I received a much needed and highly unexpected gift this evening, something of inestimable worth. It lasted but a moment, but it was a moment of great significance and value because it gave me something I haven’t had for over twenty years – Christmas with my mother’s mother.
Mema passed away over two decades ago. She was a fixture in my life and we were very close.
What served as the vehicle for this miracle was a tin of homemade peanut butter fudge. One of my quilting friends, Sharon H., makes this fudge every year for our quilt guild’s pitch-in Christmas dinner. It’s always good fudge, but this year it was remarkable.
When I arrived at the guild meeting tonight and saw her carrying the festive holiday tin, I called out to her and told her I hoped that was peanut butter fudge inside that tin. She laughed, flashed me a conspiratorial look, and admitted that it was indeed, because no one would let her come if it wasn’t. We smiled and laughed, because that’s not far from the truth. Sharon’s fudge is legendary. Later, as we gathered around one of the large round dining tables to wait for the confluence of women to settle down and the event to begin, the conversation again turned to fudge. It was a serious discussion on the temperamental qualities of fudge, that even time-tested-and-trusted recipes seldom gave identical results. Irene S., another quilting friend, shared an opinion that humidity seemed to play an important role in the success of failure of a batch. Sharon remarked that this year her batch had turned out exceptionally well, her best ever.
Our table’s time came to go through the food line. Desserts are always at the far end of the line, and I hoped there would still be fudge left. When I reached it, the tin was half-emptied. Given the impressive number and quality of sweets brought in, that says a lot about Sharon’s fudge. I greedily snagged two pieces for my dessert plate.
After eating fried chicken, buttered carrots, green beans and scalloped potatoes, I began to nibble away at my desserts. Quilters like to sample lots of things, so desserts are normally cut into many small portions. I had banana bread, a dark chocolate brownie crowned with tiny chocolate morsels, and Sharon’s fudge. The bread was mine. It had turned out well. The brownie was excellent. And then I bit into the fudge.
I actually had a flashback. The rich roasted peanut flavor, the creamy texture with just a hint of sugary graininess – it was a perfect match to the fudge my Mema made every single Christmas as I was growing up. As the fudge melted in my mouth, the sensation conjured up memories of being in Mema and Grandad’s home on Christmas Eve, with huge white plastic containers filled with peanut butter fudge, and chocolate fudge – with and without nuts. The containers came from the little corner grocery store that my grandparents owned. Originally packed with bulk foods for the deli counter, the 2 – 3 gallon tubs were saved and scrupulously cleaned afterward, for multiple purposes, but none so wonderful as being literally filled with homemade fudge.
In retrospect, I wish I could say that tears filled my eyes, that I choked up and embraced Sharon, sobbing with joyous nostalgia, but that did not happen. I did tell her, though, that her fudge was perfect, that it was the closest thing I had ever had to my grandmother’s fudge. It turns out they used the same recipe, the one on the jar of Kraft-brand marshmallow crème – with one small difference. Sharon uses peanut butter chips with a scoop of real peanut butter for enhanced flavor. My grandmother always used straight peanut butter. Peanut butter chips had not been available when I was small, and she never altered the way she made her fudge. But the confectionary experience of eating Sharon’s fudge was close – darned near identical.
With every bite of fudge – and I managed to euphorically devour two additional pieces, I was allowed to relive treasured bits of childhood, if only for a moment. And in those moments I received one of the most priceless yuletide gifts anyone could ever ask for.
Thank you, Sharon, for the gift of a small miracle.
Break out the poppies ‘cause it’s no bed of roses.
Is it any tougher to be a Veteran today than it was nearly 240 years ago? In some ways yes, in others no. For those who served and survived combat, surviving the awkwardness of life after it has always been difficult. Some Veterans have been honored and supported. Some have not. It is our individual responsibility to give respect and support to our Veterans and active military.
Back in the day…
Veterans find their return path to home strewn with obstacles of many kinds. Those who fought on their home front in the infancy of this country possibly received more understanding and deference than those who served in the great World Wars. Soldiers returning from Korea and Vietnam received a disconcerting mix of negative and positive responses. 40, 50, even 60 years passed before those particular sacrifices and service were acknowledged and appreciated. Far too late, unfortunately, for many.
Another fine mess…
Young and old soldiers alike have been deployed to the Middle East for over 25 years now, rotating in and out of deserts, rocky hills and devastated cities. They want to make a difference in the world, to build rather than destroy, and to make the world a safer place to live in, but politics thwart their every move. A sad fact that undoubtedly has plagued virtually all armed conflicts since the dawn of humanity. Leaders at the highest levels appear to be at cross purposes, intent on their unshared personal agendas. They ignore what the boots on the ground have come to know. Our soldiers do not want to be disposable pawns in this insane game of chess, nor do they deserve to be left hanging out to dry when unspeakable nasty stuff hits the fan.
Meanwhile back at the ranch…
Professional agitators stir the melting pot – not to blend, but to separate us. Salt is poured into partly healed wounds while creating fresh ones that should never have been made. Caught in this vortex of fear, ignorance, outrage, and blatant corruption are our military. Strident voices shockingly call for the castration or even dissolution of our forces, at a time when they are needed most on the home front.
Stand by your man/woman (in uniform)…
A growing tide of voices clamor for a lifetime of promises made to our men and women in uniform to be fulfilled – while silently praying that all those oaths taken to protect this country from all threats foreign and domestic will hold millions* true to their word. It may be that the most difficult battle for our active military and all living Veterans has yet to begin. I pray that battle will not need to happen.
Over at insidethemindofkatgreen.wordpress.com, fellow authors are competing for a prize — marketing opportunities. It’s a tough world out there for authors. Millions of other books are already out there, with hundreds of thousands of new books entering the market each month. Seeing a book’s cover is the first time a reader notices the author’s work, and on average a cover has a piddly amount of time…maybe 3 whole seconds, to do that job.
There are companies devoted to producing book cover art, custom or template. It’s a big market. Some authors create their own, but unless you’re a wiz at it, it’s best to let a more objective artist take a shot. Much like self-editing, it’s difficult to distance yourself from your cover art ideas. If you do hire someone else, be sure to check out their work, talk to references, etc. Treat it as you would any other significant financial dealing, after all, it has to be fabulous — and fabulously attention-grabbing — for at least 3 seconds and for a lot of people!
Censorship is a hot-button topic, particularly in our politically correct world. Our concern that any one person might be grievously offended by another’s train of thought has led to extreme compromises of personal liberty and values – all on the off-chance that anything we say or do might somehow besmirch or belittle someone we don’t even know. Such a stilted way of living is fundamentally at odds with humankind.
Humans are the embodiment of curiosity and experimentation. Our lives center on acquiring knowledge, by whatever means are at hand. Failure leads to eventual success. We come to understand each other by learning from the failures (sometimes epic ones) or successes within our relationships. It’s how we build relationships between individuals, cultures and countries.
So what does this have to do with Banned Books Week? Language is how we best express ourselves – our theories, our findings, our hopes, our fears – and the sharing of those things has been through the written word. We come closest to pure communication via words that have been chosen with the utmost care, that reflect as perfectly as possible the exact nuances of meaning the author of that communication intended.
All other forms of creative expression depend on significant input from a receiving individual, leaving the originally desired connection subject to random chance. True, sometimes a visual or auditory offering will resonate an emotional chord buried deep within one’s soul, on a primal level that sophisticated language cannot drill down to. All things do have their limitations.
Were it not for works of fiction – and even some nonfiction – that raise topics or questions well out of our collective comfort zones, humans would discretely sidestep those issues until forced into dealing with them.
Words require us to think. Words that strip us of our misconceptions and prejudices perform a service to us all. We are forced to ponder uncomfortable things such as the darker sides of our natures, or the fallacies of the status quo. In doing so, we can choose to rise above those situations and conditions. We can choose to improve the world, one person at a time.
Ronald Reagan challenged his post-Cold War counterpart to tear down the Berlin Wall. The books that have shocked, shamed, or shaken us likewise challenge us to tear down the walls in our minds and set our greatest asset free: thought.
Memorial Day here in the USA. At least it’s the current designated date for it. All the time I was growing up, it was May 31st. No matter what day of the week that fell on, May 31st was Memorial Day. We cut flowers from our garden, and from my grandmother’s garden, put them in buckets of water, and drove to the cemetery. We tidied up the headstones, left fresh flowers in containers that were built into the headstones, or left flowers in emptied coffee or soup cans. It was the way you did things. And it was what you did on that day. We often grilled out later in the day, but the main focus was on remembrance.
Nowadays I have more family members in cemeteries, but rarely the opportunity to show them this simple act of respect. It bothers my conscience, even though I also believe wholeheartedly that there are no spirits in the plots of earth where bodies were laid to rest. I make a point to remember these people, these family and friends who are no longer walking the face of this planet. I send them positive thoughts whenever reminded of them, regardless of what day of the year it is.
So, remember them all, with love and respect, and if you are able, with the small gift of your time and a flower.
It’s snowing, Mema. Really coming down. We’ve shoveled four times this morning, but it doesn’t look like we did much.
It’s an Emily Dickinson type of snow day, you know, the one that begins:
It sifts from leaden sieves…It sprinkles all the wood…ruffling all the fence posts as ankles of a queen…then vanishes…denying it has been…
I never can remember the whole thing, but it’s my favorite, just like this kind of snow – soft, steady, powdered-sugar snow. It blankets the earth with a thick woolly layer of purity and silence.
Whenever it snows, I think of you. Even though you aren’t here, and I’m too old to be out playing in the snow (well, mostly), I know you’re watching me out there while I’m shoveling and enjoying every minute. Up until my back starts aching and my nose drips so much I can’t stand it.
I’d fall back into the snow in our yard and make a snow angel for you, but I would be covered up before I could finish. I would vanish, like the dead grass and leaves, with only a faint mounded outline of something under the snow. Brr. We won’t go there. Keep happy thoughts of snow.
I wouldn’t mind being snowbound for a few days, just long enough to work on my writing or quilts, to make a big batch of hearty vegetable soup with chunks of venison. You never had the opportunity to try my soup with venison. You’d like it. I know Granddad would, too.
My other half, on the other hand, would not handle being snowbound for a few days well. He can’t bear to be shut in that long. He’d rather shovel his way to the end of the street in order to break free and travel, even if it wasn’t for anything critical. He doesn’t know how to occupy himself in the house or the garage with creative projects to keep his mind and hands busy. He has plenty of them waiting on him, even ones of his own choosing, but they intimidate him. I think they make him feel trapped. Ironic, isn’t it? What makes him feel confined makes me feel liberated. Go figure.
Well, guess I’d better go bundle back up. The guys will return in about an hour, and I need to shovel the latest inch of fluffy white off the drive so they don’t mash it into ice pulling in. But I’ll be thinking of you the whole time, with lots of love between the huffing and sniffing. It’s snowing.