509 - 9

Today, I start the ninth year of putting my ideas out into the world. I created this blog after experiencing a time of no creativity. I did a whopping two posts before forgetting about it for a year. In that time I changed jobs, turned forty, and discovered that I couldn’t care less about people being offended by my sarcasm. I started having fun writing.

Now, nine years and 508 posts later I’m still going at it and have added two, more focused, blogs to this one. I have one that is my weekly reflection the Bible lectionary (my sermon in 500 words) for the week and another that is reflection on professional topics.

The most viewed post discussed my lament at seeing way too much girl crack in a short period of time. It taught me much about how to market a post for attracting views, but there have been many times I have considered deleting the post.

To date, my favorite posts involved my contacts with Jack Links meat snacks. I actually emailed them about the wording on their package, and they replied. The phrase, “The meat contained herein is for personal use only,” with a clip-art of a surprised looking bull, became an iron-on stencil for the shirt I wore at my fortieth birthday party.

As a mental health professional working in the field of education it would be easy to be be brought to despair with the challenges faced by so many of our students. I prefer to find the joy in even small successes. Getting one of my students to double-over in laughter makes everything I do in the day worthwhile. Because I know my students, I get to do this more often one might imagine.

Laughter is the best medicine. The more I delve into the ridiculous aspects of life (mostly packaging), I believe that is true. In the last eight years, I have laughed hard enough that I had to stop typing. I hope some of the readers have too. I look forward to more years of laughter (and eating well if you follow my recipes).

Au Gratin Potatoes My Way

My dad is a meat and potatoes kind of man. Every meal we had offered some kind of meat. Almost every meal had potatoes in some form. Even though I grew up in one of the largest rice-producing counties in the nation, I did not begin to eat rice regularly or appreciate it until I was nearly forty and had moved away from that county. Even though I grew up with them at nearly every meal, I rarely eat potatoes. As a result, most of the “fresh” potatoes I purchase at the grocery store go bad before I get around to using them.

Such was the result with some baking potatoes I purchased a while back (6-8 weeks). I do like baked potatoes because by the time I am done adding butter, sour cream, cheese, bacon, chives, garlic, etc. etc. etc. the potato is almost indistinguishable.  Even though I do like baked potatoes, these had begun to shrivel and future potato plants began to shoot from the various eyes. I almost threw them away, but reference to au gratin potatoes in a recent cooking show prompted me to get creative with old potatoes.

Most of my memories of potatoes au gratin were ones that came from a box.

That’s what I get for growing up in the 1970’s.

I decided to pretend I was on a slow-motion version of Chopped and make a good homemade version of au gratin potatoes from scratch with the ingredients I had on hand.

First, I peeled the potatoes removing the shriveling skin and the growths emanating from each eye.

Then I soaked them in a salt water bring. (In this case for a day because I was busy and did not get back to them). The salt water helped to get flavor into the potato and they firmed back up to about 90% of fresh potato rigidity.

I rinsed each potato. Then using my mandolin adjusted to the thinnest slice possible (in the future I will use the middle setting) I sliced the potatoes and let them soak in a fresh, warm, salt-water bath for a few hours.

During the times the potatoes were soaking and regaining their turgor, I searched online for various au gratin recipes. Combining the various recipes I settled on a sauce that agreed with my taste (and what I keep on hand):

1.5 C half-and-half

Garlic powder

Onion powder

Salt

Pepper

Cayenne pepper powder

Diced garlic

1 TBS flour

Cheese (in this case Monterey Jack)

As I put the dish together, I began by coating the pan with olive oil. I used a 2-quart casserole (but in the future will go with a larger, shallower pan – took too long to cook through and I was hungry). I layered in a couple layers of potatoes (they were potato-chip thin), then spooned a coating of the sauce. I repeated three times then sprinkled a layer of cheese.

I continued the process until I used all the potatoes. I poured all remaining sauce on top (it soaked through and filled the empty spaces).

Oh – no cheese on top yet.

I covered the pan (a lid or aluminum foil – whichever work best) and cooked it for four hours at 250 degrees (the reason I am using a shallower pan next time). Once the potatoes were done through, I uncovered the pan to get a layer of crisp on the top. As soon as the potatoes were well-browned, I added a healthy layer of grated cheese. Put the pan back in until the cheese is melted and starting to brown.

Done.

Making au gratin potatoes takes a bit more time and effort than I put into most dishes that come from my kitchen, but for these results, it is all worth it.

Seasons of Life

I am tired of people dying.

Fourteen deaths of people I knew well in the space of a year has taken its toll on me.

I do not want to be around anyone right now.

I am tired of living in many different stages of grief simultaneously.

Of course I am certain that most of those I know who died were much less ready to die than I was to grieve their deaths.

The flood of frustration at how much grief has driven my emotions the last year spilled over upon receiving word recently that a wonderful former co-worker had reached the final hours of her life after a lengthy battle with cancer. She, like another co-worker who died this year, was much too young.

I have never been one to display grief. I am comfortable enough with life and death that I found being with people as they took their last breath a beautiful and holy experience.  My year working for a hospice was a great experience as I learned that dying was not an unbearable experience; rather it was a very full time spent completing life. After being in the presence of people in their last hours, I do not fear death and I have long demonstrated a quick recovery from grief at any loss.

It took me a year to realize it, but since the death of a childhood friend’s father last year, I have been in grief though I fought hard to deny it. I have shaped myself as the caregiver not the caregiven. I finally mentioned it to a co-worker who also has a mental health background and her response was, “ You need a week away from people.” I laughed because that is exactly what I planned to do over spring break until I hurt my back. I did spend three days on my back recovering from the injury, but it was not the kind of isolation I needed to have to process the grief issues I was contemplating.

Since hiding from people for  a week is not really an option, I am seeking some other ways to deal with it.  The nature of my job, especially this time of year, requires more than a 40-hour week - and as it is nearing the end of the school year, the workload increases even more.

I have to accept the realization that I have entered a season of my life in which I will face the death of many of the “adults” I knew growing up. I cannot change that, but I can change to a more healthy response to the grief that is coming. Each of the fourteen people who died in the last year, influenced me and many others around me. There is not one thing I can do to work through the grief, but there is something I can do in respect of their influence. I just have to spend the time deciding what to do for each.

Generations

My last living grandparent died March 25, 2013 at the age of 97. Some friends and co-workers were extending their condolences until the heard the “97” part. I have to give them some freedom to feel that way. There are very few people I know who are 46 (like me) and who still have living grandparents. Most of my friends of a like age have lost one of both parents.Indeed, I recognized how blessed I have been to have my grandparents as long as I had them all. Rather than being bogged down in grief, I celebrate the family connections I have.

     After learning the news of my grandmother’s death, I paused to say a little prayer and then went on with my day.

In all honesty, I was never as close to this set of grandparents growing up as I was to my other set of grandparents who lived down the road from me. I saw them every couple of summers when we went to Minnesota on vacation. I only ever saw my paternal grandparents a handful of times. Still, as I went through the day, grandma’s death weighed on my mind much more than I expected it would.

Today as I was cleaning some things off the desk in my home office, I came across the last letter I received from her. One of my fondest memories of her was the certainty that I would receive a birthday and Christmas card from her with a letter updating me on everything that was going on in her life.  For a person over 90, she stayed busy. The last time I saw her, she and I spent time cleaning out an aunt’s flower bed as the spring plants were getting ready to sprout.

Because I saw my paternal grandmother so rarely growing up, I am not mourning her in the same way I mourned my maternal grandparents. My grief this time is focused on the passing of a generation. She was the last grandparent I (and many of my cousins) had. The elder status has moved down to my parents’ generation, and will, in time move down to mine. It is the progression of ages.

One reason I am thinking so much about the idea of generations in the family is that there are cousins who live (or at least were raised) in Minnesota whom I have never met. They were born after I made my last visit in 1985. Visits with my relatives since then have either occurred when they passed through Austin or when I made my way up to Wichita. How will the hierarchy work in the coming generations? That I do not know many of my cousins is not unusual among my friends. Like me, because the family lives so far apart, there are relatives they have never seen.

I always wonder when I am traveling whether or not I am randomly passing by a unknown cousin. I have run into old college acquaintances in airports; I suppose a cousin would be just as likely. The cousins I have never seen are much harder to recognize.

With luck, I will be attending a conference in Minneapolis in the next few months and will have the chance to connect with some of those cousins I have not seen since the mid-80’s. (or ever). Perhaps through those contacts, the next generations can remain connected - at least somewhat as what has always been a very large family continues to grow.

Connected

Every once in awhile I get to have one of those weeks that defies all expectations. The past week has been one of those.

I had high expectations for the conference I attended in Chicago. Several co-workers had attended the same conference some times before and they all had raves for the information they gained from the sessions and the resources. I went looking forward to some sessions that were very topical to the work I did on a daily basis. Mostly I went hoping to meet in person some of the professionals I had chosen to follow as a part of my PLN (Personal/Professional Learning Network). Based on their output through various social media sites, I learned to value the information they shared and have followed their online sharing of personal learning and the learning of others through links.

I have gained more from them in the last few months than I have in the last few years of professional development sessions. They have the answers I need when I need them.

They are uncannily perceptive sometimes - even though they do not know me.

My hopes were not dashed. I had the opportunity to spend far more time with my internet idols than I expected. At best I had hoped to recognize them in passing and introduce myself. Instead, I spent several hours with them in conversation and they introduced me to even more. In addition to the volumes of information I had learned on their Internet output, I learned even more with them and even gained some ideas about future work to do here in Austin.

While I expected valuable information in conversation with them, a random conversation at the hotel bar provided the biggest surprise. It started with the bartender asking me a bit of television trivia (because I looked like a smart guy) and ended in conversation with the person who originally posed the question. The conversation did not stay trivial for long and by the end of the evening he promised to send me the introductory parts of the manuscript for a book he was writing. The story he has to tell is one every educator should read when considering the smart kid who just does not do his work. There is always more to the story than we know and he provides a face for the rest of the story.

He actually sent the manuscript to me and we have maintained an email dialogue since then.

People who know me well know how difficult it is for me to talk to new people.  As a professional, the need to connect exceeds my natural shyness - that is one reason I like the opportunities that exist in social media (Twitter, Facebook, Google+). They suffice to initially make contact with others until the point that they are no longer strangers. After reaching that point, the face-to-face is a comfortable next-step rather than a mandated social norm. Being of the age and generation that I am, I do still long for the personal connection despite my initial shyness. As valuable as my virtual friends are, there is something special about a face-to-face conversation that surpasses the screen-to-screen text chats.

The biggest challenge in the last week has been keeping up with and doing something with the new knowledge and connections. While I get it all processed I think sleep will just have to wait.

Sight for the Sites

         The topic of aging has dominated much of my life lately. Just as I recovered from pulling a muscle in my back, I had to pack for a conference in Chicago. Instead of being concerned about what clothes to wear, my thoughts rested on glasses.

         Specifically – how many pair to pack.

         During the last three conferences I have attended I have had to pay the elevated rates hotels charge for everything reading glasses as I have managed to break the pair I took with me. The absence of reading glasses renders me useless at a conference. If you have not attended a conference lately, there is much reading involved. Much of that increasingly on a small screen (there is and app for that – check your smart-phone application market and you can find a conference app for almost every major conference – and small ones techy people attend).

         In addition to the conference planner/tips/etc. app for the smart phone, people still provide paper handouts of their 64 PowerPoint slides. There are also menus in unfamiliar restaurants.

         I opted for the side of caution, and after seeing how much space was available, by packing three pair – one in each bag and the pair I wore. I am determined to see my way through the entire conference with my inexpensive drug-store readers rather than the imported designer readers the hotel will sells.

To-Do List Undone

         I have a hard time relaxing in the way most people define relaxing even when I have days off. For spring break I made a lengthy list of spring cleaning chores to do around the house. Everything necessary - weather, time, materials - lined up to make completion of the list a possibility. I came into the week mentally drained but physically charged. The physical labor is what I needed to relax following a stressful month.

The attractive results (flower beds and vegetable garden) of the labor were just an added bonus.

         Then I started unloading the gardening supplies.

         Doing anything on the list came to an immediate halt while I carried a 64 quart bag of potting soil. I turned to go around the corner of my house and felt pain shoot across my lower back and down my legs. I was not lifting. I was not lowering. I was just walking.

         This is the third time in just over a year that I have hurt my back. As much as I hate going to the gym, this is a wake-up call that I have to get in and work on my core strength. Like it or not, I am aging and I have to do more to take care of my body to keep it functioning the way I expect it to.

         Two days later I was still just sitting. Aspercreme, Aleve, Ibuprofen and a folded towel behind my back. Two days of anything but relaxation.

The worst thing about sitting around for over two days with a to-do list going undone is that that it only increases my stress level. I looked forward to the physical activity releasing my mental stress. Having my hands dirty and breathing the outdoor air does wonders for my mental state.

         The interruption does exactly the opposite.

         I have been able to fill the time reading, writing, and discovering there is absolutely nothing on television worth watching.

         I have found some professional Twitter discussions to join.

         I cannot just sit here and do nothing productive. Even if I am not completing the to-do list, I find options to replace it.

         My landscaping may be left wanting, but I am a few months ahead on my blog work (yes, I do some things in draft well in advance) and I am well into a couple books of professional reading. Considering those things I am finding some positive use for my time confined to the chair.

         Another positive to the time in the chair was that I healed more quickly than if I had tried to power through and do what physical labor I could. By the fourth day I was moving almost normally. I still winced from time to time as I made a move my body was not ready to make, but I was able to pack for a trip (I was able to make the trip after fearing for a few days that I would have to cancel) and leave the house somewhat orderly for my return.

         The garden to-do list remains undone. Here we have a very short spring before withering summer heat diminishes the productivity of most garden plants. Until it is complete, I am keeping my weekends free and I am avoiding anything over twenty-five pounds.

Indestructible: Not

         My dog cannot read. I keep buying toys for him which have labels that say they are “indestructible” and “tear resistant.” Within hours the toy stuffing is scattered around the house resembling a light winter snow. Again today I had to sweep the carpet of toy fragments before vacuuming the pieces that threatened to be ground permanently into the carpet.

         Most of the labels are in English and Spanish. They need to start writing them in Canine.

         Whenever I bring home a new indestructible toy, my roommate and I make bets on how long it will last. Some number of hours is the standard wager.

         Little did I know I was being prophetic when I named the dog “Bart” after the hyperactive, misadventure-prone middle child of The Simpsons. I should have picked something heroic, but Superman, Batman, Aquaman and Wonder Woman just did not seem appropriate for the energetic puppy. That puppy has grown into the name and has maintained puppy levels of energy like no dog I have ever owned. I had never encountered a Pug/Boston Terrier cross before, so I had no idea what I was in for.

         Clearly the toy manufacturers have never encountered one either. Whenever I first present him with a new toy that contains any kind of stuffing, he strategically picks a point to start chewing and persists until he has worked his way through the fabric, and then, just like with a runner in hose, he rips a hole large enough for him to pluck out every thread of filling. He remains perfectly happy with the floppy dismembered shreds of fabric and will carry it around like a trophy and bring it to us for play.

         I am probably cursing myself by writing it, but also like his namesake, Bart is genuinely good at heart and far smarter than he is given credit for being. He routinely destroys his toys, but he does not touch other items around the house that could be destroyed and could be mistaken for one of his toys. He knows what is safe to touch and what is not.

         A truly indestructible pet toy has become my holy grail. Like the elusive vessel for crusaders of history, it remains undiscovered. Despite the setbacks to date, I keep pressing forward, certain that it will be found. Until then, my broom and vacuum stay busy.

Pacing Myself

         I like to think of myself as a witty and clever person. To be entirely honest though, it comes in fits and spurts. I have moments when my mind explodes with puns equal to O’Henry, witticisms that would make Dorothy Parker proud, and wordplay that would make George Carlin smirk. I want everyone else to think I am as witty and clever as I think I am, so I have to find ways to parse out my wit and wisdom in digestible bites.

         Why am I telling this if I want to protect my secrets?

         This week’s Lenten scriptures are all about repentance and confession.

         And the three people who read this are not likely to blow my cover.

         Because my cleverness comes in such bursts, I have started using technology to preserve the creativity until an appropriate time. I have to pace myself. While the creativity comes in waves, the dispensation of that creative wisdom must be measured and steady. I have discovered how to use the voice and notes program on my phone to record exceptional thoughts. I have a half-dozen blog posts sitting in draft form as I season them with just enough creativity to (hopefully) not be a waste of bandwidth.

         I have also been perfecting my use of TweetDeck. It lets me type the tweet and schedule it for a later time. That way my Twitter feed does not get overwhelmed with my witticisms and my Facebook timeline does not spam all my dear friends by filling up their timeline with an incomprehensible volume of genius.

         I am nice like that.

         On top of being witty and clever.

Blood, Bug Bites, and Dirt Under My Nails

         I know spring has arrived when I get the irresistible urge to trim the shrubs in my yard and till the soil in my garden. It has nothing to do with the swelling buds and greening grass and lengthening days: it is about whacking bushes and hacking at dirt.

         I know spring has arrived when my arms are bloody and covered with scratches, my ankles itch from fire-ant bites, and my muscles are so sore I can barely get out of my recliner to eat or do any of the myriad chores required around a house on a given day. It has nothing to do with flowers blooming and birds singing, and warming afternoons (we had those all winter – it is Texas after all): it is about blood, bug bites, and dirt under my nails.

         The arrival of spring comes a bit differently for those of us who are connected to the land. The pleasantness of the season comes from a much deeper place than just the arrival of better weather and the return to life. For me, spring allows me to become more involved with the earth, producing fruitful bounty from the garden. I watch physical change take place through the course of my labors. For a person whose career focuses far more on mental labor than physical labor, such physical exertion and reward provides a dramatically different sense of satisfaction.

         At my job it may take years before I see any tangible result of the work I have done.

         In my garden it only takes weeks before I get to enjoy the tangible results of the work I have done.

         When I experience the results of my job, I know I have done a good thing.

         When I experience the results of my physical labor, I taste a good thing.

         This year the irresistible urge to pull out the garden shears corresponds with the beginning of Lent. The coinciding of the time for spiritual rebirth and growth with the time of rebirth and growth in the natural world (in the northern hemisphere) today helped me have the alone time I need to focus on both physical and spiritual growth of the season.

         As I trimmed the shrubs I noticed how the trimming from previous years led to more lush plants. Just below the previous cut two or more sprouts had come forth. Cutting those, led to even more sprouts. Lent reminds me that I too need to be trimmed. Removing some of the clutter that clogs my mind and consumes my energy frees my mind to take up a new spiritual discipline.

         The cutting away does not just remove; it allows for adding on.

         One shrub, one I treat most harshly when it comes to the trimming, was this year the tallest in my garden. I cut it to the ground each year hoping it will die because it does not make a very attractive plant. It has beautiful blooms in that brief period of summer when it does bloom; the rest of the time it is a gangly overreaching bush. Perhaps it is fittingly called “esperanza.”

         Translated to English, esperanza (Spanish), means hope, expectation, promise, anticipation, and confidence.

         Isn’t that just like hope – to be so resilient? Despite being easily thrown away hope keeps coming back. During the season of Lent as I seek to renew my spirit and come even closer to God, I want to grow my hope. It may not be the prettiest gift around, but it helps me through when so many other qualities are found wanting.

         A little more time digging in the dirt and shaping the plants in my yard are just what my garden needs. Those are the same things my spirit needs.