Jack and Will, along with their classmates and the rest of their preschool/kindergarten, gave a concert yesterday under the trees in their schoolyard. The kindergarteners sang their own song, "Here Comes the Sun," but they were all together for the rest, including "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."Jack looked like he was being tortured, staring down grimly, barely opening his mouth, and sometimes chewing his cuticles. Will, on the other hand, smiled broadly when he sang, belting it out. Many of the girls bounced up and down wildly and gestured while singing, and some of the smallest children looked like they weren't sure where they were or what was expected of them. Others were hopelessly distracted by the crowd of families waving, videotaping and taking pictures. Then there are always a couple of inconsolable tots who need to be held by the teacher. Apparently, every child has their very own special Singing at the School Concert Personality. And the parents just watch helplessly as little Tyler picks his nose or Madison lifts her dress up over her tummy, again and again.
At the end, massive applause. The music teacher announced he was tired. You could hear the parents proclaiming "Great job!" to their children countless times. Because it was a great job, all things considered. And singing with your friends and looking out at a sea of admiring parents is the ultimate love feast. And then? Ice cream for all, much running around, indiscriminate yelling, and staying up a little past bedtime. In short, a perfect evening.
May 24, 2006
May 23, 2006
Tiggers Bounce
On Saturday we got to have our "Special Members' Preview" of Big Cat Falls, the new habitat at the Philadelphia Zoo. It's not quite all populated yet, but the lions, Amur tiger, and Amur leopard are there. The lions and Amur leopard have an uneasy relationship at this point, involving much pacing on the part of the leopard and stalking on the part of the lions. In one area, only a one-and-a-half-inch plexiglass window separates the people from the lions. It's not often that you get to see a 400-lb. lion ambling within inches of a toddler's chubby toes.The Amur tiger was sleeping, so we didn't get to see him much. They can weigh up to 650 lbs, and to cushion their jumping, their paws have very thick pads. We looked at a mold made from a huge paw, and were suitably impressed.
The elephants were agitated that day, as was the rhino. The elephants were spraying mud and hollering, and one picked up a log with its trunk. I was afraid it would throw it at the rhino and that it would hit us. The boys were squealing with excitement. The rhino kept hauling his bulk in and and out of his little pond over and over, with the elephant looking on and bellowing. It's as if the rhino was on a vigorous workout program, the elephant his relentless trainer.
The zoo was very crowded, though. We normally get there when they open at 9:30. This time we had to go to remote parking, a dusty uneven lot in Fairmount Park. Will immediately took a header, thereby covering himself in dirt with amazing efficiency. Usually it takes a few hours to get that dirty.
At the end we pedaled on the swan boats, Jack and me in one and John and Will in the other. We jostled with the other riders in the crowded lake, but could sometimes find a still, quiet inlet in which to watch the the laughing boaters, the begging geese, and the clear blue sky.
The elephants were agitated that day, as was the rhino. The elephants were spraying mud and hollering, and one picked up a log with its trunk. I was afraid it would throw it at the rhino and that it would hit us. The boys were squealing with excitement. The rhino kept hauling his bulk in and and out of his little pond over and over, with the elephant looking on and bellowing. It's as if the rhino was on a vigorous workout program, the elephant his relentless trainer.
The zoo was very crowded, though. We normally get there when they open at 9:30. This time we had to go to remote parking, a dusty uneven lot in Fairmount Park. Will immediately took a header, thereby covering himself in dirt with amazing efficiency. Usually it takes a few hours to get that dirty.
At the end we pedaled on the swan boats, Jack and me in one and John and Will in the other. We jostled with the other riders in the crowded lake, but could sometimes find a still, quiet inlet in which to watch the the laughing boaters, the begging geese, and the clear blue sky.
May 19, 2006
The Switched Cart Incident: A Morality Tale
Yesterday I was drifting through Target with a shopping list, accumulating a modest pile in my cart. Near the end of my perambulations I looked down to toss a nail brush in my cart. But the paper towels weren't my brand. I didn't need that many bars of soap. Hey! That's not my cart! If I had someone else's cart, then where was mine? I had just had it a minute earlier. I looked around me. Woman on a cell phone. Red-shirted Target employee taking inventory. Child demanding something loudly. All appeared innocent. I walked up and down the nearby aisles, nothing.
"This is really strange, but my cart disappeared. Someone must have taken mine and left theirs. . . . " I said to the Target lady, feeling a bit discombobulated and confused.
"I'll look for it," she said amiably. "What was in it?"
I paused. "What was in it?" I repeated dumbly, stalling. Glancing at my list, I saw "foaming hand soap."
"Um, foaming hand soap . . . ?" I murmured, lacking conviction. Other than the foaming hand soap, the truth was more like "Several miscellaneous cleaning products and plastic containers that weren't on my list, but that promised to make my life easier, my summer more bearable, and my demeanor more cheerful. But I have only a vague sense of what they were."
She said she'd look for my cart. I made a little show of looking some more, went back and just picked up the foaming hand soap to buy along with the nail brush. So, brave guerilla shoppers, the next time you stray from your list, ask yourself, "If my cart were lost, what would I run back and purchase?" And just get that.
"This is really strange, but my cart disappeared. Someone must have taken mine and left theirs. . . . " I said to the Target lady, feeling a bit discombobulated and confused.
"I'll look for it," she said amiably. "What was in it?"
I paused. "What was in it?" I repeated dumbly, stalling. Glancing at my list, I saw "foaming hand soap."
"Um, foaming hand soap . . . ?" I murmured, lacking conviction. Other than the foaming hand soap, the truth was more like "Several miscellaneous cleaning products and plastic containers that weren't on my list, but that promised to make my life easier, my summer more bearable, and my demeanor more cheerful. But I have only a vague sense of what they were."
She said she'd look for my cart. I made a little show of looking some more, went back and just picked up the foaming hand soap to buy along with the nail brush. So, brave guerilla shoppers, the next time you stray from your list, ask yourself, "If my cart were lost, what would I run back and purchase?" And just get that.
May 18, 2006
Postcards from Exurbia
I just finished reading Rattled, a newly published satirical novel by Debra Galant. It's about the perils of living in a McMansion in the exurbs of Gloucester County, New Jersey. Ms. Galant wrote a column about New Jersey suburban life for the NYT for a few years, so many of the sociological details are excellent. The main character, Heather, is straight out of Desparate Housewives, a cross between Bree and Gabby. I wish she were portrayed a bit more sympathetically, but then I guess it wouldn't be straightforward satire. If you love to hate aquisitive SUV-owning McMansion dwellers and the developers who cater to their "needs" and cut every environmental corner, you'll find it delightful.
Delaware County, where I live, is so densely populated that we don't have room for exurbs, except for way out in the far west reaches, around the amorphouse area called Glen Mills. Somewhere around there, you hit Chester County, which is more known for McMansionitis and its accompanying Porsche and Mercedes dealerships. When we first moved here three years ago, I was innocently driving along Baltimore Pike way out in the country way past Media, into Concordville and it's little country inns and rolling hills and suddenly--wha . . . ?-- Williams-Sonoma, Talbot's, Eddie Bauer, Chico's, Pottery Parn, Pier One, Zagara's (now Foodsource), all in one shopping strip. But why?
Because somewhere out there, nestled in cul-de-sacs well hidden beyond the bustle of Baltimore Pike, crouch insatiable gigantic "homes" (they're never "houses") demanding to be filled with new stuff from these stores. I've never actually seen these places, mind you. I've just extrapolated their existence from the high-end stores and the slim women with fabulous highlighting jobs, designer track suits, deluxe strollers and immaculately dressed toddlers who frequent the stores. Some of Jack and Will's classmates live out there, but their birthday parties are, of course, never held at home.
Rattled is full of brand names, which seems to be a trend lately among a certain kind of satirical fiction. In these days of viral marketing and product placement, that sort of bothers me, even though the mention is only meant as a social indicator. Anyway, let's just say you'll not want to drool over that Restoration Hardware catalog after reading this book.
Delaware County, where I live, is so densely populated that we don't have room for exurbs, except for way out in the far west reaches, around the amorphouse area called Glen Mills. Somewhere around there, you hit Chester County, which is more known for McMansionitis and its accompanying Porsche and Mercedes dealerships. When we first moved here three years ago, I was innocently driving along Baltimore Pike way out in the country way past Media, into Concordville and it's little country inns and rolling hills and suddenly--wha . . . ?-- Williams-Sonoma, Talbot's, Eddie Bauer, Chico's, Pottery Parn, Pier One, Zagara's (now Foodsource), all in one shopping strip. But why?
Because somewhere out there, nestled in cul-de-sacs well hidden beyond the bustle of Baltimore Pike, crouch insatiable gigantic "homes" (they're never "houses") demanding to be filled with new stuff from these stores. I've never actually seen these places, mind you. I've just extrapolated their existence from the high-end stores and the slim women with fabulous highlighting jobs, designer track suits, deluxe strollers and immaculately dressed toddlers who frequent the stores. Some of Jack and Will's classmates live out there, but their birthday parties are, of course, never held at home.
Rattled is full of brand names, which seems to be a trend lately among a certain kind of satirical fiction. In these days of viral marketing and product placement, that sort of bothers me, even though the mention is only meant as a social indicator. Anyway, let's just say you'll not want to drool over that Restoration Hardware catalog after reading this book.
May 17, 2006
Retreat of the Laurens
Well, it's finally happened. The year 2005 was the first year since 1984 that "Lauren" was not one of the top twenty baby names in the U.S. I'm relieved, I suppose, but the damage has been done. It's funny because when I was a child, I was the only Lauren in every school I went to, without fail. And I attended nine different schools. People had difficulty remembering it and spelling it, so very often I was called Laura, Laureen, or Lorna. Few people complemented me on the name, either; it was just too unusual. For my birth year, 1958, there were lots of Lindas, Susans, Karens, and Barbaras. Only weird people gave their kids weird names.
Then in college there was a girl whose name was "Lauryn," like Lauryn Hill. Her mother had wanted her to be named Lauren, and the father wanted her to be named Katharine, so they "compromised" with "Lauryn." Not much of a compromise. Anyway, she was in my History of the English Language class, and having another student with my name was unsettling. I couldn't be completely sure, sometimes, who people were talking to. It used to be so easy.
Then the field was blown wide open in the 1980s. Vice President Bush's granddaughter was named Lauren and then it seemed that every few weeks in a supermarket I could hear a mother calling out, "Lauren, don't touch that!" "Come here this minute, Lauren!" It was years before I stopped jumping at these commands. Around this time people started telling me I had a beautiful name, and thus began a decade or so when I really loved my name because people loved my name. They were learning how to spell it, too, and now I hardly ever have to spell it for people.
Another thing has happened, though. Now it's not interesting to meet a Lauren. No spark of recognition, no conversation of "How did your parents come to name you Lauren?" No instantaneous bond forming. My name isn't special any more. Sure, it's a fine name, but, like Caitlyn and Jessica it's been beaten to death. My mother was looking for an unusual name on purpose, and she just happened to like the way it sounded. She got the idea, of course, from Lauren Bacall, but would get her knickers all in a twist every time my Dad would say, as a joke, that I was named "after" Lauren Bacall. "I did not name my daughter after a movie star," she would say, getting all snobby and huffy, the full Katharine Hepburn act.
Anyway, this means also that a number of people have both my first and last name. Thank goodness my middle name is so weird that only dead people have it.
Then in college there was a girl whose name was "Lauryn," like Lauryn Hill. Her mother had wanted her to be named Lauren, and the father wanted her to be named Katharine, so they "compromised" with "Lauryn." Not much of a compromise. Anyway, she was in my History of the English Language class, and having another student with my name was unsettling. I couldn't be completely sure, sometimes, who people were talking to. It used to be so easy.
Then the field was blown wide open in the 1980s. Vice President Bush's granddaughter was named Lauren and then it seemed that every few weeks in a supermarket I could hear a mother calling out, "Lauren, don't touch that!" "Come here this minute, Lauren!" It was years before I stopped jumping at these commands. Around this time people started telling me I had a beautiful name, and thus began a decade or so when I really loved my name because people loved my name. They were learning how to spell it, too, and now I hardly ever have to spell it for people.
Another thing has happened, though. Now it's not interesting to meet a Lauren. No spark of recognition, no conversation of "How did your parents come to name you Lauren?" No instantaneous bond forming. My name isn't special any more. Sure, it's a fine name, but, like Caitlyn and Jessica it's been beaten to death. My mother was looking for an unusual name on purpose, and she just happened to like the way it sounded. She got the idea, of course, from Lauren Bacall, but would get her knickers all in a twist every time my Dad would say, as a joke, that I was named "after" Lauren Bacall. "I did not name my daughter after a movie star," she would say, getting all snobby and huffy, the full Katharine Hepburn act.
Anyway, this means also that a number of people have both my first and last name. Thank goodness my middle name is so weird that only dead people have it.
May 16, 2006
Hey, Mommy Dude
On Saturday (not actually on Mother's Day) I found two cards propped outside the bathroom door, both addressing me as "Dude." As the Felicity Huffman character says to her son in Transamerica, "Stop calling me 'dude.'" Only I don't have the same reason to be sensitive about it. I remember that Anne Lamott's son called her "dude," too, so I'm in good company.
For Mother's Day, all I wanted was to plant my herb garden. So it's in, and bordered by all the stones I found in the back garden that must have been discarded when previous owners were installing the patio years ago. I have one each of the following: marjoram, dwarf gray sage, purple sage, French thyme, French tarragon, basil, cilantro, oregano, "hot and spicy" oregano, dill, catnip, parsley, and arugula. It rained buckets yesterday, not just water but hail as well, so I haven't planted any seeds yet. As far as seeds go, we've got sunflowers, scarlet runner beans, polar bear zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds.
We are now the proud owners of a rain barrel made from a whisky barrel. The flowers smell drunken, but we are conserving a teensy bit of water, anyway. It's more high maintenance than I thought. The filter gets clogged constantly with various tree droppings via the gutters, and I think it will need to be treated so the barrel doesn't fall apart in a few years. It fills up after about an hour of rain. But it's a conversation piece. Just remember, if you're a recovering alcoholic, no smelling my rain barrel.
For Mother's Day, all I wanted was to plant my herb garden. So it's in, and bordered by all the stones I found in the back garden that must have been discarded when previous owners were installing the patio years ago. I have one each of the following: marjoram, dwarf gray sage, purple sage, French thyme, French tarragon, basil, cilantro, oregano, "hot and spicy" oregano, dill, catnip, parsley, and arugula. It rained buckets yesterday, not just water but hail as well, so I haven't planted any seeds yet. As far as seeds go, we've got sunflowers, scarlet runner beans, polar bear zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds.
We are now the proud owners of a rain barrel made from a whisky barrel. The flowers smell drunken, but we are conserving a teensy bit of water, anyway. It's more high maintenance than I thought. The filter gets clogged constantly with various tree droppings via the gutters, and I think it will need to be treated so the barrel doesn't fall apart in a few years. It fills up after about an hour of rain. But it's a conversation piece. Just remember, if you're a recovering alcoholic, no smelling my rain barrel.
May 11, 2006
Gender Bender at Preschool
Occasionally, I decide to polish my nails. Last week was one of those weeks, and Will begged to have his nails done, too.
Will: "I want red!"
Me: "I don't have red."
Will: What color is that?"
Me: "Teak rose."
Will: "I want teak rose!"
Jack asked, truly puzzled, "Why do you want to wear nail polish? Only girls wear that."
Will cried, "I want to! I want to!"
So I said, "Look, I'll give you a racing stripe on one nail." That will give him an acceptable explanation for the boys, should he need one.
So, that's what he's got, on his right index fingernail. Waiting for it to dry was more dramatic than one would think, with lots of "Oh, when will it be dry? It's not dry! Can I touch anything yet? What about now? Can I touch anything now?"
When asked later if anyone noticed his nail polish, Will replied that his friend Isaiah was "shocked."
Will: "I want red!"
Me: "I don't have red."
Will: What color is that?"
Me: "Teak rose."
Will: "I want teak rose!"
Jack asked, truly puzzled, "Why do you want to wear nail polish? Only girls wear that."
Will cried, "I want to! I want to!"
So I said, "Look, I'll give you a racing stripe on one nail." That will give him an acceptable explanation for the boys, should he need one.
So, that's what he's got, on his right index fingernail. Waiting for it to dry was more dramatic than one would think, with lots of "Oh, when will it be dry? It's not dry! Can I touch anything yet? What about now? Can I touch anything now?"
When asked later if anyone noticed his nail polish, Will replied that his friend Isaiah was "shocked."
May 10, 2006
What Could be Better Than Pancakes for Dinner?
Last night John had an accounting final. He stoked up for it by eating some blueberry pancakes that Will helped me make. After John left, the rest of us gobbled up the remaining ones. Pancakes are tricky. The heat on the griddle needs to be fairly high but not too high because you don't want raw insides. Inevitably the first pancake or two looks a little "special." But eventually I get it and they start looking browned and circular. I added a half cup of Trader Joe's frozen wild blueberries this time. We put pure maple syrup on them, which I suppose is decadent, but we do get it from a warehouse store, and don't use that much of it. Plus, life is short.
This recipe is my Nana's. She always made them in a low cast-iron griddle. I gave the griddle to my brother Dan because I couldn't use it on an electric range; it has a raised rim, so most of the pan doesn't touch the cooking surface. Her pancakes are the best, with their buttermilk tang. Will said, "I love Nana's pancakes! If she was alive, I would say '"I love your pancakes SO much.'"
Nana's Buttermilk Pancakes
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 2/3 cups buttermilk
4 tablespoons melted butter
2 eggs
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Combine buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter in a smaller bowl and beat. Stir into dry ingredients, mixing enough to moisten.
Drop by large spoonfuls onto preheated, fairly hot pan or griddle (a drop of batter should sizzle). Flip over when small bubbles appear, and edges start to look dry.
This recipe is my Nana's. She always made them in a low cast-iron griddle. I gave the griddle to my brother Dan because I couldn't use it on an electric range; it has a raised rim, so most of the pan doesn't touch the cooking surface. Her pancakes are the best, with their buttermilk tang. Will said, "I love Nana's pancakes! If she was alive, I would say '"I love your pancakes SO much.'"
Nana's Buttermilk Pancakes
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 2/3 cups buttermilk
4 tablespoons melted butter
2 eggs
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Combine buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter in a smaller bowl and beat. Stir into dry ingredients, mixing enough to moisten.
Drop by large spoonfuls onto preheated, fairly hot pan or griddle (a drop of batter should sizzle). Flip over when small bubbles appear, and edges start to look dry.
May 9, 2006
Caitlin Flanagan on Reality TV
Caitlin Flanagan has been getting lots of press for her new book The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife, about how mothers should stay home with their children. Not just that, but how they should joyfully keep house. Ms. Flanagan has been accused, for good reason, of hypocrisy. You see, she writes all day, while her children are in school. She has had domestic help, for years, including a full-time nanny when her twins were babies. But she still claims the right to be called a "stay-at-home mom." I guess because she is mostly at home, and a mom. Ms. Flanagan freely admits, right in the book, that she has never changed a sheet. Let me repeat that. She has never changed a sheet. Was she never a 22-year-old living in a railroad apartment, maidless and husbandless? Was she never a college student? Plainly, this statement is hyperbole, no? . . . . Okay, maybe not.
At any rate, I believe she is perfectly aware that her idealization of the 1950s housewife can only be sustained at a distance, either through a mist of nostalgia or through intellectualizing the concept of "The Housewife."Ms. Flanagan is begging for a reality check. So I say she gets her own TV show, American Housewife. In it, she lives in her own house, but all her domestic help have been relieved of their jobs temporarily so they can create the laugh track. See Caitlin scrub the toilets, rotate a mattress, wash the windows, scrub vomit from the carpet. Can she singlehandedly prevent entropy from conquering her universe? She must do all this while working under a non-negotiable deadline for an article for The New Yorker, cooking from scratch every day, helping the children with their homework, and "putting out" for her husband several times a week (as Stephen Colbert so delicately puts her insistence that wives need to be more available) .Oh, and Martha Stewart and Cheryl Mendelsohn are coming over for dinner in a week.
Then, Ms. Flanagan, I'd be glad to hear what you have to say.
At any rate, I believe she is perfectly aware that her idealization of the 1950s housewife can only be sustained at a distance, either through a mist of nostalgia or through intellectualizing the concept of "The Housewife."Ms. Flanagan is begging for a reality check. So I say she gets her own TV show, American Housewife. In it, she lives in her own house, but all her domestic help have been relieved of their jobs temporarily so they can create the laugh track. See Caitlin scrub the toilets, rotate a mattress, wash the windows, scrub vomit from the carpet. Can she singlehandedly prevent entropy from conquering her universe? She must do all this while working under a non-negotiable deadline for an article for The New Yorker, cooking from scratch every day, helping the children with their homework, and "putting out" for her husband several times a week (as Stephen Colbert so delicately puts her insistence that wives need to be more available) .Oh, and Martha Stewart and Cheryl Mendelsohn are coming over for dinner in a week.
Then, Ms. Flanagan, I'd be glad to hear what you have to say.
May 5, 2006
Rhubarb Days
It just isn't spring without rhubarb. I make two or three rhubarb pies or crisps every year at this time. Last year I also made a rhubarb coffee cake. This year I made two pies, one to take to my friend Jane's for dinner and one just for us. I didn't have quite enough rhubarb so I threw in some strawberries and blueberries. I use the recipe from the old Joy of Cooking for fresh berry pie, simplify and cheat a little and add tapioca. This is it:
4 cups chopped rhubarb
1/4 cup flour
1 cup sugar
juice of a lemon
2 tsp quick-cooking tapioca
two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!)
Mix all this together gently with your hands (because I love to mix stuff with my hands!) until it all seems quite damp and well-mixed. Let it sit 15 minutes. Meantime, preheat oven to 450. Take out two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!) and let them come to room temperature. Lay out the bottom crust and put filling in. Cut the other crust for the top into strips, and make a fake-out lattice crust by simply laying them on one way and then perpendicular to that. None of this business of actually weaving them. If you don't know what I mean, then just prick a bunch of holes in the crust and slap the thing on, smoothing out the sides or fluting them to make the crust look endearingly homemade. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes and then lower heat to 350 for 35-40 minutes.
There, you have one mighty fine rhubarb pie. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Looks lovely on a blue plate.
4 cups chopped rhubarb
1/4 cup flour
1 cup sugar
juice of a lemon
2 tsp quick-cooking tapioca
two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!)
Mix all this together gently with your hands (because I love to mix stuff with my hands!) until it all seems quite damp and well-mixed. Let it sit 15 minutes. Meantime, preheat oven to 450. Take out two Pillsbury pie crusts (ha!) and let them come to room temperature. Lay out the bottom crust and put filling in. Cut the other crust for the top into strips, and make a fake-out lattice crust by simply laying them on one way and then perpendicular to that. None of this business of actually weaving them. If you don't know what I mean, then just prick a bunch of holes in the crust and slap the thing on, smoothing out the sides or fluting them to make the crust look endearingly homemade. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes and then lower heat to 350 for 35-40 minutes.
There, you have one mighty fine rhubarb pie. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Looks lovely on a blue plate.
May 4, 2006
No Home in the World
Yesterday WHYY, our local public radio station, aired its morning call-in show, Radio Times, on the topic of homelessness. A man and a woman were being interviewed by the host, Marty Moss-Coane. They had both been drug addicts for years. By the grace of God and the perstistent intervention of relatives, they've been clean for a few years, and are now living on their own, and giving their time back to help the homeless.
While they talked, I scrubbed my kitchen floor. I thought about my brother David, who lost his life on the streets, despite all the advantages he started out with. Drugs and mental illness took over at several points, and homelessness struck three times. I've got to call in to that show, I thought. Where's a pencil? There was never a pencil to be found quite at the time Marty said the number, plus it was almost twelve, when the show would be over. She said, "We can take one more call. Here's Dan from Center Valley."
It was my other brother. He said, "I had a brother who went to college, trained for a career, and yet somehow ended up on the streets. When you see a homeless person, you have to realize that that person is someone's son or daughter, sister or brother, mom or dad." Later I emailed Dan to say how glad I was that he called in. He said, "I was on my way to Dad's when I called. I didn't expect to get through - just squeaked in under the wire! Needless to say, I needed a few minutes in the car to compose myself before I could go in to lunch, but I am so glad I got through."
Next time you are rushing down the street, whether it's to work, to lunch, or to run an errand, stop and say hello to the ones who live life on the margins. And--please--smile and look them in the eyes.
While they talked, I scrubbed my kitchen floor. I thought about my brother David, who lost his life on the streets, despite all the advantages he started out with. Drugs and mental illness took over at several points, and homelessness struck three times. I've got to call in to that show, I thought. Where's a pencil? There was never a pencil to be found quite at the time Marty said the number, plus it was almost twelve, when the show would be over. She said, "We can take one more call. Here's Dan from Center Valley."
It was my other brother. He said, "I had a brother who went to college, trained for a career, and yet somehow ended up on the streets. When you see a homeless person, you have to realize that that person is someone's son or daughter, sister or brother, mom or dad." Later I emailed Dan to say how glad I was that he called in. He said, "I was on my way to Dad's when I called. I didn't expect to get through - just squeaked in under the wire! Needless to say, I needed a few minutes in the car to compose myself before I could go in to lunch, but I am so glad I got through."
Next time you are rushing down the street, whether it's to work, to lunch, or to run an errand, stop and say hello to the ones who live life on the margins. And--please--smile and look them in the eyes.
Apr 27, 2006
Five Things about the Gutter Guy
I've been planting and watering and weeding most maniacally and trying to get a bunch of other things done before summer. And the longer I go without blogging the longer I go without blogging. Thank you for stopping by, dear friends and pleasant acquaintances of the blogosphere. Would you care to sip a mug of warm milk with me? No? I drink it now every night before bed to discourage insomnia. Because I refused to fill my doctor's prescription for Ambien. Seeing as I already back the minivan into the fence as it is, think how badly I'd ruin both fence and van if I was sleeping. Ah. Warm milk isn't that bad. Really.
To answer Scrivener's question of two weeks ago (Where does the time go?), yes, we did go to the National Museum of the American Indian. It's a spectacular curving building surrounded by prairie grasses, very refreshing after all the manicured rectangles of lawn and monolithic Federal bureaucrotecture all around it. (Made up a new word!) They have food from native tribes in the cafeteria. The "Eye of the Storm" display and the surrounding exhibits about exploitation of Native American Tribes was heartbreaking and profound.
________________________________
We had our gutters cleaned yesterday, and the gutter guy cleaned up 70 or 80 lbs of debris thanks to the tall trees that ring our house. Here's what I learned this gutter guy in course of a short conversation:
1. His wife died of ovarian cancer three years ago. But he's not looking to marry again.
2.He has seven children in their twenties and thirties, who aren't allowed to ever move back in with him.
3.He's very religious (the REPENTT license plate is a clue), but he's not picky. He plays the field, attending Catholic Mass, Seventh Day Adventist churches, and black Baptist churches.
4. To him, the worst job is being a roofer.
5. He keeps a 90-pound pet lynx in his house, who eats 50 lbs. of raw meat a week.
OK, so maybe that's why the kids don't move back.
To answer Scrivener's question of two weeks ago (Where does the time go?), yes, we did go to the National Museum of the American Indian. It's a spectacular curving building surrounded by prairie grasses, very refreshing after all the manicured rectangles of lawn and monolithic Federal bureaucrotecture all around it. (Made up a new word!) They have food from native tribes in the cafeteria. The "Eye of the Storm" display and the surrounding exhibits about exploitation of Native American Tribes was heartbreaking and profound.
________________________________
We had our gutters cleaned yesterday, and the gutter guy cleaned up 70 or 80 lbs of debris thanks to the tall trees that ring our house. Here's what I learned this gutter guy in course of a short conversation:
1. His wife died of ovarian cancer three years ago. But he's not looking to marry again.
2.He has seven children in their twenties and thirties, who aren't allowed to ever move back in with him.
3.He's very religious (the REPENTT license plate is a clue), but he's not picky. He plays the field, attending Catholic Mass, Seventh Day Adventist churches, and black Baptist churches.
4. To him, the worst job is being a roofer.
5. He keeps a 90-pound pet lynx in his house, who eats 50 lbs. of raw meat a week.
OK, so maybe that's why the kids don't move back.
Apr 10, 2006
Walk See Eat
We're back. You know how the Hirschorn and the Lincoln Memorial may look only two inches apart from each other on the map? And you know how when you are actually walking it, you say "Geez, I should have worn more comfortable shoes?" Well, when you have a four-year-old and a six-year-old, you feel yourself to be a tiny speck on a nearly endless green plain. You realize that just finding a bathroom before a nasty accident occurs, and finding a hot dog stand before complete debilitating weakness sets in, are goals lofty enough for your family. We did succeed.
More respite was provided at the Hirschorn, blessed Hirschorn! We happened upon the Hiraki Sawa video project at the just the right moment. Because we were tired of walking in the sun, a few minutes sitting in a darkened room was just the thing for all of us. Slowly, the images themselves began to transfix us. Filmed in a bleak apartment, these black and white videos show shadows of camels parading around the circumference of a sink drain; airplanes flying dreamily through halls, taking off from and landing on tables; cups, saucers, and a cheese grater (Will's favorite) sprouting human legs and walking away. A half dozen or more teenagers were lounging on the floor of the tiny theater, adding their own layer of performance art. From what we could overhear, they had three more hours to kill before their bus picked them up, and they were glad to have found a carpeted dark place upon which to do whatever it is they do with cell phones. (If there was anything else they were doing, it was below my sight line.) About the show? "This is so weird."
That night we had dinner at Raku, "An Asian Diner" near Dupont Circle. I ate there once years ago with an old friend, and once with John before kids. I propose a name change to Raku, "An Asian Diner That Discourages Small Children from Ever Coming Here Again by Serving Their Ice Cream in Martini Glasses." Yes, the glass fell and shattered on the table because Jack didn't know to hold the stem and we forgot to tell him because we were too busy watching Will with his glass. And yes, he's OK and nobody got glass shards in their eyes. Previous to this little disaster, the boys were occupied for quite some time eating bowls of plain rice noodles with a little soy sauce, while we sipped huge cocktails and ate spicy seafood. I had a Mai Tai in a pint glass, if my memory serves me correctly, and John had a super spicy Bloody Mary. Most of the evening was truly pleasant. We're used to being high maintenance and loud and making people wonder when we'll leave. The waiter did bring out more ice cream for Jack. Not in a precarious, fragile vessel for serving trendy cocktails, a real honest-to-God bowl.
More respite was provided at the Hirschorn, blessed Hirschorn! We happened upon the Hiraki Sawa video project at the just the right moment. Because we were tired of walking in the sun, a few minutes sitting in a darkened room was just the thing for all of us. Slowly, the images themselves began to transfix us. Filmed in a bleak apartment, these black and white videos show shadows of camels parading around the circumference of a sink drain; airplanes flying dreamily through halls, taking off from and landing on tables; cups, saucers, and a cheese grater (Will's favorite) sprouting human legs and walking away. A half dozen or more teenagers were lounging on the floor of the tiny theater, adding their own layer of performance art. From what we could overhear, they had three more hours to kill before their bus picked them up, and they were glad to have found a carpeted dark place upon which to do whatever it is they do with cell phones. (If there was anything else they were doing, it was below my sight line.) About the show? "This is so weird."
That night we had dinner at Raku, "An Asian Diner" near Dupont Circle. I ate there once years ago with an old friend, and once with John before kids. I propose a name change to Raku, "An Asian Diner That Discourages Small Children from Ever Coming Here Again by Serving Their Ice Cream in Martini Glasses." Yes, the glass fell and shattered on the table because Jack didn't know to hold the stem and we forgot to tell him because we were too busy watching Will with his glass. And yes, he's OK and nobody got glass shards in their eyes. Previous to this little disaster, the boys were occupied for quite some time eating bowls of plain rice noodles with a little soy sauce, while we sipped huge cocktails and ate spicy seafood. I had a Mai Tai in a pint glass, if my memory serves me correctly, and John had a super spicy Bloody Mary. Most of the evening was truly pleasant. We're used to being high maintenance and loud and making people wonder when we'll leave. The waiter did bring out more ice cream for Jack. Not in a precarious, fragile vessel for serving trendy cocktails, a real honest-to-God bowl.
Apr 7, 2006
Off to Our Nation's Capital
Thanks to Sugar Mama for the excellent flower advice.
Tomorrow John, the boys and I are going to Washington to be tourists. I got a deal on Priceline for a four-star hotel on Lafayette Square. We're going to see the Air and Space Museum and the Museum of the American Indian, and roam around the Mall looking at monuments. Jack thinks we're going to the Spy Museum after hanging out at the hotel's fitness center. (Maybe we'll visit the White House after that megalomaniac is forced to resign and it resumes its status as a respectable institution. Wait, this isn't a political blog. Nothing to see here, folks.)
Jack and Will packed a bag this morning and this is what they plan to bring:
1. Will's nighttime companion: blue and white striped bunny (its name changes)
2. Jack's nighttime companions: a trumpet swan named "Swanny" and a multicolored pastel bunny named "Bunny" who may fall apart with the next washing
3. Magic Tree House research guide: The American Revolution (that makes sense)
4. Bailey School Kids: Hercules Doesn't Pull Teeth (I'm nixing this, it's a library book and the fines are mounting as we already can't find two of those mediocre Bailey School Kids books)
5. The Official Knock-Knock Joke Book (I let Jack buy this yesterday at the library book sale, which I am already regretting)
6.E. B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan (Jack has great literary taste--also goes with Swanny)
7. Beverly Cleary's Ramona and Her Father (I liked the original illustrations better with Ramona's hair sticking up)
8. Our cat Kato (No, wait, I guess he just now crawled in there)
9. Not a stitch of clothing. This promises to be a cold wet vacation with a few charges of child endangerment thrown in. I'd better set this situation right.
Tomorrow John, the boys and I are going to Washington to be tourists. I got a deal on Priceline for a four-star hotel on Lafayette Square. We're going to see the Air and Space Museum and the Museum of the American Indian, and roam around the Mall looking at monuments. Jack thinks we're going to the Spy Museum after hanging out at the hotel's fitness center. (Maybe we'll visit the White House after that megalomaniac is forced to resign and it resumes its status as a respectable institution. Wait, this isn't a political blog. Nothing to see here, folks.)
Jack and Will packed a bag this morning and this is what they plan to bring:
1. Will's nighttime companion: blue and white striped bunny (its name changes)
2. Jack's nighttime companions: a trumpet swan named "Swanny" and a multicolored pastel bunny named "Bunny" who may fall apart with the next washing
3. Magic Tree House research guide: The American Revolution (that makes sense)
4. Bailey School Kids: Hercules Doesn't Pull Teeth (I'm nixing this, it's a library book and the fines are mounting as we already can't find two of those mediocre Bailey School Kids books)
5. The Official Knock-Knock Joke Book (I let Jack buy this yesterday at the library book sale, which I am already regretting)
6.E. B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan (Jack has great literary taste--also goes with Swanny)
7. Beverly Cleary's Ramona and Her Father (I liked the original illustrations better with Ramona's hair sticking up)
8. Our cat Kato (No, wait, I guess he just now crawled in there)
9. Not a stitch of clothing. This promises to be a cold wet vacation with a few charges of child endangerment thrown in. I'd better set this situation right.
Apr 5, 2006
The State of the Garden
Thanks for all the emails from individual readers about "Hawaiian Delight." No one wanted to write an actual comment, for some reason. My husband wrote a comment but I deleted it for complicated reasons. That's OK, dear, right? If you want to critique my transitions, you can just come downstairs, no?
Dear readers, blogging has languished because I've making big plans for the garden. The best part so far has been paying someone else to clear out all the old leaves and branches. All gone in one day, and ready for mulch. This was much better than me fiddling with the chipper for weeks on end and creating a possible Fargo situation. (Fargo is to "chipper" as Psycho is to "shower." Sort of. Well, not really. Never mind.)
So far I've planted some "Asiatic" lily bulbs around the sundial in the back yard. I made a little circle around them with broken bits of slate from the patio, which made me feel terribly clever. I also have white and pink "Oriental" lilies, which are somehow different from "Asiatic," that I need to plant somewhere, and sedum. I also got seeds for planting in the "children's garden" in the back, sunflowers, nasturtiums, white "dahlia" zinnias, radishes (John thought they'd be successful), marigolds. I'm starting some multicolor morning glory seeds indoors soon to transplant by the fence in back.
Oops, I just remembered that my neighbor Hazel thinks morning glories are pesty invasive vines. She was none too pleased when our Evil Bamboo Thicket, eradicated two years ago via the local nursery's Bobcat, sent out a couple posthumous runners under the fence to her yard. My question for the Internet is: Am I ethically bound to ask her if I can plant morning glories by the fence? If so, then does that mean she is ethically bound to cut down the rest of her arborvitae that have had their top branches all cut off, and are standing there, limbless and tragic, looming darkly over the future home of the "children's garden" like giant tombstones?
We're having a huge load of mulch delivered on Monday. Maybe Hazel will be so pleased that we do give a rat's ass about the garden, after all, that she won't take offense at the morning glories. Hazel has a barking Pomeranian and an annoying bright movement-detector light that shines in our bedrooms. So we have morning glories, it's live and let live, right? As long as the morning glories don't poop in her yard or leave cigarette butts in her strawberry patch, I think we're cool.
Dear readers, blogging has languished because I've making big plans for the garden. The best part so far has been paying someone else to clear out all the old leaves and branches. All gone in one day, and ready for mulch. This was much better than me fiddling with the chipper for weeks on end and creating a possible Fargo situation. (Fargo is to "chipper" as Psycho is to "shower." Sort of. Well, not really. Never mind.)
So far I've planted some "Asiatic" lily bulbs around the sundial in the back yard. I made a little circle around them with broken bits of slate from the patio, which made me feel terribly clever. I also have white and pink "Oriental" lilies, which are somehow different from "Asiatic," that I need to plant somewhere, and sedum. I also got seeds for planting in the "children's garden" in the back, sunflowers, nasturtiums, white "dahlia" zinnias, radishes (John thought they'd be successful), marigolds. I'm starting some multicolor morning glory seeds indoors soon to transplant by the fence in back.
Oops, I just remembered that my neighbor Hazel thinks morning glories are pesty invasive vines. She was none too pleased when our Evil Bamboo Thicket, eradicated two years ago via the local nursery's Bobcat, sent out a couple posthumous runners under the fence to her yard. My question for the Internet is: Am I ethically bound to ask her if I can plant morning glories by the fence? If so, then does that mean she is ethically bound to cut down the rest of her arborvitae that have had their top branches all cut off, and are standing there, limbless and tragic, looming darkly over the future home of the "children's garden" like giant tombstones?
We're having a huge load of mulch delivered on Monday. Maybe Hazel will be so pleased that we do give a rat's ass about the garden, after all, that she won't take offense at the morning glories. Hazel has a barking Pomeranian and an annoying bright movement-detector light that shines in our bedrooms. So we have morning glories, it's live and let live, right? As long as the morning glories don't poop in her yard or leave cigarette butts in her strawberry patch, I think we're cool.
Mar 23, 2006
Hawaiian Delight
Here's an essay/book chapter that I'm submitting to my writer's group. Genevieve and Nana are the same person. I need to be more intentional about what I call her. It's only a draft. Only a draft on a blog, at that. Warning: it's long. But with any luck you'll get sucked in. Yummy recipe at the end, folks!
It was 1939, a good year to be in
For Genevieve and Nancy, my grandmother and mother, the notion of escape was elusive. They had recently moved to
I don’t know who was more embarrassed, Genevieve, who had to ride the trolley back to the apartment fully dressed and without a change of clothes, or
But here she was, a middle-aged office worker bringing up her only daughter alone. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She had been the
Whatever the case, by the time the engagement had languished for seven years, Genevieve had taken a job in
Nana waited until the very long train trip was over to break off the engagement to Ken. How tedious the hours must have been, filled with strained conversation.
“How is your mother?”
"Fine, just fine.”
Long pause.
“Genevieve, are you all right? You seem distracted.”
“Oh, no, everything’s fine. I’m just tired is all.”
Nana always said about John, the new man, that he “swept her off her feet.” He had seen her at a dance and was drawn to her laughing eyes and shining auburn hair. So much so that he bragged to a friend, “I’m going to marry that woman!” It didn’t hurt that he was scion to a large fortune either. Nana returned to
It turns out that John was not only rich, but rich, idle, and spoiled. And an alcoholic. Genevieve, not knowing a thing about alcoholism, couldn’t understand why John would be gone for days at a time, and then apologize profusely, or why one time he drove the car through the garage door. When my mother was only a toddler, Genevieve divorced him. She divorced him, a bold move for a woman in the 1930s. John’s mother Inez then offered to pay Genevieve $13,000 if she would give her
“Back to
“Where’s your mother?” asked Nancy of Carol, as they dug a moat around a lopsided castle. Genevieve, of course, was a few yards away, pretending to be engrossed in a novel.
“She’s not here. She lives in
“My mother is divorced, too!” said
A gentle-looking man came up to Carol. “Carol, honey, we’re going back to the hotel now. . . . Who’s your new friend?”
“This is Nancy Owsley. Her mother is divorced, too!”
“Oh,” he smiled, “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said politely in a mild Southern drawl, as he solemnly shook
“Mrs. Owsley, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” murmured Colonel Carne, decades later to be known to me as “Papa.”
"Colonel Carne? How do you do?” Genevieve replied, properly.
And so love began. They became engaged one day later, and married a week after that, and were not separated until Papa’s death in 1974. I was ten when I learned that he wasn’t my “real” grandfather. Nana always told me. “He was my one true love.”
A couple years after Papa’s death, Nana visited her brother Fred in
The cake was a huge hit in our family. Nana, my mother and I each made it several times during my college years and shortly after. The recipe was forgotten for a long time, but right now the cake sits cooling on a baking rack on my counter, smelling rummy and rich, soaking up the sugary glaze. The cake has a new name now. It makes me think of the time, many years ago, when my mother introduced Nana to Papa, on the eve of war, on a small faraway island in the vast blue sea.
_______________________________________________________
True Love Pineapple Cake
1 20-oz. can crushed pineapple
2 cups baking mix (I use Bisquick)
1 cup sifted flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup sugar
¾ cup sour cream
½ cup butter
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons rum
Glaze
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup melted butter
¼ cup pineapple juice
Beat until dissolved.
Drain pineapple well, saving syrup. Stir baking mix, flour, baking powder, and soda together. Beat together sugar and butter until light and creamy. Add sour cream and vanilla and mix.. Add eggs and beat one minute. Add dry ingredients and beat one minute. Mix in drained pineapple and rum. Turn into well-greased bundt pan and bake at 350 for 45 minutes. Remove from oven and spoon half the glaze over it. Let stand 10 minutes. Turn out on serving plate and pour rest of glaze over.
Mar 20, 2006
The Last Gift
I have this scarf. Velvety rayon, its knit body is beginning to tear in a few places. Its wide stripes are an unlikely mix of deep rose, maroon, rich orange, and chocolate brown. It went well with my salon-created dark auburn hair. It now goes well with my naturally silver hair. And it always makes me feel warmer.
This scarf was a present from my mother on my fortieth birthday, the last gift I would ever receive from her. Which is why, when I left it on the coat hook in a restaurant on Saturday, I panicked. The young man who answered the phone was obliging, and said he would try to set it aside, but he also said we'd better get it soon or it would be bound to disappear. So John dropped by the next day and retrieved it for me. (Thank you, dear!)
Yesterday, March 19, was the seventh anniversary of my mother's death. We all went with my father to her gravesite in Valley Forge Park. Next to my mother lies my brother David. Will was screaming that he was cold, but we weren't ready to go. I said "How about wearing my scarf?" and he agreed. So there he was, this big long scarf around his neck, almost dragging on the ground and clashing fiercely with his red jacket. (Unlike Jack, Will loves to accessorize.) There we were, huddled against the March wind, my father and I with our own memories and thoughts, John doing his best to answer Jack and Will's questions, and telling them not to stand or jump on any gravestones. John took a picture of us as we smiled and leaned into each other.
As we walked back to the car, I said, "I can't believe it's been seven years." John agreed. But then he said, "And yet it was a lifetime ago." We looked at the boys, Jack reading the names of the dead out loud, Will prancing around, the scarf billowing and blowing. I pulled my collar tighter and rubbed Jack's cold hands together with mine. "We should come back some time when the weather is warm," laughed John. "We keep coming on March 19." We promise ourselves we will return in May to walk the towpaths of the Perkiomen Creek, to revel in the sun and seek respite in the dappled shade. Meanwhile, we seek shelter from the cold.
This scarf was a present from my mother on my fortieth birthday, the last gift I would ever receive from her. Which is why, when I left it on the coat hook in a restaurant on Saturday, I panicked. The young man who answered the phone was obliging, and said he would try to set it aside, but he also said we'd better get it soon or it would be bound to disappear. So John dropped by the next day and retrieved it for me. (Thank you, dear!)
Yesterday, March 19, was the seventh anniversary of my mother's death. We all went with my father to her gravesite in Valley Forge Park. Next to my mother lies my brother David. Will was screaming that he was cold, but we weren't ready to go. I said "How about wearing my scarf?" and he agreed. So there he was, this big long scarf around his neck, almost dragging on the ground and clashing fiercely with his red jacket. (Unlike Jack, Will loves to accessorize.) There we were, huddled against the March wind, my father and I with our own memories and thoughts, John doing his best to answer Jack and Will's questions, and telling them not to stand or jump on any gravestones. John took a picture of us as we smiled and leaned into each other.
As we walked back to the car, I said, "I can't believe it's been seven years." John agreed. But then he said, "And yet it was a lifetime ago." We looked at the boys, Jack reading the names of the dead out loud, Will prancing around, the scarf billowing and blowing. I pulled my collar tighter and rubbed Jack's cold hands together with mine. "We should come back some time when the weather is warm," laughed John. "We keep coming on March 19." We promise ourselves we will return in May to walk the towpaths of the Perkiomen Creek, to revel in the sun and seek respite in the dappled shade. Meanwhile, we seek shelter from the cold.
Mar 10, 2006
Can You Say "Galaktoboureko"?
Today I met my friend Deb at St. George's Greek Orthodox Cathedral. Not for a service, for lunch. Every Friday the Greek ladies cook up mousaka, stuffed grape leaves, spinach pie, baklava, kataifi, and the aforementioned galaktoboureko. It's a filo-based pastry with custard in it. We each had a hearty meal for $8.50 each, and even got to hear some Greek music on the CD player to boot. Like every old church hall, the atmosphere was that of faint desolation, which I don't mind. It reminds us that our time on earth is fleeting.
Then, on Deb's insistence, and because our time on earth is so fleeting, we had gelato at Capogiro Gelato Artisans, splitting a bowl with the following flavors: Blood Orange, Grapefruit Campari, Bitter Chocolate, and Pistachio. Stratospherically delicious. Then we ran for the train.
All this while John wrote some code and rewashed some of the bedding Will threw up on the other night. But he nevertheless listened graciouslyto my story of all the food I ate. Bless him for that. Now that I'm a food memoirist, eating is my calling. I like that.
Then, on Deb's insistence, and because our time on earth is so fleeting, we had gelato at Capogiro Gelato Artisans, splitting a bowl with the following flavors: Blood Orange, Grapefruit Campari, Bitter Chocolate, and Pistachio. Stratospherically delicious. Then we ran for the train.
All this while John wrote some code and rewashed some of the bedding Will threw up on the other night. But he nevertheless listened graciouslyto my story of all the food I ate. Bless him for that. Now that I'm a food memoirist, eating is my calling. I like that.
Mar 9, 2006
In Like a Lion
We've been talking a lot lately about spring, and how March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb. We're all eager to spend more time romping about outdoors. A couple of days ago, we arrived at school and Will disembarked from the van. Stepping into the sunshine, Will exulted, "It's a sheep!"
Mar 6, 2006
33 Things from Jack, and 18 More Things
I let Jack and Will fiddle around in their own Word documents, which I may regret someday. Will likes to use the numbered lists feature because he's going through a stage in which dates and all kinds of series fascinate him. Today Jack did a list, too, and here it is. The idiosyncratic numbering is because the second part of the list didn't convert too well and I don't feel like trying that hard to fix it . . . . and no, he wasn't ingesting high amounts of sugar near the end.
1. king Arthur
2. morgan le fay
3. queen
4. moon
5. mars
6. earth
7. Saturn
8. Pluto
9. sun
10. noodles
11. dandy
12. yankee doodle
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20. texas
21. pensylvania
22. ilinois
23.
24.
25. navada
26. civil war
27.
28.
29.
30. sushi
31. max
32. phillidalphia
33. steelers
1. eagles
2. cockroach
3. georgtown
4.
5.
6. nambia
7.
8. queen Elisabeth
9. mini wheats
10. hunny bunches
11. bunny
12. chipmunk
13. squirrel
14. espenyole
15. squirrel has big bread
16. girly
17. chipmunk is fat
18. happy egg yolk
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