We Need a Little Aspirin

(sung to the tune of We Need a Little Christmas with apologies to Auntie Mame and the rest of the family)

Verse One:

Haul out the GARBAGE!

Let the two dogs out past you; leave the DOOR ajar!

Oops! Toast is BURNING…

I should have stayed in bed –OH! Drat.

Where’d I LAST hide the jam?



Oh, who NEEDS this every weekend?

Cyber-What-Day IS this?

Where’s the IN-STORE coupon?

I had it just one second a-go

HELP! Where are my car keys?

Don’t DARE wear your best blue jeans.

Grab your coat  –  it’s TIME to run!!!


Verse Two:

Kids! Stop your FIGHTING!

I can’t find ONE darn park-ing spot

Even NEAR the store!

Try helping MOMMY

I promise you; we’ll get a drink

JUST as SOON as we can….


Ugh, who NEEDS this every weekend?

Wrap to buy and boxes…

WHAT? You’re OUT of boxes?

Kids! I see a dumpster close by


SHOVE your sister over!!!

Breathe in, GOOD Job!! Let’s RUN back home…


Verse Three:

There! Gifts are FINISHED!

We’ve time to dress – YES! You can

Wear your blue jeans now.

Help your lit-tle brother!

I’m putting shadow on, Hon

Can’t even SEE what he’s done…


Final Chorus:

OH. I need a little ASPIRIN!!!

WHAT takes jam off GIFTWRAP?

How long ‘til we get there?

Just sit BACK and watch the snowflakes


GPS won’t SHUT up…

I need a little aspirin NOW!

Oh, Tannenbaum!

Mid December, we’d have our school Christmas Program.  As I climbed the grades, I knew which teachers were the most clever when it came to planning out musical presentations and art projects (those were my very favorite hours of the day).  I was observing all the details, mentally capturing what I hoped would be the best from them all for when I grew up and became a teacher.

I was really excited the year I reached fourth grade, as our new teacher was extremely creative in all she did.  By early December, she sent home a note asking all of us to bring a flashlight to school. We couldn’t tell our parents what we needed it for; we could only mention that once our school Christmas program was over with, we’d bring it back home still in one piece and still working.

Our teacher had cut squares of crepe paper in bright red, blue and green.  We were each assigned a color square and a rubber band; we fastened the sheets of color over our flashlights.  During rehearsals, she mixed us up on the stage steps to arrange the colors until she had the color mix she was looking for.  We practiced filing and climbing onto the six different levels of the stair-stepped platform until we could line up perfectly in place.  Once stationary, our class members formed the simple triangle shape for our singing tree.

Mind you, we were nine year olds, walking and climbing steps while holding and balancing our own heavy, metal flashlights that were roughly nine to ten inches long and used size C or D batteries. The last thing any of us kids wanted to do was drop our lights on the head of the kid directly below our step position!  The VERY last thing any of us wanted to experience was being the kid who felt a heavy whack on the head!  Cautioned well about our responsibility, each of us  grasped our flashlight very tightly, making sure we directed the bulb end toward the audience, while pushing the slide switches back and forth to make our tree blink on and off to the musical notes per her directions.

The big day arrived and we filed into the darkened auditorium, climbing onto the six different levels of the stair-stepped platform just as we had practiced.  The piano began its intro and we sang and blinked our way through Oh, Tannenbaum!

Our teacher always believed we could pull this off so, therefore, we also believed.   The overall effect was extremely captivating for those in the audience; did we ever delight our parents that year! As fourth graders, we were absolutely joyous and certain that no other singing Christmas tree ever looked or sounded lovelier!



“Make a tree good and its fruit will be good, or make a tree bad and its fruit will be bad, for a tree is recognized by its fruit.”

Matthew 12:32-34


Chocolate-covered Pretzels

As was her practice, Mom prepared a full course dinner every evening.  We never left the table hungry.  She served dessert on holidays and rare occasions only; her reasoning was simple:  Daddy didn’t need any more calories.

Nevertheless, optimism and some old habits die hard.  No sooner would Daddy leave the table, he’d fall asleep in front of the TV, then awake and, believing it was time for a snack, take his after dinner walk from the sofa to the refrigerator in search of sweeter things.

Sometimes, if Mom was out of the kitchen, he got lucky; he managed to find some cookies or something sweet hiding in one of the cupboards.  More often than not, Mom was still at the sink.  She’d watch Daddy go to the freezer and check to see if any ice cream was left.  She didn’t even have to ask, she knew what he was looking for.  Not that she kept quiet …

Honey, didn’t you have enough to eat already?

Don’t worry about what I’m doing; I’m just walking around…

Daddy would come back out into the front room, drink what was left of his after dinner coffee (black with a little bit of sugar) and try to look pitiful enough to evoke sympathy from us two girls or anyone who happened to be handy.

Your mother never has anything good around here to go with coffee…she hides everything, you know…

During one of our first holidays together, my husband and I traveled down with our “first born”, a cockapoo named SammyDog.   Mom, who was afraid of most dogs, actually liked Sammy Dog; they had become a mutual admiration society.  Sammy Dog liked all the leg of lamb bones Mom saved for him, and Mom liked the fact that he was as friendly, harmless, and as well-behaved as he was.  She would often ask us if we would take Daddy back with us for a couple of weeks and try to train him to behave as well as the dog.  Daddy just ignored the remark.  Daddy loved dogs so; with Sammy Dog around, Daddy at least felt he had an ally.

One particular evening, Daddy roamed around, looking for something to eat.  As a rule, we girls automatically assumed our old roles and were good daughters; in years past, we would have scrounged up a treat from one of Mom’s hiding places for Daddy to have a little something with his evening coffee.  This time, however, we saw an opportunity to have a little fun at Daddy’s expense; so, once Daddy had returned to the living room empty handed, my sister and I walked back into the kitchen.

Sammy Dog had received some presents for Christmas.  Sitting on the washer with the bag of dog food was a small box of doggy pretzels.  They were chocolate-covered, apparently to make them look really enticing to the buyers and pet owners.  Knowing our father’s penchant for anything with chocolate on it, we girls found a dessert dish and carefully arranged the chocolate-covered pretzels on the fancy glass plate.  When Mom saw and heard what we were working on, she tried to protest but was giggling so hard we had to ask her to quiet down!  We left the filled dish on the corner of the washer, right near the refrigerator.

Daddy missed the pretzels on his next round.  He came back out and sat down to resume watching TV.  So, one of us quietly returned to the kitchen and this time, moved the glass plate out to the dining room and laid it on the table’s corner nearest to the kitchen doorway.  If Daddy were to get up again (chances were good, we were there visiting and he was trying to stay awake), he’d have to walk by the dining table on his way to the refrigerator.  Sure enough; it wasn’t long before the optimist again got up…

Well, well…what have we here?

We pretended not to notice or hear as he picked up one of the chocolate-covered pretzels and returned to the sofa.  He was chewing the “cookie” and sipping his coffee, but by his expression, we could tell it didn’t taste as good as it looked, and he was beginning to regret his first swallow.

Where did your mother get these?

I quickly got up and ran around the other door into the kitchen’s nook where I joined Mom, both of us giggling and trying to hold back our laughter, still waiting for the finale. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get the reaction I was hoping for.

Daddy only remembered my Anadama bread (a New England corn bread) that I baked once and was told in no uncertain terms to never ever make again!  Trying to be more diplomatic this time, Daddy whispered to my younger sister,

Who baked this crap?  It tastes like s@&$*%(#t.  Your sister didn’t bake again, did she?


Monday’s Child

There were times the last four decades when I couldn’t lose myself enough over the weekend to regenerate the energy I’d need for the coming week.  Just as my parents did, I’d succumbed to the worker bee mindset; the protestant work ethic so to speak, except we were Catholic.

Of course having Mom and Dad as role models didn’t exactly teach me how to relax; and I had no idea what I really wanted or was timid enough not to dream aloud.  So, I GAVE MY ALL in the employment positions that I acquired; fortunately, they were educational and helped me later discern what I didn’t want to do.

Monday.  Another week and the beginning of another month!  My first job as a morning teacher for a private daycare! Tuitions are due, so smile and remind the parents that the payment is due today…smile sweetly and tell them it’s no problem; (yes, we’ll still feed your child) but, don’t forget the check tomorrow or a late fee will apply.  No problem, we love having the little darlings here, not to worry….especially when they share with us that they didn’t have time for breakfast or, instead of a hot meal, they ate ice cream this morning!!! Wow, how lucky can they be???   We teachers are excited, too!  We are anxious to have the sugar highs over with so we can exert some discipline, introduce the new songs for this month’s program, and get them settled by naptime; good that the theme this month is farm animals.  We’re gonna need Old MacDonald’s help…

Monday.  Another brown bag.  This one holds yet another weekend project surprise for the repairman…seems that the hubby tried to “repair” the small appliance, but removed one too many screws and couldn’t remember how it all went back together again.  So, he tossed it into the crumpled brown bag and – too embarrassed to drop it off on his lunch hour – sent it with his wife so that SHE could drop it off to our little ma and pa repair shop.  The repairman looks inside and asks,

What was wrong? What was the original trouble?

The wife can’t remember because it took over fourteen months of cautious reminding (nagging) before hubby dear finally picked it up yesterday, then threw in the towel, as the game was going to start in five minutes.

Whether the repairman declares it fixed or suggests it be given a proper burial, the item will sit on the shelf until the next payday or back to school week; whichever comes first. In either event, the family has learned to live without it.  Its features and benefits, once a godsend to the modern kitchen, are no longer as necessary since the town now has a MacDonald’s on both the east and west side, and Mom doesn’t have to cook five nights a week anymore.

Monday.  I can play homemaker half the week! It’s the perfect fit for a young mother with a second grader, as I can also parent-teach in the morning, get paid for it, then come home for the afternoon and be waiting to greet all the little critters who have me through Wednesday as their Mom-on-the-Block; kind of a personalized Jack-in-the-Box but with an apron, offering snack foods without labels or toys, and providing a safe place for the neighborhood kids to gather for bathroom stops and play.

Monday.  There is still more week than money at the end of the month. Even now, with all my budgeting experience and cooking techniques, I can find myself with the occasional surprise of a missing household item.  As a young bride, I remember the morning I ran out of paper towels and debated whether an extra absorbent kitchen towel or Kleenex layers would make a better grease blotter…thankfully, God is kind, and I have never had to make that choice again.

Today, I’m out of eggs.  Upon further examination, I have the makings of a great Mexican feast; except for the required tortillas.  So, I will forage through my “emergency shelf” and freezer, and then put together some forgotten combos that I haven’t fixed for a long time.  It’s three days before payday, but we’ll make it as we always did.

Come next Monday, I’ll have eggs and tortillas!  How great is that?!!!

Wabbit Watching

My Rogue and I have been walking the Riverfront Trail, a joint project of the city park system and The Washington Rotary Club.  It is a much loved, scenic path that winds along the Missouri River as it passes by Washington’s Historic Downtown Area.

We have groaned and complained upon arising each day until we step into the truck, winding our way downtown to the trail, half-filled coffee cups with cream in our hands.  Thank you, God, for coffee; especially on these early morning bonding adventures.  Most mornings we are on the trail exceptionally early; the pathway can be very dark. The humidity is climbing already; by 5:30am the temperature is anywhere between 74 and 84 degrees, depending on whether Washington will experience a triple digit day.

One meets all nature of walkers; some with pets on leashes, two friends heavily engaged in catching up from the day before, some just on their own… A few greet us; others prefer to concentrate on their own tempo and listen to their ear buds.  A bicycle passes by, with or without any warning.  It is up to us to stay to the far right side of the path.

Were we to wait until later in the day, women with grandchildren in tow inside a wagon or specially made stroller might accompany us, even passing us by when we neglected to keep a faster pace.  Children seem to flourish in this small but pristine town west of St. Louis; so, too, the elders, who take their walks along the Riverfront Trail very seriously.

Among the walkers are those who briskly pace, focusing on the aerobics of the moment.  If one sees another more than a few times, a familiarity begets a quick hello.  Sometimes, a bit of history is shared…

Did you know that it was 104 degrees fifty years ago today?

This gentleman explains that it is his fiftieth wedding anniversary.  AHA! I conclude…climate change is just another history-repeating-itself occurrence.  I congratulate the man, explaining that My Rogue and I will never make our eighteenth if he doesn’t straighten up!  The man consoles my husband, explaining that he’s survived a good number of idle threats over the years! The handsome but grayed groom continues on, walking in quick time tempo.

Others walk along as we do, stepping at a comfortable pace; it is nothing short of a miracle that My Rogue can walk the one mile course; we are not yet ready to expand our horizons and lengthen the walk to the bridge; at least, not just yet.  We have slowly become familiar with certain curves and markers along the trail.  Some mornings it is so dark, I can barely even see the rabbits unless they decide to run across the asphalt path.

Mostly, I’ve spotted the small cotton-tailed critters nibbling on the grasses among the fallen leaves; a few spot us coming and immediately dart back under the brush!  Others remain very still; had I not been wearing my glasses, I’d have passed them by; God does indeed blend the critters’ colors with their surroundings.

Rabbits with cotton tails.  No overalls, unfortunately.  Beatrix Potter surely had imagination.  I’ve not once seen Peter, nor have I seen any rabbit with a tattered blue jacket, torn in haste from escaping Mr. McGregor’s garden.  Big disappointment for this romantic but child-like observer…in fact, somewhat of a letdown, though intellectually I know I am not within a cartoonist’s cell or artist’s sketch pad…

This is about as adventurous as I get.  No Sacajawea am I. I am definitely a City Frog. I’d have told Thomas Jefferson that the existing thirteen colonies looked good enough; we need not tarry any further, Mr. President. Then, I’d have cooked him one of my fabulous dinners…that, and a late nightcap, and Voila!  America’s expansionist days would have ended.

For cheap entertainment, I begin counting the rabbits. I am joking along the way…counting and remarking to My Rogue that our morning walks now include our current position on “practicing safe sex”…we no longer kill rabbits, we just count them. My Rogue shakes his head, chuckling softly in agreement.

So, the City Frog and her Rogue continue, walking along the neatly paved trail, noting the birdsong and the trains – one, sometimes two, every morning – carrying coal or refrigerated perishables on their way toward St. Louis.  Waving to an engineer was not a possibility where I grew up.  Yes, I knew what a train looked like; I’d colored enough of them in my Southern Pacific coloring books from my godfather.  But I’d never read anything that said it was against the law to wave to an engineer. So, I continue to be the child-like one, waving to the next train as it passes by.

You are just like a kid! I can’t believe you…do you really think he cares?

Yes; I’m sure he sees and appreciates someone’s greeting along the way.

Truth be told, it’s great fun to wave and enjoy this childlike freedom…I could never be a kid; even at age four, I was a proper but little old lady.  All I could do was behave; pay attention; and follow the delineated rules of whoever’s house I was in.

The trains cannot blow their horns any longer here in our city limits; they can, however, change tracks when needed.  On occasion, we run the risk of being “stuck” on the riverside of the tracks…sitting in our Ford truck with bottom of the cup cold coffee.  I repeat:  Sacajawea passed by here long, long ago.

I turn my attention back to looking for more rabbits to count; today, I’ve seen a baker’s dozen on our walk inside the trail, along the riverfront, toward the half-mile bench.  We are on the return leg, slowly moving toward the parking lot entrance.

HeLLO, little wabbits… This is your fwend, Elmer. Come out…come OUT!

My Rogue is my best audience; I get another chuckle from him.  But it is as I suspected: even rabbits are smarter then we; the smarter ones are probably still sleeping…it’s not even 6am yet. Not another appears, much less one approaching me and asking,

What’s up, Doc?

Damn cartoons…

Gratitude Pending

When all that’s left in me is gratitude, I permit myself some moments to reflect upon the good things that My Rogue and I have enjoyed these past several months.

Of course, my perfectionist tendencies still argue within me; especially these days, when writer’s block, senior moments, and other “cutesy excuses” cover my day’s production or lack thereof…I remind myself that my purposeful attempts to achieve a good day’s work and a job well done have to go. I am still too hard on myself; not yet ready to chuck my personal standard of “best”.  I can pretend it doesn’t matter, but it does.  I am no different than others my age; I am fearful during these economic times.

Perfection’s attraction is slowly eluding me; I’m slightly overwhelmed at times (no more, no less, than in the past) but when the light finally turns on, I realize that truly the small stuff doesn’t matter.  For example, the house will always collect dust, and we live in our house, so dust and clutter are a part of it.  An old acquaintance of mine used to give her kids permission to write on the dusty surfaces of the home’s furniture.  The only caveat: they were not to date any of their scribbling!

So, I have long assured myself that the same tasks will be there tomorrow; and when I hear life calling me, I absolutely MUST join in the joyful clatter! There are sounds outside my window; souls of all ages, waving “I’m home” and looking forward to sharing some momentary chatter with other adults before sealing themselves inside to parent the little critters.  Cars arriving home after the work day will usually stop short and check the mail; the children can’t wait to spill out of the car seats and regale us with their days’ news.  This is LIFE.  We are in the midst of a neighborhood, not a senior development.  Neither My Rogue nor I want to exist apart from little critters and the stories they share.  So, before me is once again a neighborhood teaming with the routine but very precious moments that  I recognize from years before; only this time around, I am an adult “grandma type” so there is a freedom from the moment to moment responsibility…I can just watch the familiar scenes and smile.

Cautionary words – Don’t get hurt! Be careful!  The sounds of loved ones from my own childhood days resonate and come to mind.  But I bite my tongue. I don’t want to instill anything but confidence in these little critters…I am careful to laugh when they are not within ear shot.  Children are too precious a commodity to have some ignoramus neighbor offer any comment without respectful consideration; absolutely no way do I intend to purposely chisel away even a modicum of their confidence.

Perhaps my having left the rat race this past year has given me a fresh perspective in addition to a much needed rest.  Each morning’s daybreak is once again a time to begin; it’s truly another day in America.  I can choose to wallow in past defeat or expectantly score another win!  Busier souls than I have passed the new bloom in my yard; so, I breathe in summer’s last rose on their behalf.

I will permit myself a brief enjoyment of its scent before falling back into old habits, racing down the drive to another appointment – another “I’m keeping busy” moment – that serves to numb me from the underlying truths of this economy:  I am over-qualified.  I am over fifty.  I have a medical history that has been reviewed and used against me; thus far, I have been turned down several times by the same company that once paid for my doctors’ care.  In this current job market,   I fall outside the perimeters of the “hot minority”…it’s now my turn to be discriminated against by lesser students flaunting the badges of supervisory positions.  I’ve faked it from the seat of my pants before; when corporate courtesies demand yet another brave, quixotic stance, I convince myself I will once again deliver.

I finger the small piece of paper in my wallet.  I folded it carefully and marked it Gratitude before tucking it inside the coin pocket.  I even dated it.  When opened, the paper is a simple shopping list of grocery items.  My Rogue scrawled the list in his bold, confident print. Any reader can tell a few letters are actually missing from some of the names on that list. But he could read it and he returned home with every item I asked for.  This was noteworthy, especially so for a man who had suffered a stroke the previous year.

As with perfection, I must toss aside the recurring fears and convince myself that they no longer serve any purpose.  We are both on the mend and, pending our permission, gratitude will easily fill in any blanks…

We’ve Each A Place

By what authority proclaimed, by what process or fair measure?

Removing living things deemed irritants…are they not also treasures?

Even seedlings have intrinsic beauty, some small redeeming grace.

Might I not display the buds upon my finest lace?


Dear Lord, who’s eye has deemed them such, to reach but never grow?

Should I weed a few, toss them aside, implying that I see

Why I should pull them from the soil – to never fully glow?

And pretend I understand the stewardship you’ve offered me?


To cast them out from Your green earth, I’ve found no meaning in this toil.

As gardener I shall choose to find a safe and sandy rest.

Perhaps a place You’d once designed lies hidden in the soil

Let rains renew old garden seeds to proudly sprout their best!