Crippled by Perfection.

Our family has had this inside joke for years.  We call someone "crippled by perfection."  It means a person who is so concerned that things won't be just so when a project is done that they never start it.  Now that I have my eye out for it, this is something I see people do all the time.  It is definitely an issue for me at times.

I recently had to teach a lesson at church and I can't remember anything else about it (post-traumatic stress), except this quote:  "Anything worth doing is worth doing well....FALSE.   Anything worth doing well is worth doing badly at first."

I hate making or doing something that I feel is substandard.  If I decide to play around with a new skill, I will spend hours, days, weeks researching it.  I'll obsess about which way is the best way to do whatever it is, weighing options, trying to avoid failure.  In the meantime, what have I accomplished?  Not much.  At some point, abstract knowledge isn't enough.

When I was a kid, I would watch my Grandma make pies.  She was a master of the art of pie-making.  She learned through trial by fire.  Back in the day, the threshing crews would travel around and spend a few days at each farm, threshing all the wheat.   This meant the farm wife had a huge crew of hungry men to cook for each day.  In addition to a huge spread of good home cooked everything, she would make several different kinds of pie, because hungry men like pie.

I would sit and watch her sifting a pile of flour onto the cutting board, adding salt and then cutting shortening into it.  She'd add just the right amount of ice water, toss it all together and roll it out into a smooth perfect disc.  Every pie tin was filled with dough and given a delicate fluted edge.  Each move was easy and swift, because she'd been doing it so long that she didn't have to think about the mechanics anymore.  It looked effortless. I didn't ever try to help her, but I felt like I knew how to make pie.  After all, I had watched hundreds of pies be made, right?

I didn't try to make pie myself until after Grandma wasn't around to advise me.  When I did try,  oh, was that a rude awakening.  I made crumbly pellets that wouldn't roll out.  I made sticky gummy messes.  I realized that I had not, in fact, been lucky enough to learn pie skills by simple osmosis.  Alas.

I need to give myself a break and realize that learning is as admirable as perfection.  It is comforting to think that more knowledge will guarantee a more favorable result, but past a certain point there is no substitute for actual, real-world experience.  I'm trying to remember this, even if it's just as simple as thinking "What can I do in fifteen minutes that I've been meaning to do forever?"

This weekend I printed, framed, and hung two pictures on our family picture wall, and started painting some board to put up for backsplash in the kitchen.  They are not perfect, but done is better than perfect.

This is the last time?

A couple of weeks ago, we were visiting at my parents' house.  I was sitting in the recliner when Hollis came in the door, crying.  He climbed into my lap, all sweaty and dusty.  When I asked him what happened, he managed to get out that he'd been riding in the jeep while Ivy drove, and he stood up and she gunned it, so he fell out.

He must have landed pretty hard, because I couldn't remember the last time the boy had come to me for comfort, or openly wept.  I held him in my lap, and it only took a few minutes for him to settle down.

I looked at him, all long bones and pointy elbows and knees.  Before I was ready, I could feel his body switch from "little-boy snuggle" mode to "I feel awkward that Mom's holding me in her lap" mode.  I wondered if it was the last time he'd come to me like a little boy.  I hope he'll still want to be comforted by his mom, even when he's older.

On a somewhat lighter note, what do you bet that Ivy laughed when he fell off, as she peeled out?  We need to have a talk with that girl.

Country Road, Take Me Home.

Tonight, I was driving the back roads, picking Liv up from a girls' fishing activity for church.  I passed a little red-dirt road named Raven, and was lost in memory.

Senior year, my Chemistry teacher nominated me for some science-y award at the local junior college.  I don't remember why I was driving myself, as I rarely did so, but I was in my Grandpa's car.  I have pictures somewhere of that evening, smiling next to Mrs. Gillispie, me with crazy hair and a tie-dyed button-up shirt that was about six sizes too big.

When the ceremonies were over, I drove home.   I'd always loved knowing my way around the back roads of the area, having been driven over them most of my life.  If I didn't know where a road came out, I'd give it a try and then drive until I knew where I was again.  So, I didn't take the main highway home, but instead chose take a shortcut that was more scenic.

Oh, Raven!  What a cool name for a road.  I wondered where it came out at the other end.   I'd headed home sooner than I'd expected, it wasn't dark yet, and I thought I'd check it out.

The road started fairly respectably, but soon narrowed to two graveled ruts with thick grass growing between them.  Even worse, we'd had rain recently, and the road was increasingly sloppy and muddy.

You know that feeling, when you start to realize you've made a terrible mistake?  And then you think you'll just keep going, because it'll probably get better in just a bit?  Yeah.

Soon, the mud gave way to monstrous puddles, and the car was stuck.  I'm talking REALLY stuck, in water that was coming into the floorboards a little.  Pa-Pa always took good care of his car, he even kept it in a garage with a cover on it.  Now I'd gone and mired it in the middle of nowhere, and I was starting to panic.  No one knew where I was, and would think to look for me in this place.  I was all alone, and not many people had cell phones at the time.  Oh, crap.

So I did what I could.  I carried my shoes and waded to the edge of the puddle.  I didn't remember any friendly seeming houses for a good while back the way I'd come in, so I kept going the way I was headed.  The strappy sandals I'd bought for Prom were not built for walking and I ended up carrying them.

Finally, an intersection.  I knew where I was!  I made it to my friend Ann's house, and shyly knocked on the door.  I will never forget how nice they all were to me, and be grateful all the rest of my days.  But wait, there's more.

Ann's Dad took us back with his tractor, to pull the car free.  Apparently, the desolate-looking road had been noticed by other dumb teenagers, and deemed the perfect drunken-fighting-fornicating party location.  We had to cross through all of them to get the car out.  The atmosphere was just, for lack of a better term, evil.

At last, we were free!  I thanked my rescuers profusely, and headed home.  I'd neglected to call my family because I was distracted about getting the car, and probably delaying the retribution as long as possible.  And, oh, there was retribution!  Mom was starting to worry that I'd eloped with Toby.  It was not a happy evening at home that night.  And Pa-Pa's car always smelled a little bit funny after that night, too.

A Whole Lotta Crap in One Post.

We're still recovering from our trip to Utah.  It's strange that even if it's somewhere you want to go, with people you want to see, trips are stressful and exhausting.  Especially with five kids in tow.

On the way there, we were stuck in a huge traffic jam for three hours in Denver, Colorado.  Toby had been asleep next to Ivy, until she peed on him, which is why he isn't wearing a shirt.  I don't know why he's showing off his biceps, but it seems like he does it a lot.

Maybe he's shaking his fist at the cars blocking our way to Utah.  I don't remember.  I DO remember that Olivia stayed awake and talked the whole night.  We are both masochists and cheap, so we try to drive straight through.  I've personally been training for the last eleven years to handle sleeplessness.

The kids were all mostly happy to see each other.  Maggie and Brynn are the best of little girly-princess friends about 95 percent of the time.  Ivy and Todd, are best of hooligan-mayhem friends 50 percent of the time.  Hollis and Olivia did a lot of packing Lochlan around while Toby and I tried to work. 

We haven't seen Dana and Josh and Corinne for WAAAY too long.  Late one night, we ran out to an all-night grocery store and giggled like teenagers while we all bought snacks.  Back at Michelle's, we watched a Rifftrax short called "Shake Hands With Danger."  Oh, good times.  Corinne, I'll be your kitchen wing-man any day.

Ivy modeled the latest in fashionable shark headwear.

We made a required trip to IKEA.   I had to get a picture of the fake buttocks assaulting a chair repeatedly to prove how durable it is.  The chair, I mean.

 
We visited Temple Square with Michelle and Tyler and all our collective kids.  I tried hard to feel the spirit and not just to notice the mullets and stonewashed jeans in the old-school church videos.  All joking aside, it is a beautiful place.

 We even managed to make it home with our little camera, in spite of the fact that Todd found it and used it.

And, shortly following our return, this little guy turned one.  Happy Birthday to Loch.

Not sparkly.

I found some old photos at my mom's house recently and just had to overshare.  The first two are from October 1996, I think.  Toby and I had been dating about six months.  I had latent goth/hippie/punk tendencies.  He had definite surfer/hippie leanings. Don't we look cool?  I'm talking as cool as two senior band students can get.


And this was October a year later.  We'd both graduated and were engaged to be married in January.  I was going to college in Springfield, and Toby was probably still living at home.  You can see that my goth tendencies came to a head at this time.  I inflicted white makeup and my polyester polka dotted shirt onto my betrothed.

You're welcome. 

This is how Edward should have looked, if he'd had a sense of humor.  

Family Time.

My aunt and uncle from Florida were visiting Missouri the past week. We have a tradition that the whole family celebrates Easter when they come to visit. This year, we were only one week after the rest of the country. We all had a great time and ate lots of delicious food together, as is also our tradition.
The last night we were all together, my mom brought out some old pictures for us all to look through. I found some awesome ones of Toby and me when we were dating. We were both so hot back in the day...
Anyway, before we left for the night, Mom wanted us all to have what she called 'a singing." Now, my family is generally musical. My mother and sister have beautiful alto and soprano voices, respectively. I don't really sing much. The whole idea made me squirm a bit, and I considered leaving earlier to miss out.
My family was raised in the now-defunct Newtonia Methodist Church. It's where my Grandma and PaPa took their young family, and it's where Mom and Laural and I attended until I left for college. Lots of us have joined other faiths since: I'm Mormon, and we have Baptist, Church of Christ, and Christian Science members in the family.
Mom passed out a stack of hymnals that she was given when the old church shut down. We had about thee different versions, so finding each song was a challenge. We started to sing...I blushed a bit, and looked at the floor. It was tentative at first, but these were songs we all had known from infancy. I didn't even need to look at the words.
Those songs...I was a little girl, and sitting next to Grandma and PaPa again. Grandma would draw us little pictures to keep us entertained in church. She always drew jack-o-lanterns and cats, because that's what she knew how to draw. Grandma had a beautiful voice, and I loved to hear her sing at church and at home while she worked.
Since joining another church, I don't hear the songs from my childhood all that often. I'm so glad I stayed and participated. It was unexpectedly beautiful and nostalgic. Thanks, Mom.

Dozen.

I just thought of a better, if more black, title for this post:  "Still Crazy After All These Years."  It is true in so many ways.  Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.

Twelve years ago, Toby and I were both nineteen.  Our families viewed the match with some skepticism, but we plowed ahead.  The day I was married, Dad, Laural, and I drove to Joplin, ate fried chicken, and visited a rural park to see "the meaning of life."  (Ask me sometime when I'm sure you're not the type to judge....it was hilariously tacky graffiti.)  Later I took a bath, painted my toenails sparkly white-gold, and got dressed.  It all seemed unreal, that the date I had been anticipating for so many months was here.

There's a fine line to walk when you get married young.  You want to do things your way, but are constantly aware that you're already causing enough fuss by tying the knot in the first place.  I wanted to wear white Chuck Taylors, and possibly make Toby chase me around the church for the kiss.  My mortified mother talked me out of it.   I didn't want people to look at me, so I made my veil of a near-impenetrable thickness, and nearly smothered.

What else do I remember?  I remember cracking nervous jokes with Dad and a then-nine Emma in the bell-foyer at the church.  I remember a story the officiator told us about bamboo and its growing cycle and how it relates to marriage.    I remember my very-conservative friend making a lewd remark about the honeymoon in a smirking whisper.

We've spent the last twelve years proving that an optimist and a pessimist can coexist, if not always peacefully.  We've added five kinda neat people to the world.  We've tried and succeeded.  We've also tried and failed, and learned the hard way.  I've said a great many things that I regret, but I've never regretted "I do."

Check out Toby.  He looks like, five.  But in a hot way.

Ten and Three and Half.

December is gone in a whirl of activity, and I'm not sorry for it to end.  This month, to borrow a phrase from Michelle, has kicked my rear.  A lot.

At the beginning of the month, we celebrated Ivy's and Olivia's birthdays, just one day apart.  Liv is now ten, and beginning to show some interest in being a young lady in addition to a tomboy.  She requested having her ears pierced as her present from Mom and Dad.  She's been perfectly diligent about caring for them, and I've not had to remind her at all.  Only a couple more weeks until she can take out the first pair and try some others. 

When I turned ten, my family was on a Labor Day camping trip.  Mom woke me up, wished me a happy birthday, then cried, since ten is the first of the double-digit birthdays.  At the time, I was a bit embarrassed.  Mom, now I understand.  Ten years ago, Liv was a tiny Charlie-Brown-bald baby girl.  Today, she's an athletic and compact goofball.  I'm impressed every day by her individuality and compassion.

Liv moved everyone up a level of "great."  We became parents, our parents became grandparents, grandparents became great-grandparents, and even great-grandparents became great-great-grandparents.  All the "greatness" is on Toby's side of the family, by the way.  His family produced five generations in the time it took my family to do three.

Sadly, two of her great-great-grandmas are no longer with us, but the last, Great-Great-Grandma Dawna, is still going strong.  She told me if Liv has kids while "still in diapers," like the rest of us, she might get to be a great-great-great-grandma.  (She is an awesome lady.)  (By the way, Liv, no hurry!)

Ivy turned three, another milestone.  Three is more pre-school age, she's not so much a toddler anymore.  We're working on lots of grown-up skills like potty training and keeping clothed.  Ivy is a force of nature, and the mischief gleams in her eyes, but she has a caring side that keeps it from sliding into the malicious.  She loves to listen to "We Are the Champions" and sing along.  She thinks "no time for losers" is "you guys are losers."

Ivy has a very lively sense of humor, and she is what I like to call a "chain yanker."  She calls my sister "Grandma" and my mom "Laural."  She knows perfectly well which is which, she just thinks it's funny.  When Maggie is is the bathroom, she'll stick her little toes under the door and say, "Maggie, can you see my toes?  Come and get them!"  Ivy has an insane mad-scientist raspy laugh, and she uses it all the time.  What will she be like in seven years, when she's Olivia's age?

Loch is now six months old.  He's sitting up and can work himself around on the floor.  It's not crawling, it's more like he's in a wheelbarrow race, but with nobody carrying his legs, kind of sledding around on his chest.  He is beginning to try out a few foods, but he is still very much a mama's boy when it comes to nutrition.   Loch is easily frustrated, and toys seem to only appease him for a moment before they've let him down in some catastrophic way, making him shriek with agitation.

What will Lochlan be at three?  At ten?  Will he be goofy or solemn?  Will he talk all the time like Olivia, or sit quietly with a car and play for hours like Hollis?  Will he love to read?  Will he have a baby brother or sister that he loves as much as Maggie adores him?  Parenting has its ups and downs definitely.  But there's nothing like it to make the future look appealing. I can't wait to see what they will become.

Pie.

I love pie.  When I was growing up, my Grandma made pie for church dinners and hootenannies, each held monthly.  She'd also make pies for major holidays. and the yearly Lord's Acre at church.   That meant LOTS of occasions for pie-making.  I remember Grandma making lemon meringue, pumpkin, cherry, apple, pecan, coconut cream, banana cream, chocolate cream, and strawberry-rhubarb pies. She also made blackberry and peach cobbler.

 My grandma's generation knew how to make pie.  None of those soapy-tasting little store-bought pumpkin pies for them, although we'd cautiously examine the lemon meringue to assure it wasn't a cop-out pudding filling.  Every woman knew how to make pie crust, and most were known for one or two specialties.  There were always so many different kinds to choose from, and we could usually tell who'd made a pie by the crust crimping style.  

Here's where I kick myself, because as a picky and paranoid child, I would only eat pecan, apple, pumpkin, cherry, or lemon meringue pie.  When I was about ten years old, I bit into a pit in a cherry pie, and then I wouldn't eat cherry pie, either.  I would gladly eat any of those kinds of pie today, though I still have my favorites. 

I wold also dearly love to have Grandma's pie recipes, but there aren't any.  Like many other cooks of her era, she didn't use recipes.  Grandma was a wonderful intuitive cook and made everything by memory.  Since there were so many occasions for pie, I did watch her make pie crust many, many times.  She always kept a large, yellow tupperware bowl in the corner of the kitchen, with flour and the sifter in it.   I own this bowl now, and it always makes me think of her, singing in the kitchen, clacking her hard-soled shoes on the floor.

She'd sift a large pile of flour into her speckled melamine bowl, then sprinkle in a dose of salt, measured out into the soft palm of her hand.   A generous dollop of Crisco was cut in with a fork until the mixture was evenly crumbly.  She'd pour in a few spoonfuls of ice water, and mix with the fork until all held together in a ball.  Then Grandma would get out her big, scarred wooden cutting board and sift flour onto it, roll out the dough in a perfect circle of even thickness,  She'd gently transfer it to a pie tin, and trim and crimp the edges. 

I was always so impressed with how fast and surely she did everything, but I loved the edge-crimping the most.  She'd pinch the dough into little scalloped ridges with her thumbs and index fingers, and I was always amazed that it came out right every time.  Re-rolled dough makes a tough pie crust, so Grandma would always put the crescent-shaped scraps onto a cookie sheet and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar.  We called these "piecrust cookies."

It all looked so effortless and easy.  When I was married and grown (probably in that order), I wanted to make pie.  I used a recipe,and followed the instructions and my memories.  It was a total crap disaster.  The dough was either crumbly or sticky.  I tried rolling the dough into a regular circle without tearing it or having it stick permanently to the table, to no avail.  I've made many pies over the years, but I still don't have the skills to roll a crust out without chilling it first in the refrigerator.  I always make pie crust cookies with the scraps, and I tell the kids how my Grandma used that bowl to make pie crust, and she always made these same cookies for us.

Pie:  it's not just food, it's heritage.


*Hootenanny:  a monthly gathering where live music is performed by community musicians. Pie, desserts, and coffee are served.  Also the punchline to a favorite inside family joke.