Growing Things

He is thinner than the last time I saw him. His t-shirt flutters over his abdomen in greeting.

Shrimp dance about the pan as he shares the mundane.

“Went to Ace Hardware today!”

“Oh, yeah? What did you buy there?” I add a splash of Worcestershire.

“Oh, you know…those flowers you always had.”

I smile into the steam of sautéing shellfish.

“Honey, that doesn’t help me.”

“You know! The ones you always pinched the dead blooms off of…”

Another smile, as I moved the pan to a cooler surface.

“Ok…”

“I think Nanny had ‘em…Four-o-clocks? Were they Four-o-clocks?”

“Yes!” I turn to face him. “Four-o-clocks! You got Four-o-clocks? You know they spread. You will have lots of Four-o-clocks!” I smile at the image of my son in his garden. I never pinched Four-o-clocks. Four-o-clocks don’t require pinching. But he remembered. He remembered the pinching. The flower is of little consequence.

“I know…” I see the smile spreading underneath his hanging head. He did it for her.

“Heather picked ‘em. I told her they spread. She got those, and the others you always had…Begonias? Didn’t you always have Begonias?”

“Yes.”

“And, Bachelor Buttons. She got Bachelor Buttons!”

“Ok, the Bachelor Buttons are small. You need to plant them in front of the Four-o-clocks.”

“Ok…”

The conversation continued as I relished the memory. He never came out with me. He never accompanied me on my walks through the garden. He never commented. He never asked a question.

But, somehow, he knew. Somehow, he was there, as we grew together. And, when the memory surfaced he acted on it, creating new memories…his memories, and hers.

Mother’s potted plants lined our patio. I never went out with her. I never accompanied her as she watered each one. I never commented, or asked a question…but, somehow I knew…

Weighing Waiting Women

Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.

The first thing I remember waiting for was my birthday. As the oldest of four girls, it was the only day of the year when the spotlight would be for me, and only me. Children came to a party for me. People bought presents for me. Mother baked a cake for me. Birthdays were always worth waiting for.

And then, of course, there was Christmas. True anticipation usually began about a week after Thanksgiving, when large, brown cartons were extracted from the attic and strewn haphazardly about the living room. It was mother’s job to string the lights, which meant more waiting for my sisters and I as we perched on the edge of a couch rarely sat upon, waiting for her signal to breach the boxes. Completion of decoration led only to more waiting. Twinkling, multi-colored lights reflected in our eyes as we “watched” the tree while imagining what hidden treasures lay underneath.

In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.

Soon after my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a reasonable facsimile of a car, featuring two seats on four wheels, and very little else. I soon realized it was the seating that concerned him most, and the words “Wait for your sister!” became the bane of my existence.

My sister, Laura, had one speed. A snail once challenged Laura to a foot race. The snail won. Most weekday mornings found me biding my time in an idling car with a blaring radio, for what seemed like hours, as Laura completed her toilette. Weeks of begging, and pleading, and screaming, and warning fell on immutably deaf ears. Finally, I cracked. Bidding her adieu with a foundation-jarring slam of the back door, I jammed the gear shift into reverse. All I remember of my return home is the anger in my mother’s eyes. The rest has been mercifully carved from my memory, but whatever the punishment, it was worth it!

The summer after my senior year in high school was spent waiting by the telephone. I met John, weeks before, while on a trip to Washington, DC with a youth group. When he called, it was to say he would be in Atlanta the following week. My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I was scheduled to be in Destin on a family vacation. To her credit, my mother allowed me to make the decision. I remember very little of that week spent on the beach, besides a feeling of longing.

College graduation began the wait for my big move. My best friend and I had planned this day for years. Numerous shopping trips for linens, and dishes, and what passed as artwork, made the waiting easier. The experience of living together wasn’t the euphoria we knew it would be, and I gained a valuable life lesson. With the assistance of a good attorney, it only cost $400.00 to get out of the lease.

The only thing more difficult than waiting for the results of a pregnancy test is waiting for his reaction. Pregnancy is the ultimate exercise in waiting. I skipped waiting to discover the gender of my children. A long-ago forbidden foray into my parents’ closet, just before Christmas, had taught me that surprises are to be relished.

Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.

I loved the quaint expression of being “with child”, and all that came with it. Pregnancy, of course, meant shopping in exclusive shops; exclusive as in those selling maternity clothes, nursing bras, baby furniture, bibs, pacifiers, and the genius that is the One-sie. My children were of the generation first introduced to this remarkable example of adorable efficiency. Thanks to the invention of the One-sie, babies no longer required trussing in order to get to the diaper; just four simple snaps, and you were in!

Mothering is synonymous with waiting. Waiting room carpet patterns are memorized, and it isn’t long before a tote bag filled with the necessities of waiting, takes up permanent residence on the back seat of a mother’s car. Mothers wait for hours in check-out lines accompanied by the wailing of an over-tired child; hers or someone else’s. Her first child’s first day of school is torturous for a mother who imagines, all day, trails of tears running down her child’s face when in reality it is her face that is wet. She can’t wait for her baby to come home.

Mothers think of clever ways to pass the time spent in carpool lanes, and later, outside movie theaters and shopping malls. Mothers wait outside dressing rooms until, curious, they grasp the doorknob, prompting the rebuke, “Not yet!”. Mothers wait, sometimes anxiously, for school to start as summer wanes, along with her children’s patience with one another.

As our children grow, waiting mixes with worry. I sat white-knuckled, at the front window, for the full fifteen minutes it took my son to drive around the block for the first time, alone. That was almost ten years ago. Yesterday, when he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes of our agreed upon time, my face appeared again, at that window.

Even today, I am hard pressed to say which was more shocking, my mother’s announcement of her diagnosis with cancer, or her concurrent use of the word “shit”, as in “Pretty heavy shit, huh?”. On the day of her surgery, the sunny environment of the waiting room, walled floor-to-ceiling by glass, competed with the emotions of the large group of friends and family it housed. Having recently returned to school, I spent most of the day with a textbook. I turned pages filled with words I only appeared to read, until the entry into the room of a small group of green-clad men wearing serious expressions. Their words left no doubt as to the arduous journey ahead, and I would begin my night-time sojourns in the ICU waiting room within weeks.

My father didn’t want my mother left “alone”. He and one or more of my sisters spent the day at the hospital, never missing one of the fifteen minute intervals during which my mother was allowed visitors. Visits were not allowed after nine at night, so my brother-in-law and I took turns sleeping in the waiting room. For many months, waiting became a way of life, as my mother slowly healed.

Commuting lends itself to reflection. Commuting in the rain requires more careful attention, until rainy streets become the norm, and reflections resurface. Such was the case on Wednesday, when, as I rolled to a stop under a murky, red beacon, I realized I have unknowingly adopted a constant state of wait.

Last year was a year of unwanted, if not unexpected, consequences. Reminders of what proved to be an achingly short spate of purest joy, plague me, in the form of physical reminders with psychological presence. The realization that I have been waiting for a different outcome brought an ironic smile to my lips, and a reminder. Inherent in waiting is hope. And, with hope, all things are possible.

Weighing Waiting Women

Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.

In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.

Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.

The First Garden

Unless you count the few pots Hillary strategically placed about a second-floor balcony, The White House grounds will feature a vegetable garden for the first time since Eleanor Roosevelt called it home. The news came drifting into my kitchen as I seasoned a large filet of Steelhead Trout. Wiping my hands on the first piece of cloth I could find, I scurried into the next room to get “the rest of the story”.

Children from a nearby elementary school assisted Mrs. Obama, and several others who actually appeared to know what they were doing, to break the ground for the ground-breaking garden.

And, it is ground-breaking on more than one level. There is something charming, and sweet, and sentimental, and secure in the thought of our First Family growing their own food. It’s an old-fashioned thing to do.

My father grew tomatoes. I say “my father”, because that’s what he would say. The truth of the matter, however, is that I grew tomatoes while he supervised, and of course, reaped the benefits. As a child, one of the first harbingers of spring was waking up on a chilly Saturday morning to the sight of post-hole diggers resting against the backyard fence. My first inclination was to busy myself with other activities that might preclude the chore, but this never worked. Just as the southern sun reached its apex, my father sought me out.

We planted in the same place very year. We walked there together, he in anticipation of juicy, red fruit, and me, with dread. He marked off the space next to the fence with booted feet, taking big, bold steps that dictated where a hole should be dug. When finished, he ceremoniously sunk the post-hole diggers into the spot furthest to the left and gave me the go-ahead.

“Thwunk!” To this day, I really dislike the sound made by post-hole diggers eating the earth.

I started planting my own garden, minus the assistance of post-hole diggers, when my children were very young. I was inspired by the garden next door, tended by a conglomeration of elderly people who were all related in some way or the other. Hoke was wizened, and in my experience, mute. He filled the role of laborer. His sister, Lottie, at twice his size, harvested, securing produce in the over-sized pockets of her ever-present apron. Ruby, their sister-in-law cooked the fruits of their labor, and her husband, their brother, ate heartily.

I have gardened ever since. I grow a mixture of herbs, squash, peppers, eggplant, beans, berries, melons, and of course, tomatoes. Fittingly, my vines still provide the fruit for my father’s favorite summer-time sandwich. In a good year, I ship once or twice a week.

I’ve always tried to interest my children in gardening. Two of my older children planted last year. My son harvested a literal plethora of peppers while my daughter watched her efforts go down in a blaze of summer sunlight, unabated by rain.

One year, when Shane was still quite small, he was inspired by an episode of “P.B. & J. Otter” to plant “Giggle Melons”. We made the trip to a local nursery, and purchased plants that were marked “Cantaloupe”, but looked like “Giggle Melons” to me. Shane planted them, and tended them, and marveled at their growth. I watched, as the juice of one of his melons dribbled down his chin, and onto his shirt, and thanked God for the presence of mind to fulfill his dream.

Yesterday, I broke ground for this year’s garden. The shovel slid into well-used earth effortlessly, releasing an aroma that smells like life. I tried, several times, to enlist Shane in my efforts.

“I have to practice, Mom!” A baseball sailed from his hand into the waiting net.
“Did you see that? Strike one!”, he called.

I grunted under the weight of a twenty-five pound sack of manure.

Chased inside by a waning sun, I washed the grime from my hands and pulled a piece of fresh trout from the refrigerator.

“Mom! Come here!”

I wiped my hands on the first cloth I could find as the news carried into the kitchen.

“Look!” Shane stood, with a basketball sequestered securely under one arm, in front of the television. “The Obama’s have a garden like ours! Cool, huh?” He gave the ball a toss.

“Yeah…” I answered. “Cool!”

High, and Outside

Baseball is not my favorite sport. At best, I endure it. And if Major League baseball is boring, Little League offers up a level of ennui unparalleled by any other activity this side of watching paint dry.

It seems every game is plagued with huge lapses of time during which the most exciting play involves watching someone else’s son kick up a cloud of red dust, as he rolls around behind home plate searching for the ball that lays just millimeters from his left shoe. I specify “someone else’s son”, because from the first time we breached the diamond, I made one thing clear; Shane will not play catcher.

He has a catcher’s build. He is somewhat vertically challenged, at present, and, his lack of height compacts his generous frame in such a way as to produce drool in coaches looking for a big target behind home plate. So, every year I am asked the question, and every year, I give the same answer, “No, I like his head. I’d like to keep it around. But, thank you for asking.”

I realize this is an unreasonable fear. As a child, burdened with a build similar to my child’s, I played catcher for a time, until it became apparent that my skills were more suited to another position; left field, perhaps. In all the time that I played, and/or watched the game, I have never witnessed a decapitation. And yet, the fear persists.

My rigidity hasn’t hurt Shane’s baseball experience. He has played nearly every position on the field, making a name for himself particularly at third base; think Terry Pendleton or Bob Horner.

This year, Shane is sharing time between third base and the pitcher’s mound. He has pitched before, and has a mean change-up. The anxiety I used to feel as he mounted the mound has given over to relief, as I know for at least this inning; the other team’s at-bat won’t resemble an extended version of musical chairs.

He is batting, this year, with a new bat. Adding a couple of ounces to its weight has improved his hitting, as he tends to swing a little late. As he approaches the plate, I slide forward on metal bleachers, resting my chin in my hand. As his coach requested, Shane lets the first pitch go. He wails at the next one, failing to make contact.

“That’s ok, Shane! You can do it!”

Another pitch sails over the plate and misses his bat. Shane steps away from the plate, shaking his head. The bat dangles, loosely, from his right hand.

“That’s it, Shane! Good cut!”

The next pitch sends him backwards, as Shane employs dramatics to ensure the call.

“Ball One!”

The “ping” signals that he has made contact. The ball stays on the ground, careening, wildly, through two gray-clad pairs of infield legs. An outfielder snags the ball well after Shane has rounded first base.

Carson ambles towards the plate, and an unexpressed moan hangs in the air.

We met Carson last year, when he came out for basketball, and the surprise I felt upon first seeing his face, quickly changed to respect when looking into the faces of his parents. Carson was born with a defect that prevented his skull from fully forming, leaving his brain exposed. In the eleven years since birth, he has suffered seven surgeries leaving him with a Picasso-like visage. The unnatural set of his eyes presents vision challenges that might have dissuaded his parents from enrolling him in sports. But, they would not be deterred. Both parents insist that Carson make the most of what he has, and that he experience life in the same way as anyone else.

It took Carson most of one season to get the hang of basketball, but by tournament time, he was a contributor. This year Carson came out for baseball.

The coaches allow for extra time to train him. Many practices find Carson part of a trio that includes a coach and another, more seasoned, player. They work on throwing, and catching, and batting. After several weeks, Carson knows how to stand. His knees are bent, slightly splaying his legs to either side. The bat is up, in ready position, and his eyes are on the pitcher.

The ball sails over the plate, and Carson’s bat languidly forms a “C” before coming to rest, tip down, in the dirt. He hefts it again. Another ball, in much the same position, comes at him. Again, the bat lazily arcs to the ground.

This is hard to watch. Again, I slide to the end of my metal perch, bringing my hands to my face as I squint. Given the velocity of his swing, the ball wouldn’t travel very far, even if he did manage to hit it. Would he know what to do? Would the force of the hit jolt his slender frame backwards? Silently, I urge him to resist. A walk would put him on base.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense another mother on the edge of her seat. Turning, I see Carson’s Mom resting her chin in her hands. And, I feel her.

Skin Deep

“What was that?” Hallie’s voice, bristling with indignation, scraped along my ear canal.

“What was what?” Most of our conversations start somewhere in the middle, and usually, I can pick up the thread. This time I had no clue.

“That picture!” Horror replaced indignation, quickly melting into dismay. “I don’t know what you were thinking. You are so photogenic! There are so many good pictures of you!”

I let the inaccuracies in her statement lie, in an effort to discern the source of her distress.

“Honey? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What picture?”

“On the blog! That horrible picture on the blog!”

“Oh, you mean the one in the bathrobe?”

“No! There was no bathrobe! Just your face; your tired, haggard, sick looking face! Why would you do that, honey?”

“You must be talking about the one in the bathrobe. I took it as a favor to a friend. It fit where I placed it in the blog.” My voice reflected the fatigue I felt at having to explain, yet again, why I had taken the picture.

“No! There is no bathrobe!”

“Ok, do you mean the one at the beginning? The one where the little boy is shaking his fist?” I struggled to remember the boy’s face. Could he have resembled me?

“No! There is no little boy, and no bathrobe; just you, looking tired and hurt and ready to die!”

The conversation ended with my friend promising to send me a copy of the offending photo, and it was as I had thought, my early morning picture.

Later that evening, another friend shared his opinion. Where she saw tired and haggard, he saw quiet and pensive. Instead of current illness, he saw tempered strength brought about by obvious wounds. He liked the picture, he said, because he felt it a true reflection.

For a time, I was struck by this difference of opinion between two people who know me as well as anyone, until I realized they both saw the same thing. The difference was acceptance.

Hallie’s view mirrored my own. I am seldom satisfied with a photograph of myself. On a recent occasion in which I was called upon to provide a current photo, I took fifty shots before settling on one I felt was passable. I can always find something wrong. My eyes don’t look right. The lines around my mouth are too obvious. My hair isn’t messy enough.

But it’s really not about physical appearance. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about being stripped down, and allowing the real to show.

The eyes don’t look right because they are sad. The lines around the mouth tend to drift unflatteringly, and messy hair provides a pleasant distraction from the rawness of a well-traveled face. And, all of this is difficult to show and unpleasant to see.

The friend who saw sick and tired, knew the pain first-hand, and couldn’t bear being reminded. The friend who saw quiet and pensive, viewed with accuracy, from a distance.

And, both are right.

Gathering Scraps

She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.

“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.

Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.

“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.

Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.

“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.

“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.

The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.

She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.

“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.

“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.

She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.

She smiled her most welcoming smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”

As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.

Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”

The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.

“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.

Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.

Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.

Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.

Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.

The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.

Son of a Blogger

Shane wants a Facebook page.

He began plying me several months ago, just after the school year started. As a sixth-grader, he is now “running with the big boys”.

“Everyone has one, Mom.”, he said with a note of exasperation only attainable between the ages of ten and twenty-one or twenty-two.

“I’m not responsible for “everyone”, Shane. I’m only responsible for you.” This answer has never been particularly effective. I’m not sure why I continue to use it.

“What? You think I’m a baby? You’re treating me like a baby. I’m not a baby, Mom.” The inflection placed upon the last word effectively vanquished every other word he’d uttered. Somehow, he’d stretched a three letter word into two syllables.

“Who among your friends has a Facebook page, Shane?” When all else fails, back them into a corner.

“Valerie.”

“Valerie?” I pretended to stifle a laugh. “Valerie? The same Valerie you described to me as “an only child who gets whatever she wants” Valerie?”

“Well, other people have one, too!” He failed to turn his head before I saw the blush crawl up his cheeks.

Reasoning that there might be safeguards for children on Facebook, I attempted to open a page for my son a couple of weeks later, only to be stopped dead in my tracks upon entering his birth date.

“I’m sorry, Shane. You have to be thirteen to have a Facebook page.” I said in hopes that my monotone would camouflage my lack of sincerity.

“Well then, how do all my friends have one?”, he asked with a defensive tone that assured me he believed they actually did.

Our discussion opened with an appeal to his morality and ended with, “Why did you have to put my real birthday? Couldn’t you just make me thirteen?” There was a cursory mention of MySpace that I quashed without argument.

This morning as I wrapped the flaps of “the world’s softest bathrobe” around my legs before placing them atop the desk, Shane stumbled into my office.

“Morning, Glory!” I say it every Saturday morning in hopes that he will remember, long after I am gone.

“Mornin’”, he mumbled his answer while scratching his abdomen underneath his robe.

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah…I want a blog.”

My carefully arranged feet flew from the desk as I whirled in my chair to face him.

“A blog?”

“Yeah. I want a blog.”

This evening we sat down together, and created his blog. We agonized over the name for at least twenty minutes.

“Do you do this a lot?”, he asked.

“What?”, I answered, as my head lay in my arm on the desk.

“Think like this.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, actually.”

A short time later, we finally arrived at a name we both liked. He chose a template, and I set the privacy settings. When we were done, I gave him the chair.

“Ok, write!”, I said, leaving the room.

Thirty minutes later, he found me.

“I’m done. Check it out. I need your opinion, Super Star.” The moniker drew dust on it’s delivery.

His words were powerful, his feelings palpable. My editorial eye immediately honed in on a couple of awkwardly crafted sentences that upon rereading only added to the poignancy of his statement.

“It’s good, Shane. It’s really good.”

And, his little man’s chest swelled.

The Joy of Cooking

At age eighty-three and counting, Joy has rediscovered the culinary arts.

Last week…

“I bought the most amazing pot roast at the market yesterday!” This would have been said on a Thursday, as Senior Discount Day is Wednesday, and Joy never misses Senior Discount Day.

“I bought potatoes, and carrots, and onions, and I’m going to throw it all in the crock-pot.” Despite my disdain for pot roast, her exuberance was almost contagious.

“Sounds good!”, I lied.

“So, I’m wondering…” Her five-foot-two body began to bounce on the tips of her rubber soled feet. “…what types of herbs should I use?”

Allowing for a moment to wonder why she considered me an expert in cooking herbs, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“Garlic, of course. Salt, pepper, about a half cup of red wine…” I searched my brain as I stated the obvious.

“…and thyme!”, I announced proudly. “I like thyme with meat.”

“Thyme! Yes!” Joy clapped her diminutive hands for emphasis. “I’m cooking it this weekend, and if it turns out, I’ll send you the recipe!”

This morning…

Grasping both zippered sides of one of a collection of woolen cardigans she purchased during a tour of Slavic countries, Joy hurriedly entered my office.

“The pork chops were delicious!”, she proclaimed.

Spinning my chair to face her, I asked “Pork chops?”

“Oh, yes! Pork chops in the crock pot!” She dropped the sweater to clasp her hands with glee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever cooked pork chops in a crock pot.”, I mused. “I’ve fried them, and baked them, and….”

“Oh, we usually barbeque them!”, Joy interjected with a bounce.

“Yes.”, I agreed. “I’ve grilled them…”

The expression on Joy’s face was familiar to me. It was the same expression Shane wore after scoring the winning run, or making a clutch catch with the sun in his eyes. I knew what to do….

“Tell me about it.”

“It called for mushroom soup!” And, she was off. “I know some people don’t like mushroom soup. But this had just half the sodium of most mushroom soup. And, I left the bouillon cube out. I love bouillon, but have you ever noticed how much sodium is in a bouillon cube?” She paused for just a moment, inhaling deeply for effect. “It’s terrible!”

“I like cream of mushroom soup.”, I offered.

“Well, I did something different.” Ignoring my comment, she leaned in conspiratorially. “I lined the bottom of the crock pot with onions!”

“The recipe didn’t call for onions?”, I asked, with just a hint of dismay.

“No, but they added so much to the dish!”, she crowed proudly.

She went on with her list of ingredients, ending with tapioca.

“Tapioca?” This time my dismay was genuine. “Tapioca, with pork chops? I don’t like tapioca. Doesn’t it have those little balls in it?”

“I know…”, Joy nodded. “I know…Well, if you don’t like tapioca you could use something else. But, it thickened wonderfully!”

I wrestled with the image of pork chops swimming in mushroom-flavored tapioca, while Joy detailed the rest of her meal, and the conversation turned, again, to herbs.

“Dick loves cauliflower.” Her frown said she didn’t. “I put a little thyme on the cauliflower.”

Her forehead wrinkled under steel-hued bangs. “Was it thyme?”

I opened my mouth to help just as the correct herb came to her.

“No, it was basil! Basil is very good with insipid vegetables, you know…”

Batter Up!

Two hours spent sitting on aluminum bleachers outside an aluminum fence housing eighteen boys wielding aluminum bats is, for me, excruciating.

In spite of a somewhat chilly wind, the sun was blazing today, and I dressed accordingly, offering up as much winter-white skin as decorum allowed. The kind of warmth only God can provide got me through the third inning. As our pitcher walked his fourth batter in succession, I watched an opposing player lope home for an unearned score, and reassembled my limbs for maximum exposure. “You can do this!”, played like a mantra inside my head.

Blessedly, the game ended just as I feared ennui would surely overtake me. As I struggled not to remember that this was just a practice game, and that the regular season still stretched before me, Shane emerged from the dugout. We walked, arm-in-arm, towards the concession stand and lunch, while he rehashed his performance. And, I remembered; the warmth of my skin as it browns is nice, but this is my favorite part of baseball season.