians and atheists (and God-Knows-Whats) in the crowd. Even though we did outnumber them. After the mass there was a photo collage presented in the fellowship hall, probably 600 people stayed to see it.

The trip to Jamaica and those tough-looking Rastas who literally carried Rick for miles into the mountains to see a holy man. The Tibetan monks and their beautiful sand mandala who were so delighted by their host’s soaring spirit. The notable artists and musicians who never passed through without spending time with Rick. The children he’d taught through the years, now grown with children of their own old enough to go to college. The beautiful red-haired boy, the courageous and determined young man, the cultural guru, the thin and frail middle-aged man who looked an awful lot like Jesus if that holy man’s eyes twinkled nearly as brightly as Rick’s.

We cried buckets of tears, but were reunited in our grief. We had too often lost touch over the decades. All past petty tiffs forgotten, love of Rick uniting us all once again as if we’d never grown apart. Then, later that evening, came the wake…

It was in the city near Rick’s house, hosted by a wonderful couple with one of those Irish names and an acre of yard. All of it put to use for this event, and all the neighbors forewarned. There were two groups of fiddlers and harpists, a stage at the other end of the yard stacked with equipment. A couple dozen notable rock and reggae musicians jammed all night off and on. A drum circle filled in the breaks. There were children lined up for the tree swing and trampoline, guarded (and herded) by teenage volunteer sitters. There were rows of tables filled with food, watermelons galore, coolers of pop and water and more beer than anybody could keep track of, magically replenishing kegs of Guinness, and a picnick table bar on the deck stocked with more kinds of wine than I could identify as well as literal cases of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. Parking overflowed the vacant lot a few blocks away manned by volunteers with light sticks, a constant crowd of about 500 constantly shifted through the night. It was still going when we checked in, 8 hours after driving home through three states!

My friend Rick enjoyed the love of so very many people, each of whom claimed him as his/her BEST friend. He could make you feel that way even in a crowd. What we all received from him is important enough to last these generations for many generations more, and comes complete with the power to change the world. We are so blessed…

The greatest gift Rick gave to those of us who loved him is each other. Our charge now is to hang on to those ever-widening, ever-proliferating circles of love and friendship. My family’s all for it (though we won’t be moving back to the city). I think a lot of others are too.

Kiteriggers Memorial Site

It was an action-packed weekend. A total of 4 daughters (one by birth, three by stray whose kids call me “Aunt Granny”) one stray son and five semi-grands plus #1 grandson. Here for the youngest semi-grandson’s eighth birthday on Sunday. To make matters worse, the weather was absolutely dismal so there could be no friendly campfire for Peep-roasting, the ins and outs of having all those people coming and going from the cold and wet into the house completely trashed the place so that it’s taken two days just to reclaim the living area.

There were some issues that arose, particularly in regards to the younger boys (8 and 10) and 17-year old #1 grandson’s ample collection of serious weaponry that he just can’t seem to keep put safely away because he practices with them so often. I had to collect ninja knives and Samurai swords, one rapier and several heavy fantasy swords from them at various times, which they’d managed to fish out of some gawd-awful corner of grandson’s outrageously messy room when nobody was looking. The girls (4 and 14) were, as usual, perfect angels – ratted out those boys every time…

#1 Grandson lives here, graduates high school this year, and is an only child. This place is far out in the country with no immediate neighbors, surrounded by National Forest. When he was younger (about 8), we began allowing him to collect wooden practice swords and staffs, gave him form lessons to keep him busy. Our son (who died when grandson was just 2) had a double black belt in a weapons form of Kung-Fu (was also an amazing juggler and seasoned performer who once toured demonstrating his weapons skills on stage with his master). Grandson had inherited a lot of practice and show weapons, bought more once we allowed that beginning when he was 12. He makes spectacularly detailed Samurai armor by hand too, as well as fantasy chess sets from Sculpy – he’s extremely talented, we’ve always encouraged it.

He orders the swords and knives through a mail order company that sends him a catalog every 3 months, and he has amassed quite the collection. We’ve also allowed long bow and crossbow for target practice, and he’s very good at it. The problem is that he doesn’t always put his weapons safely away. When it’s just him it’s not a problem. When there’s little ones present, it IS a problem.

Now, I don’t mind if the younger boys target practice with the long bows. There’s a full dirt-bank target, and so long as there aren’t other kids or dogs in the area, they can’t hurt anything. There’s usually adults or elder grandson around to help keep them in line. The 10-year old has phenomenal aim, has his own bow and a straw target in his own yard and practices regularly. We’ve never allowed play guns that aren’t SuperSoakers or Nerf. No knife fights or sword fights using real weapons. There are well padded PVC and duct tape practice staffs and swords they can hit each other with all day and never leave a bruise.

But because elder grandson didn’t even try to get all his real weapons stashed where the kids couldn’t get them this past weekend, I’ve laid down the law. Summer’s coming, there will be lots of young-uns in and out, he graduates (and has his 18th birthday) in May, and while I understand his teenage distraction and inattention to detail, that distraction is WHY I’m laying down the law.

ALL of the metal weapons must be boxed atop the closet in the shed, where the unicycles, puppets and various impressive implements of snake-death are hung in rafters, in the building where we store the DR brush mower, the super Craftsman tiller, the chainsaws and chains, axes, mauls, pitchforks and other sharp implements that are necessary to keeping the land and crops. When (if?) he ever gets a place of his own, he can use them as steak knives for all I care. But since he’s going to college just 20 miles away, he’ll still be here for awhile. Besides, if he were living on-campus they’d never allow those weapons anyway.

He’s sulking, of course. “It’s so unfair!” he whines, knowing deep down that it’s his own fault. Being responsible with his weapons is a good lesson to learn, as well as remembering that he’s not the only grandkid we’ve got. He is much older than the rest of the brood, will be voting this year! That makes him a legal adult for most purposes, and despite all the distractions he very much needs to pay attention to these things.

Nobody’s perfect. That’s why being a parent and grandparent can still be such a challenge well after that kid gets to be a foot taller than you! The teenage brain is stuck somewhere between childhood and adult, there is still work to do. And, just to add to the observations from this end of the spectrum, they never really do grow up. They’ll always be your babies, so you’ll always be wanting to protect them. You can’t always succeed at that, but it’s just automatic to try.

When it comes to weapons, there is no try. There is do or not do, and the best advice is to DO!

One daughter, her annoying (and very loud) boyfriend, one niece and her not-annoying boyfriend, two semi-sons and their wives, one grandson and three old Navy buddies (plus 2 wives). It’s been a busy week here at the lake house for Mama and Papa Elf, who always stretch out Christmas over the entire length of the holidays. That’s a perk we give ourselves after a grueling season at the mall contributing to the Pagan trappings of the consumerist frenzy.

I’ve baked cookies and managed two batches of fudge that ended up as chocolate syrup on ice cream instead. I’ve cooked lots and lots of meals and done more dishes than should be allowed by law. I’ve attempted to lay down the gated community ‘law’ to the annoying boyfriend who apparently believes we’re all deaf because he is, and have so far managed to prevent any real damage to my sister’s nice new retirement home. I did fall down the steps from the loft on my way to the bathroom this morning, thereby breaking my foot.

So now I’m ensconced on the wing chair in front of the fireplace with my foot on a pillow. I’m not cooking, not washing dishes, and not cleaning up after the barbarian hoards. They’re all leaving tomorrow, so hopefully I can get all the Christmas decorations packed and the sheets washed and the kitchen and bathrooms sanitized in time to make it home for dinner! The beautiful log McMansion no worse for wear and tear, myself a bit more battered (and gimpy) than I’d have liked. Pretty much par for the course.

I figured out awhile back that everybody’s family is dysfunctional to a certain extent, some more than others. A family as big as mine has more than its share of off-colored sheep, but I love ‘em all anyway. Did talk to younger daughter who couldn’t make it here for the holidays, and have been participating regularly in her “Virtual Baby Shower.” Our Marine warrant officer son called Christmas Day to tell us he’s transferring to North Carolina in May, which will put two more grandchildren within easy spoiling range!

I hope the holidays have been full of family, friends and fun for all my readers out there, and here’s hoping that 2008 will be a more hopeful year for everyone, all over the country and all over the world. Peace on Earth, good will to everyone regardless of age, sex, color, culture or beliefs!