"I Don't Have Hobbies, I Have Grandchildren" by Jayne Magee

     Some time ago, we went out to dinner with old friends.  I was wearing jewelry that I had made at my most recent Metal Arts workshop, and the wife of our dear friend told me how much she liked it.  Then she turned and said to me, " I don't have hobbies, I have grandchildren."  She has four darling grandsons with another on the way shortly.  I have four children and zero grandchildren.  Now mind you, she was not saying this to be boasting or condescending.  She was just conveying a simple fact to me.

     Granted, I have way too many hobbies: knitting, weaving, gardening, baking, sewing, and making enamel and metal jewelry--just to name a few.  Since I retired a little over a year ago,  I have delved into my hobbies with a vengeance--taking more classes to expand my skill level, buying a bigger loom, investigating vegan cooking, going to yoga class several times a week, and spinning my own yarn.  

      I wonder sometimes if I am just trying to stay busy to avoid the reality that I am no longer a professor of English.  Then when I think about it, I realize that I have always had hobbies.  For example, I love to read and I read every day whether or not I am working.  Ditto with knitting.  I try to knit for some amount of time daily.  So when I was spending hours upon hours upon hours every weekend grading compositions, I would promise myself that if I graded X number of student papers, I could read or knit for half an hour.  

     I sometimes wonder if I am just trying to fill the void left by a lack of grandchildren.  I can't tell you how many well-meaning friends have said to me, " I can't believe that you have four kids and no grandkids!" in a tone of amazement.  Gee thanks, I hadn't noticed--whenever everyone else is showing  me all their cute pictures of grandbabies on their iPhones--that I don't have any pictures or stories.  Am I just a wee bit disappointed that I don't have grandchildren?  You bet I am.  However, in this life there are no guarantees.  I am not "Entitled" to grandchildren simply by virtue of the fact that I am a mother of four.  So my focus has always been on how proud I am that all of my children are making the world a better place within their various professions.  So that's where my bragging rights come into play.
      My dear friend from high school and I walk three times a week.  She also has no grandchildren.  On our walks we discuss which projects/hobbies we have on our "Lesson Plan" for that day, and week.  JoAnne is the only person I know who has more hobbies and projects than I do.  The only difference is that her projects look very professional when they are completed, whereas mine always look rather half-assed.  She is a perfectionist and I am not!   We have often wondered together whether or not we would still be have time for hobbies if we DID have grandchildren? Then we laugh and realize that we would indeed.  JoAnne would be finding a crib at a yard sale, decorating it with Annie Sloan paint, and whipping up crib bolsters on her sewing machine.  I would be weaving baby blankets and knitting up baby sweaters and sewing up baby burp clothes.  Of course, I would also be creating my own line of vegan baby food.  That is just how my mind works.  *Note:  Cindy has five grandchildren and the clothes that she makes for the American Girl dolls are amazing.  I will make her post some pictures below!

     What is it about hobbies that is so fulfilling?  I think it is the challenge and excitement of a new creative project.  It gets my mind focused on something besides the horrors of the daily news.  When I am out in my sanctuary, what I call The Guild, weaving or spinning yarn, my heart and mind are still, and I am content to live in the Present Moment.  I will play instrumental hymns or yoga music on Pandora.  It is a great time to meditate and pray.  As my yoga teacher, Lisa, says when we end class, "May you have peace in your heart, peace in your mind, and peace in the world."  That's what pursuing my hobbies gives to me.

 

By Cindy
Attempting to follow Jayne's creations with any of my own seems futile - she is so good and creative at so many things. My one hobby is sewing, which I pursue on behalf of my grandchildren, granddog, and American Girl granddolls.

Check out my American Girl Dolls Pinterest site; here are some samples below:

Three of my granddaughters have a version of this princess dress

Basil likes a casual look for summertime

Cooking for none

By Cindy
When I say that one of the many pleasures of raising a large family is cooking large meals I'm not being facetious - I loved it. I loved everything about it: finding new recipes, planning meals, grocery shopping and especially sitting down to enjoy big meals with my five children, my mother, and sometimes extra friends and relatives.

I loved it so much that I came to believe that in a past life (which I don't really believe in) I might have been a cook at a lumberjack camp. I not only like to cook, I like to cook HUGE amounts of filling food, especially involving pasta and cheese. You'd think maybe I came from Minnesota, home of the hot dish, but I was raised in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., home of no particular cuisine. 

So then maybe you'd think that behavior like this had to have been learned in my birth family growing up, but nothing could be further from the truth. My father only ate certain foods (which had something to do with growing up very poor in the South during the Depression, but I never learned the details), and my mother heartily disliked cooking. My younger brother and I pretty much hated everything and ate as little as possible. (Once I threw up in the kitchen after swallowing lima beans whole. They still haunt me.)

Although my mother relied heavily on canned and frozen foods which were still sort of a novelty in the Fifties, she did have her specialities like ham croquettes (speaking of being haunted). I can still feel them in my mouth as they refused to go down: dry, faintly pink and of no origin you could have determined if you didn't know we had ham steak the night before.

By the way, I'm not disrespecting my mother's memory. She was a smart, funny, generous and loving woman with many talents other than cooking, such as playing, teaching, and writing music (violin and piano). She could sew anything and did, including new upholstery for a 1958 Mercury Comet (she removed the seats herself), and a suit for my father. But as she acknowledged, cooking was just not her thing.

So maybe my birth family was responsible for my love of home cooking. Maybe I watched too many sitcoms like Leave it to Beaver and wanted my own family to sit down to meals like that someday. I don't know.

But now that I'm retired it's all behind me, except for holidays and birthdays, and it makes me sad in the same way that my children being grown up and on their own still lays me low. I've never understood how people can say, "Phew! They're finally gone!" or, "Just cooking for myself now - what a relief!"  Seriously? Don't you miss them like crazy??

It's not that I didn't have a full life while I was raising my children, I did. I always had a full time professional career as a corporate writer, and continued it for many years after my kids were grown. I was never a housewife, though that was a job I had aspired to. I just loved the energy, love, noise and sometimes chaos of a houseful of people to whom I could show my love every night with a nice meal.

And our family celebrations, big and small, have always revolved around food and lots of it - usually way too much of it but that never stops us. It's more challenging now that four of my five grown children are vegetarians, but since one is also a chef I get lots of help for holiday and birthday meals, which are even more celebratory since they bring far-flung family members back together. 

Everyday cooking for myself is just not fun or satisfying. I've finally learned to spend less and leave the grocery store with fewer bags, but it's been a struggle. And I'm always trying to lose weight, so the fewer and less-calorie-dense ingredients in a meal, the better.

I know that I might satisfy my ongoing need to cook for a crowd by volunteering at a charitable organization that offers free meals, and I should. Maybe I will someday but I'm not ready yet. Right now I'm busy trying to recruit my two nearby grandchildren, ages eight and five, to the joys of thinking about, planning, making and eating meals. 

So far it's not going great.  "I don't eat that," says the five-year-old whose favorite meal at my house is squeeze cheese and crackers; "No, thank you," says the alarmed eight-year-old in such a polite voice as he looks suspiciously at a plate of something unfamiliar. My biggest flop to date was making homemade cheese snack crackers and chocolate sandwich cookies. I was beside myself with excitement, but it turns out I was alone in that emotion.

Maybe that's the way my poor mother felt with the ham croquettes.

Do you have any strategies for making meals-for-one fun? If you do, write them down below. I need help.

Gun Control--Or Lack Thereof by Jayne Magee

     We had a homicide in my neighborhood yesterday.   A man three streets away from our house stabbed his girlfriend and slit her throat.  Then he was on the run, and the manhunt took all day.  It was well into the evening before they caught him.  My girlfriend called to tell me, so I immediately got up and locked all of my doors.  To be quite truthful, I was immersed in one of many many hobbies, and didn't think anything more about it until late afternoon when Gary called to ask me how I was.  As per usual, Gary is always out of town and out of state when these major events occur.

       For those of you who haven't been to my home, I live in a house filled with guns.  I can't even tell you how many guns Gary has.  There is always a pistol in the night stand (unloaded of course, with the clip not in the gun).  I grew up in a family of non gun owners and non hunters. I doubt very much if my Dad or my brother ever shot a gun in their lifetimes.  So guns are not something that I am comfortable using.  Gary has tried to teach me how to shoot a gun on two separate occasions.  The first time I was about 8 months pregnant with Meghan, our oldest.  He took me out in the back yard in Clear Run and handed me a rifle to shoot.  The kick from the rifle literally knocked me on my ass.

        So for our second shooting lesson many years later, he had me use a pistol at the local indoor shooting range.  Still in PTSD from the other gun lesson, I jerked the revolver and somehow managed to shoot the electric line to the entire indoor shooting range.  The whole place went dark.  I was politely asked never to return.  So that is the extent of my experiences with guns.

         Therefore when this this deranged murderer was on the loose yesterday, I did not rush up to either the bedroom to get the pistol or the basement gun safe to grab a rifle.  I just kept making jewelry.  I wasn't anxious or afraid--I figured that he was long gone, and he was.  They found him somewhere up in the woods near Penfield.  Thank goodness.  

          Am I against women owning guns?  No.  However, I can never see me using a gun to defend myself given my history.  Having said that, if someone broke into my house and started attacking one of my kids, I probably would lunge for a gun or a knife or maybe a knitting needle and take my chances.  My oldest texted this to me this morning, "You are never too old to learn how to shoot a gun. I'm sure Dad could find one that is right for you. But then you have to be willing to use it and not let it get turned on you in an emergency. Who are we kidding. Mom--you would pray with a criminal. Make them soup and tell them that they are better than this life."  To which I say, "Amen!"

Talking About My Generation - Or Not

by Cindy

Have you read In the Unlikely Event, by Judy Blume? I just finished it, and I'm sort of relieved that I didn't enjoy the retro ambiance of it more. Nostalgia is a habit I'm trying to kick.

Although I was only two years old in 1951 when the plane crashes she writes about took place,  I do remember the Fifties pretty well: buttoned-down, uptight conventions like wearing a dress and white gloves to go shopping with my mother, and the the startling fear of crouching under my desk as a grade schooler, waiting for the Russians to bomb us to smithereens.

Of course I remember the Sixties with much more enthusiasm and clarity, and that's where I get into trouble. 

My teenaged daughter once said to me in exasperation, "Mom, I am so tired of hearing about 'your generation!'" 

Huh? I had no idea I was talking about it that much. But it's true I've always thought of our Boomer generation as incredibly cool, even magical. Who else in the history of the world ever wore such outrageous clothes, protested as loudly against the atrocities of life, partied harder, danced and sang with unquestionably the most monumentally awesome rockers of all time and just generally lived on the edge?

The answer, of course, is everybody. Everyone's youth is the most magical era of all time, whatever the cultural ingredients were. Sometimes I think about my grandmothers, who were young adults during the Roaring Twenties. I bet if you stacked the Sixties up against that era, they'd come out even on the blow-your-socks-off scale. 

Look at our parents, The Greatest Generation. They left college or interrupted careers and family lives to go to war. They did things that truly were monumental and earthshaking, and they never bragged about it or portrayed themselves as something special.

Or think of our own teenagers in the Eighties. What I know about the Eighties is that I wore suits with big shoulder pads to work.  (I was busy, with five children and a full time job.) But for my kids, the Eighties are a touchstone the way the Sixties are for me. The difference is, they don't think they rocked the world. They have perspective.

The more I think about all this the less fun it is to pretend that I am any cooler than anyone else simply because I walked the Earth during the time of Woodstock and know the words to all the best Motown songs ("Standing in the shadows of love, I'm getting ready for the heartaches to coooommme...")

Some things will always be fun to remember, of course, and that's the way it should be. But memories can't really compare to "the good old days" we're living through right now, every one of us, every day. That's cool.

Dogs: Furry Children or Mobile Carpet-Staining Devices?

By Cindy and Jayne

CINDY:
Dogs are a part of family life for many of us, woven into our family histories and punctuating our shared anecdotes. "Remember the time..." a story might start out, starring Frisky or Fluffy or Fang, and soon everyone's laughing at the time Dad scoured the neighborhood for a lost pet, aiming a flashlight under cars in the middle of the night, wearing only a bathrobe, and eventually attracting the attention of the police (which actually happened to my father when I was little).

As an adult, later as a parent and now an empty-nester, I've had a series of dogs. All have been rescues, all but one have been small, and every one of them has played a major role in our family life.

When I was expecting my first child, our next door neighbor came to the back fence once morning, weeping and holding a red, miniature dachshund that was the bane of our existence because it NEVER stopped running up and down the fence, barking. They were moving to a retirement community and her husband said they couldn't take the dog. She (the dog) would have to go to a shelter. My pregnancy hormones kicked in and I started weeping. "Of course we'll take her," I sobbed.

Her name was Sabra but we renamed her Muffin, because I liked saying it. We also called her land shark because of her habit of launching herself between guests and the coffee table to snatch whatever finger food we were serving. Once she drew blood from a friend who was wearing white slacks, requiring a bandage and dry cleaning. Muffin had another habit, friendlier but no less upsetting: When anyone entered our house, she would run in excited circles over their feet and pee. My husband cleaned lots of shoes during the Muffin era.

By the time Muffin died we had three small children and were expecting twins. I wanted another miniature dachshund (what was it with my hormones and dachshunds?) and found one at the local shelter. When I called they said she had been mistreated in a home with children, and they couldn't allow her to go with a family with kids. Did we have any? (Haha! Just a few.) We could leave my three little ones with a babysitter, but trying to hide my Shamu-sized bump was futile, so we brought the kids and I stuffed my pockets with dog treats. Before the shelter people could protest, I was frantically feeding the little dog treats and she was wagging her tail. They let us take her. 

Jackie was feisty and got feistier when we acquired two kittens. We taught the kittens to defend themselves by holding their little front paws and batting Jackie's long nose. We were less successful at defending the hamsters whose population was lessened by Jackie's bloody raid. Jackie was only with us for a couple of years before she succumbed to the same sad fate as Muffin: Dachshunds like to sprint out any open door or crack in a fence, and she ran into the road.

Our next dog was an attempt to soothe us after Jackie's demise, and to distract my five young children from the fact that their father had left home and we were getting divorced. Little did we know that the tiny white chihuahua we named Peanut would become one of the most important members of our family, one I miss to this day.

We got Peanut from a couple who had a thundering herd of chihuahuas in a small trailer. They were selling him so it wasn't technically a rescue but he seemed unhappy and scared so I think it was.  For the ten years we had him, Peanut did everything with us. He loved going through the McDonald's drive-in, where we would order him a vanilla soft serve cone or a plain hamburger. The kids liked to suggest Peanut's thoughts, in squeaky little voices, and someone would always say "I'd like a bag of burgers please - hold the ketchup and mustard and lettuce - just a big sack of meat."

He moved from Florida to Arizona with us, and went on our Southwestern adventure vacations. One that stands out is our trek to White Sands National Park, where Peanut scampered up a very high hill of sand, along with the children. He cut a small but compelling profile against the brilliant white landscape (his one brown spot helped him stand out).

Peanut made our next move with us as well, to rural Western Maryland where he enjoyed romping in the grass, sniffing things and barking at bunnies. When he died of a stroke, we buried him in our backyard and I cried so hard that I got floaters in my eyes and went on anti-depressants so I could sleep. That was more than ten years ago and we all still miss him.

Since then we've had three more rescue dogs - a hairy little chihuahua named Cookie, a one-eyed, elderly chihuahua named Sammy, and a big blind muppet dog named Bert, who is still with me. Bert, who is 13, moved to Florida with me and remains a sweet, although amazingly bad-smelling, friend (he's sitting under my desk as I type this).

Each one of them has played a big role in our family and has a spot in our collective and individual memories. They say pets are like children but they're more than that. They are like the best parts of raising children: they stay cute and little, they love to be cuddled and they appreciate the heck out of anything we do for them. They think we're gods and they will never leave us, not until they have to. You certainly can't ask for more than that out of a family member.

JAYNE:
My favorite dog story happened when Gary was out West hunting, and the kids and I were at home left to our own devices. We were driving somewhere in our old blue station wagon when the local newscaster announced that a dog had been found and was now tied to a pole outside the police station. If someone didn’t come to claim it—they would kill it in the next hour. A loud weeping and wailing commenced from the back seat. So of course I turned the car around immediately and headed off to the police station. 

Within an hour, we were back in our old barn (literally our house was once a barn for the Riss “mansion” next door!) with the dog in tow. He was a black lab mix with a white patch on his nose—so the kids named him Domino. Someone had abused this dog and then thrown him out on the side of the road. He was as meek and timid as a lamb, but I can still see Mandy perched in the middle of the trestle table in the dining room screaming because of her fear of dogs.  Who knew? 

When Gary arrived home from his elk hunting trip, at first he pretended to ignore the new dog. Finally, he asked me about it, so I explained the story. He never said a negative word about it but made clear his displeasure that we had rescued a dog that was NOT a hunting dog. However, he stoically accepted his “punishment” for going on a vacation without his family. 

From that moment on, Gary was in charge of all dog purchases. He got his prize English Springer Spaniel from Ken Roebuck, a famous breeder of field trial dogs. Gary bred Brownie many times and we raised the puppies to sell. Dan Kohlhepp’s English Spring Spaniel was often the father of the puppies, so we would share them. I guess Gary figured that if he could deliver both of his own sons at home, delivering a batch of puppies would be a piece of cake. As usual, he was correct!! 

The kids loved having the puppies as playmates and always gave each of them names. When the time came to sell them, there were four very unhappy Magee children. Several times there were tiny puppies who just wouldn’t make it—something was no doubt wrong with them from birth. Mandy especially would grow attached to them. The first time one of the puppies died, Mandy cried for days. She took her small wood burning kit and made a tombstone for “Baby Kohlhepp Magee” and nailed it to a tree up at Camp Know Buck, under which the puppy remains had been buried in a shoe box.

Mandy now has two Springer Spaniels and they are the joy of her life. We now have only one old, deaf Springer Spaniel named Rebel. He is as cute as can be, but will we get another dog when he dies? Only time will tell.

Why Cindy and I Are Addicted to "Crack"-er Barrel

By Jayne and Cindy    

 I got two apps the first day that I got an iPhone:  one was called “Restroom Finder” (enough said) and the other was an app. to locate the nearest Cracker Barrel restaurant from any point in the Continental United States.  One of the many things that bonds Cindy and I is our shared love of Cracker Barrel.  Every trip to visit our daughter in Rhode Island—both going there and driving home--must be carefully orchestrated around a trip to Cracker Barrel,  My  daughters who are vegan refuse to eat there because “even the vegetables are loaded with butter.”  To which I reply, “But that is what I love about about Cracker Barrel!”  I must admit to still having a wee bit of resentment that these children of mine who refused to eat cookies made with whole wheat flour or any healthy thing that I tried to pass off on them—such as “all natural peanut butter”—are now such purists when it comes to junk food.  I mean give me a break—they devoured Little Debbie Snack cakes and sugary cereals after I gave up on trying to convert them to Adele Davis’ all natural foods back in the 70s.  I can still see their frightened eyes when I tried to whip up some of her famous “protein shakes”—this from my kids who now live on kale smoothies. But I digress.  

     What is it about Cracker Barrel that is so addictive?  As my oldest pointed out—it isn’t called “Crack”-er Barrel for nothing.  First there is that lovely long front porch with the rocking chairs that reminds us of our grandparents’ front porch.  Then the rooms with all the old pictures on the walls to really immerse us in nostalgia.  The smell of baking biscuits and frying bacon is tantalizing, and my mouth is watering before I even open the menu.  They serve both hot biscuits and corn muffins with every meal—and grits.  Now I don’t even like grits, but I love the idea of Southern Comfort Food:  hash brown potato casserole loaded with cheese, sausage gravy, green beans simmered with ham hocks, rashers of thick crispy bacon, country fried steak, southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and hot baked apples. How can we be expected to resist such temptations?  Not to mention the pies and dumplings.  Nothing on the menu is probably under 2000 calories—but hey, who is counting calories at Crack-er Barrel?  Check your Weight Watchers food calculator at the door!

     To pay your bill you have to battle your way past old fashioned metal cans of potato chips, root beer, candy of all kinds, toys, games, clothes, music and kitchy gifts for any occasion.  It must be a nightmare for parents/grandparents trying to get young kids out the door.  They must blindfold them or spend a hundred bucks on treats just to lure  them back into the car.  I must say that I am grateful to not have discovered Cracker Barrel until midlife.  If I ever am blessed with grandchildren, I may have to go into rehab from “Crack”-er Barrel  before I take them on any family vacations to the beach.

     So back to the question I posed earlier, ”Why are Cindy and I and millions of other people addicted to Cracker Barrel?”  According to Dr. David Kesler, former Surgeon General of the United States and author of the book called The End of Overeating, researchers have found that there is a sweet spot in which just the right proportions of sugar, salt and fat make us addicted to certain foods causing us to engage in what he calls “hyper overeating.”  Every fast food restaurant in the world knows this.   I also know this intellectually.  I read the entire book—several times in fact.  And yet like one of Dr. Kesler’s  lab rats, thanks to my Cracker Barrel app on my phone, I am drawn to the nearest restaurant like a lemming.  So it is not just the physical addiction to the food.  Let’s face it—after six hours on Interstate 80 in the heat in single-lane construction for 100 miles through the entire state of New Jersey and one too many shouting matches over the directions with my dear hubby—I may yet kill any highway worker who tries to block off Exit 30 on I-80.  I just want—dare I say need?-- to fall into the soft embrace of a place that reminds me of my childhood—that table laden with rich food that spells L-0-V-E.  I know,  I know, I know that I know that it is NOT HEALTHY FOR ME.  I confess that I am a woman of weak will.  I cannot fight this temptation.  I guess I need to google up 12-Step Programs for “Crack”-er Barrel ASAP.  

     I’m with Jayne on this. For me, walking into a Cracker Barrel is like slipping into another dimension - one that is part memory, part fantasy, and all irresistible. From the rockers and checkerboards on the front porch, through the doors and into the cheerfully crowded general store, I feel as though I’m stepping back in time to a road trip with my family, when my little brother and I would beg my Dad to stop at quaint general stores so we could spend our allowance on souvenirs. Nothing bad could happen here.

     There are honest, earnest, All-American goods displayed with no sense of irony. Around holidays there is clothing that elsewhere might be laughed at as “Ugly Christmas Sweaters.” But here - along with the baby gear, stuffed animals, mugs and other kitchen gear - they seem a sweet and straightforward way of offering you holiday cheer.  It makes me feel happy.

     As Jayne mentioned, the nostalgic candies and foods just undo me. I want to snatch up a roll of rainbow-colored Necco wafers and cry out to everyone in the store, “I used to eat these! In my backyard, with my best friend!” (I try to control myself.)

     The National Institutes of Health says, “Your ability to smell comes from specialized sensory cells, called olfactory sensory neurons, which are found in a small patch of tissue high inside the nose. These cells connect directly to the brain.” Boy, do they ever! My sensory cells go into overdrive before I ever make it to the dining room of a Cracker Barrel. And I can never pick out one particular scent though my overall impression is always meatloaf and mashed potatoes, maybe because that is my ultimate comfort food. 

     Cracker Barrel is a sensory comforter that settles around my shoulders and stays there, as I sit surrounded by old-time photos and ads and enjoy the meal that is always even better than I think it’s going to be - tender, succulent chicken, plump biscuits with butter, and vegetables, also drenched in butter.

     Speaking of which I share something else with Jayne: Four out of my five adult children are vegetarians, with a high concentration on organic, non GMO foods that ideally are locally sourced. (The fifth, my elder son, comes to eat brisket with me once a month.) I respect their choices and they respect mine, but I do feel bad that they can’t experience the feeling of well being that comes with walking into a Cracker Barrel and being enveloped by the smell of old-time comfort food. I don’t think there’s any kale- and quinoa-based dish that could do that. 

     So yes, Jayne and I are self-confessed Crack-er Barrel addicts. 

    And, judging by the fact that Apple put a Cracker Barrel-finding app on their iphones, we’re not alone.

Untangling Apron Strings by Jayne Magee

About a month ago, I was at the local Art Walk in my hometown of DuBois, Pennsylvania, when I spotted the cutest apron.  It was the old-fashioned type of apron that my Grandma Steiner used to wear:  the top covered you completely and tied at both the neck and the waist.  Grandma Steiner’s apron usually covered her house dress as well, but this little apron’s gathered skirt only reached about five inches below the band at the waist.  It was made by my minister’s wife out of an old- fashioned green cotton print with moss green bias tape around the neck and edges.  The best part was that it had pockets for a cell phone and other necessary supplies.  True Confession:  I actually bought it for me, but I was too fat and busty to squeeze into it, so I gave it to my daughter as a gift when we visited her in Rhode Island for our Family Vacation/Reunion a few weeks later.
Once I handed Mandy the apron, she never took it off.  I even saw her wear it over her bathing suit.  Since that time, whenever she has work to do (she is an architectural  engineer  who works from home and who is also remodeling her own home), she ties on her apron.  If she has an important deadline to meet, she will put on her apron to focus her mind.  If she has to fix her air conditioner by herself, she will tie on her apron.   Here is an example from one of her most recent texts to me:
“ This just happened:
Me - tying on my apron.
R –'What are you doing?’
Me –'I need to get some paperwork done and I keep procrastinating. So, I NEED my apron.'
He just laughed. I have already cleaned up the kitchen before starting paperwork! Superman has his cape, Wonder Woman has her lasso, and I have my apron!”

What is it about an apron that holds so many memories for me?  I can still see my grandmother and mother in their kitchens with their aprons on,  baking up a storm. Grandma Steiner is making her world-famous homemade bread and fancy decorated cupcakes.  Mom is making chocolate cake with chocolate frosting topped with chopped walnuts.  I myself can’t cook without an apron—I just ruin every shirt I have with stains that even a stain stick can’t get out.  I am just a slob.  If I am baking, I end up with flour all over my clothes, the counter, and the floor.  When I am making my pasta sauce in the pressure cooker, I will end up with big stains all over my shirts if I don’t don my apron.  Making chocolate cupcakes with a hand mixer is a recipe for a clothing stain disaster if I don’t remember to tie on my apron.  Note: I did not inherit this messiness from my mother who wore aprons but they always remained pristine!
I once wrote an article in which I described myself as “a dinosaur in an apron, lumbering around the house right before extinction.”  This is how I saw myself as a mother.  In our dorm room at Allegheny, Cindy and I would talk about how many kids we wanted.  We both wanted five--along with the big house with the white picket fence and the handsome, wealthy husband.  I only got four kids before Gary put his foot down and snuck off to get a vasectomy, but Cindy reached our joint goal by having twins.  Cheater!
        My dream when I went to college was to become an airline stewardess, hence my brief attempt at becoming a German major, so I could travel to exotic locations.  My father, who traveled all the time for his job, described airline stewardesses as “waitresses in the sky,” but all I saw was the romance and glamour.  The only stumbling block was my height.  At that time,  you had to be at least 5 feet two inches tall.  I was only—barely—five feet tall.  So I became an English major since I loved to read. After Gary and I were married and I realized I had to get a job, I stayed in college long enough to get my teaching credential.  I taught for a year or so at a private Catholic girls’ school—Incarnate Word Academy.  But once Gary graduated from chiropractic college (and I was already pregnant with Meghan), we returned to our hometown and I became a stay-at-home mom for many many years.
         One day I was on my hands and knees cleaning the dirt out of the cracks in the wooden floor of our living room.  Since our house had once been a barn, this was a never-ending task.  All at once it hit me: I was the only one who would notice what I had spent the day doing—or care!  Once Gary and the kids came home, the floor would get dirty once again.  Did I really want to spend the rest of my life on my hands and knees cleaning up after other people?  A sudden picture came into my mind: I was a dinosaur  in an apron lumbering around and slowly going extinct.  It was a laughable and yet frightening thought.
         That night in bed I said to Gary, “I need something more in my life.  Should I take ceramics class or go to graduate school?”  He replied, “Well,  you always were a good student.  Why not try graduate school?”  That began my long journey toward getting a PhD and moving to Ohio to take a fulltime, tenure-track job.  But that is another story for another day.
        Aprons have gotten a dirty rap from the feminists and others.  The picture of June Cleaver cooking dinner in her pumps with a frilly chiffon apron over her neatly ironed dress, pearls at her neck, has became a symbol of the ultimate subservience of women.  But is it?  Really???  I beg to differ.  Here is a great line from a novel I am currently reading by Susan Wiggs, “She donned her apron like a cowboy strapping on a gunbelt.”  I love  that image!!  When I was still golfing, I wanted to design special aprons to hold all of our golfing supplies: balls, tees, ball markers, etc.  However, I got voted down.  I guess those aprons seemed “too girly” and not “athletic” enough for competition.
Aprons are protection—from spills, dirt, baby vomit and poop, household cleaners, and ugly coffee stains.  If you go into any trendy retro store anywhere—say Frederick, Maryland—you will again find the cutest and most expensive aprons on sale everywhere. They are “in” again.   Why?  Because they are tools, and like any other tool (a rake, a pick ax, a hammer, or a wrench), they serve a very practical purpose: they enable us to focus on a task and get the job done while avoiding the "extra work" of having to do even MORE laundry.  It's a win-win.  If you notice, all of the male chefs wear either aprons or coats.  We women are much smarter—why wear a coat when an apron works better?  Here is a brief history of aprons for anyone who wants to learn more:

Brief History of Aprons

So isn’t it time that we “untangled” some of the false stereotypes around aprons and the image of women with young children clinging to them by their apron strings? Here is the truth about aprons in the 21st century.  When you take off your apron, it will reveal a clean and unstained business suit or doctor’s coat or engineer’s hard hat or construction worker’s shirt and pressed khakis.  It could also reveal your bathing suit or pjs or yoga pants—your choice—and wasn’t the whole purpose of feminism to give us choices and set us free from the worn out myths about women and power?  As for those children clinging to our apron strings—good luck trying to stop them from playing on their iPads or cell phones long enough to even notice that we are in the room.  For a trip down Memory Lane, here is a sweet and sad song about babies and apron strings from the 1980s movie She’s Having A Baby:

Sappy Apron Song

Toilet Wars

By Cindy    
Years ago I worked as a writer for a quality consultant firm that was world-famous for leading businesses to do things right the first time. As the mother of five young children, ranging in age from 11 to three-year-old twins,  I realized I could use the quality management principles about which I wrote every day to create some calm out of chaos in my family life - most especially the toilet wars.
     Once my three oldest children got over the thrill, during toilet-training, of waving bye-bye to their  you-know-what, they lost interest in the toilet. Not the twins (nicknamed Chip and Dale for their adorable household antics). One of their favorite activities was locking themselves in the hall bathroom and seeing how many "toilet toys" they could flush down before water seeped into the living room and Mom screamed. Their record flush included a padlock, a pair of dice, a little metal truck, a rubber ducky and - the children's favorite since the plumber had to melt it down with a flaming acetylene torch before he could remove it - a rat-tailed comb.

                     

   Once the plumber was at my house (and I know the neighbors thought we were having an affair) to remove a baseball from the sewer line. "No charge," he said, smiling tightly. "I'm sure I'll be back soon."
      So I thought about the quality management principles of my employer. The point is preventing - rather than responding to - problems. Everyone in an organization has to participate in order to make it work.
    I studied the principles of quality management:

1) Quality is defined as conformance to requirements, not as goodness. So I could define the requirements clearly for what I wanted to have happen - or not happen - around the house, and make sure we all understood them the same way. Sure, that seemed possible...

2) The system for causing quality is prevention, not appraisal. Ok, I could certainly find a way to prevent undesirable things from happening - after all, they were only three years old...

3) The performance standard is zero defects, not "that's close enough" - touche! How many times had I told someone to clean out the hamster cage and later sighed, "Yes, honey, that's good enough" as I stood knee-deep in reeking cedar chips?

4) The measurement of quality is the price of nonconformance, not indices. Well that was easy - we didn't even know what an index was. But I knew that nonconformance meant what it costs in time or money - or aggravation - to do over something that was done wrong.

   Yes, I thought with a quiver of excitement: We can do this!
   And we did, after a fashion.
   We understood (some of us more clearly than others) the benefits of a smooth-running household and discussed the ways we could make this happen. The people who emptied hamster cages learned how to do the job efficiently and correctly (take the cage OUTSIDE by the trash cans).
   And yes, the toilet wars became history. We locked the bathroom doors, using a hair clip to pick the lock as necessary. Chip and Dale used the bathroom only when accompanied by a key-carrying member of the family. I was aware that I might be planting the seeds of aberrant behavior later in life, but it was worth it not to see the tide rising in the living room.

   And Chip and Dale understood clearly that if they regressed to flushing anything but their you-know-what again, they wouldn't get to go to the park that day. My employer's quality management system didn't teach punishment, but I was a despotic chief executive officer.

  All work is a process, and so is all family life. The quest for quality in either arena is never over, and neither are the successes we celebrate along the way.  
   Years ago, I hoped that the long-range payoff for applying these business principles to our family life would be someday turning loose five people who could step confidently into the world and manage their own adult lives for quality.
   And has that happened? Yes it has. Each of them is a warm, wonderful, successful adult and - perhaps most importantly - can go to the bathroom by themselves.

Someone's Precious Child by Jayne Magee

By Jayne  
   It was Valentine's Day of 2002. My youngest son, Galen, called me on the phone to wish me a happy Valentine's Day.  As we were talking, he burst out in an excited manner, "Mom, I'm in love.  I've never been so happy!  His name is Alex."  My initial joy quickly turned to confusion.  Since Alex can be the name of a boy or a girl, I tried to quell my panic.  Taking a deep breath, I plunged in, "Galen, are you trying to tell me that you are gay?"  

     "Oh Mom, you always knew that," was his light and cheerful response to my question.

     "Not really," I replied and quickly made up an excuse to get off the phone ASAP and call my husband.

     Galen was not entirely off base with his comment that Gary and I should have realized that he was gay.  Galen was my youngest child.  He and his brother were only 13 months apart--Irish Twins as some people liked to refer to them.  He was an adorable baby with a head of curly hair, big dimples, and green eyes.  Like my previous two children, he also had been born at home, so I knew that they had not given me the wrong baby in the hospital!  From about the age of three, my husband and I noticed that he was "different."  He preferred to play with his sisters and draw pictures.  The girls had plastic toys called Fashion Plates that they could use to design clothes for their dolls.  Galen loved to play with those and also his sisters' dollhouses.  In fact, his older sister would deliberately put an item in  a certain spot in her dollhouse just to see if Galen was sneaking in there to play while she was in school.  Needless to say, he got caught and punished nearly every day.  He wanted a Barbie doll, but I tried to steer him towards GI Joe.  My younger brother had the old-fashioned GI Joe doll from the 1960s, which was the size of a Barbie doll and had a complete military wardrobe and lots of cool gadgets.  Reluctantly, Galen would play with GI Joe in our presence.  On his own, he would sneak into his sisters' room and play with Barbie. He especially liked the Barbie spa set.  Contrast this with my other son, who like his father, loved to hunt and fish and play sports.  Galen also played soccer and baseball, however, not by his choice.  My husband made him play on a sports team.  Galen would stand on the field and daydream, pick flowers, and generally blow off any ball that came his way.

     When it came time for Galen to go to school, he was excited to join his older siblings.  However, his excitement and joy quickly turned to disappointment and fear.  Not only did he not have a single male friend throughout grade school, he also got picked on mercilessly. One boy in particular tormented Galen on the bus daily.  Finally, Galen got fed up and smacked this kid with his umbrella.  Then he proceeded to walk to school for the rest of the year, rather than ride the bus and get picked on daily.

     In junior high school, Galen decided he wanted to "be popular,"  so he joined the band.  Since he could not play an instrument, he pushed a rolling clothes rack onto the field that contained the lid to a garbage can, sticks, chains, and other crazy looking noise makers.  He was a huge hit and got his wish to be noticed and to be admired.  He dated in high school, but he also made the prom gown for his date his senior year. 

     In addition to always being different, Galen has also been very creative.  He was held back in kindergarten because instead of doing his worksheets in class, he drew full-size portraits of his teacher.   He loved to build dollhouses as a hobby and decorate them.  In sixth grade, he asked for a subscription to Architectural Digest for his birthday.  He started to tell us that he was going to move to New York City and become an interior designer.  To which my husband would reply, "So you want to be an architect.  Great!"  Galen would reply, "No, Dad.  I want to be an interior designer."    For his senior project in high school, he put on a fashion show of his own designs, which he sewed with the help of some friends.  He got permission to use the high school auditorium, and it was packed with family and friends.  We were so proud of his talent.  Did we think at that point that he might be gay?  Absolutely not.  He couldn't be.  We were part of a very rigid Christian church, one in which homosexuality was considered to be "an abomination" in God's eyes.  Homosexuals, unless they chose to be celibate, were going to Hell.  That was certainly not a fate I would choose for my baby!  So denial was the name of the game for Gary and I.

     Galen was very adventurous, and he was a risk taker.  At age 18, he left our small hometown in rural Pennsylvania for the Big Apple to begin college at The Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan.  He loved the city and quickly made friends.  Unbeknownst to my husband and I, he also embarked on a dangerous lifestyle that included drugs, alcohol, and unprotected sex.  It would be many years before those chickens came home to roost for us.  After his graduation from college, he worked for many different companies.  His talent and creative knew no bounds.  However, his risky habits always resulted in Galen eventually getting fired or "let go" for no apparent reason.  He claimed that his bosses didn't like him because they were jealous of his talent or too crazy or they were "middle-aged neurotic women."  Still, my husband and I were in denial about his drug use and alcohol abuse.  There were numerous occasions when Galen would bottom out, run out of money, and come home for a spell.  In actuality, he was drying out, getting a clear head before heading  back to New York City for more of the same.  This happened over and over and over again.  Of course, he was using the drugs and alcohol to numb the pain of being rejected by the faith that he so dearly embraced.  Eventually, it caused a huge strain on our marriage.  I ended up having to get counseling to learn how to draw the lines and put boundaries between Galen and I. 

     The last time Galen came home to live, three years ago, he got a DUI.   This was his first.  He had a choice between going to jail or boot camp.  He chose weekend boot camp.  During this weekend, he finally admitted to the group that he had an addiction problem.  It was the first time in his life that Galen actually took responsibility for his own actions.  Shortly thereafter, he decided to return one more time to New York City.  We begged him not to go.  We didn't think he was ready.  However, as usual he didn't listen to us.  So off he went. As my husband dropped him off at Hopkins Airport, his last words to were, "This time make it work!"

     This time it was different for Galen.  This time Galen made the choice to reinvent himself.  When he returned to the City, his best friend was also in recovery.  Peter took Galen to his first AA meeting, and Galen has been going to at least one meeting a day, every day since then.  He has had many jobs in fashion design since he returned to New York.  Some were successes; some were not.  He still has a hard time keeping a job.  However, this time in order to make money, he also reinvented himself as a host at a local Mexican restaurant.  Working for minimum wage has been quite humbling for Galen.  He was used to making $50 an hour as a freelance fashion designer.  However, in order to make his rent--and for the first time NOT ask Gary and I for money--Galen worked like a dog in the restaurant and learned to do whatever they told him to do without complaining.  So far, he hasn't gotten fired.  Next week they want him to start working nights in the hat check portion of the bar.  This he is nervous about.  He is not sure he can be around that much temptation.  Finally, he is realizing that it may be time for him to leave New York City, which has been his security blanket for over ten years, and strike out on his own by creating his own fashion line.  He has a vision to create a line of chic, beautiful, and affordable clothing for Plus Size Women.  Now he just needs to find a backer, so he can get some samples made and show them to vendors. 

     Galen's creativity and talent have inspired me to learn to spin wool into yarn on an old-fashioned spinning wheel, dye my own yarn, and knit gifts for my family and friends.  His specialty is knitwear, so we often exchange patterns and ideas.  His eye for color and texture have taught me what makes a unique and beautiful garment.  I look forward to helping Galen jump start his new business when I retire.  We all know how important writing is to any successful career!

     As you can see, Gary and I couldn't be prouder of our youngest son.  In a family plagued by three generations of drug and alcohol abuse, he has made a decision to end the cycle.  Needless to say, Gary and I have had to drastically change many strongly-held perceptions that we held about homosexuality.  For many years, I believed that being gay was a choice and that gay people could be "healed" or "changed."  Based on my own experiences with my Irish Twins, I know without a doubt that Galen was born this way.  Recent studies have proven this to be the case, and gayness seems to occur more frequently after the birth of several male children in a row.  I have a dear friend who has three sons, and her youngest son, a doctor, is also gay.  Because of my beliefs, I can no longer attend any church that preaches about gays ending up in Hell.  I know that God created my son, just as he is, with all of his amazing gifts and talents and with all of his flaws and weaknesses.  If  don't want my son to be judged, I  can't judge other people. When I hear people talking about why gays shouldn't be allowed to marry, it breaks  my heart.  My desire for my sons, both gay and straight, is the right to legal protection under the law as a spouse in a loving and committed relationship, children, and a long and healthy life.  So if you are one of those people who make fun of gay people or fear them or hate them, just remember that she or he is someone's precious child.

     

Mandy's Pasta Sauce

By Jayne
Three of my four children are vegans.  This is Mandy's pasta sauce that is now my favorite.  You make it in a pressure cooker.  Now this is not our grandmother's pressure cooker--the one we all lived in fear of because it might explode.  This is made in the ultra-modern electric Cuisinart pressure cooker.  Once you try cooking in a pressure cooker, you will use it on a weekly or daily basis.  So here is the recipe:

1 big can of diced tomatoes

1 big can of tomato sauce

big yellow onion

big yellow or red pepper

carton of portobello mushrooms

garlic to taste

tablespoon of dried fennel

Brown the onions and garlic in the pressure cooker.  You can use olive oil or water.

Pour in tomatoes and add the rest of the veggies and fennel.  I sometimes also add chunks of eggplant or zucchini squash.

I also add a little sweetness--maple syrup or honey. 

Put lid on pressure cooker and cook for 20 minutes on high.  Once the pressure releases, I throw in fresh basil and oregano chopped up--or dried--to taste with some salt and pepper.

I continue to simmer it until it is thick enough for pasta.  If it is too runny,  I will add a tablespoon or two of tomato paste.

This sauce only gets better with time.   Put it over pasta or over zucchini cut in a spiralizer like pasta.

Birth Day

By Jayne     
 It was a cold and snowy day in February of 1979.  Actually, it was a blizzard.  I was fixing my kids' breakfast when I realized that my contractions had started.  I had two little girls at that time, ages two and six.  My husband was at work.  As the morning progressed, I decided to cook some soup and make some bread since it was such a blustery, cold day.  I remember having to lean against the back of my chair and hold on to do my Lamaze breathing exercises through each contraction.  The contractions were getting harder and closer together as the snow piled up outside my window.  I kept calling my husband at the office and trying to get him to come home.  He was a chiropractor and had a solo practice, so he was reluctant to leave his patients.  He kept saying, "I will soon be home at lunch.  Don't worry.  This will be a long labor."  His basis for this assumption was the length of our youngest daughter's labor, which had taken two full days, so he wasn't crazy to expect that this would also be a long labor.  I wouldn't have minded so much if I hadn't been alone with the kids, and he hadn't been the person who was going to deliver this baby at home.

        Let me backtrack and explain.  When our first daughter was born, she was delivered in the hospital.  Even though we had clearly explained to the obstetrician that we wanted an entirely natural childbirth, he gave me drugs and pulled her out of the birth canal with forceps.  This was a very disheartening experience to say the least.  So for baby two, I had two midwives and an old-fashioned doctor who agreed to come to our house and deliver our daughter.  It was a long, slow, intense labor. Dr. Murray was very impatient when he kept coming to the house, and my labor was not progressing at all.  After all, it was his day OFF and he wanted to go run his hunting dogs.  So after she was born, he yanked on the umbilical chord to get it out more quickly.  For anyone with any knowledge of childbirth, this is very dangerous.  Blood flew everywhere.  I could have bled to death!  

     After these two experiences, my husband said to me, "I can do as good a job as those two doctors."  Granted, he was a chiropractor and had taken many medical courses.  He had also worked in a funeral home, so he was very familiar with the dark realities of the human body.  The fact that he was very confident in his own abilities didn't hurt either.  Furthermore, we only lived less than five minutes from the hospital.  He could have carried me there in an emergency.  With wise foresight, he put the local ambulance phone number on speed dial.  So I really wasn't nervous about having a home birth; however, I didn't want to deliver my own baby with two kids watching!  Did I mention that my husband was also supposed to be picking up my best friend, who would be babysitting the girls during the delivery?

     Noon came, the soup was done, and my husband strolled casually in the door with Linda, my best friend, trailing him.  By then, I was already in transition, which for those of you who have never experienced childbirth, is the time that you want to quit and kill the man who put you in that condition.  Needless to say, I was ready to go upstairs and bring this baby into the world.  Still not convinced that my labor could have progressed so rapidly, my husband calmly ate his soup and even had seconds, with bread!!!  Linda and I were beside ourselves with impatience.  If I hadn't been in so much pain, I would have punched my husband!

     When lunch was over, my husband and I finally headed upstairs.  I will not go into the gory details of childbirth except to say that it was quick, and it was hard.  Within an hour, our first son was born upstairs on our bed.  He was a beautiful baby boy : a blonde angel with big blue eyes and a dimple in his chin.  My husband cut the umbilical chord with scissors and tied it off with a shoelace.  He removed the mucus from the baby's nose with a plastic suction bulb.  We put the newborn on the baby scale, and he weighed a little over seven pounds--healthy, but not overly large.  The total cost of the labor and delivery:  about $30 with supplies from the local drug store.  We hadn't picked out a name for a boy because my husband announced that he would know what the baby's name should be when he saw him.  As he delivered the baby, he proclaimed his name:  Gabriel.

     Once the baby was cleaned up, my husband got in his car and drove back to the office.  There was big electric sign in front of his chiropractic office upon which he put quotes every week.  So even in the midst of that blustery February blizzard, he climbed up the ladder, got out the big, magnetic letters, and put this on it:  "It's a baby boy for the Magees!"  Needless to say, he was quite excited to deliver his first son.

     After he left to go back to his office, the girls, the baby, and I were in the capable hands of my dear friend.  Other good friends braved the weather to bring more soup, home-cooked meals, bread, cookies, and my favorite:  a homemade coconut cream pie.  Nothing tastes as good as pie after a hard labor and delivery!  There  were a few minor complications--some heavy bleeding--but nothing that we couldn't handle, and yes, my husband did return home after dinner!

     Would I do it again?  Yes, because I did it a year later.  I had my fourth child, another boy, at home.  He was over nine pounds and a month late, but that is another story.  How do you know who your true friends are?  They are those who are willing to risk the wrath of their husbands and travel over slick, icy roads in order to help out a friend.       

     What have I learned from this experience?  First of all, I learned how much I rely on my friends to support me, no matter how crazy I may seem to them.  I learned that my husband could easily have been an oby/gyn doctor.  He was calm, cool, collected, and professional during my labor and delivery.  I also learned that I am not afraid to take a risk.  Childbirth is not an illness or a disease.  Birth can and should be a very natural part of life and can be done at home, just like death.  Having said that, it isn't for everyone.  My husband and I had read every book on the market about how to deliver a baby at home.  He had medical training.  We were near a medical facility in case things went wrong.  Best of all, I learned that I was built for having children and lots of them.  Most important of all, I learned the meaning of true love, which is why I am still married to this wonderful man after 42 years.

     I don't have any grandchildren YET.   I often wonder what I would do if one of my daughters chose to have a homebirth. Would they ask their father to deliver the baby?  Would I want to be there?  Being in any kind of medical situation involving blood and pain makes me queasy!   Were we taking a terrible risk?  Evidently some people thought so because I got kicked out of the local childbirth association for doing so. Faith played the biggest role in my decision to have a baby at home.  I knew in my heart that--for me--it was the right thing to do, and everything would turn out  well.  It was probably the most transcendent experience of my life.