Real Men Paint Fingernails

I was at a gathering of extended family recently. I walked into the dining room to retrieve something out of my purse.

"Melinda, Brian will paint your nails for you if you want," said my cousin Lori, referring to her husband.

I must have missed something, I thought. They must have been joking around about Brian painting nails before I walked in here.

"No thanks," I responded. "I'd have it all picked off by the time I reach Nephi."

I walked around the table and happened to sit down directly across from Brian.

He was painting his little niece's fingernails.

"Brian really does do nails!" I exclaimed.

I don't know Brian well. I've only met him a couple of times over the years. But I'll tell you what about Brian - he's a manly man. Not in the least bit girly. You can tell that just by looking at him. He has an electrical background and works for a utility company. You just gotta know he drives around in a big pick-up and has maybe even scaled his share of utility poles. Probably loves all kinds of outdoor activities - four wheeling, camping. Maybe he hunts. And he's a big guy. You just wouldn't expect him to be a manicurist.

"So," I asked him, feeling a blog post coming on, "how did you get into the nail business?"

"I started years ago as a way to spend time with my daughters," he told me. Lori and Brian have two girls who have both grown up and left home.

Over the years he's gotten really good at painting nails.

"It's a lot like painting a racing stripe on a car," he told me. "You have to be smooth and steady."

He finished applying a coat of polish to his niece's tiny nails. As they were drying, he pulled open a plastic bag and fished out a nail stamping kit.

"Now, look these over and decide what you want," he told her.

I realized that this was his stuff and that he had traveled from Oregon to Utah with it so that he could do his nieces' nails. I loved this guy.

 I had never seen the stamping process before. Brian carefully painted white over a tiny design on an image plate and squeegeed off the excess. Then he took a tiny finger in hand and patiently and precisely rolled it across.

"Do you like that one?" he asked. "It's okay if you don't. We can do it over."

It was perfect. They finished off the job. All the nieces lined up for their turns. Flowers and animal prints seemed to be the fashion of the day.

All the way from Oregon with his nail kit.

These girls love their Uncle Brian.

Don't you?

Senior Style - what was I thinking?

I'm no fashionista. My favorite thing to wear? Jeans and a t-shirt. Usually the t-shirt is a hand-me-down from my boys. Happy day for me when they all outgrew the mediums.

But since I can't wear jeans and t-shirts everywhere I go, I am occasionally forced to shop for real clothes. I would sooner shove bamboo shoots underneath my fingernails than shop for clothes, but sometimes we just don't get to choose. And then I go shopping.

I try to find clothing that is age-appropriate but somewhat stylish. Fortunately for me, Costco carries great stuff for middle-aged women. And it's cheap and convenient. If I find something I like and it comes in different colors, I buy a few. It's kind of like having a uniform. Thanks to Costco, rarely do I have to torture myself by entering a regular clothing store. And if I do, I've learned to take my daughter along.

Carolyn became fashion conscious about the time she entered junior high. We'd be in a store. I'd hold up a shirt.

"How about this?" I'd ask. "Is this cute?"

"Yeah," she'd answer. "For you," implying that she wouldn't be caught dead in it.

"Well, I would not want to look like a teenager," I'd inform her.

Oh, don't worry - I'd read her mind - you won't.

Once in a while she pays me a real compliment.

"I'd wear that," she'll say in response to a new top I might be wearing.

Makes me feel so stylish!

Recently my Aunt Becky passed away. A bunch of us were visiting as extended family the day before the funeral.

I was wearing a new shirt.

My Aunt Peachy said to me, "I like that shirt. I'd wear that."

Hmm... I thought.

A few minutes later my Aunt Norma told me, "Nice shirt. I'd wear that."

My Aunt Marie said, "I have that same shirt in white."

Well, guess what. I have it in white, too. Naturally, I had bought it in more than one color. But I was too disturbed to own up to this.

I was dressed like my senior citizen aunts!

I mean, don't get me wrong; they all wear cute clothes.

For them.

I should have taken Carolyn shopping with me. What was I thinking?

A little later on a bunch of us were sitting around the dining room table. As it often does in family conversations, the talk turned to who looks like whom. My cousin Greg, one of Aunt Becky's sons, said, "I don't know what it is, but something about Melinda reminds me of my mom today."

"I think it's because I've grown my hair long," I quickly remarked.

But we know that wasn't it.

We know what it was.

It was the shirt.

Please Pass the Grits!

 My mother is a wonderful cook and has taken up Southern cooking since she moved to Florida. During my most recent visit, she made Shrimp and Grits for supper one night. I loved it. I've made it several times now. Sometimes I use asparagus instead of shrimp. It's delicious.

 I've also started making Grits and Blackberries. So good. Mmm. I could eat Grits and Blackberries daily. Actually, for the past few days, I have.

Grits are my new favorite comfort food. And they're not bad for you. A one cup serving has 143 calories, less than one gram of fat, three grams of protein, 31 grams of carbs, and you control the sodium completely when you decide how much salt to use when cooking them. They are high in folate, and are a good source of iron, niacin, riboflavin, selenium, thiamin, and vitamin A. I don't recommend quick grits, or even following the directions on a box of regular grits. I think the slower method described in the recipe below, including the sitting and reheating time, makes a big difference. So worth the wait!

Shrimp (or Asparagus) and Grits

1 cup stone ground white grits (I've used yellow grits, too)
5 cups water
 salt and freshly ground pepper
2/3 cup grated cheddar cheese
1 T. butter

2 T. olive oil
1 tsp. minced garlic
1/4 of a medium onion, finely chopped
1/4 of a bell pepper, finely chopped (I like red or orange)
1 pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveined (or however much asparagus you want)
salt and freshly ground pepper
1 T. olive oil
1 T. flour
3/4 cup chicken stock
1 T. fresh lemon juice

Place grits in a medium saucepan. Gradually whisk in five cups of water and 1 tsp. salt. Bring to a simmer, whisking until it begins to thicken. Reduce heat and simmer gently, stirring occasionally and scraping bottom and sides with a wooden spoon, for 45 minutes. Cover and remove from heat. Let stand for 30 minutes (or up to an hour).

Heat 2 T. olive oil in a pan. Saute garlic, onion, and bell pepper over medium heat for a couple of minutes. Season shrimp (or asparagus) on both sides with salt and pepper. Raise heat to medium high. Push vegetables to side of pan. Add the extra 1T. olive oil if necessary. Sear shrimp (or asparagus) in a single layer for two minutes. Flip and sear for one minute. Push shrimp to edge of pan. Sprinkle flour in center of pan. Cook, stirring flour into vegetable/shrimp mixture, for two minutes. Add chicken stock. Simmer until sauce thickens, about two minutes. Add lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper.

Just before serving, reheat grits over medium-low heat. Stir in cheese and butter. Season with salt and pepper. Serve shrimp (or asparagus) over grits. Don't go too heavy on the sauce. In the asparagus picture above, I went a little heavy on the sauce. You don't need that much.

Grits and Blackberries

Follow directions for grits in the above recipe, omitting the cheese and the pepper. Sprinkle blackberries with sugar (you can use an artificial sweetener) and heat in microwave until berries are juicy and hot. Put reheated grits in a bowl. Add a dab of butter if you want. Pour berries and juice over grits.

Easter Coloring Books

It's Easter time and Easter always makes me think of (among other obviously much more important things) coloring books. When we were little girls, our mother always bought my sister and me new coloring books in the weeks leading up to Easter. They were filled with the outlines of spring flowers, baby animals, and plenty of Easter eggs. We would bring them to life using our box of 64 Crayola Crayons.

I remember the year I learned how to color like a big girl. My sister taught me how to outline. She is eighteen months older than I am and had probably picked up the outlining method at school. I have a memory of the two of us: we're stretched out on our stomachs on the hardwood floor of our upstairs bedroom in our house on Standish Way, each of us with a coloring book in front of us, the big box of crayons in the middle. My concentration level is high as I carefully trace just inside of the black line with my crayon, pressing down to get a nice dark outline. Then I shade lightly to fill in the space. I am so thrilled to know the secret and am proud of my work.

Last weekend my husband was asked to speak at our young niece's baptism. (L.D.S. children are usually baptized at age eight.) He wanted to use a coloring book as an aid in an object lesson.

And it's Easter time! I thought.

We went to Walmart to pick out a coloring book. I chose one with beautiful spring flowers, baby animals, and plenty of Easter eggs.

Kent needed two facing pictures: one colored like an older child would do it, and one like a toddler might do it. As soon as we got home, I went right to work. I got out my 64 Crayola crayons and selected the pictures I would color. I did the toddler picture first. I just scribbled across the page with two colors. ( I have actually seen coloring book pages scribbled in this manner hanging in the MoMA. Really. I think they were from a Winnie the Pooh coloring book.) Then I began the real masterpiece. I carefully selected my colors. I outlined meticulously. I shaded everything in.

Beautiful!

I love to color. Especially in Easter coloring books. I could have filled up the whole book, but I didn't. We gave it to Lora after her baptism, along with some new crayons. I hope she's enjoyed it.

Maybe she's even taught her little sister how to outline.

Old Slippers - New Slippers

I got some new slippers recently. I ordered them from Avon. Who knew that Avon sold slippers? Anyway, it really was time for a new pair. My husband was threatening to burn my old ones.


“What exactly is it that you hate so much about them?” I asked him one day after my slippers had received a particularly scalding barrage of verbal abuse from him.

“You really want to know?” he asked me.

I assured him rather defensively that I did.

“They look like something an old housewife from back in the day would have worn, along with a bathrobe and hair curlers, when she went out to the mailbox to get the mail.”

I considered this.

“Well, I don’t wear curlers.”

They did look pretty bad. If slippers have lives, theirs were definitely expired. I’m sure I’d been wearing dead slippers for some time.

The problem is that I’m very particular about slippers. My feet are always cold. My slippers have to be very warm. I like polar fleece, and I like the bootie style.

Attractive?

No.

Warm?

Yes.

Hard to find?

Yes.

I finally decided I’d better give up and settle for something else. My new slippers are polar fleece, and they have memory foam in them. They are not the bootie style. They are very shoe-like. They have a pretty thick rubber sole (great for going outside to check the mail) and they feel like shoes when you walk. So much so that one day I got all the way to school and half way across the parking lot before I realized I was wearing them.

I showed my new slippers to my fashion-forward daughter tonight.

“They’re unisex,” I told her.

“Are you sure? They look one-sex to me.”

She didn’t mean women’s.

Well, I like them. They’re warm and comfortable. I’ll probably wear them for a long time - way beyond their natural lives.

I think I’m ready to let go of the old pair.

I’ll tell Kent to go round up some kindling.

Knitting and Crocheting 101

Anyone out there remember granny square vests? You have to have lived through the late sixties, early seventies to have experienced them.

They were hideous.

I never had one.

Almost all the other little girls back in the day wore them regularly. Big girls, too, I suspect. It seemed like they had one for every day of the week. Did they actually like them? I always thought their mothers must have forced them to wear them so that the grandmothers wouldn’t have hurt feelings. I'm pretty sure it was the grandmothers who crocheted them. I remember discussing granny square vests with my sister when we got a little older. We were both so glad we’d never had a grandmother who crocheted.

Which is why I was so surprised when, back in the early nineties, my sister took up knitting.* She made me a pair of slippers for my birthday.

They were hideous.

Only she didn’t realize it. As soon as I got the wrapping paper off (I hadn’t even identified what they were), I held them up and started laughing uproariously. Hey, I thought it was one of those sisterly gag gifts and that we were going to laugh ourselves silly over it.

“What are they?” I asked, at the same time noticing that I was the only one uproariously laughing.

“They’re slippers,” she answered, very seriously. “I knitted them for you.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, immediately stifling the laughter.

“They’re Cougar blue,” I observed. I couldn’t think of what else to say. They weren’t shaped the same. As slippers, you ask? Right. Or as each other.

But this didn’t stop me. I pulled them on and stood up in them.

“I love them!” I exclaimed, probably overdoing the enthusiasm a little in an attempt to cover my previous social blunder.

They were kind of hard to keep on my feet, but I made sure I wore them for the rest of our visit.

A few weeks ago, I learned how to crochet. I’m an Activity Day leader over the ten and eleven year old girls from church. (See February 2011 post Hershey Kiss Roses.) A neighbor of mine, Kathie, is my partner. We thought it would be a good idea to teach the girls how to crochet. Of course Kathie would have to head this up since I didn’t know how to do it. Kathie would quickly show me first, and then I’d be able to help the girls. She taught us how to chain the first day. The second time we met, we reviewed the chain, and then she taught us how to go back up the chain and make another row. And then another one. And another one. I thought I picked it up quite easily and I managed to help some of the girls to catch on.

At the end of the hour, I had a skinny rectangle. I took my little project home and continued to work on it. It was kind of fun. And it was very satisfying somehow. I loved seeing and feeling the yarn build up and come together in a pattern, simple though it was. I was creating something. Maybe a Barbie blanket. Of course I’d have to get a Barbie. I sat and worked at it for quite a while. It was very therapeutic. It was relaxing and I just wanted to keep going. I could get hooked on this, I thought. (Sorry about the pun.) (Crochet hook?) Only I noticed that the further along I got, the stranger my rectangle was getting. In fact, it was no longer a rectangle. I now had a perfect trapezoid. My row was getting shorter each time I got to the end and turned around to go back. Hmm. So much for Barbie's blanket.

I learned two things from my crocheting experience. I learned that the reason those little girls back in the day had all those granny square vests was because the grandmothers found crocheting therapeutic and satisfying. They just kept making them. I also learned to appreciate the work my sister put into knitting those slippers for me. My Barbie blanket had turned into a Barbie trapezoid. Her slippers had turned into… well, I’m not sure what. But I bet making them was very therapeutic for her. And satisfying.

Maybe I’ll ask Kathie to teach me how to make granny squares. I could make vests for all the little girls in our Activity Day group.

 
* I called my sister to ask her if she minded if I wrote about her less-than-successful knitting experience. She claims to have no recollection of ever knitting me a pair of slippers. She does remember trying to learn to knit a coat hanger cover at a church group activity when she was a young girl. She says that was the only attempt to knit that she has ever made. But I have a home video that shows the two of us, with me wearing the Cougar blue slippers. Well, that doesn't prove she made them, she says. I think I humiliated her so badly when I laughed that she has blocked the whole experience. I feel terrible. Maybe I should make her a granny square vest to make up for it!

Oysters on the Half Shell

It's my last day in Florida. My mother and I go out to lunch at a local seafood place. We sit out on the deck overlooking the water. She really wants some oysters, so we order half a dozen as an appetizer.

Raw, on the half shell.

Even though I was raised on seafood, I've never tried raw oysters. My mother reminds me that when my sister and brother and I were just tiny, we'd stand around our dad with our little mouths hanging open as he shucked scallops, just waiting for him to toss one our way. We loved them.

And nowadays, I love sushi.

Raw oysters?

Why not?

I pick up a shell and pierce the slimy blob with my fork. Just as I am about to slide it into my mouth, my mother says, "It tastes just like you're swimming."

It does.

I close my eyes and let it roll around inside my mouth a bit before I chew just a little and swallow.

I could be in the ocean.

I squeeze a little lemon on another one and I'm ready for my next plunge.

Plantains, Pineapple and Star Fruit

My mother is an excellent cook. Whenever I visit, I can count on gaining a few pounds. In spite of my morning runs, this trip has been no exception. I've been averaging half a pound a day. Good thing I'm not staying long.

My mother is all about food. Good food. We talk about food all the time. We plan ahead, but we never fit it all in by the end of the visit.

"Oh, we didn't get to have the fish tacos," she'll lament the night before I'm leaving.

"Next time," I'll reply. "And the crab claws."

We have had time for the fabulous fruit side dish she makes with plantains and star fruit. She gets the star fruit from her next door neighbor, Nellie.

Nellie has a star fruit tree, but she doesn't care for star fruit. She gives my parents all they want. Star fruit really doesn't have much taste (kind of a mild melon flavor), but it's so pretty to look at when it's sliced.

And apparently it's loaded with Vitamin C and antioxidants.

Plantains, Pineapple and Star Fruit

very ripe plantains

ripe star fruit (golden in color)

pineapple

pineapple juice or orange juice
butter

brown sugar

Peel and slice plantains about 1/4 inch thick. Trim or peel star fruit and slice crossways. Saute plantains and star fruit in about two tablespoons of butter.

Add a tablespoon or two of brown sugar and saute a little longer. Add a can of pineapple chunks with the juice and heat through. If using fresh pineapple, saute it with the other fruit and then add orange juice (or I guess you could buy pineapple juice) and heat through.

Jurassic Park Night

I'm lying in bed in my parents' guest room. It's dark. The curtains are blowing gently into the room. A sliding door is open to the lanai at the back of the house. Vertical blinds are pulled across, and the slats are softly rattling.

I hear strange sounds outside in the night. I reach over to the bedside table and feel for my cell phone. I compose a text to my son, Kurt.

I hear noises outside in the yard that sound like something out of Jurassic Park. I'm just saying...

I picture in my mind the palm trees, the giant agave plants and other exotic flora that make up the Florida landscape. It even looks like Jurassic Park.

(Insert text alert sound here.)

What dinosaur? The raptor? Is it a hissing with clicks followed by harsh squawks? Or is it more of a deep throated bellow? Like an elephant. That's a t-rex. If it's a very harsh rasp with rattling then it's probably a dilophosaurus, and you'll need to be careful cause they spit blinding venom.

I knew I'd texted the right guy.

I listen intently to the sounds outside the house.

More like the hissing with clicks.

(Text alert.)

Yeah, raptors are swift and lethal. They can open doors and attack in packs. I'd close the door, lock it, and turn off the light. Still, they'll get in if they really want to.

I consider this.

K. Thanks. Will do.

I think of the lanai. It's just a big screened-in room opening off the back of the house. In other words, the back half of the house has mere screens for walls. And roof.

I listen to the sounds of the Florida night and eventually drop off to sleep. I wake up to sunlight and what sound like regular old birds chirping.

I'm just glad I'm still here.

Florida Morning Run

I lace up my running shoes and head out the front door of my parents’ Florida home. It’s a seventy degree morning in March. I glance up. A fairly strong breeze is pushing some high white clouds along the blue sky at a good clip. Tall straight palm trees are swaying far above me.

The air is damp and I can smell the salt of the nearby ocean. I love how it feels. My middle-aged skin, which has never acclimatized to desert living, is thirsty and greedily sucks up moisture. I imagine I can feel fine lines plumping out and hope to look five years younger by dinnertime.

The grass crunches under my shoes as I cross the lawn. The blades are broad and stiff. I recall a young woman I know who grew up in Florida telling me, “You don’t want to sit around on the grass in Florida, and you don’t want to walk on it barefoot. And you have to watch out for fire ants.”

I reach down to stretch out my ham strings and compulsively scratch my ankles.

“It’s a mile around our block if you take in Roanoke as well,” my mother has informed me. I hit the pavement with a slow jog.

                                                                    
Beautiful things are in bloom in every yard I pass: hibiscus covered in bright pinks, reds and yellows; gorgeous bougainvilleas loaded with magenta blossoms; stands of amaryllis in peach and red. Different things than grow at home. And to think they are blooming in March. I inhale the thick sweet scent of gardenia as I pass a bush that’s loaded with white blossoms.

I see the sign for Roanoke and take a left. I run down one side to where it ends in a cul-de-sac and then back up the other side to the main block. People have all kinds of interesting mailboxes, I notice. I see one in the form of a giant manatee.

Another species that seems to sprout prolifically in the neighborhood is realtor signs. Although I see evidence of a few children in the form of bikes and scooters abandoned in driveways, the area is mostly home to the elderly and “They die, you know,” my mother has told me.

As I run I glance up. Three large brown birds of prey glide in a circle, seeming at times to hang in place on an air current. Have they, too, noticed the For Sale signs?

I round the corner at the far end of the block and behold a lawn absolutely covered in pretty white birds. They’re the size of skinny chickens. They have fairly long legs that hinge backwards and long, pointy, dark orange beaks. I will find out later from my mother what they are. Think “four letter word for wading bird.” That’s right – Ibis. I’ve only ever seen one in a crossword puzzle. They’re pecking away at something in the lawn. Do ibises mean grubs in Florida? I wonder.

On my second time around I meet an older gentleman out for a ride in his golf cart. We wave as we pass in opposite directions.

Three times around.

I notice even more beautiful things growing and blooming – crown of thorns, Mexican petunias, even poinsettias. An elderly couple comes along on bicycles. They’re pedaling so slowly I wonder how they’re staying up.

Four times around.

I glance at my watch. If that was four miles, I’ve set a personal record. I don’t think so. Must have been Senior Citizen miles. They get a discount, you know.

Should I go around again?

Nah, I think, stepping onto my parents’ driveway and startling a gecko into some bushes. I'm on vacation. And besides, it’s about time for breakfast by the pool.

This is the Florida life.

Everything You Need To Know About the Apostrophe in One Simple Lesson

I have a dream to teach every English-speaking person how to use an apostrophe correctly. Whenever, as a substitute teacher in elementary school, I get a chance to teach children about apostrophes, I tell them “Now you know something that many adults don’t understand. So go home tonight and teach this to your parents.”

I don't mean to sound like I think I'm really smart because I know how to use an apostrophe correctly. I know that it doesn't require a lot of smarts to understand. This is why I want so much to teach it to everybody out there who speaks English. I happened to pay attention in school the day they taught it. Maybe you didn't.

 In case you didn't:

Are you intimidated by the tiny speck of ink or pencil lead known as the apostrophe? Do you feel an uncontrollable urge to throw one in before every letter s you write? Just plain unsure so you avoid them all together?


Well, wonder no more! Anyone can become an expert in the correct use of the apostrophe by simply completing the following tutorial. You will be helping me in my quest to rid the world of misplaced apostrophes and you will have increased confidence.

If you already use apostrophes correctly, I think you are wonderful! Read no further. And don’t apply for the certificate at the end of the course. It is intended for beginners only.

Gaining a Basic Understanding of the Apostrophe in Ten Minutes or Less

The apostrophe is used to show possession.

Example: The dog’s bowl is on the kitchen floor.

The apostrophe in the above sentence is placed before the letter s, indicating that the bowl belongs to one dog.

Example: The dogs’ bowl is on the kitchen floor.

The apostrophe in the above sentence is placed after the letter s, indicating that the bowl belongs to more than one dog. The dogs share the bowl.

Example: The dog’s bowls are on the kitchen floor.

The apostrophe in the above sentence is placed before the letter s, indicating that the bowls belong to one dog. There is no apostrophe in the word bowls because it is simply the plural of the word bowl. There is no need to use an apostrophe because nothing belongs to the bowls in the above sentence. (Don’t throw in an apostrophe just because you see the letter s.)

Example: The bowl’s interior had dog food in it.

The apostrophe in the above sentence is placed before the letter s in the word bowl because the interior belongs to the bowl.

There is a lot of confusion about apostrophes and last names. Many families like to display a sign by the front door that tells who occupies the house.

Example: The Smiths

The sign in the above example has no apostrophe. “The Smiths” in this case is short for “The Smiths live here.” The letter s in Smiths indicates that more than one Smith lives in the house.

Example: The Smiths’

In this case, “The Smiths’” is short for “This is the Smiths’ house.” The apostrophe follows the final s in Smiths, indicating that the house belongs to more than one Smith.

Example: The Smith’s

This is what we most commonly see on this kind of a sign. The apostrophe before the final s indicates that the house belongs to one Smith. I suppose if you’re the one who pays the mortgage, and you consider the house to belong only to you, and you want everybody to know that you are the sole owner of your house, the Big Smith… but it seems kind of weird to me.

The apostrophe is also used in contractions.

Example: do not          don’t

Here’s (here is) the tricky part:

What is the difference between its and it’s? How do you know when to use an apostrophe?

Maybe you want to show that something belongs to “it.”

Example: The dog licks its bowl.

There is no apostrophe in the above sentence. If you used an apostrophe before the letter s in the word its, it could be mistaken for the contraction for “it is.”

The dog licks it is bowl?

No good.

So we leave it out.

Whenever you’re (you are) wondering if the word “its” should have an apostrophe, ask yourself “Do I mean ‘it is?’” If you answer yes, then you need an apostrophe. If you don’t mean “it is,” don’t use one.

Now take the following quiz and see how you do! Insert apostrophes in the appropriate places. Answers at the end of the post.

1. The girls dress is very pretty. (one girl)

2. The Johnsons live at 225 Sycamore drive. (a whole family of Johnsons)

3. The Johnsons house is at 225 Sycamore Drive. (a whole family of Johnsons)

4. I wouldnt touch him with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole.

5. Lets go to Bettys and eat some peanut brittle.

6. I wonder if its almost morning?

7. There are five Brittanys in the class.

8. The birds feathers are all over the yard. (more than one bird)

9. The cat arches its back whenever the small child is near.

10. The players uniforms are old school. (more than one player)

11. Wont you come home, Bill Bailey?

12. I will go out to eat with the Petersons on Thursdays for the rest of the year.

13. I will go out to eat with the Petersons dogs on Thursdays for the rest of the year.

14. The Thompsons cat is stuck in the tree.

15. The bad guys mask fell off as he was holding up the bank during Fridays storm.

Hopefully this has helped a few people. Now go and teach it to someone else. Help to rid the world of misplaced apostrophes. It’s a worthy cause!

Answers: 1. girl’s 2. no apostrophe 3. Johnsons’ 4. wouldn’t 5. Let’s, Betty’s (implies Betty’s house) 6. it’s 7. no apostrophe 8. birds’ 9. no apostrophe 10. players’ 11. Won’t 12. no apostrophe 13. Petersons’ 14. Thompsons’ 15. guy’s, Friday’s

Scoring: 15 correct – you are an expert! Report your perfect score to me and I’ll e-mail you a certificate. (It could take up to thirty days to receive it.) 10 to14 correct answers – you’re getting there! Less than 10 correct answers – contact me for more tutoring.

Hershey's Kiss Roses - so easy a Cub Scout could do it - maybe!

My responsibility in the church these days is to do Activity Days with the ten and eleven year old girls. It's like Cub Scouts for girls.

Talk about fun!

Last week we made these adorable roses out of Hershey's Kisses.

I used to be a Cub Scout den leader. What a difference. Don't get me wrong - I loved Cub Scouts. There's just a significant difference in what boys and girls this age are capable of as far as crafts go. I remember another den leader once telling me, "I just go into a craft store and ask for a craft that takes a normal person five minutes to make, and it's perfect for an hour-long den meeting."

The girls had no problem making these roses. They came out really cute.

If you're looking for a fun, easy, inexpensive Valentine for little girls to make for their friends, grandparents or teachers, this might be it.

You will need:

cellophane (red or pink for roses and green for leaves)*
wooden skewers
floral tape
Scotch tape
scissors
paper cutter**
ribbon
Hershey's Kisses

*I bought cello gift bags at Walmart and cut them up.

**Cutting the cello bags with scissors was tricky. The bags were not quite regular cellophane. They were a bit more plastic-like. The paper cutter worked really well.

1. Using the paper cutter, cut the pink or red cellophane into five inch squares and the green cellophane into four inch squares.

2. Roll a small piece of Scotch tape so it is sticky on both sides. Tape the flat sides of two wrapped Kisses together.

3. Carefully stick a skewer into the pointed end of one of the Kisses.

4. Put the pointed end of the other Kiss in the center of a pink or red cellophane square. Wrap the Kisses as if you were putting the wrapper on a Tootsie Pop, twisting paper around the skewer at the base of the Kisses.

5. While holding the twisted cellophane in place, start wrapping the floral tape around the cellophane and skewer. You must stretch the floral tape to make it sticky enough. Wrap tightly. Wrap just down far enough so that it all stays together securely without your holding it, then stop and put it down.

6. Fold a green cellophane square so you have points along the top edge. Do this by bringing a bottom corner up between the two top corners and then folding the whole thing over. It will be cone shaped. This need not be exact. You just need something that looks like greenery to place behind your rose bud.

7. Place your greenery behind your rose bud.

8. Continue to wrap with the floral tape. Rewrap where you already wrapped, incorporating the green cellophane into it all. Be sure to stretch as you go so that the floral tape will stick to itself. And wrap tightly.

9.When the bud and leaves are securely in place, continue to wrap down the length of the skewer. When you get to the bottom, wrap back up a little ways. Cut off floral tape and stretch and smooth the end around the skewer.

10. Tie a ribbon around the stem. Voila!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Just Happy To Be Here

I meant to start a blog long before I actually did back in 2009. The problem? I couldn't think of a name. I finally decided I just needed to start. I'd come up with a name later. So I lamely called it "Melinda's Essays" and composed my first post, intending to rechristen my blog as soon as I could think of something clever. Last week I finally came up with my name. Not exactly clever, but definitely an improvement. Today I changed it.

Same blog.

 Better name.

Thanks for reading!

Are You Smarter Than a Sixth Grader? or How to Mummify a Chicken

Yesterday I substitute taught in sixth grade. It wasn't your average sixth grade class. The members of this class are enrolled in the Accelerated Learning Lab. They belong to the Gifted and Talented segment of our society. They are the kids we already know are going to score exceptionally high on their college boards, rake in all the scholarships, and otherwise attain amazing accomplishments in academia.

I had a very interesting day with them.

It was Friday, so naturally a spelling test was on the schedule.

The teacher had left me a note on her lesson plan:

I'm sorry the words are so unusual. If you need help, I'm sure the students would be happy to assist you with pronunciation and definitions.

Yikes. I quickly read down the list. Phew. I knew them all. Among them were the following words: entrepreneur, microorganism, leviathan, epidermis, and ululate.

I administered the test according to standard spelling test procedure. State the word, use it in a sentence, restate the word. Everything was going fine until I got to ululate.

"UL - yeh - late," I stated.

"YOOL - yeh - late!" they corrected me in chorus.

"Really?" I asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! It's YOOL - yeh - late!" they ululated.

I'm not sure I've ever actually heard the word pronounced before (who would use it?), so I let it go.

Am I smarter than a sixth grader? Apparently not these sixth graders.

Their math assignment was to read to themselves the lesson on plotting data on a line graph and complete the exercises that followed. I have taught line graphs to elementary students many times and without fail, half the kids take one look at the data and feel overwhelmed. They refuse to even give it a shot, raise their hands and say, "I don't get it." Not these kids. They eagerly began the assignment and worked in silence for forty minutes, producing beautifully ruled graphs with color-coded keys. Not one of them asked me a single question about the work. Not even when it came to scatter plots. And when math was over, several of them begged to be able to continue.

What I found the most interesting (fascinating actually) during the day was the work these students were doing for their Ancient Egypt unit.

The teacher had left this note on the lesson plan:

Please tell the students that they absolutely may not peek in the mummification chamber.

This was when I found out about the chickens.

The day before, they had begun the process of mummifying chickens. Fryers, I assume. From the grocery store. They had used salt and cinnamon. Maybe other spices as well. I just saw salt boxes and containers of cinnamon on the floor by the teacher's desk.

The chickens were, at this moment, resting peacefully in a couple of long, white, heavy-duty cardboard boxes with sturdy lids fitting down over them. The students were not even tempted to peek.

I was, but I didn't.

Part of their assignment for the day was to design their sarcophagi.

Another note:

Please tell the students that they may not use a shoebox in their design for a sarcophagus as a shoebox will not last underground until May.

"After we design and make our sarcophagi, we're going to transfer the chickens into them and bury them outside," a student informed me. "Then we're going to dig them up at the end of the school year."

Wow. How cool was that? I've always been grateful for my good, average brain, but suddenly I wanted to be a sixth grader in the Accelerated Learning Lab.

When I got home, I went straight for my dictionary. I looked up ululate.

Ha!

The first listed pronunciation was "UL - yeh - late." A second one, "YOOL- yeh - late," was also listed.

I felt so smart.

Almost gifted.

Happy Birthday To Me

Today is my birthday. I made myself a cake. I'm sure my daughter would have made one for me had I hinted at it. I'm sure my son, Kurt, would have made me a birthday pie had I asked him to. And I'm sure my husband would have bought me a birthday cake. But I've been planning my cake for almost a month. And they all knew I was planning my cake because I've been talking about it all these weeks.

 It began on December 30 down in St. George, Utah. We were in St. George for our daughter's wedding open house. It's a Mormon thing. In our little culture we do the whole wedding thing a little differently. If the groom happens to be from a different place than the bride, he gets his own wedding reception. Only we call it an open house. Except the regular wedding reception that's held where the bride is from is also usually an open house. Only we call it a reception.

Anyway, at Carolyn and Brock's open house in St. George, one of the desserts they served was a vanilla Texas sheet cake. You can make a Texas sheet cake without the cocoa? Who knew? It was frosted with cream cheese frosting and each piece had a big, juicy raspberry on it.

 And I loved it.

The next day I started planning my birthday cake. Texas sheet cake is made on a baker's half sheet, otherwise known as a big cookie sheet with one-inch sides. I happen to own two baker's quarter sheets. I decided to bake the cake in those and turn it into a layer cake. Because then I could add a gooey filling.

All along I planned to use marionberry preserves between the layers. Yesterday I bought some at Costco. When I got home, I opened the jar and tasted them. I was disappointed. They had an almost prunish taste. Not at all like marionberry jam I've had in the past. I went to the regular grocery store to look for a different brand. All I could find was raspberry. That would be just as good, I decided.

Somewhere along the line I described the cake I was planning to my sister. She gave me the idea of mixing the jam with marscapone cheese for the filling. So glad I listened to her.

I'd like to share my birthday cake with you. I hope you find an opportunity to enjoy it.

Vanilla Texas Sheet Cake

2 2/3 cups all purpose flour*
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup margarine
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup water
2 eggs
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
2/3 cup buttermilk (or use milk with a little vinegar or lemon juice in it)
1 1/2 tsp vanilla

Prepare two baker's quarter sheets (I'm sure you could use two round cake pans) by spraying with non-stick spray. Line the sprayed pans with parchment paper. Then spray the parchment paper with non-stick spray. Then flour them.

Mix flour and sugar together in large mixer bowl. In a small sauce pan, bring to a boil the margarine, vegetable oil and water. Pour boiling mixture over flour and sugar. Mix well. Add eggs, baking soda, buttermilk and vanilla. Mix well. Divide batter evenly between the two pans. Bake at 350 degrees for about twenty minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. Place pans on cooling racks and let cool.

 raspberry filling:

1 (22 oz.) bottle seedless raspberry jam
8 oz. marscapone cheese (you might have to look in the specialty cheeses at the grocery store)

Mix jam and cheese together until smooth. This made twice as much as I needed. I'm planning to eat the rest off a spoon throughout the coming week.

cream cheese frosting:

1/2 cup margarine
1 (8 oz.) package cream cheese
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1 lb. powdered sugar

Mix all ingredients until smooth and creamy. This also made more than I needed. You probably could cut it in half. Or eat it off a spoon throughout the coming week.

Assemble cake with filling between the layers. Frost all over with cream cheese frosting. Garnish with fresh raspberries.

Really, it was everything I dreamed it would be.



* I just made the cake again, but this time I used cake flour. It was even better. To substitute cake flour for all purpose flour, use 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons cake flour for each cup of all purpose flour. For this recipe, you would use two cups plus four tablespoons cake flour to replace the first two cups of all purpose flour. And for the 2/3 cup that's left you would use 2/3 cup cake flour plus 2/3 of a tablespoon, twice. Right? I'm doing this for you, you know. I already did it once for me, but of course I can't remember what I came up with. Two thirds of a tablespoon happens to be two teaspoons. So that's four teaspoons, or one tablespoon plus one teaspoon. So all together you need 2 2/3 cups plus 5 tablespoons plus one teaspoon of cake flour for this recipe. At least I think so.

Laundry Duty

Laundry is a lot easier than it used to be. These days, I'm only washing clothes for two. What a huge difference! I make Joel, our sixteen-year-old, wash his own. I still do his sheets or he'd probably never change them. And I do his towels. But I don't wash his clothes.Why didn't I figure this out years ago when I was doing laundry for six? And half of it would come back through the dirty laundry still folded?

I came across this essay I wrote years ago when the kids were still young and I was a slave to the laundry.

One day last winter, my husband decided he was going to do the laundry. I don't mean he decided to put a load of jeans through.

"From now on," he announced, "I'm going to be in charge of all the laundry."

I felt his forehead and checked his pupils. He seemed fine.

All of a sudden, I was free! It was as if the invisible chain that had shackled me to the laundry room all those years had been sawn through. I never went near the washer and dryer anymore. Kent would tell me when we were running low on laundry detergent and I'd buy more. That was as close as I got to the whole process.

And I gave up the guilt. If somebody wasn't going to have clean underwear in the morning, too bad. Not my problem. Go talk to Dad.

And not only did he get the loads through, but he folded everything immediately and got things on hangers as they came out of the dryer. And then he put it all away. I sometimes suspect that he did all this just to show me how to do the job right - to prove that it could be done completely and efficiently. He has been known to give lectures on the proper loading of a dishwasher, too. I've often wondered where he got all his experience. It must have been in a previous life.

One day I was meeting with a group of teenage girls I work with in church. I was telling the other adult leader about Kent's taking on the laundry.

"This must be what it's like for the queen!" I exclaimed. She listened attentively, eyes sparkling as she imagined enviously how it would be to live in such luxury.

"I put my dirty clothes in the hamper and don't think about them again. Then I open my drawers and my closet and POOF! There they are, all clean and ready for me to wear again!"

The teenage girls were giving each other sidelong glances, obviously questioning our sanity.

Then a thought occurred to both of us at the same moment.

"This must be what it's like to be a tenager!" we let out in chorus.

After that I realized that it isn't just the queen and teenagers who enjoy certain luxuries. It's anyone who has a mother or a wife lurking in the background.

I know that dads and teenagers and even younger children are capable of helping out around the house, but isn't there an underlying responsibility that is Mom's? Mom has to see to it that the kids follow through and do a job right. Mom has to nag. If Mom has to nag to get the job done, she isn't exactly going to feel like royalty. I'm pretty sure Queen Elizabeth doesn't have to nag to get the chores done around the palace. And I know that this mom, quite often, just does it herself to avoid a struggle.

And let's face it - how clean can a nine-year-old really get a bathroom anyway?

And as for a dad, he can actually do a great job (although it usually takes a dad about four times as long as it would take a mom), but if he doesn't do it before his wife has to ask him, then it's still her responsibility. Seems like he's doing her a favor. Hmmm.....

Well, it was the best six weeks of my married life. That's how long Kent stuck it out. My parents came to visit, and I don't know if it was a masculinity issue or if Kent was afraid some of my mother's underwear would find its way into his wash loads. Anyway, I'm back in the laundry business these days. I don't always get it folded as it comes out of the dryer, (okay, rarely do I get it folded as it comes out of the dryer) and most mornings we're fishing for socks in the unmated sock basket. Of course, at the same time I'm doing laundry I'm also doing dishes several times a day, dusting, vacuuming, mopping, cleaning bathrooms,cooking meals, and helping kids with school work and piano practice.

And nagging.

My friend's husband is a school teacher. He's off all summer and he cooks dinner every night all summer long.

"Beth!" I exclaim. "How is it to have someone call out every night, 'Dinner's ready!' and go in and sit down at the table and have a meal appear before you as if by magic?"

I'm sure my eyes are sparkling as I imagine enviously how it would be to live in such luxury.

I have a sudden revelation.

"That must be what it's like for Kent!"

"Yeah," she brags, leaning back to relax as she awaits the dinner gong. "It's great to be a man."



Note: Looking back, I'm actually really glad for the opportunity I had all those years to be the one in charge of housework. Hey, I got to stay home. I got to be my own boss. (See May 2010 post "Stay-At-Home Mom.) Although when one of the kids fails to load his dishes into the dishwasher, I usually say something like "I don't mind cleaning up after Dad because he earns his keep around here. But the rest of you can forget it!"

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - a great read

When I pick up a book off the shelf at the library, I read the flap on the inside cover or the description on the back of the book. (Usually I just go for the inside cover since the librarians insist on covering part of the text on the back of the book with obnoxious stickers. It's maddening.) I read what the book is about. If it sounds intriguing, I cross my fingers and proceed to a self-service machine, where I punch in my library card number and check out the book. (My children think it's ridiculous that I have my fourteen digit library card number memorized. Obviously, I'm quite proud of the fact that I do. Enough so that I've worked it into this writing. Any serious library patron has his library card number memorized. Besides, if you have your number memorized, you no longer need your card.) As I make my way home, I think about the delights of sitting down to a new book. Getting lost in a new story. In spite of keeping my fingers crossed the whole way home though, too often I start a book, especially newer fiction, only to put it down so many pages into it after being confronted with really foul language or vivid descriptions of intimacy.

Excuse me?

Who really wants that?

As my friend Laurie says, "Have you ever heard anyone say 'I liked that book, but it didn't have the "f' word in it enough.'"

Last summer I gave my daughter a book for her birthday. I picked it up at Costso and read the back cover. (No librarians at Costco.) It looked like a good read. I bought it, took it home and wrapped it up. As soon as she tore off the paper, she read aloud off the front cover, "A frothy brew of sex and intrigue."  "Oooh, thanks, Mom! Looks good!" She hasn't let me forget it.

There are many books that would be just as good - I argue even better - if the authors just left the offensive content out.

Recently, I read a delightful, well-written, fairly new (2009)  murder mystery called The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.

Not one offensive thing in it.

Well, unless you find murder offensive. I happen to enjoy a good fictional murder.

The main character is a very precocious eleven-year-old girl named Flavia De Luce. She lives with her slightly eccentric family in a British manor house that has seen better days. The year is 1950. Flavia is a chemistry prodigy. Her specialty is poisons. After she discovers a dead body in the garden, Flavia is one step ahead of the inspector in charge of the case the whole way through the investigation.

No crude language. No explicit sex scenes. No sex scenes at all, in fact.

And the best part: It's going to be a five book series. I just finished book two: The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Laughed out loud as I read. These books are fabulous. I hope book three will be out soon.

The author, Alan Bradley, is a Canadian man in his seventies. He does an amazing job with Flavia's character. I'm curious to know what his chemistry background is.

So, if you don't mind reading a book without bad language, if you aren't looking for a frothy brew of sex and intrigue, you might try these books. And you just might find the sweetness at the bottom of the pie.

Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

Here's one last pumpkin treat to enjoy before Pumpkin Treat Season officially ends on January 2nd. I based this recipe on my friend Kelli's recipe for pumpkin dinner rolls. I replaced most of the white flour with whole wheat flour in order to make myself feel better about all the brown sugar I've added. And the butter. And the cream cheese frosting.

I made these once and when they were gone, we ended up with left over frosting. So I made some more cinnamon rolls. Then the frosting ran out. So I made more frosting for the remaining rolls. Now there are only a few cinnamon rolls left, but half a bowl of frosting. This is getting scary.



Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

2 cups milk
2 cups canned pumpkin
1 cup butter, melted
1 cup sugar
2 tsp. salt
2 T. yeast (or 2 envelopes)
9 cups whole wheat flour
2 cups white flour
melted butter to brush on dough
brown sugar
cinnamon
ginger
ground cloves

for frosting:
8 oz package of cream cheese
1/2 stick of butter
four cups powdered sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
maybe a little milk

Scald milk. Combine scalded milk, pumpkin, melted butter, sugar, and salt in bowl of mixer. Add yeast and half of flour. Mix thoroughly. Add the rest of the flour and mix for about five minutes. Cover and let rise until doubled. Punch down. Divide dough in half. Roll out dough in a large rectangle. Spread with melted butter. Sprinkle generously with brown sugar. Pretty much cover the dough. Sprinkle liberally with cinnamon, ginger and ground cloves. Roll up dough starting on a long side. Cut into rolls with a serrated knife. Place them on a greased cookie sheet, leaving space between each roll. Cover lightly with a clean dish towel and let rise for about twenty minutes. Repeat with other half of dough. Bake at 375 for about 18 minutes. Mix all frosting ingredients together until creamy. Lick beater.

You could add raisins and or  pecans to the rolled out dough. Yum.

"Here We Come A Caroling..."

We have these amazingly talented next-door neighbors. They are very musically gifted. They’re pretty much professionals. They and their extended family and all their friends. Music is what they do. And at Christmas time, they’ve been known to do it in the form of caroling around our neighborhood. Only I’m realizing that they haven’t been around in several years. At least not to our house. And I’m pretty sure I know why.

There was a caroling incident.

One evening during a Christmas season past, Kent and I arrived home from somewhere. Our teenage boys were goofing around, as usual. One of them, (I think it was Kurt) said to another one of them (I’m pretty sure it was Jeff), “Oh yeah? Well, I’m telling Mom what you did to the Petersons tonight.”

“What did he do to the Petersons tonight?” I demanded.

Jeff immediately jumped onto Kurt’s back and tried to stifle him with a hand wrapped around his head, covering his mouth. Kurt probably licked it or something. Maybe tried to bite it.

“You did it, too, Kurt,” he accused, as he fell to the floor with a thud. “It wasn’t just me.”

“WHAT DID YOU GUYS DO TO THE PETERSONS?” I was a little bit nervous by now and when I get nervous, my volume increases. Kent and I have always been good neighbors. Considerate, polite, conscientious. What had these hooligans we call sons done?

“The Petersons came to our door Christmas caroling,” Kurt told us.

“Yeah, and Kurt didn’t want to go to the door,” Jeff was quick to add.

“Neither did you!”

“So what happened?” I demanded, rather impatiently. Was I going to have to be making amends after I heard whatever this was leading up to?

“So they were singing, and we didn’t want to go to the door. It’s so awkward when people sing to you. And Joel came downstairs and was going to get the door, but we stopped him. But I think they heard us. Anyway, we just stood still and tried not to move after that. I know they knew someone was home ‘cause they kept singing. I swear they sang about four songs waiting for someone to come to the door.”

And then Kurt started laughing. And Jeff attacked him again.

“And then Jeff, while they were standing there singing, turned off the porch light!”

Oh my gosh. So they knew someone was definitely home.

I looked at Jeff. He flashed a smile at me. The kind that says, “You’re not really going to get mad at me, are you?”

I shook my head and walked away.

I’ll come right out and say it: Christmas caroling can be awkward. I’m talking about when you are the recipient. It’s awkward in the same way that Happy Birthday is when you’re the one being sung to. You stand there feeling uncomfortable, wondering where you should look, and wearing a goofy smile. But Happy Birthday is relatively short and then you blow out the candles. If you could sing along it would help. But you’re not supposed to sing Happy Birthday to yourself. Nor are you supposed to join in with the carolers. I would never attempt to join in with the Petersons. I’d ruin their beautiful harmony. If I just had something to do while they sang… Maybe wave my arms around in a conducting pattern. As if that wouldn’t embarrass the kids. Maybe I could just tap my foot and nod in time to the music.

Anyway, I’ve missed the caroling. The Petersons haven’t come, and neither has anyone else. Maybe all the other carolers (like the Crafts and their extended family – some other very musically gifted neighbors of ours) heard the word that our family was inhospitable to their kind. But our boys have grown up. Mostly. And I think I’ve matured enough over the years to enjoy the music without feeling awkward.

Please come and carol to us. If you come and sing to us, I promise I won’t look around awkwardly, or wear a goofy smile, or pretend I’m conducting you. I'll be mature. I’ll just enjoy your beautiful talent and spend those few moments feeling the Spirit of Christmas in a way that I realize I've missed.

Santa Claws And Other Creepy Ornaments of Christmas

I have a Santa-themed Christmas tree. Years ago, I mentioned to my mother that I was thinking about collecting Santa ornaments, and that’s all it took. Every year since then, I have found a new Santa ornament tied onto my Christmas present. Our Santa tree isn’t especially beautiful. When you look at it, you definitely don’t think “department store tree” or anything like that. But it’s not your typical let’s-throw-every-ornament-we’ve-ever-owned-on-it kind of tree, either. I actually really like that kind of tree a lot. With lots of big, colored lights and individual strands of shiny silver icicles. It would be topped with an angel or a star that some kid had made back in the 1940’s. I haven’t actually seen a tree like that in years. That’s the kind of tree that inspires that magical Christmas feeling of childhood, if you ask me.

But somewhere back in the 1980’s or so, beautiful trees became the fashion. I admit that I was caught up in trying to achieve a certain designer-floor-model look throughout the early years of my marriage, but finally concluded that it wasn't my thing. I just don’t have that type of creativity. That’s when I thought of collecting Santa ornaments. And my mother started buying them and sending them to me on my presents. Thanks to her, I have quite a large collection. When you look at our tree as a whole, it’s quite pleasant to behold. I do have some ornaments on it that aren’t Santas, but I mainly stick to red, white, gold and silver. I have several angels that I place high up around the top where, being less secular than Santa, they can be a little closer to Heaven. We have little wooden sleds with our names on them that we painted as a family one year. And there are the Lillian Vernon crocheted snowflakes I bought one year back when I was still attempting to create a beautiful tree. I think they work on this tree. I’d say it’s a passably pretty tree.

Until you get up close.

When you get up close and really start looking, you’ll see several Santa specimens that can only be described as unique.

Or ugly.

Or scary.

Probably the strangest one is the one I call Santa Claw. It’s handcrafted out of an actual lobster claw. Creepy, huh? It gives a whole new feel to the lyrics “You better watch out, you better not cry…”

I also have a Santa Gourd. Santa’s face is hand-painted on a dried gourd.

There’s Santa Star Fish, which actually looks pretty cute until you start thinking about it.

And Santa Milk Weed Pod.

How about Santa Cape?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with New England geography, it’s the shoreline of Cape Cod, where my mother found and purchased these Yuletide treasures. There are some very creative artisans on Cape Cod, and they are represented on my Christmas tree.

 I’ll bet everyone I know from New England has a Santa Claw ornament.

If you have one of those family friendly, colored-lights-and-tinsel trees, with ornaments the kids made in elementary school, maybe a chain with links made out of construction paper, and a foil-covered star on top, call me. I’ll come right over and enjoy the nostalgia. And you can come over to our house and I’ll introduce you to Santa Claw. Just remember, “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…”

I hope your Christmas isn’t quite as creepy as ours!