I’m an Ohioan, a buckeye, rooted in Mount Vernon just a few miles north of the geographical center of the state. My father never lived anyplace other than Knox County, nor any town other than Mount Vernon, except for the first four months of his life. He was born seven miles northwest in tiny Fredericktown.
That my dad lived such a long life — 90 — is attributable, in part, to pie. That’s what he would say anyway. In Ohio, pie is a meal, a food group!
The man never met a pie he didn’t like, with the possible exception of coconut crème and butterscotch. Fruit was his filling of choice: apple, cherry, peach, rhubarb, strawberry, blackberry, raspberry, blueberry, elderberry, grape, plum, banana and even raisin. Now he didn’t bake the pies — women’s work, he said — but he did pick, clean, sort and chop the fruit.
My mother rolled out a pie every few days: flakey, crusty, aromatic, lip-smackingly good. After mom died, dad remarried and Martha rolled out a pie every few days: flakey, crusty, aromatic, lip-smackingly good. I never asked, but I’ll bet in addition to “Love, honor, and obey” there was a clause in their marriage vows that promised, “pies to last you the rest of your days.”
It is difficult to say no to a home-baked pie warm from the oven. Dad never even tried to resist as his waistline proved.
When my daughters were small and visited during the summer, their gramps let them have pie and homemade vanilla ice cream for breakfast. “You got your fruit, you got your dairy, perfect breakfast,” he’d say.
I wondered at him letting them eat pie every morning. When I was their ages, I had to eat Shredded Wheat, Cheerios or Cornflakes. Sometimes I got a sliced banana.
Last Thanksgiving, our granddaughter Samantha wanted me to show her how to make a pie from scratch. She was a quick learner, and her first pies — apple and pumpkin — were excellent. I’m sorry to say that she’s as messy a baker as I am. Her great-grandmas would be horrified to see the mess she made.
But her great-gramps would have loved the results.
— Judy Clarke
Judy Clarke is a wife, mother of two daughters, grandmother to two grown grandchildren, reader, writer and blogger in southwest Virginia. Her two non-fiction books, Mother Tough Wrote the Book and That’s all she wrote, can be found on her friends’ and family’s shelves, and she’s working on a novel, But why? (That’s the title of the novel, not a question to self).
This past December, my husband and I took our two 20-something-year-old kids on a vacation to St. Croix. I love vacationing as a family, but the older your kids get, the more opinionated they become on what is considered vacation worthy and what isn’t.
Fun for my daughter is a beach. Fun for my son is anything BUT the beach. It gets a little heated between those two and telling them to face the wall and think about their behavior and tone doesn’t work anymore. My dream of being The Waltons had faded long ago.
So in past vacations it usually came down to my husband and son claiming any activity with the word extreme in front of it, and my daughter and I sitting on a beach with an extreme tiki bar.
But this vacation was different. I thought someone had kidnapped my children, replacing them with siblings who actually agreed with each other. When did this happen? It certainly hadn’t happened all through grade school when I paid my son to be nice to his sister for the babysitter. It hadn’t happened when I paid my daughter to play NASCAR on GameCube with her brother. I was constantly asking my husband for $20. And for those of you who say bribery will get you nowhere, guess again.
It’s expensive trying to be the Waltons.
During this vacation we went to tiki bars — TOGETHER! We went to beaches TOGETHER! Both wanted to ride wave runners and ride on ATVs, TOGETHER! I was dumfounded. Was that my daughter covered in mud and laughing as her brother deliberately ran through every single mud puddle? When the Captain on a boat trip to an outer island invited my son to ride up on the bridge, his only question was, “Can I bring my sister?”
Turning to my husband wide eyed, I said, “Did you bribe them to be nice to each other? Is that why you’re always searching for your wallet? Did he really say, “Can I bring my sister”?
OMG, we were the freaking Waltons!
I always pictured a life with my grown children living close enough to drop in whenever they wanted, to come for Sunday dinner. But my son was switching jobs and had accepted a position in California and my daughter, who would soon be graduating college, had accepted a job in Boston. Those sweet childhood years would be in my rear view mirror, and my role as Mom was changing. It’s a turning of the page, I guess.
At the end of our vacation both kids presented my husband and me with a thoughtful and generous gift, but they could have saved their money. Their friendship with each other was priceless. Their greatest gift to us was their laughter I heard through the walls long after we had gone to bed. It filled me up with such happiness that it’s hard to describe. Despite their bickering all those years, it was evident they were their own biggest fans. My daughter told me it had always been so, that bickering and siblings go together. Imagine the money I could have saved.
As we were getting ready to leave for the airport to catch our flight home and thinking we should be singing Kumbaya, my son looked at my daughter and said, “You are not going to the airport in those shorts.” And then my daughter looked at my son and said…
Well …. I can’t really repeat what she said.
I’m not expecting perfection.
After all, the Waltons aren’t a real family.
— Tracy Buckner
Tracy Buckner contributes periodically to the Observer Tribune Newspaper of Chester, N.J., and blogs for the New Jersey Hills Newspaper, serving Madison, Chatham and Chester, N.J. She enjoys writing about the slow decline and vows to go down kicking and screaming. You can see read other pieces and sign up to follow her on her blog.
There are at least two if not many more universal truths known to all mothers. The first, is that while no child can hear the words “go get dressed” even when shouted directly into their eardrum, they can always hear any mother unwrap any item of food at any decibel and from any distance.
The second and equally important truth is that whoever doesn’t pack some spare clothes in the carry-on is the one who is going to need them.
Any guesses as to who didn’t pack herself a spare shirt?
As we set out on the rental car yesterday to begin our journey home from vacation, I turned to my husband who would not be making the trip back with me and my three kids and said something like, “It’s no problem. Really. I’ve got this.”
At which point God, overhearing this exchange, literally laughed out loud, put on his favorite footy pajamas, poured himself a drink, and I imagine said something like, “Well, this ought to be a good show.”
Was it the two-hour delay that turned into a four-hour delay or the toddler vomiting banana crepe all over me during that delay or the gate that wouldn’t go up in the parking lot to get us to the car that wouldn’t start because the battery was dead? I mean honestly, I’m not sure.
Truthfully, none of that matters now. What I really need to tell you is this:
• Never ever feed your children banana crepes ever and most certainly not when you are traveling.
• Other mothers are amazing. Should you find yourself alone in an airport with three children whilst covered in vomit, mothers will spring into action from all directions. I honestly did not know any of them nor where they came from, hoisting upon me plastic bags and wipes a plenty. I know on the Internet and even in real life we have a tendency to judge one another, but when it counts, we show up. We know full well that we are in this together.
• Our kids are capable of more than we think. We spend most of our days yelling not particularly useful things like, “Pick up your plate and shut off your video games!” and I wonder if they just start to believe they really aren’t capable of much more than that. Until one day you find that they are surprisingly adept and responsive as you yell, “Hose the baby off with your water bottle!” and “Grab those suitcases!” Sometimes I wonder if we’re just overthinking this whole enterprise. Maybe the best and most we can ever do at any one time is just believe in them.
• Lastly, pack yourself some spare clothes. Literally and figuratively. Throw in an extra shirt for yourself on that carry-on. Maybe it will just be a drop of soy sauce. Maybe it will be baby puke. Who knows? It can’t hurt. But more than that, think about what you will need. Practice thinking about and prioritizing your own needs.
Though I forgot some spare clothes yesterday, I was fortunate to remember a book which I read during a brief moment of bliss affectionately known as video game/nap time. It occurred B.B.C. (before banana crepe) and as I sat there, flipping through the pages of an old Erma Bombeck book, I could just picture my mother, buried deep within the pages of Erma’s columns and books on our vacations so long ago. I know now what she knew then: that if you give a child in a pool a mother, someone will suddenly need to pee or puke or eat, and that the mere sight of you will illicit the desire for someone to express their needs. My mother wasn’t reading. She was hiding.
God, that woman was smart.
I loved this line from yesterday’s pages in particular: “I don’t think women outlive men. It only seems longer.”
And if it’s going to feel longer, remember what I told you. Pack yourself some spare clothes, a candy bar that has had the wrapper previously removed and a good book. At the very least, God shouldn’t be the only one to enjoy this show.
— Jennifer Meer
Jennifer Meer writes a personal blog about parenting and family. Her work has been published in several online publications including, BlogHer, The Huffington Post, Kveller, Mamalode, The Manifest-Station, Modern Loss, Momastery.com, Parenting.com, Scary Mommy, The Stir and The Washington Post.
We’ve all had embarrassing moments. My most recent one was forgetting to brush my teeth before I left the house in the morning and then wondering why everybody I spoke to kept backing away.
At least this time people didn’t laugh and point the way my classmates in sixth grade did when my skirt got stuck in my underwear. They all pointed and laughed as I walked to my seat. I guess I should be happy it happened before social media where it would be plastered for the world to see. Social media takes embarrassment to a whole new level.
Sometimes we’re embarrassed not for ourselves, but for others — “second hand embarrassment.” You ever get embarrassed for a comedian dying on stage? You feel bad (squirming in your seat) knowing they know they’re bombing. Silence to a comedian is worse than a tomato in the face.
As part of a couple, if your spouse tells a joke and it falls flat, the embarrassment falls also on you — “second hand embarrassment,” embarrassment by relation.
In a house where the bathroom is off the kitchen, the stage is set for embarrassment. Tell me the genius who thought the kitchen/ bathroom combo was a good idea. It’s not.
You go to a friend’s house for dinner and halfway through the meal someone dashes to the bathroom. As you’re chewing your steak, you’re now being serenaded by moans and groans. You winch when you hear grunting and noises heard only from animals in the wild. You applaud when you hear the flush, but your glee is short lived as there’s a round two.
This round comes with cursing and air freshener being dispensed. Finally, the boxer emerges looking weary, but triumphant. Nobody acknowledges what went on in there. You keep eating and gradually realize you smell more than what’s on your plate. The smells wafting out from the bathroom and mingling with your food has created a rancid, overpowering stench of a cloud. People lose their appetite. Nobody wants to eat steak that smells like that. You gag with every bite. Guests offer excuses and make a hasty retreat. You, the hostess, watch people run to their car and think, how many friends did this cost me? Some embarrassing moments come at a high price.
— Cindy Argiento
Cindy Argiento’s first column appeared in the Greensboro News and Record as a Personal Ads feature on April 30, 2002. Later that year, her first “As I See It” column appeared in the High Point Enterprise, where it would become a regular feature for several years. Her columns also have appeared in the Reidsville Review, Eden Daily News, Gilroy Dispatch, Hollister Freelance, Hopewell News and Foothills Paper. Other essays have appeared in Chicken Soup For the Soul books, Family Matters and Married Life. Three of her pieces were recognized as a finalist, semi-finalist and honorable mention in HumorPress.com “America’s Funniest Humor” writing contest. She blogs at Cindy’s World.
I don’t usually get involved in political rhetoric for fear of becoming homicidal and spending my retirement behind bars. And I look dreadful in orange. Plus I don’t want to think about the last time I wore a jumpsuit.
Anyway, with the election intensifying, I’ve become entangled in some of the Bernie brouhaha.
I took a pen in hand and wrote him a wish list.
I know you appeal to Millennials and Generation XYZ, but I have some ideas to help you capture Baby Boomers’ hearts and votes.
Since I worked two jobs earning my degree from a state college, and paid off my modest loans years ago, here is what I want: free plastic surgery. Why should the elite be gorgeous in old age with access to eyelid lifts, liposuction and Botox? You could benefit from this, too, Bernie, and it might make people stop fussing about your
advanced mature age.
Buoyed by the courage it took to tackle ATM fees, I suggest you focus on coupons. Do you know how much time and brainpower we waste clipping and saving coupons? And what about carbon emissions driving a 50-mile radius to save $1 on a case of Bounty? Let’s eliminate the coupon system and give everyone discounts. This is the only fair strategy for those who forget their coupons, or find outdated ones crumpled in the bottom of their purses.
I know you have a plan to pump more money into Social Security, but why do I have to wait until I’m 66 to draw the full amount? Who is going to tell Gen X they will be working until they are…er….your age? I think we should get the maximum monthly check whenever we retire. Should we be penalized for graciously creating jobs for the unemployed?
This is a leap year, and those who live in the northern hemisphere will experience an additional subzero February day. Maybe the younger crowd loves the cold, but I see it as an extra day to suffer arthritis pain. Is this equitable when those in Australia enjoy a summer bonus day every four years? And how does this affect their global warming trends? I propose a trade agreement with the southern hemisphere for an extra day in June every eight years.
Before you establish Medicare for everyone, please revoke annual “wellness exams.” There is no evidence to suggest this improves health, and it causes harm from the shock of the yearly weigh in. With the billions you’ll save by outlawing these exams, you will have funds for important things. Like my plastic surgery.
I am thrilled that you support vacations for everyone, but could you take it a step farther and guarantee me an annual trip to Florida? I watch with envy as the affluent 1% pack up their Airstreams and head south at the first threat of a cold snap. Coming from the northeast, it is shocking this isn’t on your campaign “to do” list.
I hope my suggestions can boost Baby Boomer loyalty. Unfortunately, Hillary has cemented most of the superdelegates’ votes, so you have a “Vermont snowball’s chance in Florida” of winning the nomination. I’m counting on her plan to cure Alzheimer’s by 2025 to keep me from wandering off into “Dementia-ville.” Despite my sagging eyelids and cellulite, my brain will be forever young.
An Uneasy Baby Boomer
What would you add to this wish list? What are your ‘Bernie-ng’ desires?
— Molly Stevens
Molly Stevens arrived late to the writing desk, but is forever grateful her second act took this direction instead of adult tricycle racing or hoarding cats. She blogs at www.shallowreflections.com, where she skims over important topics, like her love affair with white potatoes and why she saves user manuals.
In Dallas last summer, I visited a beer garden with a huge chalkboard. At the top, I read the words, “ BEFORE I DIE.” Below were blanks, each beginning: “Before I die, I want to______.”
From the looks of the crowd, I suspect the answers were chalked in by beer drinkers a lot younger than I am. I imagine they contemplated their bucket lists with a much airier attitude than we older folks do.
But this post isn’t about my bucket list. It’s about coming to terms with dying. Who’s working on it? Me.
My mother’s death last year from cancer at age 90, and the great courage she showed, give me the guts to really contemplate my earthly mortality. The experts promise that accepting death helps us live the rest of our years with gratitude and gusto.
For me, one aspect is finally realizing I can’t control much of what happens after I die (because I’m dead). Who takes my childhood dolls and my grandmother’s china? How many years (or months!) until my husband Cliff remarries? Will anyone remember (or keep) my published books?
What I cared about at 40, I can now let go.
But the other day we had friends coming over. I realized at the last minute that I had NOT gone over the bathroom. Yucky hair festooned the sink. My hair.
What if I weren’t here to clean the sink? What if I were dead and people came to pay their condolences to Cliff and the sink looked like it did last Friday night?
I don’t care if laundry blankets the couch. I don’t care if the sink is teaming with greasy dishes. I don’t care if shoes make a mountain by the back door. Do I care about sink hair? YES!
I told Cliff not to let anyone into the house until he has checked the sink. The sponge and cleaner are underneath. He said okay. What a man! I hope he finds an adorable second wife.
I’m not ready to die yet, but I’m one mini-step closer now that I know my sink’s appearance is secured.
How about you? What have you let go? What do you still worry/care about after you die?
— Barbara Younger
Barbara Younger writers an upbeat, witty blog, Friend for the Ride: Encouraging Words for the Menopause and Midlife Roller Coaster. Healthline placed Friend for the Ride on its list of Best Menopause Blogs of 2013 and 2014.
Dorothy Parker once remarked that Katherine Hepburn’s emotional range ran the gamut from “A” to “B.”
The average man’s mid-life crisis doesn’t even get that far.
There is the Automotive (sports cars), the Athletic (late-in-life marathons and Iron Man competitions) and the Amorous (making passes at young lasses).
To this triple-A club, allow me to add a “B” — Bigfoot, the apelike creature who walks upright like a man.
Since grainy footage of the creature first became available in the ’60s, I have dreamed of owning a Bigfoot costume. Now that I’m in the autumn of my years and I’ve begun to reflect on what I want to accomplish before I die, it is time to put on the sasquatch suit and go into the woods west of Boston deliberately, like Thoreau.
In the ’70s, Bigfoot was romantically linked with Farrah Fawcett, spotted in an Arkansas 7-11 with Elvis, and tabbed the front-runner to be Secretary of the Interior had Gerald Ford defeated Jimmy Carter.
He has since avoided the spotlight, resurfacing only for serious scientific study such as a 2002 National Geographic article. As with J.D. Salinger, Bigfoot’s mystique has been enhanced by his private nature, and his Garbo-like attitude has opened the field to imitators. Like me.
Those who have longed to dress as Bigfoot in the past but were deterred, like transvestites, from shopping publicly have found a haven in the Internet. There are numerous high-quality Bigfoot costumes available online for sale or lease. Ask your accountant which is right for you.
If you’re the handyman type, try the do-it-yourself models available on hunting websites. These strikingly realistic outfits can be fashioned from a few items you probably already own — camouflage, foam padding, jute and Shoe Goo.
Be sure to work in a well-ventilated area as prolonged exposure to glue fumes can cause behavior that would be considered erratic even for a creature that eats housecats.
Like the Evangelist you may ask, “What doth it profit a man to gain a Bigfoot costume and lose his wife’s faith in his sanity?” I’ll tell you what it doth profit as soon as I can untie my tongue from these frigging fricatives.
Roger Patterson, the man who faked home movies of Bigfoot, made a bundle selling prints to supermarket-checkout line tabloids. Our property borders conservation land, a perfect setting for the sort of Blair Witch Project cinéma vérité-style that is de rigeur for any Bigfoot flick.
After spending an afternoon staggering around your backyard in a sasquatch costume in front of a video camera, you’ll have college tuition for the kids pretty well covered. Then the little woman will think it’s a good idea.
Having a Bigfoot costume can also extend the life of your pets. If coyotes are moving into your neighborhood, there is nothing like the sight of a yeti to send them packing. No cruel leg traps for your neighbors with the PETA membership to complain about.
And then there’s the matter of convenience. No one likes to wait in line, but everyone wants that wake-up cup of coffee first thing in the morning, causing caffeine gridlock across the country all weekend long.
If you want to clear out a Starbucks in a hurry, try showing up some Saturday morning dressed as an 8-foot tall mammal. You’ll find plenty of empty seats, and maybe even a newspaper someone in a hurry left behind. Probably needed to feed his meter.
Fashion tip: Remove costume before meeting wife at Talbots.
Kids love furry animals, and you can make a lot of money at birthday parties with your new outfit. The going rate for a three-hour gig is $200 and can go higher if you’re willing to do a little face painting — assuming the kids will come out from behind the sofa.
That first check will seem like found money. Take your wife out for a meal at a nice restaurant — a well-timed growl from “Bigfoot” will get you the best table in the place.
Psychologists describe the mid-life transition as “middlescence” — the second coming of adolescence, without the complexion problems.
What could be more adolescent than staggering out of the house at night, hair down to your shoulders, dressed to scare people, smelling of Shoe Goo?
— Con Chapman
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer whose works include The Year of the Gerbil, a history of the 1978 Yankees-Red Sox pennant race, 10 published plays and two novels, Making Partner and CannaCorn (Joshua Tree Publishing). His articles and humor have appeared in magazines and newspapers including The Atlantic Monthly, The Boston Globe and The Christian Science Monitor.
We spent Christmas with my in-laws, and nobody got into a nasty fight about global warming or accused anyone of being a “bloody conservative” or “bleeding-heart liberal.”
No one sobbed while sharing about the worst moment in their lives, or gave a spouse a dirty stare because they were left out of the best. (Both were topics Dad once suggested so his son-in-laws could get to know the family better).
And absolutely no one pounded the table while guffawing during Christmas dinner, because someone was relating an inappropriate but hilarious story of personal misfortune.
I was out of my element, surrounded by strange, polite people.
When my side of the family gets together, we believe the only topics worth discussing are those that can cause violent emotional outbursts, such as religion, politics and anything deeply personal or embarrassing. To us there is no inopportune time or place for a spirited discussion.
When my sister Annie came into town for a weekend before Christmas, we hadn’t seen each other for over a year. We caught up by quarreling for two hours about fast food workers’ pay, what kind of comments Jesus would like on Facebook, and the best route to take on several global crises. We kept my oldest son awake, initiating him into a time-honored family tradition.
While Annie and I faced off from separate ends of the couch, my husband fell into a chronic stupor induced by overdosing on the fumes of other people’s emotions. I tried to bait him repeatedly, demanding to know if he had any opinions, but he curled up with a blankie in his recliner and played dead.
Eventually he retreated to bed and missed out on the best part, because my family laughs as hard as we debate. Harder, actually — especially if there’s booze around.
While downing a bottle of Muscadine wine, Annie and I made up by poking fun at ourselves.
Annie said that if anger is like a cream pie, our family is constantly throwing it in each other’s faces — “Here! You eat this pie, Sucker!” And we even enjoy usurping other people’s emotional pies and smearing them all over our own faces — “It’s not my business? It’s not my business?! Well, ha! I make it my business!”
A very generous family, we like to share our business. And your business. And the whole world’s business. My husband’s family? Not so much. They don’t even like to share when they’re taking a trip or having major surgery.
Given my family’s dynamics, I suppose it’s better for all concerned that my husband comes from a quieter, more reserved line of folks. Come to think of it, none of my siblings married stump-pounding, brow-beating, laugh-until-they-can’t-breathe kindred spirits, either. Generally, our significant others just stare at our antics and listen to our outrageous speech in dignified silence, stunned by our lack of tact and political correctness.
Our spouses — Lord bless ’em! — are calm, peace-loving people. They may not laugh as often or loud as we do, but they also don’t shove fluffy pies of fury in our faces on a regular basis. As Annie and I merrily pointed out, they digest their own anger pies just to keep the peace: Tamp it down! Tamp it down!
But if we bait them too many times, and those bad boys come back up?
— Hillary Ibarra
Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org and was recently published at Hahas for Hoohas. She is a mother of four who dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen’s childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers but can’t seem to find them in the laundry. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.