Extra Special Moms Remain Best Friends Forever

Traditionally, women have been uprooted from family to follow their husbands’ careers, though that may have changed today, back in the 50s it was the norm. Women welcomed one another to town and friendships solidified over back porch chats, coffee clutches and church circles. There is no greater testimony to friendship than my mom, Lenore, and Shirley DeJarnatt, who have been BFF ever since they met half a century ago.

They met when my folks moved to Sterling and they have been friends ever since. Like sisters they talk on the phone almost every day and stop over at one another’s homes to drop by this or that just to chat. They have shared hundreds of meals, thousands of cups of coffee, and millions of stories.

When my mom was leaving the hospital with her newborn, Shirley was arriving to have her first girl. Born just days apart, naturally, those girls, Karen and Michelle, went to become friends to this day even though they now live 400 miles apart.

Shirley raised 3 boys and a girl, whereas my mom had 3 girls and boy. As kids we shared hand me downs and potluck dinners. My first bike used to be Barry’s and I coveted Mark’s fringed, cowboy vest that he finally outgrew so that I could inherit. Eating at DJ’s house was a special treat because they had a “cow machine” where milk squirted out of the spigots and they served homemade ice cream from the hand turned buckets.

When we were in high school, my sister was hired to clean the DJ’s house and Shirley was always calling to ask where Susie put the frying pan, the hair dryer or the phone book.

In later years, long after Shirley’s mom had passed away, she adopted my grandma when Grandma moved from the east coast to live in Sterling. When my mom was out of town, Shirley would check in on Gram Olson and take her to lunch or give her a ride to church.

Whenever my parents returned from long trips, Shirley would fill their refrigerator with groceries, so they wouldn’t have to run out and shop. And oh no, it was not just any ol’ store bought stuff, but extra special treats, homemade chili and BBQ, banana bread and blueberry pie.

When Shirley’s beloved husband, Carson, died, my folks were there holding her hand, helping her let go and staying by her side through the lonely days to follow.

To my own children she became known as the Bear Lady. During Christmas holidays, we visited Shirley’s beautiful home to see her teddy bear collection. Though Shirley had her own 10 grandchildren and 9 great grandchildren, ever so generous, she spoiled my kids too bringing them books and Beanie Babies on their trips to Sterling.

For over a half a century, they belonged to same church where Shirley directed and my mom played the chimes. Both kindergarten teachers, married to high school teachers/coaches, they had so much in common especially kindness. It would be a toss up to determine who was more thoughtful.

During every celebration or setback, birth, or death just like sisters, they have been there for each other to share in the joy or heartache and endure whatever life threw their way. Divided by two, no problem was insurmountable.

Happy Mother’s Day to two wonderful moms and BFFs

“Olympic” Moms Teach Us To Get Up

From the moment a baby takes its first step, a mom’s heart is torn. With one hand, Mom beckons her toddler forward, while the other hand lingers behind ready to catch the fall. In the push-pull of motherhood, moms encourage children to step up to the next challenge, while longing to hold them back in the warm, safe, cocoon of unconditional love, knowing full well the world will never be so nonjudgmental and forgiving.

My mom cringed each time I got knocked flat playing sports. After every concussion, broken bone, and heart wrenching disappointment, never did she suggest that I should give up the game I love.

In turn, when the time came, I perched on the edge of a hard bleacher – my heart was lodged in my throat each time my child hit the hardwood. Yet, I continued to drive my kids to and from practices and games, doctors and chiropractors.

My daughter, long and lean, had so many injuries during her career that she received birthday cards from the urgent care center. From the time my hyperactive son’s feet hit the floor, he ran recklessly, slicing open his hand before the age of two, splitting his head as a 4-year-old.

Sprained ankles, twisted knees, separated ribs, compressed vertebrae, broken fingers. During my son’s ankle surgery in the middle of the night, I lay awake worrying about the long-term effect of a growth plate break in early adolescence. Would his right leg be shorter than the left one?

A shattered finger. A bruised rib. A broken dream. An ice pack, a back rub, a favorite meal. Moms know instinctively how to comfort, to console, to care.

After every setback, I cheered. “Go ahead try out”… for the team, the band, the play, the scholarship, the job.

“What if I don’t make it, Mom?”

“Don’t worry. There will be another game, performance, employment. Don’t give up.”

Very few kids will stand on an Olympic podium, but whether they play sports or put their energy into other interests, our children will be stronger for having given it their best shot.

Life will knock them on their butts. More than once. The greatest lesson a parent can impart is, « Get back up!”

When children need the extra oomph to rise after those discouraging losses, thwarted goals, career-ending injuries, Mom will be there with a helping hand, a kind word, and a chocolate cookie.

My dad taught me how to throw a ball and shoot a basket, but Mom was the one who listened to my fears, wiped away my tears and encouraged me to follow my dream. I’d apologize for unloading my problems, but after teaching all day, my strong Norwegian-American mom would point to her back and say, “I can carry the weight. God gave me broad shoulders.”

We all stand on shoulders of the women who brought us into the world.

And every mother knows there is an « Olympian » in each child, then coaches it out of them.

“This remind me of you,” my daughter posted on social media acknowledging that strength passed on from one generation to the next

Thanks, Mom. For teaching us that falling only makes us stronger.

Congratulations to all the competitors at the Sochi 2014 Winter Olympic Games!

And to the moms that picked them up every step of the way.

Minne-SNOW-tans’ Winter Survival Tips

Wear fur lined Grumpy Old Man hats with ear flaps down.

Get a dog to warm up the end of the bed.

Wear plaid, panel lined jeans.

Tuck hand warmers in mittens.

Eat soup.

Carry a corn sack –fill a flannel bag with field corn, microwave 2 minutes, take it to go.

Melt frozen pipes with a hair dryer (actually recommended by my brother-in-law’s plumber friend and it worked like a charm for the Carlsons!)

Embrace the season. Bundle up and play outside!

Take up ice fishing. After freezing your fanny on a frozen lake, home feels like a sauna.

Read a book –curl up under a duvet and read a good book. You’ll become so engrossed in the story, you won’t notice the weather outside.

Stoke up the fire. Warm your tootsies, melt you heart, and mellow out while flame gazing. Enjoy the show.

Wear boots! Heavy, lined, and laced up! Off you go!

Sip a hot drink –cocoa, cappuccino, apple cider, flavored tea, Glühwein, hot toddy, Irish coffee, grog, Wassail, whatever as long as it is hot, hot, hot.

Layers. Layers. Layers. Start with undies, the ultimate chill chaser Cuddle duds !

Savor a steaming hot wholesome meal. Go for those extra calories. Winter is no time to diet.

Celebrate! Set out The Red Plate and engage in the time honored custom of our ancestors. American pioneer families acknowledged when friends and loved ones deserved praise or special attention by serving them on the red plate.

Hug a lot. Laugh a little. Love each day.

Spring Cleaning in Tidy Switzerland – No Picnic for a Pack Rat

Oh great, it is that time of year again. Spring! Uh oh, spring cleaning. Since winter dragged on, I procrastinated a few extra weeks, but now the sun shining throughout my humble abode highlights my shortcomings. I may have been a couch potato all winter, but my oh my, the other creatures in the household have been busy. Spiders spun webs from each corner, fingerprints divided and multiplied on every glass surface, dust bunnies reproduced like mad under the bed, and books proliferated in quadruple stacks on the shelves.

Oh woe is me. Where to begin? Spring cleaning is an insurmountable task for someone born without the clean gene. I would prefer things orderly, but my brain is so scrambled, picking up never comes naturally. I jump from one activity to the next and never finish any task for I am easily sidetracked. Books remain open half-finished by my bedside, fragments of articles cover my computer desktop, and shoes lay where they left my feet.

Last fall, when I found out that we had to start paying for garbage in Switzerland in 2013, I had the best intentions and looked at my old list of tidying up tips. Good intentions gone awry. Six months later, I stare at the mess and think where to begin?

My kids have grown and flown, yet their bedrooms remained untouched like shrines to the past. Every time I launch Operation Toss Out, I am immobilized by memories. I plan a Clean Sweep and open a closet ready to chuck games, toys, and dolls, but the sight of Beanie Babies, Little Ponies and Little Woodsies, leaves me immobilized lost in a reverie.

Instead, I open a box of books: I’ll Love You Forever, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Bunnies Get Well Soup spill out. Before you know it, I am in a rocking chair, reading Good Night Moon to my daughter’s Cabbage Patch doll perched on my knee. I drag junk out of the closets to discard and instead end up driving my son’s matchbox cars ‘round and round on a braided rug and snapping pieces together of his old Play Mobile cowboy fort.

The world is divided into pitchers and savers. Pitchers relentlessly toss items knowing that if it hasn’t been used for a year, it is no longer needed. I obey the law of inertia.

Apparently, the predisposition for this disorder is genetic. My daughter blames me for what she calls her apartment’s permanent state of entropy, “matter when left to its own devices will descend into chaos.” I am quoting a doctor here.

You would think I love living in disarray. Yet I prefer being at my sister’s house where everything is in order. You can open the frig without launching an attack of mystery meat morphed into extraterrestrials. You know precisely which drawer to open to find an envelope, a pen, and a notebook. Living in my house is like forever being on a scavenger hunt without a team to help hunt down the clues.

Realistically, our home is too big for the two of us. Downsize! But how? I am a sentimental old sod, clinging to memories of the past without a single organizing cell in my soul. If only we lived on the other side of the Big Pond, spring cleaning would be a breeze. I could own a five-car garage with one spot for my vehicle and four other places to park my treasures.

Tall American Squeezes into Small Country

Whenever I step aboard the return flight to Switzerland, I feel like Alice in Wonderland falling through the hole into the land of miniature. I have an 8-hour flight to transition to what awaits on the other side of the Atlantic. I squeeze my 5’10” frame into compact seats designed for dwarfs. I eat baby-sized servings with doll-sized spoons on a mini tray.

In the Geneva airport, I tower above Europeans while lugging baggage twice as big as and three times heavier than theirs. Not all expats are hoarders, but like many of my compatriots living overseas, I bring back as much of the homeland as possible, hence my bags are laden with Tootsie Pops, cake mixes, chocolate chips and other American staples.

When the taxi pulls up in front of our twin house, my husband leans out the window to announce, “Oops, honey, I shrunk the house.”

Switzerland is a “petite” country; the price of real estate is premium. There are no sprawling ranch homes or suburban mansions here. Our yard is the size of a postage stamp. Surface wise our ground floor is no bigger than an American garage. But we are lucky we have four floors stacked like baby’s colored building blocks. It’s great! This way I don’t need a gym membership; my home is a StairMaster.

kitchen

Our kitchen is three-square meters. The refrigerator is smaller than the mini bars in most American hotels. The fridge, stove, and sink are within an arm’s length, so I can remove foodstuff, sauté veggies and wash dishes simultaneously. But I rarely do any one of the three. It is a one-butt kitchen, and I am always the first volunteer to butt out.

Europe has a different scale of measurement and I am not talking metric here. Cupboards are more like the size of American drawers. Walk in closets? Forget it. My sister’s Barbie wardrobe was bigger. Appliances are also more compact. Our microwave fits in a kitchen cupboard. The washing machine holds five articles of clothing or the equivalent of two American sweatshirts.Read more→