Head of steam

Many years ago, my then father-in-law wrote our family a letter when we lived several states away. It was a newsy letter, many pages long. He ended by saying, “I better quit while I’ve still got a full head of steam."

I had never heard that expression before, but I now use it myself occasionally.

This morning, I had a head of steam. I breezed through many household chores, got completely caught up with cleaning, laundry, ironing, and baked Woody’s bran muffins besides, bringing some to a winter neighbor who just arrived in Mesa yesterday.

Then I sat down and paid bills, balanced the checkbook, and took care of some cards and correspondence. It is now 1:50 in the afternoon.

That’s what a "head of steam" is, I suppose. Sometimes I wish it would hit more often, but then again, I’d walk around totally exhausted if it were a daily routine.

Since arriving in Mesa, Arizona, where we will spend the next six months, escaping the pain and agony (albeit, the beauty) of a Minnesota winter, I’ve adopted a new routine. I love it.

With my freshly-brewed morning coffee, I sit and sip in a leisurely fashion. Catrina, the cat, stretches in front of me. The television is already on to the morning chat and news program from Phoenix, and I enjoy learning about all the local goings-on.

Maybe a half-hour passes and I might pick up my knitting for a few rows, or my Kindle for a few pages of reading.

Nowhere to go. No place I need to be. No certain time to be anywhere or do anything.

After another fifteen minutes or so, I can feel the caffeine in my bloodstream, like a junkie.

Ahhhh, yes, now I’m awake, ready to greet the day.

An avowed list-maker, my day is already mapped out. But I long ago learned the hard way, after being burned out on my job, to approach my to-do lists a bit differently. Instead of dictating to me what has to be done, I use it as a menu.

Choices. Pick and choose.

Now after the third cup of coffee and an hour of relaxation, still in my pj’s, I am eager to get dressed and dig in.


With a full head of steam.

Rainy days and Mondays

The Carpenter's sang this song, I'm guessing around the mid-1970s:  "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down."

Well, it's raining in Mesa, Arizona, on this Monday.  Windy and cold, too, for Mesa.

But it doesn't get me down.  In fact, I am grateful.  I needed a rainy day to stay put in one place and get some work done.

So, watching last night's weather report and anticipating such a day, I made a list of things I hoped to accomplish.

Do the laundry. File our annual tax returns. Catch up with some correspondence. Schedule my dentist appointment. Call several insurance agencies to compare rates. Write my monthly column for our church newsletter.

Rainy days are good for getting caught up with such pesky chores. I can usually think of a thousand reasons to put them off on nice-weather days. My favorite reason is that "it's just too nice" outside to be indoors tackling paperwork.

I started the day late, as the sound of the rain on the roof kept lulling me back to sleep.  Then, when I finally got out of bed, my husband informed me some vacationing friends from Minnesota called and were coming for coffee. It was good to see them and we had a nice visit.

But then it was lunchtime. I started the first load of laundry and made grilled cheese sandwiches.  Then I decided to buckle down and tackle my list.

Let's see, it's now 2:30. I've talked to a friend on the phone, skimmed through a magazine, clipped a recipe that sounded good for dinner, knit several rows of a ribbon scarf for my granddaughter's birthday next week, read my e-mail messages, and ordered a book online.

My paperwork pile sits in front of me. Right next to my list. But I'm no longer in the mood for it.

I think I need another rainy day.

Dinnertime

The setting: a white chrome table in a 1950s kitchen with black linoleum flooring in a square tile design.

A defined seating pattern that never changed: Mom at one end of the oblong table and me at the other end. A bench that Dad made and three younger sisters on it. Dad seated on the opposite side in the middle with my youngest sister on a stool on one side of him, and my little brother on a stool on the other side.

Dinner was always served very late. Dad finally arrived home from the print shop and his customer deliveries around 6:30.

We hated starting our supper when all the neighborhood kids were done with theirs and ready to gather again in the evening for games: Pom Pom Pull-away or Starlight, Starbright. We could hear them in our yard, laughing and squealing with delight as they played, occasionally peeking through the back screen door to check on our progress.

To make it even more agonizing, Mom insisted we sit through a dinner eaten slowly, reminding us that the French took three hours to eat.

Cooking for eight couldn’t have been easy or pleasurable, but Mom always made a good, balanced meal. Some of our favorites were leftover roast beef sliced in leftover gravy and served over white bread, and Marge's hot dish. This was a wonderful rice and ground beef dish held together with cream of mushroom soup. My sister, Christine, and I topped this with Miracle Whip. Strange, I know.

Creamed chipped beef with hard cooked eggs over toast, and tomato soup with marshmallows on top that melted to make the soup creamy were other favorites. Mom didn’t eat vegetables of any kind but cooked them for us anyway. Our favorite was spinach with vinegar poured on top. There was usually dessert, perhaps chocolate pudding with bananas, or spice cake with peanut butter frosting.

My mother thought dinnertime should be a quaint ritual, all of us gathered around the table together. So she added story-reading to our quality family time and tortured us by reading from “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,” which, as it happens, was her favorite childhood story.

To listen to us squabble, whine and complain, watch as we squirmed and kicked each other under the table, jabbed elbows and otherwise picked fights, one would have thought it was enough to try her patience and she’d gladly release us. But nothing deterred her and so we sat…and sat…and sat.

Nobody was excused until we said our prayer of thanks: We thank Thee, Lord, for meat and drink, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Then we had our kitchen chores that had to be done before we could bolt out the back door: setting the table, clearing the table, washing dishes, drying dishes and sweeping the floor. That adds up to five chores and there were five of us to do them. Somehow, my little brother, Norm, remained exempt.

Such a routine. Such an ordinary occurrence, dinner time.

Such warm and nourishing memories.