Hello. It's me, Christie. I haven't made an entry to this blog in awhile. It's a bit like 'The Little Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly'. I don't know why, either!

So much has happened during my absence in noting it. Sometimes, I feel as though I fell asleep the day after I retired from my job and went into a kind of hibernation...so far as blogging was concerned...and a few other things. Take regular housekeeping, for example. I feel I accomplished more while I worked a job away from home and raised some kids than I sometimes do, during these ongoing retirement years. 

Well, here I go again...blogging, .....maybe...is this account still live? Is the microphone on?

Thanks Be To Mother

Written November 3, 1999, in honor of my mother's 100 birthday. 

Happy 100 Birthday to my mother, Myrtle Morgan, born November 3, 1899. I still plan to produce a family cookbook in her honor, sometime. For now, I hope someone baked her a big birthday cake, in this world...or the next. She would have loved any kind but was always partial to a good applesauce cake with a boiled frosting.

We can thank my mom for good genetics. Both she and my dad were good looking people. It's nice for us to come from that kind of gene pool. If you have small feet and shapely legs below the knee, you can thank Grandma Morgan. I don't think she would be willing to take credit for anything above the knee. Some of us will have to find someone else to blame for what has gone on in other somewhat less shapely areas. Mother is responsible for the curly hair in our family, however. She always had beautiful hair. And clear skin. She wrinkled in her mature years but her skin was soft and smooth and clear.

I usually give credit to my dad for any musical ability passed on but Mother had a beautiful voice, in her own right, and sang with a family quartet, church and civic groups for years. I think she and my dad had the entire hymn book memorized plus all the good old songs of their generation. And a few naughty ones. She sang or hummed her way through her days. And she always sang at bedtime.

My mother left behind a legacy of expression through her writing. She loved to read. And she loved to be on stage, performing, whether at a community Halloween party, or during a lesson, or reciting entertaining things she was taught as a small child.

According to Aunt Louise, mother's oldest sister, my mom was one of the best cooks in the family.  Everyone loved to go to "Myrtle's" when they were all raising their young families.  Mother was really a "from scratch" cook starting with wringing the chicken's neck, digging the potatoes from the family garden, putting huge loaves of bread in a wood-stove's oven to bake, and skimming off the thickest cream from warm-from-the-cow milk for whatever would be dessert for that day, be it bread pudding, butterscotch pie, or fruit...fresh or home-canned.

Mother's hands were never idle, even during days when she felt too ill to do much. She always had genealogy spread out to work on, always had a quilt top or two in progress, always had a collection of scrap paper to write personal letters and somehow found money for stamps when she could barely afford food. She always had lots of her writing in various stages of completion with a poem or three mixed in, always had a crochet hook with fine thread in her hand, always had time to feed someone or rock a baby to sleep, and always wanted to play another Chinese checker marble game. There was always a huge jig-saw puzzle sitting on a table waiting for a few more pieces to fall into place. And Mother always had cookies in her cookie jar. She always found the time and a way to get to the temple or accept a church calling, even when it meant hitching up her own white top buggy and traveling with small babies, to get to the homes of sisters among her church congregation that she needed to visit. Mother always volunteered to teach the class with the wildest and meanest kids in it. She delighted in seeing those boys grow up to be successful and quite civilized.  Mother never passed by an opportunity to serve while her mind and body were able.

 Happy Birthday, Mom. I remember how much you loved flowers.  I know the gardens in heaven are especially glorious. I'm sure that kind of beauty is one of the things you must like best about your eternal home.

 Thanks for teaching me to love the earth and all that it can produce.  Thanks for showing me some things about being available to serve and about receiving service graciously and thankfully. I've learned to appreciate your efforts in getting me raised to adulthood without Dad. I'm sorry for my unkind words and thoughts and impatience when you were ill, or tired, or overwhelmed or fearful. I have a much clearer picture now of the struggle that can be, to go on with the things of a day, a week, a month, and years while coping with our individual challenges.

I didn't say thank you often enough. Nor did I shower you with nearly enough hugs and kisses. Hope these reach you all the way up to heaven. Sometimes, heaven seems very far away to me. And sometimes, I feel it touch my cheek.

"And it came to pass..."

It is January, 2015. Another holiday season has come and gone. "And it came to pass..." readings, and other family traditions have been repeated, to close out the old year. These first days of a new year give me an opportunity for reflection and time to revisit precious memories while easing into and making plans for the new year, ahead. 

Now about that phrase, "And it came to pass...". Sometimes it comes to stay. And they did. Unexpectedly. In June of 1993, five months before my 49th birthday. Not just one, but a 4-year-old boy, one 2 year-old sister, and their 16-month-old, boy-girl, twin siblings!

My office staff were in a state of disbelief when I told them I'd be at home for a week. To make the event even more interesting, I was training a newly-hired secretary at the office and my boss, the department chairman, was out of the country on business. I was operating under a Power of Attorney for signing documents that required his signature. Translated, that meant that my signature was required on a daily basis. The month of June was Nevada's state fiscal year-end. At the University of Nevada, Reno, that meant that the entire month was an intense time for those of us with responsibility for budgets, finances, payroll, new and renewed contracts and spending from department accounts. There was an unwritten rule dictating that no one was to take leave time during June. If it was an in-session year in the 2-year rotation of The Nevada Legislature, this restriction could sometimes stretch into July or when new fiscal money appeared in our accounts, whichever came first. The only exception for consideration was some unforeseen emergency-like event. I felt sure that the circumstance I found myself in, qualified!

My two adult children had been out of my house and on their own long enough that I'd settled into an empty-nester lifestyle and was loving it. I had been responsible for someone else from the time I was twelve years old. This felt like my first time for having daily routines to myself, free to claim time as my own to organize as I chose. That all changed with one phone call upon my return from a weekend in California, participating in Fremont's version of the fabulous music conference held annually in Salt Lake City, UT. What followed was a whirlwind of spur-of-the-moment preparation with lots of red-tape issues over the next 48 to 72 hours before four of my grandchildren moved into my house, the place they would call "Home" for the next 20 years. It had been 25 years since I had first assumed the role of  "Mom". Most things came back to my mind, quickly. As the saying goes, it was, "Like riding a bicycle." Almost.

There were serious health issues to consider. And allergies, galore. Keeping track of twins was something new to me. But with less than a year between them and their big sister, it felt more like triplets, with all three still in diapers and still expecting to have a bottle at night. Two were addicted to a pacifier, three had no language skills, to speak of, while yet to be developed and fine tuned motor skills rendered them needy and unable to get through a meal without a good deal of help. There was the dressing, the bathing and all the rest. I found that there was a noticeable difference between raising two, as I had already done, and attending to the needs of these three, so close in age. Their four-year-old brother was a regular "Mother Hen", keeping his siblings in his sight at all times and responding to their grunts and body language, their distress signals while interpreting for me during the initial days of our roommate arrangement.

Have you ever tried to find day care for four kids, and keep them all at the same establishment? First of all, I was totally unfamiliar with the "Day Care" concept or the reality of it. This was a time I realized how blessed I had been to be "just" a "stay-at-home" mom, at least until my kids were in school. Emotionally, being faced with no choice but to put yet another separation experience upon them, this "Day Care" thing tugged at my heart strings. And secondly, I found out what a challenge it was to find even tolerable day care in Sparks, Nevada, at that time.

My days, during that week at home, were filled with trips to agency offices or physicians or the State Health Department, catching everybody up on ID documentation, shot records, or treating earaches or asthma, or other young-child ills, always accompanied by my little enterague of tiny tots. While kids were napping, something that happened only occasionally, I continued my search for suitable day care. Demand for service was high. Wages were low. Benefits for the employed were non-existent. All of this appeared to attract and promote hiring of the unskilled and untrained. I found the State regulatory departments inept and inadequate, at best. I don't know that I'll write about the worst. Dealing with State agencies, searching for and evaluating day care as it existed then was a sometimes nightmarish experience. After many attempts via phone calls, sifting through referrals, engaging in interviews and making personal visitations, "Little Rascals" became the only option. On the surface, this operation appeared to be somewhat committed to babies and toddlers, (Miss Betty, Miss Honey). My G-kids enjoyed the last months of a pre-school program orchestrated by pre-K graduate students from UNR. Kindergarten (Joan Ashworth) was available at the day care site, despite the fact that it was not yet a Nevada education requirement  

In the mean time, while sorting the day care issue out, when my week's "vacation" at home ended, my daughter--Dr. Auntie Jenn, as they came to refer to her--rearranged her work schedule. I was home with the babies during the day. Then, precisely at 4 in the afternoon, she met me at my front door and we exchanged lists of needs and wants and/or alerts. I then sped (my alias--Lead Foot--preceded this time but came in handy in this instance) to my office in the Ag. building at UNR, a 15-20 minute drive I could pare down to 6-8 minutes if need be. Every minute before the 5:00 o'clock closing was crucial, to check in with staff, faculty, and students on payroll before they left for the day. My household took to Jenn's Shake and Bake pork chops with applesauce, homemade mac and cheese, and her now famous grilled cheese sandwiches in no time. She took over the evening meal, baths, and bedtime. For any reader who has experienced the last meal of the day and all that comes between the last bite and lights out, you know what a lot of work is involved. I worked until the library directly above my office closed, usually about midnight. The janitor assigned to the second floor always checked in on me, making sure I'd remembered to lock myself in, then before the clock struck 12, he ushered me, library staff, and maybe a few dedicated students out as he closed up shop for the night.

The first day of this first experience with day care, they cried. I cried. And the second day. And beyond but eventually, we all moved forward, with kids dropped off, each with their backpack and instructions for their caregivers for the day, plus a report-of-the-day sheet I created and provided to each of the primary caregivers for each child. That I required them to complete the form and return it to me at each day's end didn't win me any points among the Rascals staff. I felt it was necessary, even with no guarantee that it would be factual.

And Gramma went back to work. While they were still babes, and I had full control, I could feed and dress them all, do the drop off, and be in my office by 8:00 A.M. That didn't last long. But it's all a part of who I am.

Camp Cook

The first Young Woman Camp in 1912 was staged at Liberty Glen  in Murray, Utah. If church camp was held for girls of Mutual (MIA) age in my area when I was a girl, I didn't attend. But sometime in my fabulous 40's, I was asked to join a crew of woman who had been called to feed 100-plus girls--aged 12 to 18--and their MIA leaders for most of a week. I knew nothing about camping or camp-cooking but agreed to trade a week of vacation time, away from my office and the comforts of home, for a week of physical labor in the wild, three squares a day and a sleeping bag.

The camp kitchen director was Amy Johnson. While the girls were not at camp to vacation and were required to cook some of the own meals, one of Amy's visions for the week was to have the camp participants awaken each morning to the smell of hot cinnamon rolls and fresh muffins and provide hot out-of-the-oven cookies for afternoon or anytime snacks, all homemade from scratch. She had asked me to go to camp to be her baker.

Amy was a great cook with kitchen management skills. That meant that she and I, Jean Seavey and Lezlie Porter were kept very busy distributing food prepped for cooking to various campsites, preparing snacks for hikers, treats for evening campfire gatherings plus making and serving some full meals, three times a day, to eager and always hungry campers, leaders, priesthood brethren, parents or visitors. With the exception of making mini-loaves of bread--100 at a time--for a local cafe' during my early days of calling Nevada home, I had no experience in cooking for so many people. But while at Young Woman camp, I must have made more than 1,000 cookies, or so it seemed some days. Certainly a record for me.

Despite her expertise, and as well organized and thorough as the plan for the week was, the morning Amy went to the walk-in to pull chickens to prepare for the evening meal, those chickens had gone missing! Watching her switch gears on a dime, take stock of the options for preparing something else for dinner that night without sacrificing meals yet to come, amazed me. It came to light as the day pressed on that the missing poultry had never made the trip to camp, in a case of, "I thought you packed the chicken." "No, I thought you packed the chicken."

We had an avid reader among our group who brought a book with her, determined to read during the down time she was sure would be available. Instead, days were long and nights, short. The last straw may have come near the end of the week when I invited Lezlie to put her book aside, and rise up out of her lawn chair to help me pare and core apples. Amy had noticed that those apples were not being eaten, fresh. Unwilling to waste any of the precious food that had been hauled into us, on foot from a drop-off spot, uphill, downhill, maybe accompanied with a few Sam-Hill's uttered, Amy asked for suggestions. "Apple Pie," was my first thought. Lezlie convinced me that using them with peel intact was the healthier way to go, and perhaps in her mind, the quickest way to get back to her book. As she finished coring and slicing, she quipped that she was never going camping with me again because I made her work too hard. Many of the girls were away from camp that afternoon, involved in activities but when that unmistakable smell of hot, spicy apple deliciousness began wafting through the trees on late afternoon air, adults holding down the fort were seen, coming from every direction and heading for the camp kitchen. A slight summer breeze refreshed enough to make a piece of pie, though hot out of the oven, sound inviting, in that place and at that time, there, amid the forest of pines.

One evening, having already made and served freshly-popped popcorn and hot cocoa to everyone gathered for the evening's campfire skits, my mind had moved on to set yeast proofing for a huge batch of those cinnamon rolls Amy had requested. Folks returning from the festivities offered helping hands. Shortly after mid-night, we had trays and trays of rolled and shaped dough set to rise. Baking would begin early.

While the girls slept in tents at campsites scattered among the trees, camp cooks were assigned to a building adjacent to the kitchen. Inside, were platforms designed for tossing a sleeping bag or two on each of the raised slabs. Jean expressed the fatigue we were all feeling, set an alarm on her clock--as I'd asked her to do--and was soon sawing logs. I just took my shoes off and laid down, still fully dressed. Stories of bears in search of food had filled the camp each day, despite our careful stowing of edibles. Huge garbage cans were moved some distance from the kitchen to a designated spot down the road a-ways, then picked up and hauled away periodically, every day. I felt safe enough going to the kitchen, alone, in the early mornings. For now, I was just looking forward to some rest before the big bake began.

Br-r-ring...Br-r-ring...Br-r-ring... "It can't be morning yet," I thought. "Didn't I just lay down?" Stumbling in the dark, I tried to get around the end of my make-shift bed, quickly, to the opposite side where Jean lay, still sound asleep. I fumbled finding the "off" switch, then stared in disbelief at the glowing dial but forced my feet back into my shoes and headed for the kitchen before anyone stirred. Once I'd walked those few steps, unlocked the kitchen door, and had flipped on the light, the cold night air had done its job, bringing me back to full consciousness.

The camp kitchen was outfitted with big but old commercial, gas ovens. Lighting the pilot had to be done carefully and it usually took more than one attempt. Anxious to get them going, I knew the time it took to get them heated to a reasonable baking temperature. Sure enough, my initial attempts were unsuccessful. What appeared to be a flicker would sometimes fade and go out. Those heavy doors had to be opened all the way in order to get to the spot to light the pilot and as careful as I'd been, trying not to make noise, cold steel and repeated door openings made that seem impossible.

With pilots lit, I began to organize the trays of puffy dough. I dropped something. Turning my back to the door while retrieving the item, suddenly that door flew open, slamming on the wall with a loud bang! I jumped and whirled around, totally startled! Standing in the doorway, with a huge broom in her hands, stood Amy, bracing herself, all nearly-five-feet of her, ready to take on whatever had broken into the kitchen! I was glad there was some distance between me and her weapon of choice! Surprised to see that the intruder was just her baker, she lowered her broom. We both let out a sign of relief and tried to stifle our laughter, in the interest of a whole camp still in slumber. Amy checked her watch. Why was I up at least an hour too early? Jean had the answer. She had mistakenly set the alarm for the wrong time.

Julie Ann Frey had hot glue guns at the ready in the craft tent. I was dying to make something with that group but there was always more for me to do in the kitchen. Back in civilization and returning to our daily lives, girls camp and the craft tent became but a memory. Answering a knock on my door one day, there stood Julie Ann and her daughter(s), holding out to me the lovely, wooden doll I had wanted to make at the camp craft tent. It was the very one I would have chosen, with beautifully hand-painted features, Auburn curls, dressed in an Apricot-Peach Taffeta fabric trimmed in dainty lace accents, standing more than a foot tall! It was a wonderful surprise.

Don't you just love happy cooking accidents! Today, I didn't need a hot meal to warm me up but it sounded more appealing than eating a cold salad for lunch. Scanning fridge shelves a week after fresh food shopping meant finding something that still had any sign of life left. Half a somewhat wrinkly-skinned, red bell pepper caught my eye. Then, half a yam and a few odd sized tomatoes, still clinging to the vine they were harvested on in some distant hot-house. I rarely buy fresh tomatoes out of season but today, since I had a few almost large cherry sized, I wanted to taste whatever flavor might be lurking there among the seeds. Cooking is a good way to encourage that outcome from a tomato.

Before rounding up ingredients, I'd reached for my one and only frying pan. Well, it's not actually my "only" one. I had used my "one and only" a day ago. Yes, I should have run a dish batch before my white laundry hit the hot water, but I hadn't done that so I was left with using the skillet from the set of pans I bought 51 years ago. Of course, I'm still using them! They have served--and continue to serve--me well, with the exception of that skillet. It can be a bit of a terror to use. 

Pouring a drizzle of olive oil into my moody pan, I clicked a stove-top burner to "ON" and went to work slicing red pepper, thinking I'd be finished by the time the oil was heated. By the time I had something to add to the pan, the oil was too hot but I was impatient and didn't wait long to add the pepper. A quick grab of a lid would have stopped the splattering at once but since I do not move in anyway that qualifies as "quick" anymore, the splattering was not quelled without a tiny bit of hot oil landing on my outstretched forearm. I think I saved my work shirt from oil stains, though.

On with my chopping, halving tomatoes, and making yam dices. Once everything was in the pan, a quick stir revealed that my pepper slices had become a bit Cajun, though not totally blackened. No problem. "Burnt" is not a new word in my vocabulary.

"I'll be hungry again in 30 minutes," I thought. "What can I add?" The something else was a bag of greens. I thought I was adding a mix of baby spinach, chard, and kale but on closer inspection, flipping the empty bag over as I discarded it, the label read, "Spring Mixed Greens". Tender greens, in fact, like for salad and not ones I generally use for cooking. Oh well, they were in the pot, wilting away. I'd seen Jacques Pepin on a recent TV cooking spot use all kinds of things in his cooked dishes. I don't recall if lettuce was on his list, but it's on mine, now, as something that can be eaten cooked or raw! 

Had those greens been of my usual mix variety, I'd be adding a spot of lemon near the end of the cooking, so to the mix I'd made, I added lemon pepper seasoning and a diced, fresh Mandarin plus some home-grown Pineapple Sage. A few pieces of cooked and chopped chicken and a small handful of unsalted, mixed nuts--Pistachio, Cashew, Almond--rounded out the mix.

Delicious! Next time, I'll add a drizzle of Soy Sauce. Learning to cook for one 101. It's a part of who I am.

The Number "Seven"

When I'm alone, no ears to hear, no eyes to see,
The pain of days creeps back on me.

Sometimes my smile, my laughter, too, gets tucked away,
There's hope of relief of pain, short stay.

If asked, I say I'm fine, I'm good, I can, I will,
Then body bent, puffing uphill.

Misshapen and swelled, an unwelcome symphony
Of creaks and grinds, and one fake knee.

Attempts to keep up with needs, wants, obligations,
My own, other's expectations.

Seventy years soon mine, each line and each wrinkle,
Stayed awake, unlike Mr. Van Winkle.

I'll admit there are things I'd like to rearrange,
Been awake to see some change.

Seems the older I get, more say that I'm moody,
Some said, when young, 'twas a cutie.

Soon, the number "Seven" will have meaning for me,
Could mean my plan is working, see...

With Intent to live forever--so far, so good--,
Ahead could be that cutie and,

A blissful, carefree, second childhood!

Moon Chasing

Taken from a 1997 writing, based on one November evening's drive, as a participant of the freeway ballet and alone with my thoughts...

The night sky was as one, huge sandbar of clouds, stretching horizontally before me. Dark clouds...as though a giant sea creature had emptied its ink sac--in disguise--to escape some real or imagined enemy or shield itself from detection by its prey.

Dark clouds...as stormy nights spoken of by old, worn sailors living off fish stories as tall as big-city skylines.

Dark clouds...as every night seemed when I, but a child, shut the chicken coop door after hens had gone to roost.

As dark and starless as a ghost story cue. Dark as hopeless days and endless nights can feel.

Traffic streaming out of the city thinned as work-week-weary commuters fanned out along tributaries branching off the Interstate. Reno's pink glow, behind us. Ahead to the East, there awaited bedroom communities already yawning, as dusk, then twilight, quickly became night.

Few headlights played upon the darkness. Then teasing, the illusion of light behind the cloud bank. Like a Kinkade painting. An irregular sliver of white light outlined the upper rim. Like watching an artist at work on public television, but no pleas for pledges.

With each mile, a new perspective. The sight, spectacular! Like horizontal lightening against a mascara backdrop. Home was just around the bend. No street lamps welcomed us. Did someone forget to pay the bill?

The air hung in a kind of suspense even as the edge of the drama softened, the end predictable.  As though playing a child's game, the seeker spied a sudden peek of the hidden--just a smidge of--moon. The chase was almost over. And then...before me, in full splendor...winter's moon, soft yet crisp, already the color of spring's promised paper whites and crocus.  The golden, autumn moon slumbered.

Symbolic of the drama of the faithful, who, willing to step to the edge of knowing, and a little beyond into the darkness, claim the promised light.

Magnificent creation! The drama of an Ansel Adams black and white. Timed-exposure photography, at its best. Welcome respite.