Eat Well if You Carrot All!

           It’s that time of year again when colds and flu bound into our households seemingly like any other holiday guest, but much less welcomed.  A thought occurs to me as I stir up the second pot of homemade chicken soup of the season -- we really underestimate the healing power of food.  We live in a time of economic uncertainty with a constant murmur about health care plans and old folks and childhood obesity.  I cut up the carrots and think to myself, “How would the world be different if all our children were munching on bright orange carrots sticks instead of fire hot Cheetos?”  

I think of my maternal grandparents and how difficult it must have been for unskilled, immigrant parents to raise ten children, primarily in the 1930s.  Although plenty of hardships came their way, God watched over their children, and they were healthy.  I have heard my mother say more than once, it was because they raised their own food.  My grandmother kept a large garden for vegetables and canned the excess for use through the winter.  They stored garden-grown potatoes in the cellar and chickens provided fresh eggs.  My grandfather raised and smoked their meat, and purified their spring water with natural techniques.  We have traded away our health in exchange for highly processed pseudo-foods that ruin our well-being over the long haul.  In order to correct the problems incurred by lack of real food, we attack our liver with man-made drugs.   Not that good food and pure water will cure all the world’s ills, but it would sure be a step in the right direction.

It is very difficult to make good choices when it comes to buying food.  With holiday celebrations around the corner, the temptations that lead us down the road of unhealthy eating and drinking are even greater.  Attractive packaging and convenience meals and snacks entice us away from good old fashioned cooking.  Sparkling soda catches our eye quicker in the grocery aisle than plain old water which comes from many reliable sources and is much cheaper.  We owe it to ourselves to reach for the stars – the five star fresh and wholesome selections.  Get back to basics and eat simple.  During the growing season we can find what we want at Farmers’ Markets and in backyard gardens.    But, anytime of the year we can find healthy choices in the produce section of the neighborhood grocery store -- we just need to push our carts in that direction!  This year adorn your holiday table with festive fruits and vegetables in place of some of the typical sugary delights. Why not distribute attractive basketfuls of fruit and nuts as gifts instead of cookies, cakes, and candy? 

In this time of insecurity, we can safeguard our family’s health and well being by eating smarter and encouraging other families to do the same.  As my mind wandered onto this train of thought, I asked myself, “Whatever happened to the White House Garden and Michelle Obama’s quest to raise healthier kids?”   I Googled it and found this link:  http://www.letsmove.gov/  Regardless of our political persuasion, our First Lady has some great ideas to help us get started.  These ideas can be adapted to “kids” of all ages.  So if we “carrot” all about the kids in our lives, let’s heal our families one meal at a time.

Buildings and Buttercups



Old Holy Trinity Church, Duquesne, PA

All of my father’s recent ancestry stems from Duquesne, Pennsylvania. Once a steel manufacturing boom town, the city now exhibits only remnants of its once robust past.  If a visitor ventures onto the bumpy, brick side streets of Duquesne, they will easily notice the number of old churches planted in this city.  In fact, a fellow blogger (http://duquesnehunky.com) recently quoted the Duquesne Observer Supplement stating that in 1902 Duquesne had over 10,000 residents and 16 churches.

Just the other day my husband and I were drawn to an old church majestically towering atop the hill overlooking the Monongahela River and the former site of the once-thriving steel mill.  Closer examination revealed that this was the old Holy Trinity church which was replaced by a newer model during my childhood. In fact, my sister and I grew up a few yards from the Holy Trinity Cemetery with its lush, green, rolling hills speckled with yellow buttercup flowers.  I was terribly disappointed when the new church and parking lot were placed in the cemetery, because all the modernization did away with the buttercups.  No more could we hold the little yellow flower under our chin to see its reflection and recite, “Buttercup, Buttercup, do you like butter?  Let me see.  If you like butter, then you like me!”

But, everything is subject to change over time. Currently my dad is in the McKeesport Hospital, just across the river.  He suffered a stroke three weeks ago and is still undergoing rehabilitation.  My husband and I are staying with my mother to help her through this stressful time.  She hobbles when she walks and complains of bad knees; just a few years ago she was walking several miles a day.  Both parents officially became octogenarians on their most recent birthdays and have already outlived all of their parents thanks to societal changes for the better.

Interestingly enough, I am struck by the fact that my parents seem to have a lot in common with the old church on the hill.  Old age has crept upon my parents like the weeds and vines slowly enveloping the strong brick fortress of the church.  Like the broken windows, their eyes no longer reflect vitality, and their perceptions have been clouded over, needing lenses from outside to help them clearly see the path before them.  Their squeaky hinges have trouble functioning and need the assistance of walkers and wheelchairs and a whole lot of love to keep them in good working order. 

When I first noticed the church, I was awed by its strength and beautiful architecture.  The broken windows and gutted interior went unnoticed as I envisioned the magnificence of the edifice as it must have looked a century ago. Similarly, I find joy when I look past the aging bodies of my parents and see them for who they once were in the prime of their lives, living life to its fullest and contributing to society in their own unique ways.

The winds of change blow through our lives, sometimes as balmy breezes other times as chilling gusts.  Buildings, bodies and buttercups do not last forever.  Let’s remember to appreciate the buttercups in our lives before they drift away and are gone.

A Beautiful Sight

When things are not going my way or when I feel defeated by life’s blows, my first instinct is to run, usually to the nearest mall where I can spend hours shopping for purses.  Sometimes I shop the clearance heap and snag something for ten bucks.  If I am really down in the dumps, I head straight to the Fossil store and spend at least ten times that amount.  It is cheaper than a therapist, and I love the smell of leather.

Ironically, I also love hauling my leather handbags to points of interest such as the local zoo, where I hope the animals will not recognize my accessory as a long-lost cousin from their phylogenetic tree.  On this day, however, I opt to bring my non-leather waist pouch in order to keep my hands on the camera.  I am accompanied by two members of my own family tree -- an almost ripe, pregnant woman who asserts that walking will drop the baby right out of her womb and a three-year-old princess who won’t feel complete until she feeds the giraffes. My own personal mission is to free myself of worldly chaos and become uplifted in some way by God’s creations. 

The place is packed so we race to the Lory cage for a chance to feed apples to the birds.  Humans outnumber birds, so we wait patiently and look around us for an opportunity to arise.  A young man near us watches a colorful bird nibbling the apple from his hand.  A tween-size girl leans an outstretched, apple-filled hand right next to his and listens to his calm voice describe the bird and its movements.  She looks directly at the feathered fowl, but she doesn’t see it.  I realize she is blind, and I stare.  It is impolite, but I stare anyway.  I am mesmerized by the connection between the young man, the bird and the girl. 

She experiences the bird through the eyes of her assistant who prepares her for the thrill of feeling the bird move from his apple to hers.  It is electrifying to watch the spark of the bird in her hand ignite the bright smile on her face.  I watch through a well of tears and suddenly I am grateful for many things. 

Walking through the menagerie I continue to witness the miracle of humanity throughout the course of the day.  Hoards of healthy children clamor to see the animals.  White haired couples walk hand-in–hand from one exhibit to the next.  My granddaughter giggles and squeals on the merry-go-round and now wants to ride the train.  The line at the train station is extra long due to several wheelchairs crowded at the front of the row, so we wait with an extra portion of patience.  When the train arrives, caregivers gently lift mangled teens from the chairs and lovingly place them, one at a time, on the wooden seats.  Other teens with special needs are helpful, and they happily save places for their teachers and friends on the train.   The tears threaten to come again, but I hold them back.  Instead I silently pray for angels to watch over these special children and their caregivers, all of whom are indeed angels themselves.

Before long, the Princess has fed the giraffes, and the pregnant daughter is exhausted but not in labor.  I came to feed the animals and delight in their creation, but instead I have been fed by brothers and sisters of my own species who have blessed my life by just being here at the zoo today.  I decide that I need to visit the zoo more often.   After all, the price of an annual pass is less than the cost of a Fossil handbag, but it holds so much more. 

Green Week

 St. Patrick’s Day always turns my thoughts to green, just in time for the eruption of little leafy buds on the trees and shrubs.  To me the color green represents the newness of life and gift of future possibilities.  I seemed to be seeing green everywhere I went this past week, from Florida to Cali. 



My week began in the company of two Leprechaun grandkids while eating a St. Patty Melt at McGuire’s Irish Pub in Pensacola, Florida.  We’re talking a wee bit of great company and a lot of good grub across the board.  Nothing quite compares to sitting in a dimmed booth with a million and a half greenbacks dangling above your head.  Shrill whines penetrated the evening’s festivities as a green-kilted piper paraded up and down the tiny corridor playing Irish tunes.  On the way out the door, lots of Kelly green memorabilia tempted exiting customers, and of course, I gave in.

Ceiling at McGuire's Irish Pub, Pensacola

Although I never made it to the Emerald Coast, I got my fill of white sand wherever we went.  Sand was present on the play ground, along the roads, and at various places throughout the Gulf Breeze Zoo.  Although Gulf Breeze is only a small petting zoo, it is one of the finest zoos I have seen in my past half century.  Animals are close enough to feed from your hand or from a plastic cup that, incidentally, can be placed in a recycle crate for future users.  Some of the animals got right up next to us and actually posed for the camera!  In case you have intentions of visiting the zoo, watch out for spitting llamas and camels that use their teeth to snatch the food cup out of your hand!  Last of all, beware of birds with parrot green feathers that land on your hat and start pecking on your head!

Gulf Breeze Zoo, near Pensacola

Gulf Breeze Zoo, near Pensacola



I left the two-legged flying creatures to catch my two-legged flight from Florida to San Diego, and I found myself in conversation with a very green gentleman who sold wind-generated electricity for a living.  I haven’t engaged in this conversation since the last election year four years ago when alternative energy was a hot political topic.  Both of us reminisced about breathing particulates from ominously lurking pollution clouds in the cities where we grew up.  I was reminded that fresh air is something we cannot live without, and once again, I resolved to make this world a cleaner place for my posterity.    

The next day Shamu also admonished me to save the ocean, so I scampered around Sea World behind a group of seven grandchildren and their parents hoping to instill a sense of awareness in their young minds.  Playing upon their sense of curiosity, I made sure they saw the sea turtles which are my favorite.  The turtles munched on pastel green lettuce leaves against a mossy green backdrop.  I was mesmerized by their grace and beauty; my grandkids didn’t watch for long.  Instead they opted to navigate through an ocean of obstacles using fake turtle-shaped game controllers in the next room.   

Sea Turtles dining at Sea World San Diego, California

The next morning we similarly navigated our way through Mission Bay Park to find our dripping daughters at the finish line of their rainy day 10K.  Of course, these young mothers were clad in goofy green garb along with the other runners, but it was their green fingernails that caught my attention.  They reminded me of the time we spent together on a rainy coast in California.  Long after the sparkles wear off, these spring green memories will remain with us. I now dream of future family occasions as I catch a glimpse of the newly forming foliage on the fruit tree in my own backyard.

Wearin' of the Green for St. Patty's Day 2012

Grandmas Rule

One nice thing about living in a place with constant sun is that kids can play in the back yard all winter long.  This makes it handy when babysitting grandchildren.  Our seventeen-month-old toddler ran back and forth across the lawn chasing his older siblings.  He never caught up to them, but there was joy in his journey.  He ran and laughed and pranced about, falling occasionally and getting right back up.  Fluffs of air ruffled the feather-soft hair on his head as he ran. 

The little man abruptly stopped when his foot plopped into an unexpected indention in the grass.  He quickly climbed out of the hole and curiously bent over to examine the obstacle in his path.  He was fascinated by the hole.  He tore off tufts of nearby grass and stuffed them into the earthen bowl.  Then he ceremoniously stepped into the hole and out of the hole numerous times to gauge its depth.  Finally he wiggled his diapered derriere into the ditch and snuggled into a comfortable fit. 

Grandma Katie and Grandma Mara holding me. 1959

As I watch my grandchildren, I think about my own grandmothers and the legacy of love they left me.  I hope I can measure up to the standard they set for me.  I think particularly of my Grandma Katie whose daddy died when she was just two-years old.  That winter a 25-year-old widow, Ana, returned to Croatia with her four baby daughters, bundled up against the elements and traveling home on a cold boat in a crowd of strangers.  The ship tossed to and fro on billowing waves that attempted to swallow them up in their grief.  But, they held fast and headed home to the warmth and support of family and friends on another continent.  What bravery in the face of hardship and affliction! 

From that day on my Grandma Katie and her sisters were raised in a small village by their grandma, assisted by aunts and uncles.   I realize that is when she learned all about a grandmother’s love.  Her life of selfless sacrifice arose from the exemplary service of her own grandmother.   When I close my eyes, I can see my grandma and her sisters running through the fields of wildflowers and chasing butterflies.  I see them doing household chores, helping in the kitchen, feeding chickens, and growing into beautiful young women who had families of their own.

I wish I could have met their grandma, my great-great grandmother.  I want to know all about her and get her advice on a few things.  But, then again, I feel as though I already know her.  I know her when I wipe a dirty face.  I know her when I hug away a tear.  I know her when I put a stinker in time out and teach him right from wrong.  I know her when I watch a little guy sitting in a ditch in my backyard, nestled in for the night.   

Dust Bunnies

Spring comes early to the Sonora Desert.  It arrives mid-February with the celebration of Presidents’ Day weekend.  Some people say we don’t have the change of seasons here, but we do.  The fresh air and bright sun alert us to the fact that summer is right around the corner, and that now is the time to enjoy the weather.  Something else emerges as spring pronounces its arrival.  I begin to notice dust--dust on shelves, dust on pictures frames, and dust on the fake floral arrangements!  Spring cleaning is inevitable. 

After a quick trip to Walgreens for cleaning supplies, I return home and pick up the dust pan and broom, determined to get a handle on this.  Dropping to my knees I cautiously peek beneath the bed only to find a horrific sight!  Legions of dust bunnies stare at me, poised to launch a full-on allergy attack!  Startled, I cannot decide if I should accept the challenge or retreat.  At a time like this, there is only one alternative.

I don my expensive polarized shades and hat for protection.  I grab my husband, a water bottle and my new camera.  We head for the hills!  I chuckle to myself as I step out of the vehicle and my feet hit the soft desert dust.  As we hike, dust kicks up around us, and I don’t give a second thought about allergies.  In fact, particles of dust glisten in the sunlight as joggers, dog-walkers, and families scamper along the trail.  Children and leashed dogs of all varieties scurry up to the ridgeline while we older folks take a little longer to get there. 

The view of the city is spectacular, and an American flag at the summit snaps with the breeze, reminding us that Monday is a national holiday.   We don’t spend long at the top, but as we descend something else catches my eye on the northern horizon.  A dozen brightly colored hot air balloons begin their ascent, one at a time, in the distance.  Their elegance lifts my spirit, and I soar to them with the zoom on my camera.  My sight is fixed on them all the way back to the car where we shake the dust off our feet and head home.

At nightfall I cleanse my body from the dust of the day, pop an allergy pill, and snuggle in for the night.  Tea lights flicker in the darkness, and mellow tones of Native American flute music transport me to another time.  I hear my mother’s voice and her all too famous words, “God made dirt, and a little bit of dirt don’t hurt.”  I drift into sleep knowing that I will be safe through the night, protected by God and an army of dust bunnies under my bed.

Go take a hike!

http://www.nps.gov/index.htm

http://azstateparks.com/find/f_act_hiking.html

http://www.maricopa.gov/parks/

http://phoenix.gov/recreation/rec/parks/preserves/index.html

http://www.glendaleaz.com/ParksandRecreation/ThunderbirdPark.cfm

Ditch the Journal and Bring on the Blog

Over the years I have found happiness and contentment in journal writing by notating each and every special event, dates of my children’s immunizations, and the details of everyday doldrums.  I led myself to believe I was effectively leaving the story of my life to unfold before countless numbers of generations yet unborn.  Large books dwindled to little stylish photo-filled journals that could fit in my purse, computerized journals, and journal phone apps.  Trips to Barnes and Noble and Borders Books led me to intuitively purchase attractive journals that might come in handy sometime for somebody.  Consequently I bought journals for myself and gave them as gifts to the unassuming.  This was very fun, and I still believe in the power of the journal!

But seriously, who’s going to read those dusty volumes about my life after I am dead and they are buried in a heap?  Better yet, who will actively dig through my digital databanks that are secretly filed away and floating on some cyber cloud?  Which descendent with any amount of decency will take on the chore of copying the contents and distributing my words of wisdom at some future and far away family reunion?    In an attempt to spare my posterity of this unpleasant responsibility, I have decided to close the books of my life and stow them away in a pretty little box with a heart embellished lid.  My journals have served their purpose well; however, it is time to move on to something more practical…

I’m throwing a Popcorn Party!  And YOU are invited!!!  Come and nibble one kernel at a time or choke down a handful with a gulp of your favorite beverage.  Read my words and relish them.  Challenge them. Ignore them.  Hate them.  It really doesn’t matter to me what you do with my words.  They are mine, and I choose to share them now, not later.   So, accept the invitation to join me in deliberations about Life and Living!  Stop by for the popcorn, and enjoy the party!