Resolutions Update #1: Retrievers

Marty brought in today's mail and tossed it on the kitchen table, where it usually lives for a few weeks until it accumulates and we finally toss it. "You got a card," he said. It's strange to get a card when it's not Christmastime. I opened the card and started to read it. "Oh!" I gasped and tears immediately filled my eyes. "What is it?!?" Marty asked, confused. I told him my story:

Earlier in the week, I took Moby to the Pet Hospital for a yearly check-up. He had eye surgery there in 2014. They only treat emergencies and special cases - Moby gets his regular care from the place around the corner.

In the waiting area, I sat next to a quiet middle-aged man in a camouflage baseball cap, well-worn cowboy boots and jeans. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands splayed with his fingertips touching. I could feel his distress in the silence. His vet came out to chat with him, and I overheard their conversation. His dog was recovering (from something) at home and going on therapeutic walks with the man per the doctor's orders. Yesterday, the man came in from the barn and the dog was lying on the kitchen floor in pain. Since then she isn't putting any weight one of her legs. The vet advised to give the dog a week of rest before further treatment, and she would be right back with prescriptions for pain. She exited the waiting area. I said to the man (like an annoying busybody), "Your dog has a bad leg?" He looked at me, with a half-hearted smile, "Which one?" he answered. I was puzzled. "Which leg?" "No," he responded, "Which dog? I have two retrievers. One had surgery last month and re-injured herself at home. The other one is having surgery today on his elbow. I can't believe this is happening all at once." I asked if this was a genetic condition. "No. Just a run of bad luck." Then Moby was called to the back. His exam took 15 minutes.

As I paid Moby's $35 fee, I looked around for the man in the waiting area. He was gone. I asked the receptionist about him. I described the man and his retrievers to the girl at the desk. She knew immediately who I was talking about. I asked if I could donate to the balance on his account. I told her that my New Year's resolution was to periodically benefit the life of a stranger, and today I chose him. She said, "Sure you can donate! He paid his balance this morning, but today's surgery will cost $3,800." I donated. I told the clerk that she could tell the man about the donation if she wanted to, from "an anonymous stranger." It didn't seem like much of a contribution toward a fee that big, but I felt that it was definitely enough to make a difference in the man's spirit and ease his burden. The look on the face of the assistant was priceless. "He has spent a lot of money here this year and it's only February. Thank you so much." I walked to the parking lot smiling to myself and feeling good about anonymously helping a dog-loving stranger.

In today's mail was a card from the Pet Hospital. It was full of messages from the employees there, including "Valerie at reception," gushing their thanks. They told me how much they care about the man and his dogs, what a wonderful choice I had made for my act of kindness, and how inspirational my New Year's resolution is. I had no idea that my decision would impact so many more lives than that of one sad man in cowboy boots.

The Little Red Hen, Dutchified

In honor of the previous post, I present to you a revised version of the childhood classic, The Little Red Hen with Pennsylvania Dutch flair. (Note: Many words are presented as they are pronounced in Dutch Country)

The Little Red Hen lived on a Lancaster County farm. On this farm, she was friends with the pious pig, the plain cat and the yoney frog.  One day, she found sprouted potatoes in her root cellar. She said to her friends, "Who will help me plant these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I'm prayin' to the Lord Chesus."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am goin' to sewing circle."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "It's time to churn ice cream. Butter peekin."

"Praise Be, I'll go on and plant 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint, and she planted the potatoes herself.

When the potatoes were grown, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me dig these patadas once't?"

"Not I," said the pious pig, "I have Bible study - the book of Cheramiah."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am bakin' shoofly pies, raisin pies and whoopie pies for the bake sale."
"Not I," said the yoney frog, as he stirred his fragrant cauldron of apple butter over the open fire.

"Praise Be, I'll go on and dig 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

When the potatoes were harvested, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me peel these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I have to sing in the choir."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "The milk's turnin' so I need to make smearcase."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "The ot hoss needs cleant."

"Praise Be, I'll peel and boil 'em myself," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

She peeled and boiled and mashed the potatoes. She made from memory her grandmother's potato fastnacht dough. Then she asked her friends, "Who will help me fry these fastnachts?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "It is well (it is well)! With my soul (with my soul)!" he sang.
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I need to redd up the table and wash the dishes."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "I need to wash. I'm sour."

"Praise Be, I'll fry 'em myself, "said the Little Red Hen without complaint. She fried them and shook them up in a paper bag full of cinnamon sugar. When she was done, she generously filled a giant plate high with fastnachts. She wiped her wings on her dirty apron, took off the apron and hung it on the back of the door. She carried the plate to the porch and asked her friends, "Who will help me eat the fastnachts?"

"I will!" said the pious pig.
"I will!" said the plain cat.
"I will!" said the yoney frog.

"Komm Essen!" said the Little Red Hen. And she shared her fastnachts with all her friends because she made 30 dozen and her friends were all such hard workers. "You dare eat them til they're all," she said.  And they did.

What Did You Say?

English is delightfully idiosyncratic. And regional. And sometimes just plain wrong.

Anyone who has traveled  through or lived in several areas of the country recognizes these differences quickly not just by the accents we bear but the words we use. There is the ever-popular 'pop' versus 'soda' debate, 'hoagie' versus 'sub' and 'shopping cart' versus 'buggy.'

I was born in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and lived in the Upper Midwest, South, and Deep South during my adult years. I have been caught with the wrong terminology several times, or questioned about what I am saying. Some of it is clearly Dutchie. My favorite Dutchism is "to rutch" as in "Children rutch in their car seats," or "By the end of the 2-hour wedding ceremony, I was rutchy."  It's a great word, meaning to squirm or the inability to be still. Throwing a baseball with my dad was always "having a catch" not "playing catch."  I think this might not be Dutchie, but I do think it is regional. I "call in sick" but I do not "call out sick." What does that say about me?

Some of my personal "isms" are only isms in the wrong part of the country. For example, from life in the Midwest, I say "kitty corner" instead of "catty corner". But I REFUSE to call Duck Duck Goose "Duck Duck Gray Goose" - sorry, Minnesotans, that's just WRONG. I have picked up some clear grammatical English horrors as well. From West Virginia, I learned to say "It's pouring down the rain." From North Carolina, I learned to say "I might could do that." 

Over time, I have generally cleansed my verbal palate of Pennsylvania Dutch terms, like "rutchy," and you will no longer hear me saying, "Are you a sophomore now, or a freshman yet?" (yet meaning 'still') or "I'll be right back - wait here once" (no meaning at all, just an extra word).

It has been a long time since I was reprimanded for an ism, but it happened this week. It was a word choice I have been using as long as I can remember, and never knew it offended the ears. I thought, "How am I this old and never knew?" I was among friends when I told a story about a time when "the electric went out." The group all perked up their ears. "What did you say?" They thought I was trying to be cute. Um, no. Until I was confronted with my error, it had never occurred to me that 'electric' is not a noun. Poor grammar is never cute after the age of 4.

When I got home, I emailed or texted about 20 friends and family in all areas of the country. WHERE did I pick this up? I asked them to tell me what caused a blackout or what the purpose of a generator is.  As it turns out, in the South, everyone refers to electricity as power. "There's no power." They often call their power bill "the light bill" which makes me crazy, but I digress. North of Virginia, power is referred to as electricity. "The electricity is out."  And one lone person responded that a blackout happens "when the electric is out."  AH HA! The culprit was MOM! I should have known. I unwittingly had blurted a colloquial Momism to 10 people! "Ugh," I groaned. I thought I sanitized my grammar years ago from all of its Momisms! I learned the hard way that "it's all" is always inappropriate (as in 'the sugar bowl is empty; the sugar is all') and "let's get left" (as in 'we are late, let's get going, we need to get left).

I will now be more generous with my friends and their isms. When Jo says "Dog, go to your pent!" I won't let it drive me bonkers. When Susie says, "I wanted red but I landed up with blue," I will smile and nod. And I will remind myself that there is no such thing as electric.

Chicken Bones and Christmas Carols

On Saturday I texted food-phobic Kathleen to torture her: "Lunch=10-day old rotisserie chicken bits in couscous. Now I am boiling down the carcass until I get a nice good broth."

"Yuck."

"Some people drink bone broth because it's so good for you. When it cools it's like jello from the collagen."

"Okay, you're grossing me out."

Because she is a concerned friend (and a scientist), she emailed me 2 studies that discuss gastric distress, diarrhea, and debilitation from food-borne bacteria. She explained, indignantly, "They recruited people to drink E.coli!  Who would DO that?" I might do that regularly in my kitchen, I'm not sure. She has decided I have a genetic immunity to E. coli.

I always share my "I grossed out Kathleen" successes with Mom, because I learned all my food habits from her. I grew up on bone broth, and lots of stuff much grosser than that. Mom's reply was lovely:

You know what I had to think about the other day when you said that Kathleen was turned off about your boiling the chicken bones for broth? I just remembered all those times when I was a young girl that I rode my bike over to Anna Rohrer’s house to give her chicken bones!! She always seemed really happy to see me with those bags of bones, and let me come in. She had an icebox and I was always so happy if I was there when the ice man came and put this HUGE block of ice in her fridge. How cool - we just had a boring electric fridge, no big ice block!! I would often ask Mom if I could ride the bones over to Anna’s whenever we ate something with bones in it. Sometimes she told me, “No, not these bones."

Anna lived down the road. She was not married, and took care of her Mother. Her Mother lived with her and she always wanted to talk to me. She always sat on her rocking chair and I sat on a little stool that she probably rested her feet on when I was not there. I remember thinking she was SO old but I wonder just how old she really was. I bet not that old! I wonder!

Anna and her mother lived on the end of an Amish house, Joe King's place. They were not Amish, they were Mennonite like us. I think Anna had nothing, and Joe King just gave her a place to live. The whole neighborhood would give her things, so basically we all looked after Anna Rohrer and her Mom. She came to our house to use our phone, and Mom gave her stuff from the garden. Even if she had nothing, Anna used to be a giver with the little she had. This always amazed me. At Christmas time, she would take my sister and me and another farm family’s 2 daughters (we were all the same age) down to southern Lancaster County. She knew very poor people there. The four of us girls would go door-to-door with Anna and sing Christmas carols to these people and Anna gave them each an orange. "Where did she get those oranges?" I thought. The houses we went into were indescribably terrible. I have a picture of the 4 of us girls taken right before we went on one of these trips. I put it out at Christmas just as a reminder of our Christmases with Anna. So anyway, chicken bones have nice memories for me.

Anna's chorus, about 1955.

The Book, Chapter 2

Chapter 2
DATING: CHOOSING A MATE

Obviously there is no such thing as the ideal mate, therefore the Single Woman exists. Many people continue to ask us, “So why are you still single?” and to avoid a lengthy and exhausting explanation we often retort, “I just haven’t found the right guy,” when in reality, the right guy hasn’t found us. Why? Because the wrong guys won’t leave us alone.

There are many different types of men. The good, the bad, and the ones who continue to haunt our subconscious. Men also come in great variety, each with their own fortes and weaknesses.

The Innocent

This type of man appeals to our nurturing side. He is often younger than we are, and not yet jaded by the trials of life. We are attracted to him because we seek a softer edge. They amuse us at first, but ultimately we want to grab them by the scruff and shake sense into them. We want to scream that indeed he WON’T get rich selling Amway, and moving out of his mother’s house IS a good idea.

The Guilty
The Guilty Men are usually older than us, and often married. They are found in droves in the workplace. They seek to fulfill their own needs to be attractive and bolster wavering manhood. They achieve one of two reactions in the Single Woman: curiosity or disgust. If the man is attractive, curiosity results from the possible danger of the relationship, whether it be an illicit affair or to spark gossip among friends and family. The disgust reaction results toward the Guilty Man with the bad comb-over who winks and tells you he likes your dress, darlin'. There’s the coworker who runs into you in public, saying “I thought that was you! I recognized you from behind.” The Guilty Man may behave extremely inappropriately in a moment of frustration. For example, after happy hour with a group of other coworkers he may tackle you in the parking lot for a quick feel or persuade you to let him walk you home and then linger in your bushes when you reject his doorway advances. In any case, the Guilty Man is never a good choice because he is truly not interested in you but in himself.

The Desperate
Often times we don’t realize he is desperate until it is too late. The Desperate Man will bend over backward to charm, schmooze, flatter, flirt and pull out the stops just to get you to go out with him. Once this is achieved, however, we realize his level of desperation and wish ourselves elsewhere. The Desperate Man will tell you stories of playing paintball with his young nephews and expect you to take interest because it is his most interesting hobby. If he feels the date is going well, he will say that the moment should last forever, or that you are the moon and the stars. Although the Single Woman may appreciate this, the moment is always ruined by the broccoli in his teeth or the whitehead he hasn’t realized has boiled up on his neck.

The New Divorcee
Our hearts go out to the New Divorcee.  We want to comfort him in his recovery, but must be aware of assuming the role of the Rebound Single Woman. We are taken in by his woeful tales of cheating hearts and love lost. We allow him to cry on our shoulder, but we need to be strong and say: “Get a therapist.” This is ultimately what they need, and the Single Woman should never attempt to fill that role. If she does, once therapy with you is finished, so is the relationship. The New Divorcee with children is another story. Beware the man with a pregnant 15-year old daughter or full custody of his brood. The Single Woman is never ready for that, and guess what – neither is he.

The Idiot
This type of man differs from all the others because he briefly has us contemplating never dating again. The idiot is sometimes a stranger, honking and waving suggestively as he roars by on the highway. More often, he takes you to dinner and various racial slurs and homophobia surface at inopportune moments. He may make remarks like “you’d be sexy if you did some sit-ups”, or “Wow, you can drive a stick-shift?” The Idiot often surprises us by appearing normal at first and revealing his shocking idiocy after an almost-perfect date, or even after a string of successful dates. The Idiot may have stalking tendencies, like the neighbor who gets fed up with your “no thank you” refusals for a lunch date and leaves candles burning on your porch or cards on your windshield. He thinks he’s being romantic to win you, when in reality he’s just caused you to purchase pepper spray and keep it close.

The Bitter
The Bitter Man is resentful of secure, independent women. He proclaims to be a modern man, but truthfully seeks a woman who is needy, insecure, and assumes a mother-like role. When this does not happen, he becomes bitter. His mother is his version of the ideal female, and therefore no one else can ever quite measure up. No one can ever sacrifice enough for him, or treat him with enough respect or adoration. He truly does not want a partner, but a subordinate. The Bitter Man may be bitter when you meet, or evolve into a Bitter Man as the relationship continues. If the Single Woman is smart, it will not take her long to detect these qualities and she will bolt in a hurry.

The Almost-Ideal
This is the best type of man we can hope for. He is as close to perfect as we can expect – is polite, funny, has good hygiene and a steady job. Although he does not recycle, watches too much television, and vacuums his carpet yearly, he loves his mother but does not live with her. Sometimes we pick fights with the Almost-Ideal just to be sure he can fend for himself, but most importantly, they are our friends and we grow to love them dearly. We adjust to their imperfections, they adjust to ours.