November 30, 2020--National Mason Jar Day
Granny had a pie safe on her back porch. Inside its double doors was all manner of mason jars filled with delectable pickled vegetables. There may have been jams as well, but she was known for her pickled cucumbers. You can pickle just about anything, but most of us think of the cucumber when we refer to pickles. There were shelves stacked high with them in Granny's pie safe. And underneath the pie safe is where Granny kept her "tupperware." Granny's tupperware consisted of used but well cleaned out plastic containers from the grocery store. There was only one grocery store in her small town back in those days, and I remember well all of the containers she stored out on her porch. I used to pretend the pie safe was a store. To my mind, it smelled exactly like the grocery store she would take us to from time to time, ten miles away from her farmhouse. When there with her for the first time, I was astounded to find out that Granny bought regular food. I had never seen boxes of cereal nor packages of cookies and the like when I slept over at her house. And while she still didn't purchase anything prepackaged like those items, she still had supplies to get. So there we were in a very small grocery store where she knew the people who checked her out at the cash register. We children were allowed one small purchase. I always picked those waxy bottles of unflavored liquid that looked like a six pack of soda. Either that, or a chocolate soda pop from the cooler that lay in wait like a coffin filled with ice cold drinks. You had to be careful that you didn't go to the cooler that was for adults only. I was watched and told which one to choose from, even though I always wanted to see what was available in both of them. Back home at her farmhouse, I liked to play on her back porch which was really an enclosed room where her washing machine resided. And the pie safe. I would open those pie safe doors and sit on the floor and try to match up the empty Daisy Sour Cream, cottage cheese, and margarine containers that were stored in a cardboard box underneath the pie safe with their correct lids. It seemed to take hours just to set them all up together. By the time I did that, the store game was over. November 29, 2020--National Rice Cake Day
The rice cake has had its moment. So much so, that recently when I was in my local grocery store, I had to ask someone where these things were located. I have taken to buying them of late because I have a theory about them. My theory is that the sugar and/or calories of an item are canceled out if you put it on top of a rice cake. My most recent favorite to spread on top of a rice cake? Nutella. The hazelnut and cocoa confection is too rich and creamy to be spread on top of anything else, in my opinion. My favorite way to eat Nutella spread is to slap a generous amount onto the top of a chocolate flavored rice cake. I may be the only rice cake buyer left in my part of the world, however. As I stated before, I had to ask for directions to the rice cake department on a recent grocery shopping outing. And it was not much of a department. Cut back to only the Quaker brand, which I am not opposed to, the store only carried three flavors of the rice cake--chocolate, caramel, and apple cinnamon. I bought one of each. And the largest jar of Nutella I could find. The thing is, I am almost out of Nutella with a package and half of rice cakes left to go. I will buy more Nutella, of course, but what is the correct ratio of rice cakes to a jar of the stuff? A twenty-seven ounce jar of Nutella claims to have 20 one ounce servings. I guess they must factor seven one ounce spoonfuls of the stuff between servings, while spreading it on the rice cake. And yes, I double dip. But who can blame me? I mean, Nutella is delicious. And before you get all judgy on me, let me assure you dear reader, I am the only member of my family who eats the stuff. So, my double dipping is akin to men who leave the toilet seat up. If they are the only one who uses their bathroom, it shouldn't really matter, right? Seat up, seat down, double dipping--it's all the same if one is the solo performer of such deeds. You can put other spreads on a rice cake, of course. There are all the butter spreads--peanut, almond, cashew. You name the nut, and there is probably a butter spread of it. Nutella is a nut spread as well. It just has cocoa added to make it so much more delicious. November 28, 2020--Letter Writing Day
Dear Everyone, Here is a tiny peek into my small world. Yesterday, much like everyday during this pandemic, I had "nowhere to go, nothing to buy, and no money to buy it with." (To Kill a Mockingbird, p. 4). I actually do have money to buy something with, but I have no motivation to buy or purchase anything. Nada. Minimalism and staying home has wreaked havoc with my buying will power. While I could buy things to decorate for the holidays, I have no need to do so. Plenty is the word to describe the holiday crap I already own. I have no need for a red truck with a Christmas tree tied on back of it. Hanging about my house mostly also proves there is no need for new clothes. One thing I have invested in greatly this year, however, is pajamas. If you stay in your pajamas for half a day, as I have become accustomed to doing, it helps to have something better than an old tee shirt with mismatched pajama bottoms. Is it weird that I have reorganized my pajama drawer into two drawers, warm weather (most of the time) and cold weather? And is it weirder still that I have organized each pajama top with the preferred bottoms, so that if I get the top half of the set dirty, I also toss the bottoms into the laundry as I don't like the idea of a pair of pajama bottoms just floating around in the drawer freely? My pajama drawer is strictly for couples only. No singles allowed. If a pair of bottoms is allowed in there alone, for example, the next thing you know, a matching set of pajamas will be filing for divorce and pairing off with God knows what partner. Notice I didn't say what kind of partner? The reason for this is because my pajama drawers have become a sort of country club, if you will. Only qualified sets or pairs of pajamas need apply. And there is also a quota. Currently, the club is not taking any new members, as we just recently had a rush sale up at the Walmart. We will only add new members in the future as current members die off from old age, or decrepit, stained, torn or piled up fabric. So that is a small look at my tiny world. I am at the point now in my life that when I look at new trends in fashion while out browsing but not buying anything, I can easily say to myself, "Oh, yes, I remember the last go round of that item. We wore it when I was ___________ (fill in the blank for any age between 0 and 50 something)." Sincerely, K. Schwab November 27, 2020--Pins and Needles Day There are 29 days until Christmas, and children the world over are already on pins and needles about it. Also on pins and needles are the housewives of the world, wondering when and if everything will fall into place holiday-wise. I am torn today as well. Do I just willy-nilly knock down my fall holiday decorations and prepare for the better red and green holiday of December? I happen to like the fall decor items and it pains me every year to pack them away, especially only one day after the feast of Thanksgiving. The stores, pinterest, youtube, and women's magazines have been full of it for a month. They generally start filling their spaces with Christmas decor the day after Halloween. The holiday change over has already started in my neighborhood. Up to two weeks ago, you could find homes already raring to go into the December madness. Many homes already have a Christmas tree displayed in the front window and lights in the yard. The first day of advent is November 29, this Sunday. So it is not crazy to find that folks have transitioned already to Christmas. I have in the past done the same thing--rushed headlong into the Yule event as if my life depended on it. Here is what I found out about doing so. It makes no difference if you start preparing for the Christmas season in July, August, or anytime up until December 24th. You will still get that same old anxiety at some point prior to Christmas Day that you felt as a small child. The difference of it, however, is that then you just wanted to know if you were going to get a real Madame Alexander doll (which, by the way, you never did--but you were still just as happy). On the other hand, now you just want to let the march into the shopping, cooking, decorating, meeting up with friends, partying, and general busyness add up to the holiday you have set in your mind. Probably it never will. There will always be some invitation you must turn down, some card you didn't send, and some present you did not buy. I think it is meant to be that way. Perhaps that is the meaning of advent afterall. It is a season of waiting for the Christ child, but it really got its start as a season of waiting for Christ's second coming and baptism of new Christians. I am not a Biblical scholar, only a church goer, but some quick research provided this information. Today, my prayer, more than ever, goes like this: Oh, come, oh come Emmanuel. And ransom a captive Material- Listic world that mourns in crazy exile here, Waiting for our peaceful planet to appear. That's a tall order in just 29 days, now isn't it? November 26, 2020--Happy Thanksgiving Day!
I married into a family of near professional cooks. My husband has four sisters, and they all can cook. Naturally, they came by their skills from his mother who was also a great cook. We spent most holidays at her house in part because we knew we would be fed well. I was never asked to bring anything more difficult to prepare to family gatherings than a fruit salad. I always brought my best fruity effort, but I was also a little insulted at the request. I mean who needs a fruit salad with a giant meal when there is also a green or lettuce salad offered? I was an after thought, it seemed. So imagine my delight when one year, after years of contributing a fruit salad to the family holiday meal, I was asked to bring the sweet potatoes to our Thanksgiving feast. I had been promoted, at last. And not just promoted, but given the chance to shine with one of the mainstays of any Thanksgiving buffet. I don't exactly know how it happened, but it was the first and last time I was asked to bring anything that required heating or cooking. I had decided to bring a sweet potato casserole that I remembered eating years ago at a party--with brown sugar topping, lots of real butter, and a bit of bourbon, just enough to take the edge off. I awoke early that Thanksgiving Day and began to prepare my sweet potato delight. When it came to the bourbon, I thought more is more. At least that is how it works for me when mixing drinks, not that I'm much of a connoisseur of bourbon. In fact I am such a non-connoisseur of it that when I went to the liquor store to make my purchase of some, the clerk looked at me and said, "For cooking, right?" I felt like a boss in the kitchen that day. Such a boss that I didn't even review my recipe before I began cooking. When it came to adding the bourbon, let's just say I was extremely generous. I packed my dish up and off we went to the family meal. No one said anything as my sweet potato casserole was passed around the table. I began to suspect something amiss when I noticed no one asking for seconds or complimenting my efforts. When I finally tasted my own dish, I was aghast. The first bite would not kill you, but no one but a sailor could have taken more than two bites. At the third bite, you would be drunk enough to pass out. I apologized profusely to the diners. It should be hard to ruin a common dish such as sweet potatoes, but I managed it. Those potatoes were like drinking straight from the bottle. And they looked so pretty too, floating around in their buttery brown sugar coated goodness. The next year I was demoted from my lofty perch of Sweet Potato Queen to Fruity Salad lady-in-waiting. Again. I am o.k. with it though. It is a point of view that I am used to. November 25, 2020--Tie One On Day
Cheers! Today is "Tie One On Day," but it is not what one thinks. It is a day meant for you to tie on an apron and bake. Then you should give away something you baked wrapped in a new apron. This day was started in 2006 by author, EllynAnne Geisel, who has a series of books about aprons. While I have seen these books in book stores and they are books that I would totally spend gift card money on, part of me can see why she wanted a day like today. I mean she has a 'vested' interest in aprons, after all. Tie One On Day goes against everything thing in my essence of personhood. After so many years, I have discovered I really do not like baking. I have baked, and I have served my baked goods to awaiting customers, meaning my family. I just don't like the process of waiting around for the baked item to get done. Perhaps it's my oven. I can't ever get the timing just right, and it is rather small besides. I can only fit the tiniest cookie sheet inside it which means several rotations of doing the same damn thing, if I bake cookies, for example. And I have never, ever wanted to do the same damn thing. The phrase, "Been there, done that," should be my epithet. Tie One On Day also goes against my essence because I never wear aprons, although I do own one. And here is why I know I own one. The other day I was sweeping, dusting, and cleaning the bathrooms when I thought, "You know, I really ought to have an apron on for this job." I spent a great deal of time looking for my one single apron--a cooking one with a full bib and pockets. I looked all over my house. After an hour of searching, I finally concluded that I must have given it away in one of my latest Marie Kondo clearings. And it made sense that using the Marie Kondo method, I would have not loved an apron. However, using that logic, why haven't I done away with everything in the kitchen? I don't love my oven. Should I get rid of it? I went on with my cleaning tasks, but by then I was already exhausted from searching for the apron, so some of the chores were put on my "next time" list. The next day, after putting away the groceries from my latest shopping trip, I balled up the plastic bags to put them into our plastic bag holder which hangs on a hook in the kitchen. You have probably seen these handy things. They are cloth bags that you put the plastic bags in from the top. Then they can come out of the drawstring bottom, one at a time. It is sort of a reverse tissue box. So when I went to put the bags inside the contraption, guess what I noticed? My apron. Hanging on the hook it was designed to hang on, looking fresh and unused. The plastic bag holder was only an after thought for that hook. It was originally only meant to hold the apron. Both items are hanging in plain sight in my kitchen. In plain sight, but apparently not quite plain enough. Just like drug dealers and prostitutes. November 24, 2020--National Sardines Day My dad loved sardines. He used to buy them all the time at the grocery store. And he would eat them straight out of the can with crackers for lunch. All you need to do to eat them this way is pop the top on the can and start munching. There is a downside to sardines, however. And that down side is a rather pungent fishy smell. Since my dad could not smell for all of his life, he enjoyed his sardines at the expense of everyone else's olfactory system. However, if he could have smelled them, I don't think he would have liked them. We all could smell them, and we didn't care for his luncheon menu at all. But do you know who did care for it? Our cats. They used to line up and sit still and watch his consumption of the fishy delicacy. There is a pose that cats take in this situation, and that pose is to sit straight with their tail wrapped around their body. Sometimes they would sit this way and meow as well. It was a sight to behold. Here were the touchy cats with their attitude in check watching carefully like soldiers at attention. After Dad was done, he would give the cats his leftover can with a bit of the final sardine in it. The cats would gingerly eat from his leavings. When we had more than one cat, he would give his entire last sardine to them, dividing it equally between however many cats we had. It was a cat party every sardine meal. It brought my dad to new emotional places. He didn't grow up with pet cats--as he lived on a farm where cats are part of the livestock, more or less. They are used to keep rats at bay in the barn. My dad was forced to interact with our pets during these sardine encounters and a real love affair grew between them. So much love of our cats found my dad's heart that in his later years he and his wife had a cat that they found in their yard. They tried to find it a home, but none of their neighbors had any interest in it. They surmised that the cat must have ridden home hidden in the wheel mount on my dad's truck because there were no house cats in their neighborhood either. Certainly no kittens who had gone missing. So the cat became their pet, and when dad had to move to assisted living, the cat went along with him. It was heartbreaking when at last the cat had to be given away to a good home because dad just could not care for her anymore. I am happy to say that the cat is flourishing. Dad would be proud. November 23, 2020--Don't Go Broke Over the Holidays
Today is heralded as "Don't Go Broke Over the Holidays" by Clarifi Financial Resources. What a lofty idea! It seems in complete contrast to the normal American way. In order to get everyone started, I will offer my own ideas on some of their topics.
Son--Here is a list of 4,445 items I would like to receive as Christmas gifts. Check my Christmas gift website daily for updates. Husband--Sleep, exercise, watch football, routine maintenance on the car, lawn, house, bank accounts, yadayadayadayadayadayady-----
November 22, 2020--Arbor Day Around the World
My granny had a living Christmas tree for the longest time. It was a Norfolk pine which are the small trees from the Norfolk Island that you can buy just about anywhere during the holiday season. They are typically very small, and most people cannot keep them alive for very long after Christmas. I don't know how Granny did it, but she managed to raise her Christmas tree from a small one that someone had given her as a gift one year. She repotted it once, and from there it just took off. They typically do not do well around these parts outside. However, Granny would put hers on her back porch which had walls and windows, but was not heated nor air-conditioned. Sometime around the beginning of December, she would haul it inside and then decorate it with light weight ornaments and lights, as the Norfolk pine planted in pots do not typically develop heavy branches. Then after Christmas, she would move it to her back porch again where it lived in near perpetuity. I wonder whatever became of that plant after Granny moved to a smaller place? I have been on a quest for the last some odd years now to find a simpler and less time consuming method of setting up a Christmas tree, and I now see how Granny was on to something. The last few Christmases, I have tried different things. A few years back, when I was de-Christmasfying the house at the beginning of January, I strung a bunch of ornaments together on a garland with lights. Then, the next year, all I had to do was wrap the light-ornament-garland around the tree and voila, a fast, easy method of decorating a tree. It was awesome. The problem was that I had and still have more ornaments than I have garlands. And it is just time to stop with so many ornaments. I am on my way this year, as I have begun a wreath making workshop in my craft room. It is torturous and completely self-inflicted. I just can't part with any of the ornaments, especially the ones made by my children. I will soon be ready for my next phase of simplifying the Christmas decorating process. I am just one large Norfolk pine away from complete Yuletide nirvana. November 21, 2020--False Confession Day
SWORN TESTIMONY: UNDER PENALTIES OF PURJURY, I, Karen Schwabenland, hereby make this foregoing statement freely and voluntarily, without threats and/or intimidation, and state that the contents herein are true and correct:
November 20, 2020--National Absurdity Day We awake each morning, travel some distance (before quarantine) to work at soul sucking jobs in order to receive funds to prolong our own existence. And when most of us are doing it, we are told that the economy is up and America is winning. Seems absurd, doesn't it? I have a group of friends who are all moms of disabled children. We have a secret mantra that we repeat every time we are together that goes, "We are the parents who cannot die." Well, now it is not so secret, but still remains true. We cannot pass away and leave our off spring unattended because the truth of things is that it is a cruel world out there, folks. So while many people pursue rigid exercise programs in order to appear younger, my friends and I have a different reason for doing so. We are not so much trying to appear youthful as we are trying to stay alive. Many of us today spend that hard earned money on cosmetics to make us look sprightly. You cannot stop the aging process, but yet we try. We dream. We paint our faces. We slather on sun screen, moisturizer, creams, lotions and potions. Some people even undergo surgical procedures to stave off the inevitable. There is a sign in my doctor's office that advertises Botox treatments. Some of us submit ourselves to injections of the same toxin that is found in botulism in an attempt to look invigorated. Is there meaning to our existence? Are things just random in the universe? Absurdity in art tells us that there may be meaning, but we are mere mortals who will never know what it is. The word 'absurd' means utterly ridiculous, preposterous, without reason or common sense. Absurd Art (including theatre) became popular after World War II as a reaction to the threat of nuclear war and the brutality of the Nazi regime. I submit that this reaction has become part and parcel of our daily lives ever since. November 19, 2020--International Men's Day International men rock my world. There's Fabio, to start with. For those of you who do not remember, he's the Italian guy who made his initial celebrity status by appearing on bodice ripping paperback romance novels in the 1980's. I tried reading those a couple of times, and I had to stop because it was just too mind altering. Today, Fabio lives in Los Angeles and has a new movie coming out in 2022. Then there is David Beckham. After I forgave him for marrying Posh Spice, or whatever her name is, I felt more in tune to the universe. He is English, so I am not sure it that qualifies him as international, but it sure qualifies him as desirable. Oh, Mr. Beckham, you would be the only reason for me to watch soccer although I heard you have retired from the sport. Keanu Reeves was born in Beirut, Lebanon, but grew up in Canada. Again, I am unsure if living a major segment of you life in an English speaking country truly qualifies you as international. It's a start, for sure, but you really should have a website to verify your international status. Sadly, Keanu does not have his own website. Sam Heughan is known for playing the lead on the series, Outlander, which I admit I never watched. I tried to watch once, and it was interesting. The problem was that there was no continuity. You had to have watched it from the beginning to know what was going on. It was on my Netflix list, but I think it has now been pulled from Netflix. Anyways, Sam Heughan is Scottish. From what I could tell of Outlander, it is kind of like one of those bodice ripping romance novels without the graphic sex. I really wanted to write about three men in my actual life--husband, son, and dog--but they are all completely and 100 percent American made. However, my husband makes a mean French doughnut, my son is into Japanese toys and comics, and my dog, well, his ancestors were English. But we all have ancestors from somewhere else, don't we? If we stop to consider foreign men, aren't we really considering just men? And men, in general, seem rather foreign to me at times. What drives their love of everything masculine? And for the love of all that is Holy, can they please just put the seat down? I have spent the better part of my life trying to understand men. I think women should be more difficult to characterize, but really it's men who are the enigmas. Hard wired for analytics and categorizing everything, they easily tuck away emotions and sentiment. Men, in general, tend to keep things more bottled up inside. They speak more and louder in business meetings, but are less self-disclosing than women. Men have a higher rate of suicide than women, are more likely to die of heart disease, and generally die four or five years sooner than women. So, for all of this, they deserve their own day. But it probably takes a good woman to help them celebrate it. November 18, 2020--Guinness World Record Day
It's funny about writing, you know. I have been on a quest of sorts. Each day, or each post on this blog, I am never quite sure what will end up coming out onto the screen in the way of narrative. I have managed to dredge up many memories, not all of them pleasant. It is a form a self therapy, except the world will see it. If anyone thinks that it is quite brave of me to post personal stories and ruminations, you should just believe me when I say, "You should see the ideas that do not get posted. And the things that get edited out." And it all goes back to Marie Kondo, I guess. I started on a quest to edit out my home. That home edit is still a work in progress. But along the way, I also started this daily blog. It existed before, but I did not post anything regularly. Mostly, I could not think of topics. Then one day during quarantine, this feeling came over me to just start posting daily. I cannot explain what it was. It was a nudge from God, or the His angels or the Universe. Today marks my 137th post since I started posting daily blogs. It may be the one and only consistent thing I have done in my entire life, if consistent can be 137 times in a row of something. I nominate myself to the Guinness World Record Committee as holding the world record for a girl who never before wrote anything on a regular basis to one who has now found something to say for 137 times. For me this is fun. Finding topics that fit into the category of days on the calendar has not been hard, either. So enough of all of this metacognition. More and better stories await! En garde! November 17, 2020--National Bereavement Day (Canada)
Do you know what one thing you have to purchase, but cannot be recycled, like ever? A headstone to a grave, of course. I am currently in the process of getting one for my dad. Currently he is residing in an unmarked grave. Should the end of the world come in the next couple of months, I will feel really bad about it. Because he needs the angels to know who he is. Do you know something that is bizarre that you can rent? A coffin. I know this because my dad rented one for my step-mother. She wanted the best of both worlds, I guess. She had a full on church-sanctioned funeral with her body embalmed. Then the funeral home people took her away, and she was cremated. I know this because I was there, and I took the phone message from the funeral home after her remains were ready to be interred. I don't really recommend this method, however, because it felt a little bit like having two funerals. To get interred into her church cemetery required another small gravesite service involving the priest in robes and prayer books and Bibles and family. On the other hand, I gotta hand it to her because she managed to wrangle two parties out of one death. It was kind of like a second smaller wedding that people sometimes have when they are married out of town. So apparently the Canadians have a special day of bereavement and a website, https://www.chpca.ca/knowledge/resources/, from the Canadian Hospice and Palliative Care Society. Isn't that just like those cheeky Canadians, having their grief and end of life resources all organized like that? I don't want to suggest that it is a part of their free healthcare, but if one did make that association, then the jump to dark conclusions is just a hop and a step away, isn't it? It's like when you see a child's shoe on the side of a hiking trail. Part of you thinks, "How funny! The child's shoe must have fallen right out of the carriage and the parent didn't even realize it." However, another part of you wants to think of the shoe as a clue. And since you are on a hiking trail in a wooded area, the jump to dark conclusions is the stuff of nightmares. And you just will not let your mind go there. November 16, 2020--National Fast Food Day
Once upon a time, around the fall of 1977ish, there was a high school band and drill team who were asked to perform at the historic Astrodome in Houston, Texas. Football fans will recall that this was during the reign of Bum Phillips as the Oilers head coach. The band and drill team arrived early to the Astrodome. So early, in fact that the place had yet to be unlocked and opened to the public. They had been told to enter at one of the gates hidden to the general public, the same one where the players entered. And so they stood and waited on a hot fall day in Houston, Texas, falling out of ranks and lines bit by bit while the wait got longer. The band went through their complete warm-up set, but still the group waited. Make-up began to melt off of the drill members faces as the late afternoon sun rose steadily higher in the sky. People who said they had to use the restroom were told to hold it. The Astrodome opened its gates to the public while the band and drill team watched football fans drift by looking for the gates to their seats. Still the back door to the Astrodome remained closed. Another performer arrived on the scene. It was Ronald McDonald, the iconic character who represented the McDonald's fast food chain. He also had been told to enter by the same door as the band and drill team. When he first arrived, it came as a relief to the sponsors of the half-time performers. Turns out, he didn't know anything more than they did about how to access the holy gate. Instead, he chose to stand among the drill team members. In fact, he totally broke character and asked several of them for their phone numbers. None gave it out, however, because no matter how famous he might be, who wants to date a clown? When the drill team sponsor realized that Ronald was pressing her girls for their numbers, she stepped up and told him to leave. With the threat of telling the McDonald's corporation president of his unprofessionalism, he finally did leave. However, by then, it did not matter because the elusive access to the backstage parts of the dome had finally opened. November 15, 2020--Day of the Imprisoned Writer When I first started my teaching career, kids would frequently write notes to each other. I seriously doubt this means of communication is still going on when they can text on their phones with much more accuracy and up to the minute information. However, I can recall a time in which if you opened the bottom drawer of my teacher desk, it was filled with confiscated notes and other contraband items. I wish I had made a scrapbook out of those notes because some of them were pretty interesting. Many of my teacher colleagues took perverse pleasure in reading the notes aloud when found and taken from the writer. While I can recall occasions when I was tempted to do this, I realized that it was my own ego that caused this thought. I once shared an accordion wall with a teacher friend of mine. Kids would sometimes send notes underneath the wall to whomever was sitting on the other side. Once, my teaching friend took one of those notes up and read it. The kid ended the note with, "Who's this?" My friend signed her own name and sent the note back to the kid. I imagine the look of surprise when the writer opened it up and read his math teacher's name on it. I wonder if the Gestapo employed similar methods of detection for ferreting out victims? Day of the Imprisoned Writer is really about remembering and/or honoring writers imprisoned the world over for their writing or their attempts at personal expression. And while I don't recognize any names on any of the lists of International Imprisoned Writers, I am guessing that the majority of them are either artists or journalists who wrote something that their government did not like. We are all imprisoned writers, really though, aren't we? Writing is only a means of expression, and as such it brings forth whatever thoughts and ideas are laying about one's brain collecting dust and growing cobwebs. It can help you sort out problems and ideas that are kicking around up there, some of which you may not even be consciously aware until you put pen to paper. That is why I like it so much, I guess. Writing is work of the soul. It may outlive us. And anything that will outlive us should be attended to with the greatest care. From the first drawings on cave walls to our modern means of communicating through texts, writing is an extension of who we are. It is ourselves without us actually being present. November 14, 2020--National American Teddy Bear Day Over the past six months, I have become a disciple of Marie Kondo. For anyone who doesn't know, she is the Japanese woman who has made her fortune by selling books and a Netflix series based on her methods of tidying the home, and consequently, one's life. During the course of my own tidying, I came across an old childhood friend, Billy Bear. Billy Bear was my first teddy bear, and he is looking quite old and scruffy. I had names for all of my stuffed animals, but my four favorites were Billy Bear, Ruffy the Rabbit, Peter Cotton Tail, and Bunny Boy. We had a dog when I was growing up who was a rabbit hunter. I thought it was fun for him to have a go at Ruffy the Rabbit, Peter Cotton Tail, and Bunny Boy for a while, until they were barely recognizable anymore and my mother threw them out. However, that dog never took much of a liking to Billy Bear. By the time we had the dog, I was way past the age of needing or wanting these stuffed animals which is why I thought it was a pretty good ending for them. So Billy Bear has survived all of these years without his former friends and is just a shell of his former self. His neck has grown so weak after all of this time that he can barely hold up his own head. His fur is tattered to the bone in some spots. So today, I have a business proposal. I propose that Build-a-Bear Workshop hold a day for the rejuvenation or rebirth of previously and still loved bears. They could link it to some kind of charitable giving campaign. I would be willing to donate something in kind for a spa day for my old bear. People like me could bring in their old bears, get them re-stuffed, purchase clothes and accessories for them, and also give to a charity at the same time. As I see it, it's a way for Build-a Bear to keep their loyal customer base while said customer base could just as easily be off and wandering into bars and restaurants, wondering when and if they are ever going to have a grandchild to take to a Build-a-Bear Workshop, after all. Win-win. November 13, 2020--Month of the Novel Here is my pitch for an upcoming novel idea: 2080, Year of the Fascists--or--Armed and Dangerous, A Dystopian Novel by K. Schwab Harmful bacteria has destroyed the world as we know it. The year is 2080. New York is a grim place ruled by fascists. Once glorious, the Statue of Liberty is now buried underneath the rising sea water. Remarkable computer programmer, Dr. Rachel Trelawny is humanity's only hope. Rachel finds the courage to start a secret revolutionary organization called Leader's Army. She sends out emails via secret code to everyone's digitally enhanced face mask. Soon, everyone is ready to take their fight to the streets. The fight is jeopardized when Rachel is tricked by the ruthless doctor, Dr. David Smith, and injures her arm. He finds out about Rachel's revolution when he quits wearing his own super enhanced face mask, and replaces it with one of the government issued ones. Rachel tries to recall her coded messages, but it is too late. Dr. Smith has already found out about it. He injects Rachels arm with a truth serum, but she refuses to spill the beans. Consequently, her arm swells up to four times its normal size. Finding her arm useless, she performs surgery on herself and amputates it with a bobby pin and a Bic lighter. After screaming in agony until she passes out, Rachel sleeps for two days. When she wakes up, she logs onto a computer to call off the revolution. However, using only one arm, she is unable to type very fast and she is too late. There is already chaos in the streets. It soon becomes obvious that the revolutionaries have divided into several factions, some of whom are suspected of counter espionage. Dr. Rachel tries to find Dr. Smith. She arrives at the buried Statue of Liberty in time to see him descend into an under water tunnel. She follows him down it. The tunnel leads down to a secret lair underneath the harbor. Once there, she winds around a maze of rooms until she finds Dr. Smith's secret laboratory. He begins to tell her his ultimate plan for New York City, the United States of America, and ultimately, the world. Suddenly, Rachel recognizes where she is. The laboratory is the place she had been secretly taken as a small child to meet her father, a younger, more handsome Dr. Smith. Rachel describes her memory to the mad scientist. "You were never my daughter," he begins, "I only had everyone think that so I could program you at an early age. You see, Rachel, although you are not biologically related to me, you will still become my predecessor." "No!" screams Rachel, and as she does so, the pain from her amputated arm becomes unbearable. She falls to the ground in agony. Out of her backpack, the severed, bloody and still swollen arms spills onto the grimy floor. "You knew all along, didn't you?" says Dr. Smith. "That's why you amputated your own arm. You knew I would need to plant the microchip there so I can control your every thought." At this revelation, Rachel crawls toward the dead and amputated stump of an arm and grabs it. She then painfully stands up where she begins hitting Dr. Smith over the head with the arm before she finally faints again and falls to the floor. Before she faints, however, Dr. Smith screams in delight. "Hit me all you want, Rachel! You know I love dead things!" Meanwhile... Armed with an antidote and guns they have made from bread crumbs and fireworks, Leader's Army try their best to save mankind, but can they defeat the proud fascists and restore the Statue of Liberty to its former glory? Can one of their bold and handsome foot soldiers save Rachel from the evil Dr. Smith? Will this foot soldier be the One for Rachel? Read the soon to be pitched sequel idea, 2081, Finding Your Soul Mate During a Revolution--or--It's So Nice to Be With You. November 12, 2020--Elizabeth Cady Stanton Day
In sixth grade my school presented the play, "Mary Poppins," in which I played a double role. I was the maid who said, "Mary Poppins, 'ere to see you, sir," and also as a chorus member suffragette. Most of the sixth grade class girls ended up as suffragettes. At the beginning of each performance, we marched into the cafeteria singing a song that I still remember:, We're clearly soldiers in petticoats, Dauntless crusaders for women's votes. Our daughters' daughters will adore us And they'll sing in grateful chorus: Well done.... (bumbumbumbum) Well done.... (bumbumbumbum) Well done, Sister Suffragette! We sang this song loudly on the playground when we played kickball, girls against the boys. We sang it going to class, we sang in the lunch line, on the school bus, and in our sleep. At slumber parties, we would perform the song in our pajamas with sleeping bags outlining a stage. None of us really knew what it meant to be a suffragette. We didn't know about the arrests, the imprisonment, the hunger strikes, and the brutal force feedings. We did not know about the bombings, nor the riots. We thought they wore pretty white dresses and marched and sang. We did not know about the reasons the right for women to vote was important. We did not know that women could not own property, nor work if they were married, nor attend college, nor have a career and get any sort of recognition for it. We did not know about the temperance movement, nor did we know how much the women's suffrage movement was linked to anti-slavery. We did not comprehend how brutality to women could be an ugly acceptable truth back then. We certainly did not understand anything about birth control and the lack of it back then, nor did we have an inkling about how common it was for women to die in the process of giving birth. However, somehow, we intrinsically knew that the song we learned was important. So we sang it with gusto whenever we all were gathered together. It was our banner and our calling card. And so today, on behalf of the sixth grade girls in the class of 1971 at Peterson Elementary School, I thank you, Elizabeth Cady Stanton. November 11, 2020--Armistice Day
An armistice is an agreement made by opposing sides in a war to stop fighting for a certain period of time. In short, it is a truce. We make truces all the time in our personal lives. A truce is a great thing to have in your arsenal, or bag of tricks. You will have to ask yourself if it is time to call a truce. Much like the Hippocratic oath that doctor's take of "first, do no harm," the truce is useful in relationships. One must ask oneself, what point am I trying to prove and then ascertain if the end result is even worth it. My husband and I almost always cancel each other out when voting. During a campaign season, we are both fool-heartedly hoping that the other one of us has at last come to our side of the fence in his, I mean our, way of thinking. At some point before election day, we will have called a truce on discussing, examining, or regurgitating the old news of how we feel about the candidates. By now, we already know each other's view points. While political discussions can make for interesting talk, they have their place. No one should insist or be adamant that the other side in a relationship submit to their way of thinking. You can submit to listening. You can submit to holding the other's opinion as valuable, but you cannot submit to a belief system, or even to one single belief. You either believe in the services one side has to offer, or you do not. Now that the election season is over, I wonder what we all got so worked up about anyway. No amount of talking or proving a point as valid will change what is inside our loved one's head. As it stands right now in our current climate of technology, inside our own heads is quite possibly the only sacred, private space we have left. I like to think that inside my own head, there is plenty of room. As the old song from the musical of the same name--Oklahoma--says, "Plenty of room to swing of rope. Plenty of heart and plenty of hope" A person really only gets one thing from voting anyway, in my opinion. And that thing is usually an invitation to serve on a jury. I can hardly wait. November 10, 2020--Forget-Me-Not-Day
Hello, remember me? I am limping home, unrecognizable to the self I knew in the past. This world has taken quite its toll. Behind me I pull a huge trunk of experience, spilling memories as I stumble along. Out of this mess of splintered wood, rusted hinges, and broken locks, I sit down and take out the bag of broken relationships. I keep hanging on to this considerably sized bag for a variety of reasons that I can't even begin to decipher. Parts and pieces of it spill out all over the place. I pick up what I can, but wonder when there will not be enough of one of them to put it back together again. Taking up even more room in this trunk is the bag of the memories of friends who have left this world. From this bag, I take out the jagged bits of memories that are not pretty and place them near top of the bag where I then close it and shake it up so well that the ugly bits will fall to the bottom and not be seen again, unless I shake out the entire contents of the bag. And beside me, equally yoked, is someone who has swept the road clean and laid down his cloak across the mud, so that even though I limp with all this weighted baggage, my feet will not deign to touch any splashy place. This forget-me-not-day is supposed to be a day of reconnecting with family and friends we have lost touch with over the years. The good news is that we all have weighted baggage. We may not recognize our former selves, but our essence is always there. It lies dormant to some degree, underneath all that baggage of experience, waiting to be unpacked and let back out into light with each old-new connection. November 9, 2020--National Chaos Never Dies Day
My personal mantra is, "If you're going through hell, keep on going." I awake each morning and repeat this affirmation three times before getting out of bed. And later throughout the day, every time it is needed. There is a country song by Rodney Atkins that our family considers part of our personal manifesto. The chorus goes like this: If you're going through Hell Keep on going, don't slow down If you're scared, don't show it You might get out Before the devil even knows you're there... In 2009, we bought a piece of sidewalk outside of Texas Children's Hospital in Houston, Texas. What I mean by this is that we had astronomical hospital bills that year, even with insurance. But we did not mind a bit, considering the alternative. That year, our son, Nathan, had been going through a long period of chronic pain caused by Crohn's disease. This disease is extremely hard to get a diagnosis for, but after spending my birthday, part of Christmas, and New Year's eve of 2008 at TCH, we finally had one. Long story short, he was in for another flare-up in March when his intestines burst while he and I sat in his hospital room. By the next morning he was in their ICU on life support. He came home with an ostomy bag in May. That July, I was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Eventually I got down graded to stage 3, then to nothing but "survivor." Anyhow, that's what we all are. Survivors. And by we, I mean every single one of us. Yes, that includes you, dear reader. October of 2009 found my husband coming and going. I had a bilateral masectomy, and then the next week, our son had his ostomy bag removed and his intestines placed back inside of him, where they belong. This sounds like a sad story that warrants sympathy, but it is not. Good riddance to bad rubbish is what goes through my mind when I think on these things. I am only bringing them up now as a record of family history. That year is quite a mine of story telling, and my Shahrazad inner self is awakening at thoughts of it again. I will never qualify any single event or year of my life as the worst thing that's ever happened to me because as soon as I do, something else, even worse, is bound to happen. I have found that to embrace the chaos is the best method. Just love it. Own it. Take it out and wear it. Make it serve you. The opposite of chaos is order and regularity. Well, there is nothing fun about that, now, is there? Shit just keeps happening, and that is how we know we are alive. November 8, 2020--X-ray Day I could see the ice coming up to meet me as I fell. If I put out my left hand to catch myself, I might break or sprain a bone. And since my left arm was already undergoing treatment for lymphedema (ahh, breast cancer...the gift that keeps on giving) I was not going to fall on it. I had been told that any trauma to this arm could be detrimental. And I did not want my pristine, but slightly swollen arm to end up like the distended, bloated feet and ankles of those women I had seen in my doctor's office. An ice skating party for special needs kids and their families, the event was well attended. As soon as we arrived, my son was swooped away from us into the caring hands of helpful volunteers. He was given a pair of skates that fit, then taken out on the ice by two professional skaters--one of them flanking each elbow. We watched him for awhile, and then we were offered the chance to skate if we wanted to. My husband does not skate, so he sat on the side lines and continued to watch. However, I am cocky. And a little bit stupid. I laced up a pair of skates. I had skated before. I got my first pair of roller skates for Christmas in third grade. I still have a scar on each knee from those skates. Skating became something I did at different times throughout my teens and young adulthood, both roller and ice. That was when I took the most falls. I got to where I could do a bit of a fancy stop. There is no name for it. You just get going fast, then before you come to a stop, you turn abruptly. I learned this move from crowded ice rinks when the Zamboni machine was about to clear the ice. Before my final skating trip, I thought I was pretty good at that stop and did it all the time, to much applause from my baby son and husband, who would sit on the sidelines and watch. I even took my son out on the ice when he was a toddler. That was when I was in my early thirties, years before this final time. I found my balance at once on the ice and managed a couple of times around the rink. All of the child skaters were at one end, so I practically had the entire rink to myself. For some reason this fact made the skating less fun, if you can believe it. Maybe dodging all those people was what was fun about it before. I came in from the ice and took a break. Most of the party I spent watching the kids skate. However, right before the party was over, I decided to have one more go around the rink. It was on this trip that I fell. You know how you can see things in slow motion at crucial moments, sometimes? Well, that is what falling was like for me. I held my hands in and consequently landed on my elbow. I could tell it was broken immediately. Some of the volunteers skated over and helped me up. It was humiliating. Later, at the hospital emergency room, the x-ray film confirmed that I had, in fact, shattered my elbow and would require surgery to fix it. I would be not only out for the season, but my skating career was essentially over. November 7, 2020--World Day for Decent Work
I taught reading and writing for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years is a long time out of someone's life, and and if you count the twelve years I attended public school plus one year of kindergarten, that makes forty years of living in an educational environment. Then there was my three year stint of teaching preschool for practically free. That makes forty three years of my life spent in a school. And I haven't even added in college. For college, I will have to throw in another six years. It seems like a lot--I know. I obtained a small and somewhat inconsequential degree from a community college first, and then I attended university where I changed my major. After graduating, I obtained a teaching certificate which required additional classes. All told, I'm going to round it off at six years because any more than that, and I should have been pulling in a doctor's salary or something. So you might say I know a thing or two about decent school work. Here are some fresh ideas:
"Why?" questioned my kid. "Um, because it looks like he's standing on five legs," I said. "Oh, Mom," said my kid, "that just means he's ready to mate." O.k., point well taken, but I think you can see that the above example made my writing interesting to the reader. There is always, always something interesting to say. In the most boring and mundane of circumstances. November 6th, 2020--National Fountain Pen Day
How hard is it to get an ink pen to explode in your mouth? It's never happened to me, but I've seen it happen on countless occasions. Always in my classroom. Always a little boy. Always right smack in the middle of something else going on. I don't know why, but little eleven and twelve year old boys have a special talent when it comes to this phenomenon. I would like to see some scientific data on this. Like how much or how often do they have to have a pen in their mouth in order for it to occur? Are certain kinds of pens more likely to cause an explosion of ink in one's mouth? I have probably bit on the tip of a pen in my day, perhaps lost in thought of what to write, but never has one exploded on me in that fashion. When I did my time as a teacher on the inside of a middle school, the event usually went down something like this: I am standing in the front or middle of my classroom, teaching my heart out. Some little guy comes rushing up to me, "Miss, can I go to the restroom? My pen exploded in my mouth!" They were always in a panic about it, as if they never expected it to happen. I would stop what I was doing. It pains me to tell you this, but I would have to look. I would have to look at their mouths to see if it were true. There they would stand, a little boy on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I would try to avert my eyes, but like looking at a wreck on a highway, something always pulled them toward it. "Can I go to the restroom?" "How about an insane asylum?" is what I wanted to say. I couldn't look them in the eye. Instead I would be focused on their mouth. It would have blue or black ink swishing around all over the place, on their teeth, falling out of the corners, and in the worst cases, drooling down onto their chins. Sometimes they practically spit ink at me in their haste to leave the room. I wonder what became of these boys. Are they grown men now, and do they remember how they once or twice nearly died of ink poisoning? You never hear men talk about it at dinner parties and such, and yet, some of them most likely have lived through it. How much ingested ink would it take to kill someone? I always allowed them to leave and take care of their personal hygiene dilemmas, if hygiene is what this was. I think it was more likely a dark angel hovering over them. Dark, as in indigo colored or black. Once, and only once, this situation happened when the youngster involved only requested a Kleenex to stop the bleeding. "Don't you want to go to the restroom, the nurse, at least get a drink of water?" I asked. "No, I'll be fine," he stoically replied. Apparently, he had fought this battle before. I opened my desk drawer and handed him a tissue from my secret stash of Puffs. He returned to his seat and all seemed well, even though I did notice micro aggressive shirks from the females as he walked down the row of desks. "Dude," I wanted to say. "Have you no game? At least pretend to be concerned with appearances." I wonder what became of him. I imagine him now living on a houseboat in Arkansas, making his living from swamp and river tours. The constant ink stains on the corner of his mouth have been replaced by snuff stains, which also mar his fingertips. The only writing he does these days is placing tourism ads in the local paper. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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