Jammin'

We're headed into summertime. Just a few days away. This is the time of year I most think about my grandma. Probably because I spent a lot of summer days with her.

Most summers I get the itch to do some canning. Seriously. Stop laughing. I'm not being sarcastic. I put up food. It's in my DNA. Country mouse style. I don't think canning has anything to do with food though - for me.

It's the process. Hot jars, fruit, the steam in the kitchen, the familiar pop of the seal. It takes me back to being a kid. Makes me remember being sprawled out on the floor, just about ready to fall asleep in the afternoon, listening for the metallic pop followed by her saying, "there's another one!"

I wonder what she'd think about this canning business today. I'd say something like, "what? you canned all the time."

To which she'd respond with, "I didn't have a job. I wasn't busy like you."  Because running that house with military precision wasn't a job to her...

She 'wasn't busy' and 'wasn't in a hurry' - just two of the many reasons she didn't have a microwave. Why cook things fast if you aren't in a hurry?

Now there's a pretty big difference between Aileen Henley canning and me canning. I'd really like to be more like her, but, the Moore* blood...

I find canning goes a lot better with a couple beers. Maybe more than a couple. I'm fairly certain that she never had a canning buzz. I'd love to be wrong on that one...
Side Note: I'm pretty sure that she'd be a little disappointed in my level of social drinking. Unless the Ladies Aid or the F.A.N. Club were more fun than I suspect.

She listened to music in the kitchen and hummed along. KHQ on the old radio. So, in this case we're sort of similar. Except, I'm 'singing' at the top of my lungs to Bob Marley. Because, it's funny to me to sing the 'Jammin' song while literally jamming.

I like to keep it casual - it's a hot and sort of miserable set of tasks. I wear Converse, she wore Keds. I wear shorts. She would never. Also, they're too short. Are not.

She would can first thing, before it got too hot. I tend to can later in the day, sometimes even late at night when it's more socially acceptable to have a couple drinks. Oh, and it's cooler then too.

Our berries this time were picked at a U-pick - not quite on a whim but pretty close. I didn't even have all the things I needed to can that day. I didn't plan days in advance what I was going to do. Not only was I not fully prepared for canning, I picked berries in the middle of the day. Without a giant sunhat. Without. A. Hat. I should be ashamed of myself.

I never really learned how to do any of this. I think I just imitate what she did. When a jar doesn't seal I flip it over, this confused the husband.

I couldn't really tell him why, it's just what she did. And that thing sealed.

I do a lot of jam and I've done peaches and applesauce. She did those and cherries, apricots, pickled beans and pickles. Those others seem intimidating to me. Plus, I'm slightly afraid that if I start eating canned apricots, I'll also start eating molasses cookies. If I do that, I'll forget how to adult. I'll regress into that eight year old falling asleep on the floor. 

I wonder if my kids will have nostalgic canning memories. They have fun picking berries and fruit and they're possibly addicted to toast and homemade jam. Maybe it skips a generation and their kids (shudder) will want to participate. Or maybe buzzed canning grandma won't be that inspiring...

Jars and jars.

*Anytime any Henley ever did anything wrong, Dorothy Henley attributed it to 'The Moore' blood. Works for me.

There's No Place Like Home

In a recent conversation with some friends, I mentioned that I love the house I live in but it doesn't seem like home. The couldn't understand, "because it's so awesome!" It is. It is an awesome house. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

It's been two years, feels like it should be home by now. Don't get the wrong idea, I love the house. A lot. And, as my hobbies are puttering and tinkering, I love having a project at my fingertips at all times.

Bottled beer taste in a can.

I'm starting to think that it doesn't feel like home because 'home' is so much more than where you sleep. This past weekend I went 'home'. To where I was born. And spent most of my childhood. I went for a run on my favorite gravel road. I had a Keystone Light in The Pastime Tavern. Two actually. That my mom had to buy for me because they only take cash. And, I only carry plastic. Where some other 'kids' I grew up with were also hanging out for a beer on a hot summer night.

Is it that home is where your childhood memories are? That spot on the sidewalk you can point to where you fell and earned your first stitches? The old dirt road where you learned how to drive? How you got that scar on your forehead? Which is a post all on it's own...

I come from a small town. Very small. Where there is one pay phone. That makes local calls. For free. Where the road is clearly marked, 'Primitive Road. No warning signs.' Out in the dry alkali dirt. Dirt that feels like powder. A place that is so cold in the winter your nostrils freeze shut and so hot in the summer you can see the heat waves rise off the road and water evaporates before it hits the ground. It smells like wheat, dirt and grease. Heaven.

It's quiet and still and when it's dark you can see the stars. All of them.

Favorite road.

As I sat at a kitchen table with people who have known me my whole life, laughing and catching up over a couple cocktails, let's go with a couple... I got to thinking... this is it. This is home. This place is what made me who I am. The women at the kitchen table (and a couple others who weren't there) all had a hand in that. These women, my mother being one of them, to put it bluntly, get shit done. I've never thought I couldn't do anything I ever wanted to. Because the example I always had was that I could.

Home is where you become who you are, where you grow up. Literally and figuratively. There's no place like it. So says Dorothy.

I believe that where I sleep will be home to my children. This is where they'll become who they'll be. Where they'll sneak in late and make a lot of memories with their friends and our friends. Their home is a nice house in a nice neighborhood with sidewalks and a lawn with a sprinkler system. There are no rattle snakes to avoid and there's no worry that the house cat will be eaten by a coyote.

Their home is rather boring, I'm afraid.

Ruby Tuesday

It occurs to me that I've never written about Ruby Tuesday. Probably because there is just so much material there that it's hard to pick out the funniest and/or least horrifying stories.

Sweetest face.

Ruby was a gift from Santa. Sometimes Santa makes decisions after a glass or three of wine. She technically belongs to the boy. And by 'belong to' I mean he throws the ball for her once or twice a week, scratches her belly on occasion and I buy all the food and pay for all the vet bills. So, that seems good.

I had a vision of a boy growing up with a Golden Retriever. They would be best pals. She'd be like Lassie but a Golden. She'd wait at the bus stop, sleep on his bed and listen to him when he had girl trouble. So far, exactly none of that has happened.

A) random dogs at the bus stop get hauled off by animal control.
B) he would love to sleep with her and has a few times but she wants to play with him - no matter what time it is - co-sleeping had to be stopped.
C) she's not a good listener.

Here's the thing. I love her. I love her stupid idiotic doggie things. She's more entertaining than TV. But, she's also a total disaster on four legs. A bull in a China shop. That sheds. And steals. Socks. Shoes. Toys. Food.

One thing no one tells you - if you've ever had a Border Collie - or probably any herding dog, do not get a retriever. You will want to shake it until it sleeps. Forever. And I would too except she weighs a metric ton and I can't pick her up.

For years I thought she was really, truly dumb. But over time, I've mostly changed my opinion. She's not dumb. She's smart-ish. She just finds certain things worth it. She knows she's in trouble if she eats food off the kitchen table. But that pizza is worth it.

Need some Tums?

Or the ginger bread house.
Or two dozen cupcakes.
Or four pounds of candy melts.
Or a couple pounds of uncooked frozen chicken.

The gingerbread house eating has happened more than once. And, now we just don't make them at Christmas. We may be slow learners but we've finally figured that one out.

The cupcakes happened at my moms. The night before a big family party. Two dozen chocolate cupcakes on the cooling rack in the kitchen - cooling before I put frosting and sprinkles on. They essentially disappeared - not a crumb or paper left. The cooling rack undisturbed, not a sound made. The look on my mothers face when I asked, "Hey mom, where'd you put the cupcakes?' Classic.

The candy melts... I don't even have the strength to relive it enough to write it. Suffice it to say, pounds of candy melts don't stay down. Pink candy melts. All over.

Chicken. Frozen chicken. Now, the recipe was for pulled chicken sandwiches. You put the frozen chicken into the crockpot, dump in a bottle of barbecue sauce. TA-DA! - six hours later, delicious sandwiches. But, my mom is a mom of the 70s. Thus the idea of frozen chicken into the crockpot is foreign. You gotta let that thaw on the counter first. And so she did. On a plate. Then went to pick the kids up from school. Returned home to disappeared chicken. Plate undisturbed.

Ruby lives the good life. Gourmet food. Sleeps in a big cushy bed. Trips to the beach where she body surfs like a pro. Couch naps. Plays in the sprinkler. All the things.

Aleve for me, thyroid pill for her. One day there's going to be a mix up...

She's in the double digits. She's slowing down. No more running. Constant panting and shortness of breath, medication. Some follow up blood work later this week. She's a senior citizen now. And yet, even with the health challenges of being a senior dog, she can still stand on two legs long enough to steal a meal from a seven year old -  right off the table.

Silently.

Natural Beauty - There's no Such Thing...

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, the girl doesn't look anything like me. At. All.

But, as I've been told, she acts exactly like me. She's funny. She's an extrovert. I don't know that I really see it though... Or didn't see it until recently.

Most folks know that I grew up in a hair salon, but if you didn't know, you know now. After school. Summer days. Saturdays.

A tip from me - pull a tooth in the salon on a Friday. When all the old ladies are getting their Friday 'dos. Each one of them will give you 50 cents. At least. It's the equivalent of winning the lottery for a seven year old.

Just getting my frost on.

Here's the thing. I was often a test case for various activities in the salon. I vividly remember the 'girls' practicing bowl cuts on my head in the '90s. Or the time they all got trained in eyebrow waxing. On my face.

Or the failed experiment of some kind that turned my hair fire engine red. Two weeks before senior pictures. Half of downtown Salem was standing over my head with various theories on how to fix it. They did fix it, by the way.

My point is, I'm pro keeping yourself 'up'. I keep the brows in check. The hair is colored. Often. I believe in foils, chemicals, good shampoo and conditioner, hot oil treatments, waxing, moisturizer and manicures.

As we've gotten more into dance with the girl, it's become abundantly clear that I'm not much of a dance mom. I chafe at the makeup and all the doing up. I mean, come on, they're small children. I get it. It's the lights and all but it's hard for me to put mascara on my first grader. So, last week when it was picture day, I didn't. I put some lip gloss on her and called it good.

Now, I've staged these mini protests before. I've dropped her off sans makeup only to pick her back up made up.

So, last Saturday as she was sitting on the stool while I made lunch and I was looking down at my cute little girl with her overly dark eye lashes...

"Baby, did they put mascara on you today for pictures?"

"No. I don't have any mascara on!"

"Hmm... I guess it must just be your natural beauty."

"Mom! There's no such thing as natural beauty!"


Annnnnnnnddddd.... Done.


There you have it.


The apple might have brown eyes and straight hair. But, that apple didn't fall far from the tree.

My Future in Hoarding...

I'm starting to get a little worried about myself. Over the last couple years I've taken pride in my ability to comb through a thrift store and find a gem buried amongst the junk. To upcycle something beat up into something cool. But now, well, now I'm starting to worry that I am on a slippery slope.

Where's the line between cool upcyle and hoarder combing the neighborhood lookin' fer stuff to use later?

My latest project has me the most worried as it was literally junk turned into something cool - and on the cheap - relatively speaking. But, in reality this is a small number of projects. And thus, feeds the addiction. Always looking for the next fix. I watch TLC - I see those hoarder shows - all those people are going 'to do something' with all that stuff.

How far is the fall from driving the SUV to shuffling around with a shopping cart?

The Before.

The before. I'm not quite sure what I saw here. I think it spoke to me though. Which has to be some kind of mental illness. Right?

 Now, I can do paint. I can do stain. I can even build a cushion. It's wood and staples... But, I can't sew. At all. I got an A in woodshop and a C in sewing. And, I think that C in sewing was just Mrs. O'Neil being nice. No one is surprised by that stat. This bench will require sewing. If it does, there's a good chance I'm screwed on this one.

I started by taking it apart. Figuring I could use the pieces to make a pattern to recreate the back. What I thought was leather was just crispy nasty fabric - that came off in chunks, not usable pieces. Not cool. Dust and funk was flying through the air.


All I could think was that I was inhaling dead people AND cancer.


This thing better be worth it.

A miracle. A minor one. But miracle none the less.

And then. And then I got so lucky. The thing wasn't originally upholstered on the back. It was 'redone' at some point over the years. It's wooden! It's a miracle! It's Mission style!

Started the work of pulling out brass tacks, burlap and weird straw filler. All cancer causing, I'm sure.

Then sanding. I strongly dislike sanding. Sanded for hours. Then stained. Then stretched fabric and stapled.

Then, the absolute worst part. The part that's the hardest for me. I waited. And waited. And waited. For the stain to dry.



Oh, I didn't mention... I had no plans or place to put this piece of furniture.

Off to rearrange the dining room. 

The After.

So, there it is. In the corner of the dining room. Which is now in need of a floor lamp. Oh, and I have to paint that little table next to it. Scored it at Goodwill for 4.99! See. Addiction.

Final Stats:

Bench - $25

Cushion - $28 - with a coupon

Fabric - $19 - on clearance

Plywood for cushion base - $0 - from my friend Ryan

Total - $72

Not too bad - I even sat on it. It didn't even fall apart!

I've never had a bad day with a pencil behind my ear.

The American Dream

We had an actual vacation planned for spring break. Kind of new for us. Most of our vacation days are used for family events and holidays. It was time. Time to take the kids on a trip. Take a break. As a family. All of us. For eight days. Eight days.

Isn't that the American Dream? Load up the wagon, hit the road, sing songs, play games? There's a whole movie franchise about it and everything. Only I'm more interested in the modern version that includes an airplane, tablets and iPods so no talking is actually required. Because, somehow, my children have opinions. This makes my mother laugh, while confusing to me.

Flew into San Diego on our way to Lego Land for the first leg. Drove to Carlsbad. To a hotel we booked online. A hotel with an unbelievably talented photographer/photoshopper/marketing genius. Genius.

And when we tried to call the front desk to report there was no hot water but couldn't because the phone didn't work, well, we just laughed. Because, vacation.

It was slightly crushing to walk to Lego Land and pass by the 5 star resort the husband had just worked on, the week before, but had no vacancies the week we needed. We looked at it longingly. All fancy. With it's hot water and working telephones.

There were two plusses to the hotel we stayed in. Which, really, is a motel. Possibly owned by the Bates Family. One, it had a pool. Young humans are happy in a pool. Two, it had continental breakfast. This is a great chance to stock up on processed foods to keep you going strong all day long in a theme park surrounded by a lot of other children.

The first morning, as I sat in the 'Lanai Room', I laugh just typing that, watching the other people I realized a couple things. One) I am far too entertained by my own narration of others and two) for every couple of young humans in the place there's at least one adult whose spirit is broken. Broken. Possibly irretrievably.

They sit there at the table holding a cup of crappy coffee, hunched over, like inmates look (on TV of course), eyes darting back and forth, eyeing up the last banana, while their completely wound up children race around the room and/or watch Cartoon Network on one of two really large, really loud wall mounted units.

But this is family vacation, right? This is the American Dream. Work hard, buy a house, take your children on some adventures, hope most of them go to college. Repeat.

So, your spirit dies a bit. You age. From all the noise, noise, noise.

In the end the young people had fun. And, we had fun. We laughed. A lot. We ate ice cream instead of actual meals. We got sun. We did vacation.

We did The American Dream.

Austin City Limits

They say you never forget your first time. The giggles, the pain, the conversation in the alley.

Wait, what?

Back in the fall of 2008 I had a new job, newish baby and a trip. A couple nights away from the baby were welcome - in so many ways.

There was of course the awkward part of taking the breast pump through airport security. Funny thing - they treated it like a bomb in Texas. I was pulled aside while they thoroughly inspected my clearly nefarious bag.

In Portland, "This a pump?"

"Yup."

"Have a safe trip."

But, I digress…

As the plane was descending, we were beginning to plan our evening. Our meetings started the next morning. We hadn't been to Austin before and wanted to check out the sites. Tracey, ever the planner, asked for ideas of something to do.

"I'm thinking tattoo."

"Really? Awesome."

Becca smiled from across the aisle. Keith, also across the aisle, was not amused.

After dropping the bags at the hotel we headed out. Basically wandering aimlessly down 6th street, taking in the bar scene. It was fun. Loud music and cheap drinks. Where every night is apparently 'ladies night'. 

We popped into a couple tattoo places. They were brightly lit and very busy. Seemed sort of like McDonalds. Lots of UT sorority girls getting their letters or butterflies tattooed on their ankles. A few getting 'Hook 'Em Horns' on the insides of their bottom lip. (Yes, apparently that is a thing.) Didn't seem like my kind of place. I didn't want a pick it and stick it tattoo. And, Keith, playing the role of sitcom dad forced to be out with three wound up girls, was trying to, without pushing, get us out of the tattoo establishments.

We moved on. Got a drink, had some dinner, back to the hotel.

The next night we were unsupervised. Cue ominous music.

And, we were on a mission. First stop dinner and drinks. Followed by a couple more drinks and food from a taco truck. (This was also during a horrible Halloween candy binge that miraculously didn't kill us - I'm still sort of shocked by the candy AND the taco truck now that I look back.)

And then we saw a sign:  Sailors Grave Tattoo

There was an arrow pointing down a dark alley. One lightbulb hanging there. Sketchy.

It wasn't at street level. Becca and I made eye contact.

"I'm all for the tattoo, but this place? I'm not sure."

Tracey was looking up, studying the building.

"This place is good."

I'm pretty sure we could have gotten tetanus just standing there, "How can you tell?"

"There are plants. They have plants in the window."

"I can get Hep C tonight and you think we're good on 'plants'?"

"Yes."

And with that, we headed up a narrow staircase.

Ole.

We walked out an hour later. Tattooed! My first tattoo!


I'm a Taurus. Where better to get a bull tattoo than Texas? My Taurus is between my shoulder blades. Less chance for sagging there, I think. That thing needs to look good for another 100 years. At least.

Keith had been texted that night and informed of the situation. Sitcom dad wasn't pleased. We hadn't been left alone that long. I'll never forget the look on his face the next morning. He was sitting there, reading the paper, waiting. Dr. Seaver was displeased.

It was the start of something. I joke that it's something in the ink. Addictive. I don't know. 

I don't have any 'pick 'em and stick 'em' tattoos. 

What I have all have meaning - to me.


There's the Wizard of Oz quote on my rib cage that I got after my dad died. After a particularly fun night out with the same friends, plus Vikki. It was the line I closed with when I spoke at his funeral. "Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable." This also goes right along with being a Taurus. My heart is covered in wounds that will never heal. I'll just never show it.

The Pisces below the Taurus - Henley and Madison are the same sign. They are everything.

Thank you Tin Man.

The word 'Today' on my upper back as a reminder that this is it. You better live it. Live in the moment. Because no matter what, even if that bull is on my back for another 100 years, it's not long enough.

The subtle white ink on my wrist that says, 'Let it Go'. A reminder for me to stop holding on to everything. All the anger and disappointment - let it go. This was before that bitch Queen Elsa made that phrase every parents worst nightmare.


The anchor on my achilles. Keep me grounded. Above the anchor and wrapped around my ankle an excerpt from the William Ernest Henley poem, Invictus.

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

You can't really say it better than that.

This is my life. My body. This is me. And yeah, I get it. They're permanent. I doubt that when I'm old and looking at my tattoos I'll have regrets. Because I'm pretty sure I'll have the awesome memories of getting them.