Practically There

A Particular Peace

Upon the imminent approach, or should I say impending threat, of my fortieth year I have had occasion to reflect on who I am, how others see me, what legacy will I have left behind and what do I want to be when I grow up? Now the cursory and quite clever answers to those questions would, of course, be "Pam, the last time I checked the tag in the back of my knickers", "with their eyes I imagine", "debt, most likely" and "ballerina-fry cook" in that order. Truthfully, after much meditation on the matter the answers are still as hazy as a Savannah sunset in August. I suspect that I am having something of a mid- life quandary. It is just that I simply refuse to believe that 40-ish is mid-life as I have every intention of being fairly animate well past the 100 year mark. (That in mind, I suppose that I should, oh, I don't know; start eating right, exercising or something that would offer some prospect of life extension or a "deferral of post-peak ripeness" as I like to call it.)

To be quite honest the idea of entering the fifth decade of my life is, well, reassuring. First off, I made it this far and while that feat may seem something less than astounding, please keep in mind that I am an accident waiting to happen. This is an idiosyncrasy that my husband used to find endearing, but over the years he has just come to find it - expensive. In actuality, I am scarcely able to traverse the entire span of a throw rug without incident. The thing is that it isn't just physical mishaps that are disconcerting at this juncture; my mind is just not what it used to be, just not up to the day-to-day wear-and-tear of cogitating. Things that used to come so easily like phone numbers, appointments, the names of my children or which foot my shoe goes on are now arduous and lengthy proceedings that involve backtracking, embarrassment and sometimes just making things up as I go along. I will confess that this is not always detrimental. If truth be told I have cleaned a number of cabinets and drawers because I had forgotten just why I had gone into a specific room, I have had lovely conversations with complete strangers because I have gotten myself lost and what's more I am really and truly hoping that I married the correct man. I mean, sometimes he is not all that familiar to me BUT he is quite nice, he's rather good looking and he fixes things that I break, so I believe that I shall keep him anyway, thank you. (Oh, yes, and I also find that I begin to go off on tangents that meander about until I have completely lost the point that I was trying to make!)

Secondly, this comfort that I gained is founded in a sort of mellowing; an easing up of insecurities and self-penance. There has been a certain smoothing of a few rough edges and a finer honing of some edges that are presently and purposefully pointed. Now stay with me on this because I am getting the itch to wander off the point a bit and straight into another tangent. (I also suspect that there will be a lot of alliteration and a metaphor or two so I hope that you are wearing waders!) Here's the thing - there is this book and its title is like a little axiom for my life anyway. The book is titled I am Becoming the Woman that I've Wanted by Sandra Martz, and well, there you go - that's it, BAM! In a nutshell - I am BECOMING the woman that I've wanted (to be)! 'Nuf said. Cripes, it took me 40 years to figure out that it's not the destination; it's all about the journey! So, what? "What" is that we waste all of this time on beating ourselves up because along the way we didn't quite realize OTHER people's ideas of what we were supposed to be or what we were expected to do.

You see, I now realize that I like me. I like me. Everybody together now - I like me. I didn't before, but now I do - I LIKE ME! I like my scars and my stretch marks, they are my history. I like my chin that looks like a bookshelf; it's my great -grandmother's chin and when it juts out everyone is forewarned that I am really ticked off. I like the fact that I scrunch potato chips on my tuna sandwiches (you've got to try it). I like the way that I walk, head up shoulders back and that my little legs get all the distance that they can out of a single stride. I like when my kids throw things back that I have said, like "Look the Devil straight in the eye and spit in his face if you have to," What does that mean? I don't know and I said it! I also like the fact that my kids are just left of center; three completely unique and totally cool individuals that, if they were not my children, I would want as my friends. I like the fact that I am finally realizing some balance in my life; a liquid life wherein I am finding my level regardless of my slope. And I like the fact that "things" don't matter as much anymore. Oh, that's not to say that I couldn't use a new pair of sneakers or a sofa that doesn't sag, but frankly I have yet to attend a memorial in which people reminisce, "Didn't she have great stuff?" or "That bric-a-brac brought him so much peace and joy in his final days." Nope, I have never heard that.

So, with this I guess I begin a new chapter. The voice will be the same but the narrative will be a bit more colorful. To be sure it promises to be a page turning mix of adventure and intrigue, romance and heartache, reflection and action, ecstasy and evolution, fun and field trips, hot and cold, yin and yang, peanut butter and jelly…oh, and the heroine will wear a funny hat… and I do so hope that there is a part with George Clooney, a linen closet and bacon bits.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go and turn forty. And frankly, I can't wait!

Hey, but that's just me talking.

"Until you value yourself, you won't value your time. Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it. Or something. I dunno, I was only half listening. Becca said it, anyway. Ask her."
- M. Scott Peck

Small Screen Monkeyshines

It would seem that the advertisers sponsoring much of today's commercial "children's" television have the American family honed in their cross hairs and they have an itchy trigger finger. Although big business concerns are not necessarily the only antagonists in this campaign to bilk each and every domestic household out of their hard earned cash. Even the ever altruistic Public Television Stations have dirtied their hands once or twice, insinuating themselves into the family circle under the pretext of fundraising. Unfortunately, the upshot of this media blitzkrieg is a generation of "Gimme's" and a score of guilt ridden people who question their validity as parents if thy do not equip their offspring with the most up-to-the-minute "must haves".

On any given day, at almost any given hour, one may view programming with its foremost focus on the youngsters of the home. Often, children's programming, particularly that found on commercial television, is televised during hours in which the family should be, oh, maybe sharing a meal, creatively playing or simply delighting in a beautiful day. This timing all too commonly makes it an undemanding babysitter. Additionally, these shows are frequently broadcast well past a reasonable time at which most tots have, or should have, drifted off to into a deep slumber. Moreover, the content of said shows may, or more likely may not, be suitable for the audience for which it was intended ,though this is generally not the case with public television, where content, subject matter and substance are, by and large, of unsurpassed excellence and suitability.

Notwithstanding, the one thing that these shows do have in common is the barrage of "stuff" available to the well provided for child as much of the advertising is tied to the programming. Whether it is "Sponge Bob" action figures, "Digimon" dinner plates or "Scooby-Doo" fruit snacks, watchers are played well by the promotional puppet masters, inferring that if you don't "have" then you are not "in". This is where the slope gets a little slippery for the civic-minded people citizens at PBS. Even the pleasant and decent people in Public Television are culpable in this action having, in a recent fundraising drive, been heard to direct any children watching Sesame Street to "go into the other room and get one of your parents and tell them that you want to be a member of Public Television". Now this in and of itself is not a transgression, but when done so while offering up and adorable Tickle-me-Elmo doll or some such item as a gift in exchange for the parent's sizable donation, the message being sent gets a bit murky. Young children do not grasp the idea of reciprocity in fund raising. Heck, I'm not sure that I always get the picture either. Ha! Get it, picture - TV, TV picture??!! OK, enough. (And, yes I do understand that sadly this has become an all too necessary dog-and-pony show to get viewers to cough up funding in a culture where apathy holds sway and the idea of give-and-take has seems to have been re-phrased as take-and-take-some-more.)

Even still, if an item is not tied directly to a particular program, the placement of these ads and the control that they seem to wield over even the most enlightened and intelligent of individuals is staggering. The children are led to believe that if they do not eat, drink, wear, ride or have what ever the media has deemed "now", well then they are not "cool". The parents imagine that if they do not fulfill the wishes and desires of their progeny that they are not worthy, meanwhile, conglomerate profits grow, landfills overflow with what was "now" yesterday and too many family units further blur the distinction between want and need.

But, hey, that's just me talking.

(Now if you will excuse me I have to go and put on my "Meet the Press" Fuzzy Slippers, fill my "Tonight Show with Jay Leno" mug with some refreshing and "totally cool" Mountain Dew and watch "Law & Order", the Chris Noth years. Oh, baby!)

"What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish."
- W. H. Auden, The Dyer's Hand, 1962

***Thanks everyone for hanging in there with me - sorry for no postings in the last two weeks, I took a bit of a psychological sabbatical!!!****

Heroes

A Hero. Generally looked upon as somebody who commits an act of remarkable bravery or who has shown great courage, strength of character, or another admirable quality, at least that is what Merriam-Webster has to say about the matter. Recently my daughter made it known to me that she had a hero, though in her characterization this person was really something more of a guidepost, nonetheless, her hero is not an actor, an athlete or celebrity of any kind. He doesn't he possess super-human strength, see through walls or for that matter have a cape or wear his underwear on the outside of his tights. He is in actuality an ordinary man who, in his life, has done extraordinary things despite every obstacle imaginable being thrown into his path and he has done so with a humility, humanity and a sense of humor that leave those of us who have had comparatively easy lives to question what it is that is wanting in our character, in our very make-up, that we feel that we must complain, condemn and criticize in order to feel passable, if not superior, to our contemporaries. Mike, as we will call him because that is his name, has CP. That is the last that I will mention it because Mike never does.

Mike is an "excuse assassin"; there is nothing that he will not try or goad someone else into trying with him. He has a PhD in Anthropological Linguistics (yes, you read it correctly), three Master's degrees, one in Mathematical Statistics, one in Anthropology and the other in Computer Science (I suspect that he will have a forth one of these days as he has an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a resolve and spirit that are nothing less than astounding). Despite many hardships, trials and tribulations, Mike (along with his lovely wife, Anne) is never ceasing in his generosity of time, of ideas and of spirit and quite honestly, I am not sure of which I am more proud, that it is my privilege to call Mike a friend or that we have raised a daughter whom is so exceptional and clearly defined in her assessment of what indeed, and in deed, is central to the very essence of a role model and how she would wish to make her contribution to humanity. Both.

It was really Madi's (my daughter) fundamental perception of what makes for a personal champion that got me to thinking about my own heroes, how the heroes that we choose to emulate in our lives seem to define how we see ourselves and what it says about who we are now (wow, that was a mouthful). As for me, since my childhood my heroes have mainly been imaginative and prolific men with crinkly eyes. Gene Kelly, Garrison Keillor and Michael Palin (and, no, my father is not an imaginative and prolific man with crinkly eyes so don't bother even going there). Of course, there were astounding women that I admired and that I desperately longed to be like as well; Eleanor of Aquitaine, Dorothy Parker, Audrey Hepburn. But it was the men, ahhh, the men, each one of them revealing different features, prompting distinct and individual qualities in my emergent adolescence and my formative years.

Gene Kelly, well, Mr. Kelly had grace, an utterly Irish charm and a crooked smile like my own. He was an athlete and an innovator, a man's man with an artist's vision: things that I so wanted to be (okay, other than the man's man thing). Oh, yes, and he had great legs, this I knew at age 11.

Garrison Keillor was my composition technique tour guide. "G" was the writer in which I found a basis for the early, unperturbed and open writing style that I chose to adopt (yes, yes, great ones originate, passable artists copy; guess which one I am). Side note - having met him recently, I can say in all honesty that Mr. Keillor seems to be just a lovely, gifted and truly gracious man. I say "seems" because if he is not all of these things then you can add damn fine actor to his list of attributes.

If Eleanor of Aquitaine was wise, strong-willed, fearless and resolute, well then, I would be too. Dorothy Parker was urbane and razor-sharp, so I'd take a stab at being erudite also. Audrey Hepburn, quite simply Audrey Hepburn was kind and stunningly beautiful. I was neither. But goals are good, even impossible ones.

Then there was Mr. Palin. Little story - I was not allowed to watch Monty Python in those seminal years, but I, unlike many of my friends, had my own television. It was one of those small 13" jobbies that I had gotten as a trade from my parents for my dog (long story) and at 11:30 on Channel 17, when my parents thought that I had long been asleep, I would sit right up close to the TV with my nose nearly touching the screen and the sound turned just about down to naught, and I would watch Michael, John, Terry, Terry, Graham, and Eric (and Carol) with a devotion that bordered on the spiritual. And while I had a soft spot for all of these gentlemen, I, well, how should I say it, was just simply and utterly feral in my adoration for Mr. Palin. Funny, intelligent and completely agreeable, Mr. Palin was, I believe, my first crush. Strangely, this was something that I more or less kept to myself for fear that if I referenced it in any way that others would then feel the same and I would then be forced to share him; splitting off little morsels of Michael and allocating them here and there to persons whom I did not feel were worthy of his smidgens (that did sound a bit naughty, didn't it?). In retrospect, clearly I was insane. I have never met the man and accordingly have no entitlement to his smidgens or their distribution. Actually I have no wish to meet him as I am confident that I would do little more than shuffle my feet, stare at my shoes (thereby affording him a spectacular view of the grey band, in dire need of a touch-up, that runs along the apex of my cranium) and blather some incoherent drivel, "…You, me like…stupid…me…" This would then be followed by an extended period of quiet sobbing; probably mine. Maybe his.

In hindsight, if we were we to revisit the heroes of our childhood I suspect that we would find little glimmers of the selves we know today, something of a miscellany of traits that we hoped for ourselves at some point in our future; an adulthood which at the time seemed an eternity away. (I don't know about you but my eternity got a running head start and before I knew it I had been unloaded into this rather seedy neighborhood that I have dubbed Later Life Land).

So, I will leave you with this; think back on whom it was in your early days that you wanted so desperately to be like and what was it about him or her (or them) in particular that sparked such enthusiasm? Was your hero an athlete who inspired you to run faster or jump higher? Or maybe it was what they stood for; the integrity of the sport, the struggle of the underdog or the humble tip of the hat acknowledging the devotion of the fans. Perhaps your personal champion was an actor, a writer, a dignitary or a spiritual leader. Could it be that the person that you most admired was someone a little more familiar; a parent, teacher, a coach, or even a sibling. It could have even been a fictional character, I mean, who didn't want to be Thor, God of Thunder or Penelope Pit stop (and yes, I have just established how painfully out of date I am). The point is that regardless of whom you were drawn to as a role-model there was a reason; an impetus to fashion yourself after that individual. The qualities that we found so attractive, yea those many, many, many years ago are more than likely the very traits that we recognize and relish in the people we are today. I can only hope that as my life's legacy someone would find me to be honorable, gifted or in some other way worthy of being his or her role model. Hmmmm. On second thought, no. That's an awful lot of pressure. So, I guess instead I just take whatever is behind curtain #3.

But, then again, that just me talking.

"Man's main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is."
-Erich Fromm, Man for Himself

Autumn Crisp

I lied. All right, it was sort of a white lie. No, no it was really something closer to an anemic anecdote with traces of the truth strewn about it like fertilizer on a spring lawn.

Little story. I used to have a paying job, you know an actual 9 to 5 kind of deal, working for the municipality that I currently live in and, may I add, a town that took the "fun" out of dysfunctional. At least most dysfunctional communities have the good sense to be amusing; apparently our township just didn't have any sense at all. But, I digress; this is fodder for another piece. Long story short, I was summoned to an Appreciation Day at the Town Park. Now, the Parklands Committee has put on this soirée annually for the last few years and boy, do they work their green little thumbs to the bone to make it a festive event. Well, having some poverty of self esteem or other need to people-please, before it had even registered in my brain that my mouth was moving had I offered to bring something, "Anything you need," I said, "Anything I can do to help." I am an idiot. Please don't get me wrong, I am always happy to help out when I can, it is just that I seem incapable of saying "I'm sorry, I can't" and therefore get my self into more bake-sale-chairperson-sure-I'll-sell-tickets-no-problem-my-weekend-is-yours kind of predicaments than the average sap. Actually, the Parklands Committee went easy on me and merely asked for a dessert item. Wow, that's too easy. Sure. Done. And it was added to the twelve other things that I had said that I would do on that day.

Now for a tiny bit of insight into my tiny little psyche - I will volunteer to do things BUT then whatever I volunteer to do HAS to be the best something at hand. It must be more creative, more intricate, and more stylish; it must have a better story behind it, more, more, more… So, in this particular case I spent the first of the two weeks before the luncheon pouring over cookbooks, magazines and the Internet looking for a dessert recipe that would astound and amaze. Then over the span of the next week, my interest waned a bit as I had found a couple of recipes that I was positive would be ideal so the pressure was off, so off in fact that by the day of the event I had completely forgotten about it. Oh, yeah, that's me. Idiot squared. The food was to be served at 10:30am EST and it was 7:39am when I in my-one-socked-I-don't-wear-frilly-lingerie-because-if-there's-a-fire-at-3-in-the-morning-dammit-I-will-be-wearing-sweatpants-in-front-of-the-neighbors-now-I-need-a-second-cup-of-coffee-so-I-can-open-the-other-eye fashion realized that there was little more than chick peas, elbow pasta and some stale Pixie Stix in the cupboard. Not really sufficient to make a sweet indulgence that would render luncheon guests speechless. There was the chance that they would never speak to me again, but I doubt that they would be speechless. And then in my caffeine enhanced panic I had a childhood memory, an instantaneous and vivid little snippet of the past. It's funny just how those synapses start firing away in the ol' cranium and suddenly you are musing on things that you haven't thought of in years. I had a very good friend named Carole, actually she was my best friend and I was envious of her because whenever I would go over to her house they always had the BEST food. Her mom would make things like fritters or toasted cheese sandwiches and pour tall glasses of whole milk for us when we got off of the school bus and I was convinced that Carole was just about the luckiest girl that I had ever met because when she came home from school her house smelled like warm bread and hot oil. One of my very favorite things that her Mom would make was something called "Dump Cake". At 10 years old I had never come across anything like it in my short little life, but once I had a taste of it I was hooked. What amazed me was that this concoction was so scrumptious AND so easy. No measuring. No stirring. Just, well… dumping.

Having returned to my moment of panic after my sojourn down memory lane, I realized the answer was right there in front of me and it was warm and scooped onto a small white plate placed on Carole's dining room table with a tall cold glass of whole milk sitting just up and to the right. Dump Cake. That is what I would make for the Volunteer Appreciation Day. I must have enough ingredients; I mean it really is rather subjective at to what you put into a Dump Cake. Some people use cherry filling, others use apple, some use chocolate cake-mix, others white or yellow. Yes, nuts. No nuts. Coconut. Maybe pineapple. Whatever you have and whatever you like is what goes into the cake. Then it's topped with butter. So, there is no real down side to this dessert, because if nothing else, everything tastes good with butter on it. So, Dump Cake I made; Two in fact, and just in a nick of time.

Well, the event went off with without a hitch and wasn't the dessert that I had prepared just the hit of the party. "Isn't that just the tastiest thing that I have ever had," they said, "It is truly wonderful, what is it called? You simply MUST give us the recipe!" And this is where the story comes full circle and the lying thing comes to light. As I stood there basking in these lovely compliments my mind was going full tilt thinking, "Pam, you pompous ass, you cannot honestly tell them that this is nothing more than Dump Cake, something akin to emptying your cabinets and cooking it. They'll think that you didn't try hard enough. They'll think you're a rube." Meanwhile, the logical side of my brain was saying, "What is wrong with you? Just tell them how easy it is, be a real person with scruples and not a pretentious jerk." I am sorry to say that "Pretentious Jerk" won out and in my moment of weakness I answered their question: "Thank you, thank you. This, oh, this is called an Autumn Crisp. Isn't it simply delightful with a nice vanilla bean ice cream?" I lied. As the words left my mouth, I thought, "Who is that talking? It sounds like me, but, but I hate smug snobs and that person talking is a smug snob if ever I heard one."

At that moment, with absolute impeccable timing, a wonderful young lady of 80-odd years said, "Well, it certainly is good. It tastes like something that I used to make called Dump Cake. Don't mind if I help myself to a little more." Yes, I am an idiot.

So, there we are. Now, you know my secret. Autumn Crisp is Dump Cake. I am feeling so much better now. I really am not a food snob, or any kind of snob really but I think sometimes that those of us whose self-confidence isn't all that it probably should be tend to try to fit our square-peg selves into big-old-round-social-holes, only to find that not only have we splintered ourselves and damaged an already shaky sense of self but that we have become, if only by appearances, the very thing that we disdain. I used to joke that if I wasn't me I would want to be my own best friend. You know what? I believe it's true. In coming clean I have a whole new appreciation for myself and I believe that I can now boldly shout from the rooftops, "I make Dump Cake and it is good!"

But, that's just me talking.

"A man desires praise that he may be reassured, that he may be quit of his doubting of himself; he is indifferent to applause when he is confident of success."
- Alec Waugh, On Doing What One Likes

Recipe for Autumn Crisp, I mean Dump Cake

1 can Pie Filling (Cherry or apple or blueberry or rhubarb or mix them, whatever - I like cherry)
1 can crushed pineapple (not necessary but I like it)
1 box yellow cake mix (or white, or chocolate, whatever- I use yellow)
2 sticks of butter
Nuts, Coconut (optional)

Preheat oven to 350. In a 9 X 13 cake pan pour pie filling into pan. On top of that pour pineapple, but don't mix. Sprinkle over that the box of cake mix. Top with nuts. Slice butter and place over top until mostly covered. Bake for about 30 minutes but it may take up to an hour. You will know that it is done when the top is browned and bubbly. Serve with a nice vanilla bean ice cream or just plain vanilla ice cream. (Hey, whipped cream is good, too!)