HOPE. DREAMS AND THE ECONOMY

The holiday rush seems to have come to an end. The parking lots at the local malls are no longer filled to capacity. All that remains are the sky-high piles of snow turned a dirty grey.  Rick has been asked to stay on as a part-time associate at the Boston Store so I have retained my job as chauffer in our one car family. On occasion, I’ll arrive a little early and stroll through the mall’s halls, its then I have the time to contemplate the state of what is.

During the holiday season, Santa sat on his throne with a line of parents holding eager little believers waiting to tell Santa their most dreamed of present for under their tree. Shoppers jostled the corridors with bags from the Gap and Sears. Gene Autry’s Christmas songs floated continuously over the heads of shoppers out walking the mall. Things felt good. Retailers were wearing smiling masks.

Last night, when I went to pick Rick up, a little before closing, I pulled the Ford Escort into a spot close to the door. The temperature had dropped to the single digits. I was glad the lot wasn’t full. By the time I got inside I was chilled to the bone even though the walk had been short. Inside the mall Gene Autry’s songs of Christmas had been replaced with the innocuous sounds of muzac as workers disinterestedly dismantled Santa’s village in the middle of the mall. The bustle of before had dissipated into a trickle of shoppers and a few groups of teenagers hanging out looking bored as they aimlessly traversed the mall from one end to the other and back again. It was then I noticed the smiley masks had come off the retailers. The gates had come down on some of the establishments you’d expect to have faded away; the Christmas specific stores and kiosks were the first to fold for the season, but there were many more unexpected gates now down and padlocked for a final time. Zales Jewelry had emptied its cases of all its gems and watches. The signs outside its doors had been ripped off leaving big pockmarks on the mall walls. As I stood in Claire’s while Emmy contemplated how to spend her gift card I heard the manager of Buddy Squirrel tell her friend at Claire’s that they would be closing the following day and transferring her to the Hilldale store. It seemed the more I looked around the more “For Rent” signs were being posted where stores selling menswear and eyeglasses and things for the home had been only a few days before.

Rick and I had been discussing goals and both of us were leaning toward opening a store of our own, a small store with an office for our design business in the back. To succeed in Madison you need a brick and mortar presence. It’s always important to have a goal no matter what stage of life you are at or what your present state of affairs might be, even when that goal seems so far in the distance. So now I’m taking inspiration from a republican candidate for the soon to be vacant democratic senatorial seat from Connecticut, Linda McMahon. The inspiration is in the process, not the results. I have yet to metamorphosize from a democrat to a republican. However, this woman and her family went from bankruptcy and watching her home and belongs being auctioned off to becoming the CEO of the World Wrestling Entertainment organization. When someone can turn smoke and mirrors into millions it paves the way for us to dream our dreams and to dream big when we may have very little.

This year the artist, Robert Indiana, changed his signature message of sixties “Love” to a new message for twenty-ten “Hope”. With so many obstacles yet to overcome, we’re committed to staying on the horse and turning our misfortune into opportunity under the guiding wing of hope.

MY GUILTY PLEASURE

Okay, I’m going to confess a big secret. I’ve got a guilty pleasure. It's football. I’m addicted to it. It’s such a Wisconsin thing. Back in New York I could ignore it. My beloved Packers and Badgers weren’t constantly available. They weren’t the headlines in the local papers, you could only see them on TV if they were playing a New York team or were featured on Monday Night Football and they weren’t ever discussed on the radio which I rarely listened to in New York anyway. But now I’m like a kid in a candy shop devouring every Wisconsin sports page, glued to the TV on Saturdays for the Badgers and Sundays for the Packers. I even joined a football pool with fifty other friends of my brother-in-law who now had me following the entire NFL and AFC outcomes. And worst of all I got sucked into ESPN radio which blares out of my mother’s Ford Escort speakers both front and back during my constant driving in a city where it’s impossible to get anywhere by foot. So as I cart Emmy to school, Rick to work and my mom to elder daycare I subject them all to “Mike and Mike in the Morning” and “The Herd”. I love Mike and Mike. They’re forever discussing the defensive moves of Atari Bigby, A.J. Hawk, and Clay Matthews or the receiving acrobatics of Nick Toon, players whose names gave them no other option than becoming football athletes. Then there’s Colin Cowherd, the ultra-conservative, deranged host of the nine to one ESPN time slot, “The Herd”. This guy knows how to push all my buttons. Dissin’ the Big Ten, telling me the Packers won’t get beyond round one of the play-offs, and then going off on tangents about how all conservatives die happy and liberals depress themselves into early graves. WHAT!!! That’s when I have to go back to my old standby, Wisconsin Public Radio, and listen to scintillating conversations on backyard bird counting and how to choose a wood fired boiler. WPA will get me through a good two to four minutes before boredom forces me to go back to Mr. Cowherd. Yesterday’s off-track train wreck derailed me completely. His triad went on about the correlation between serial killers and the name “Lee”. Piss me off, Cowherd!

“Ya know some people are fascinated with hot cars, and some are into the whole Vegas thing, keep that putter in your golf bag Tiger. Well, I can’t help it but I’m really all over this serial killer thing. Did you ever know how many of them are named “Lee”, It’s just weird, don’t ya think?”

This just pushed my buttons to the point I almost had to pull off the road and start punching the steering wheel.

“Come on, Lee Harvey Oswald goes and shots JFK. That Zodiac Killer, what was his name? Oh ya, Arthur “LEE” Allen. Ooh, ooh then there’s Robert Lee Yates, that one up in Spokane and Lee Boyd Malvo, the DC sniper.” He was giddy by this point. What the heck any of this had to do with sports was beyond me until he started attributing stats to these guys.

“Did you know that the first female serial killer was named Aileen “Lee” Wuornos and Ted Bundy hid out in Lee County and the biggest killer of them all was Henry Lee Lucas. I’m just saying…If you’re thinking of naming your kid “Lee” you might want to think again”. Now I’m thinking the whole world is going start jumping to the other side of street every time I walk by. I should be thankful I’m in Wisconsin where walking the streets happens only rarely and not back in New York where I walked everywhere. 

“Now let me ask you this, all you employers. Say you’re out there hiring a secretary and all things being equal, your two candidates are Nancy Lee and Betty Sue, which one are you gonna hire? I’m going with Betty Sue if ya know what I mean”. As if finding a job hasn’t been hard enough, it now looks like I’m going to have to introduce myself by my real name.

“Hi, I’m LeRoy.”

Will the harassment ever end.

WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR SHRIVELED APPLES

It was a late start to winter this year. The leaves didn’t begin to turn until well into October, way beyond the normal fleeing time of mid-September when they lose their hold and float to the ground. The smell of apples and pumpkins saturated the country air long after the turkey had been carved into leftover sandwiches. And when the leaves finally did fall they left a tableau of unpicked golden globes suspended from silhouetted dark gnarly branches against a snowy landscape like Christmas ornaments on Halloween trees. With no available budget to decorate the house during the Christmas season, Rick’s ingenuity had us collect the apples and turn them into beautiful wreathes and centerpieces for the dining table. As the holiday waned and the needles began to fall from the tree, the apples started their shriveling decline. In an attempt to be green, both environmentally and economically, I decided not to throw them out but to use them to make applesauce. We may be poor but we can still eat well. Here's my recipe for apples on the verge of  collapse.

MY RECIPE FOR THE BEST APPLESAUCE:

Making anything, especially in the kitchen, will take longer than you think if you’re like me and need to consult “Cooking for Dummies” when it comes to boiling water. So if you cook like me plan on about an hour and a half from start to finish.

INGREDIENTS

Approximately 4 lbs of apples just on the verge of going bad

1/4 cup of dark brown sugar

1/4 cup of pure cane sugar

Several cinnamon sticks (the Mexican kind are the best)

A small handful of cloves

One cup of water

The peel of one lemon stripped with a vegetable peeler

The juice from that same lemon

A dash of salt

First quarter and core all of your apples. Leave the skins on (its were you’ll find most of the flavor). Then cut them into smaller pieces and dump them into a pot.

Peel the skin off your lemon and add that to the pot, then squeeze in the lemon juice.

Now dump all of the remaining ingredients into the pot and give it a couple of stirs.

Place the pot on the stove, cover it, and bring the whole thing to a boil.

After the contents come to a boil turn the heat down to simmer and leave for 25 minutes stirring a few times.

When the apples start to look like mush, take the pot off the stove and pick out the cloves, lemon rind and cinnamon sticks, they were there for flavor not for consumption.

Take a potato masher and beat the heck out of the remaining mixture.

You can serve it hot or cold. I prefer mine warm with a big scoop of vanilla yogurt. If you live on the wild side you can spike your sauce with some brandy. Store what you don't eat in the fridge or if you aren't going to devour it in next thirty days put the whole thing in your freezer. It’ll last in there for up to a year. Bon Appetit!

LESSON 16:

When life presents you with shriveled apples, make the best of it.

THE BIG LESSON OF 2009

Life’s experiences are supposed to be lessons in how to succeed at the art of living. The experiences may guide us to a path of success or lead us down a dead end, but whatever the result we learn from either road taken. For me the roads followed in 2009 have been bumpy at best, filled with potholes for the most part and even ending in huge sinkholes at their very worst, but the lesson I’ve taken from this is the best way to survive is to forget, forgive and go on. I can’t change the past. My reality is based on what happened and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I need to take what I can from what happened and then move forward. The worst thing you can do is to dwell on past failures, injustices, or mistakes and make them the focus of your future. It’ll only turn you into a bitter person, the guy at work with a chip on his shoulder, the woman walking around jealous of her peers, the ones who think the world owes them the respect they don’t deserve.

I wouldn’t want to erase the past even if I could. I want to learn from it and find a way to make it make me stronger. Here’s to the challenge of making a new year into a new opportunity and like a phoenix rising from the ashes transforming our setbacks into a means for growth.

Cheers!

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE THE NIGHT BEFORE

‘Twas the day before Christmas, (well for the sake of accuracy it was really the day before Christmas Eve) and all through my wallet

Not a sawbuck was stirring; nothing would fall out of it;

The food for Christmas Eve dinner, still needed to be bought

And we all decided to hit up Grandma, to purchase the lot.

I’m no Clement Clarke Moore.

Our family tradition has always centered around Christmas Eve. This is the time we all get together for our gift exchange and dinner. Up until mom was no longer able to remember which day of the week it was without the aid of the morning paper, Christmas Eve dinner and a glass of eggnog always happened at her house. Now we go to my sister Sandy’s.

This year the economy changed the magnitude of the event but the individual traditions held fast. The first event, the making of Christmas Eve dinner, was to begin at three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve day. We were originally all going to chip in and divvy up the costs of the meal. This required at lot of pre-meal preparation with phone calls and meetings deciding on a menu and then picking the grocery stores with the best holiday prices. Piggly Wiggly had the best price on beef tenderloin but Woodmans still beat the competition with their low, low prices on Brussels sprouts and the ingredients for a chocolate soufflé. We managed to get the pre-purchase food list down to under $100 for fifteen adults and three children. Try and match that one New York.

Just prior to purchase, my youngest sister Boni, the executor of my mother’s finances, in an act of extreme holiday generosity decided the money for dinner should come out of my mom’s account. This was a windfall for the Shaver/Melahn clan. The problem became the transfer of the money. We were down to the eleventh hour. Boni had the money, an ice storm was coming and I had self-appointed myself the purchasing agent for the ingredients. At approximately 1:00pm on December 23^rd, after several hours of plotting and scheming, we came up with a plan. My middle sister, Ebby (by now just about every sibling had been given a role in this drama) would pick up my mom from my brother’s studio, get the money in twenty dollar unmarked bills from my sister Boni and deposit it in a bank envelop at my mom’s where I would go and pick it up before I went on the food buying spree. It was a little complicated but doable. The only problem in our otherwise brilliant plan was my mom. If we left the money with her there was no telling what she might do with it. That’s when we struck on a deliciously devious idea. Shortly after arriving at my mom’s house, Ebby would distract her, run downstairs and put the envelope with the money in a refrigerator safely hidden in a dark corner behind the downstairs bar. If anyone has seen the money burning stove scene between Debbie Reynolds and Harve Presnell in “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” you might have a hint as to where this story is headed. The week before we had all gone over to mom’s house to make peanut butter balls and sugar cookies. I had to put five trays of balls and two trays of cookies in that same unattended refrigerator and let them cool for the next seventy-two hours. If my mom’s love of chocolate and peanut butter couldn’t sniff out those balls we figured it was the safest place to stash the bundle of cash. All our plans seemed to be working like clock work until I arrived at my mom’s house under the pretense of picking up a soufflé dish for the Christmas Eve dinner. It was early evening on the twenty-third by this time. The ice storm was in its infancy. I had time to make the run to Woodmans and get back to Sandy’s house with the goods before the roads became a real danger.

“Hi mom, I just need to borrow a dish for tomorrow’s dinner. Remember tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh no, it’s not! Where’s my tree? I always have a tree”, and the debate went on.

At my first opportunity:

 I ran down the stairs and opened the frig.

When what to my wondering eyes didn’t appear?

No cash.

Visions of disappointment ran through my head.

 My thoughts went to: Ebby, how could you forget to stash the money? Had I screwed up and misunderstood the hiding place? I went back through that whole refrigerator: vegetable crisper, butter compartment, on top of the frig, underneath, the freezer compartment - no envelope. I called Ebby and then I remembered Boni and she were going out for drinks after work. What were my chances she would hear her cell phone over the din of Christmas revelers at the Horseshoe Bar and Grill? The answer was, of course, not a chance in hell. Now under normal circumstances I would just go to Woodmans, purchase the food and get the money back later, but these were no longer normal times. No job, no cash, no credit, no shopping. I’d have to wait until later that evening, drive over to Ebby's house and get the cash then. I kept calling all through the evening but to no avail. Time was becoming a real factor. I’d have to wait until a new day dawned,

Now we had moved into the day of Christmas Eve. I was down to eight hours and counting. With an unsteady hand, after having taken Rick to work at the ungodly hour of 5:45am on the ice covered streets, I dialed Ebby one more time. She’s a late sleeper and I couldn’t rouse her. In a panic I called Boni. Success! Someone answered my call.

“Bon, I can’t reach Ebby and I can’t find the money. She must have forgotten to put it there. Did she say anything when you saw her yesterday?”

“I know she said she put the money in the frig.”

Now the sleuthing had to begin in earnest. If Ebby had left the money and no bandits had entered the house, the only person of interest would have to be – MOM! Maybe her nose for the smell of money was stronger than her sense for the scent of sweets. I raced and swerved my way back over the ice to the scene of the crime to confront my number one suspect.

“Okay mom, what’d you do with the two hundred dollars stashed away in the refrigerator?”

Without a blink of her eye she retorted, “What money? I didn’t see any money!” As if stashing cash in a refrigerator was where one would normal put their money.

“Mom, Ebby left me two hundred dollars in a bank envelop in the downstairs refrigerator for tonight’s Christmas Eve dinner.”

“Well it’s not Christmas Eve, I don’t have a tree. “

I started rifling through the house looking for any clues that might lead me to the money. The mattress was too heavy for her to lift so I ruled out that hiding place. The undies drawer only held the unmentionables like her granny pants and a bunch of brassieres. I was starting to panic thinking maybe the paper boy had gotten a really big bonus when I spotted a bank envelop on the kitchen counter. To the horror of my mom I grabbed the envelop with one of those gritted teeth expressions of I told you so racing across my face only to find the envelop empty. No cash, and that’s when Florence’s eyes went from incomprehension to a stare of total recognition. Her eyes went from my enraged redden face to the oversized five pound ceramic Italian platter we had brought back for her one Christmas past. There, peeking out from under the corner and only visible from her vantage point was the corner of another bank envelop. Inside was the two hundred dollars and the knowledge Christmas Eve dinner would happen against some mighty stiff odds.

Mom smiled, “Well that’s weird, I don’t know how that got there.”

TEN REASONS FOR ME TO BE GLAD I'M ME

Starting the day after the turkey carcass had been carted away the dreams of my youth turned to visions of Christmas Eve and what Santa would be leaving under the tree.  Forget about the next twenty days of school I was in a daze doodling in my notebooks sketches of Santa’s bag filled with gifts. I couldn’t think about anything else as the anticipation grew with the passing of each new December day. As the years passed my childish excitement remained even after I discovered Santa was really mom and dad. Even as I grew into the shoes of a young man I retained the joy coming from the anticipation of Christmas. The focus changed from the wide-eyed glee of receiving to the thrill that comes with the delight of giving. Now as a parent the joy comes from seeing the holiday through the eyes of my child. Her stages of Christmas have mirrored my own so far. As a toddler we watched her eyes light up with joy as she surveyed Santa’s bounty under the tree. Then as she grew and began to understand that Santa really was two not so chubby men named Rick and Lee she kept up with the spirit of the holiday and, like we had hoped, began to understand the concept of it being better to give than receive. But this Christmas has put a whole new spin on the meaning of giving and receiving. It’s harder on all of us to see through to the magic of the holiday. As hard as I try to keep the spirit going I find myself slipping into moments of melancholy and self-pity, not memories I want my kid to have to share, so with this in mind I am giving out my 2009 ten reasons for why I’m glad I’m me as a way of pushing my mood over into gratefulness and away from an everything stinks attitude.

Here goes:

10. Kate Gosselin. Without the wedding ring and eight kids’ Christmas wishes to satisfy I’m glad I’m not walking in her shoes to say nothing about having to step in front of the camera with that chicken tail hairdo.

9. Anyone living in the Hamptons. I know this shows my snobby side, but it’s a reverse snobbishness. Last time I was forced into going to East Hampton, a guy in his Alfa Romeo spit on my car just as he stole the parking space I had been waiting for and then he smiled and flipped me the bird. So glad I’m not him.

8. I know a certain guy sleeping on the other side of the bed wouldn’t agree with this one, but my number eight is Martha Stewart. I’m much more Nigella Lawson: messy, earthy and content with a few flaws. Trying to keep up with Martha wares me out. It’s a recipe for success but at what price?

7. Anyone responsible for clearing the snow off of these Wisconsin streets and sidewalks. It’s back-breaking, bone-chilling, barbaric work, all the reasons that make you think twice about Florida.

6. Sarah Palin. Enough said.

5. Rush Limbaugh and all the other angry white men. Who wants to go through life mad at the world? All this agida is only going to bring on early heart attacks or dependencies on pain-killing drugs. Maybe this is God’s way of telling them to shut up and enjoy the ride.

4. My mom. She’s approaching the point where she’s not quite sure who these young girls are making Christmas cookies in her kitchen. It’s heartbreaking to look at her blank stare as she tries to recall the names of her granddaughters.

3. What would a list for 2009 be without Tiger Woods? I’ve long since past the time where I could even dream of trying to keep up with his libido. I wonder who’s on his gift list?

2. Any one foolish enough to want to be a “Real Housewife”. First of all I won’t wear a wig or dye my hair an unnatural shade of platinum blond no matter how far back my hairline recedes. Wanting the spotlight has its limits and doing this blog is about as far as I’ll go in exposing my dirty laundry.

1. Anyone who doesn’t have a daughter named Emmy, a partner who stretches my good side and helps with my flaws, a family of siblings who watch my back, a group of friends who have pitched in far beyond what was asked for or expected to help pull us through a detour on an otherwise blessed life. It’s Christmas Eve, the day during the year when you’re allowed a schmaltzy ending. Happy Holidays to all.

GIFT WRAPPING ON THE CHEAP

THE FIRST IN OUR DESIGN BREAK SERIES

Here are some tips for gift-wrapping for the holiday season and beyond. Tips that can keep your wallet from deflating while inflating your standing among your gift giving peers.

Here’s what you’ll need:

Grocery store paper bags or craft paper (the kind the post office recommends for mailing packages)

Tape (optional if you’re very dexterous and can fold and hold your wrapping while tying it up with your string, twine or ribbon)

String, twine, ribbon or anything else you can find to tie up your package

Rubber stamps and inkpad (optional for the pricier wrappers) – A potato and some coloring agent (food coloring, tempera paint, or anything that will make a stain. This is for the less financially solvent among us)

Colored pencils, watercolors, anything you can draw with (this is also optional and should only be used by those who are artistically inclined or have a very adventurous bent)

Just about anything you can collect from nature (nuts, pinecones, twigs, flowers, etc)

A hot glue gun (optional for the Martha Stewarts out there)

A scissors (again optional but the torn paper technique is not for amateurs and biting your ribbon or string into the desired lengths is not the most efficient way of getting the job done).

First assess the gift you need to wrap. How big is it? Does it need a box and if it does do you have one? Is it an odd shape that will take some mathematical calculations to figure out how much paper will be needed? Trouble shoot before you take yourself down a one way path to a dead end.

Next gather your supplies and keep them close at hand. A clean hard surface is best for wrapping but I frequently end up on the carpeted floor. I like to spread out. If I relegate myself to the dining table my paper either rolls off or I’m knocking the scissors or the tape onto the floor. Most times I just have to let go of the orderly, under control part of wrapping.

If you’re an impoverished wrapper, like I am this season, when asked at your local grocery store “paper or plastic”, say “paper”. You can collect these bags and then unfold them along the glue line. One bag will wrap a normal sized shirt box. If your gift is larger you can tape several bags together or you can buy some craft paper. It’s cheap and one roll will wrap a whole bunch of stuff.

Now to the actual wrapping. Cut the paper as close as you can to the size you need. I wrap the paper around the gift before I actually cut the paper. Most people leave too much extra at the ends so when it comes to closing up the wrapping they end up with these big bulky corners and a big dose of defeat. I personally think a little irregularity is a good thing but if this isn’t your thing then after you’ve wrapped the paper in the first direction look to see how much paper you have to fold at the ends. If the paper exceeds more than two-thirds the length…wait, just stop with the calculations and trim off as much as you need to make a fold without having to double the paper back on itself.

Now, as to folding the paper, always crease whenever you can. Use your thumbs and index fingers to run along any edge. For the neat freaks this will give the cleanest package possible. This is the biggest secret of wrapping: always crease every time you bend your paper or traverse an edge.

Now, like I mentioned in the supplies, you can either use tape or your own ingenuity. I rely on tape. I haven’t reached black belt wrapping status where I can manage without it. I’ve been able to do some small boxes and I’ve done a couple of larger ones without the aid of tape but not without the help of an extra pair of hands.

Now back to the paper. Another reason for the paper bags or the craft paper or even white butcher paper for that matter is it’s plain. If you’re going to move on to the next step, decorating, you best start out with a clean surface. Using a patterned background is only for the pros and then only those with a degree in Matisse. Those with the power to lay pattern over pattern are few and far between. As a side note, if you use a lightweight craft paper or the white butcher paper you may have to use two layers to completely disguise your gift from the snoopy eyes of those friends and relatives looking for a sneak peek.

Now that you’ve mastered the technique of wrapping the decorating part should be fun. You’ve got a blank canvas so get out your rubber stamps, cut a design on the end of a potato or pull out your drawing tools. Wherever your imagination leads you, go with it.

Rubber stamps are the easiest most elegant path to take but you have to go to a craft store and you have to make an initial investment in something you probably won’t be able to find come next year. The effect will be as subtle or bold as the ink you use and the amount of stamps you apply.

Potato prints are the messiest but cheapest way route to take. Keep your shapes simple. Don’t worry about being sloppy sometimes the drips of too much ink or the scratchiness of too dry an ink can have it’s own sort of charm. I made my own paint out of flour, salt and water. You can add food coloring to make a more dramatic statement.

The drawing method, my personal choice, can be as sophisticated or wonderfully childlike as you want or are capable of doing. I like to freehand my designs but if you are uncomfortable with that, trace a tin can bottom and make it into an ornament or draw a triangle and let it represent a tree. It's really easy. The big trick here is always use more than one color on each object you draw. It gives it dimension and lifts it off the paper.

Now you’re ready to tie the masterpiece up with ribbon, twine or whatever you can find. Add a sprig of pine, but only if your giving the gift within the next twenty-four hours, before the pine dries out and the needles fall off. I personally don’t mind just using the bare twig but some people might not see the beauty in this. If you possess the Martha gene then here is where you can get out your glue gun and start attaching your nuts. For all you traditionalists out there you can use the clichéd candy cane and make it novel and new. But the gift I most enjoyed and envied this season is the one my daughter made. It’s like a perfect patchwork of incredibly misfit perfection with bits and pieces of paper and string. Then she left part of the box unwrapped in defiance of convention. It showed real spunk and exquisite beauty.