June Cleaver I Ain’t

Several times in the last few days I’ve heard a variety of men complain that their wives don’t cook or bake; particularly they don’t cook “like my mother used to.” Now ain’t that somethin’.

“My mother’s kitchen always smelled like baked bread (or cookies or meatloaf, blah blah blah).” Have men given any consideration to the idea that maybe their wives don’t cook because they’re tired of being compared to mama? One woman’s story is that she had to make chicken soup like his mother made: cook the chicken in a pot of water, remove the chicken, pour the water/broth over noodles and voila, chicken soup with chicken on the side. She tried adding leftover shredded chicken in the broth one time and was told she had RUINED the soup.

I blame June Cleaver for this. Leave It To Beaver was quite popular in the 50s and 60s, what with the Beaver’s brushes with trouble and the iconic middle class lifestyle, it was a hit with even the men. Who could resist a wife who was always impeccable in the dresses and high heels she wore around the house, which was always perfectly clean and neat and always a full course meal ready on the stove?

Women in the 40s, 50s and 60s, by and large, stayed home with their children. Not all of them of course, but perhaps many of those that did became proficient at cooking, cleaning and sewing. Once they had spoiled their darlings with home cooked meals and fresh desserts, they turned them loose into an economy where women needed to work in order to make ends meet.

For a lot of years we women have tried to do it all. We worked full or part time, came home and picked up the dirty clothes, threw a load in the washer, started supper, made the bed, vacuumed the carpets, swept the floor, checked dinner, washed and dried the dishes after, sat down for ten minutes, then went to bed and started all over the next day. And that’s before the kids came along.

However, after ten or twenty years of trying to be super woman and being compared to how mama used to do it, many of us have given up. I have had my share of boyfriends and husbands (current one excluded) who criticized my cooking because it wasn’t like his mother used to make. Fortunately my husband’s mother was not known for her cooking skills. I do cook and bake, and I’m pretty good at it if I do say so myself. Contrary to popular opinion, just because I spend many of my mealtimes at Meeder’s doesn’t mean I am unable to put a meal on the table myself. It just means I simply haven’t the time.

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Dear Politician

Are you stupid, or just incredibly arrogant? What kind of representatives of our government have we elected? Are you not aware that everything you do, say, post or send on the Internet is open to public scrutiny? Facebook, Twitter, Google Buzz and blogs are not private.

Another elected official bites the dust in Rep. Anthony Weiner, from New York (why are they always from New York?), who admitted he sent lewd photos on the Internet to women he had never met. I particularly love the headline, “Weiner admits he sent lewd picture; won’t quit.” That’s probably truer than we know.

What are these people thinking? They must know they’re going to get caught sooner or later. Do they not care? Are they trying to get caught? What goes through their minds? I certainly don’t know.

There isn’t a one of us who doesn’t have some sort of skeleton in our closet. But most of us aren’t exposed to the revealing light of the new media, and who would care anyway outside of our own little circle of friends and relatives. Gone are the days of public figures being protected by and from the press. Franklin D. Roosevelt had polio and was paralyzed from the waist down. This fact was kept from the American people however, by a media that was more sympathic with the delicacies of the disease.

John Kennedy, now exposed as having multiple affairs, was portrayed as the debonair, handsome young president, devoted to his wife and religion. Those were simpler times.

I’m not sure when or why our relationship changed with our rich, famous and political figures. The paparazzi have regular feeding frenzies when there is a hint of scandal in our public figures. If there isn’t enough blood being drawn from the current scandal, the new media is not adverse to making up some of their own.

So what part of this do our politicians not understand? Is power such a strong aphrodisiac that they think they’re above moral or judicial law? It’s a sad state of affairs, pardon the pun, when one after another of our politicians fall into disgrace over their desire to be thought a “hunk.”

I’m not sure whatever goes on in the private lives of politicians, actors, or other public figures is any of our business actually. Rock Hudson was gay, but generations of women didn’t know or care. Countless presidents have had secret trysts with women who were not their wives; and Arnold Schwarzenegger isn’t the first man to have fathered a child by his hired help. But it seems the current climate demands we be voyeurs into the lives of those who choose a public life.

If we’re looking for perfection in our public servants, we’re going to have to look a lot harder. Nobody is perfect, but our politicians are going to have to help us out a bit and not publically broadcast their indiscretions. Wise up gentlemen. You are NOT irreplaceable.

Shower Stall Blues

Ladies, have you taken stock of what is in your tub/shower lately? It seems what we deem necessary in our desire to have shiny, silky hair and smooth fresh-scented skin is a major annoyance to many of our husbands.

This revelation came to me when I overheard a conversation between men about how one husband, trying to be considerate of his wife, took a shower late one night after his wife had gone to bed. He inadvertently hit one of the bottles of shampoo sitting on the shower surround with his arm, sending it crashing down to the bottom of the tub. Needless to say, said husband was roundly abused, at least in his mind, by said wife for waking her out of a sound sleep; to wit he replied, in that loving way husbands have, “What the %*@ are all these bottles doing here anyway!?”

Indeed, what are all those bottles and tubes of hair and skin products? I, myself, have a very reasonable number of items in the shower. I have shampoo for taking the yellow out of my hair; I have a clarifying shampoo, which as close as I can tell, is to take the impurities and soap scum out of my hair. I’m not sure why “regular” shampoo doesn’t do this, but I’m told I need this special shampoo for shinier more manageable hair. Then I have cheap, store brand shampoo for my husband’s needs. There are also two bottles of conditioner; his and hers.

I have liquid soap and bar soap. I have an additional special liquid soap for moisturizing, body exfoliate scrub and special cleaners for my face. I’m not counting the spray bottle of Skin-So-Soft moisturizing oil spray that I keep on the shower caddy to keep my not-so-young skin from drying out when I’ve completed my ablutions. From time to time I also have a jar of sugar or salt scrub on the edge of the tub.

In my impromptu and unscientific survey of husbands who shall remain nameless, one husband ventured to comment as to the necessity of all “those poufy things on strings and brushes and that sandpaper kinda thing.” Another hapless husband could not understand why “there are at least seven bottles of stuff that are almost empty. Why can’t she use one up before she opens another?” He went on to suggest that a large pair of utility shears could be used to open the bottles from top to bottom and a basting brush placed in each in order to get every last drop out if his wife didn’t want to waste it. Another helpful spouse emptied all the bottles into one, thereby saving space by mixing all the shampoos and soaps together. His wife was not happy and he swears he’ll never do it again.

Now I admit, in addition to the various shampoos and soaps in our shower, I have a variety of sponges, poufs and brushes from which to choose. However, a particular sponge is mine, not to be used by my spouse; although his pouf (yes, real men use poufs) is fair game for us both to use. I used to stock a loofah until I caught “himself” using it on his feet.

In light of the overheard conversation about knocking things off the edge of the tub, I am considering installing an additional free standing shower caddy, although my husband graciously says I really don’t have too many things stocked in the shower. My husband is a very smart man.

Deadlines

Deadlines are the bane of my existence. I dislike being cornered into doing something by a specific time or day. I’m more of a “fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl” like Julia Roberts in the movie Pretty Woman. Julia amended that statement by saying she really liked to have things planned out, and so do I. I am just more lackadaisical about when I get those things done.

The Westfield Republican and Mayville Sentinel have a new editor, Jenna Loughlin, and the last couple weeks the paper has had a decidedly different look. Each editor puts their mark on the look and direction the paper takes. I’m sure there are more changes in store as Jenna gets more familiar with the community.

Having recently met Jenna, I can say she leaves a good impression as a professional woman who intends to make the most of this cozy little paper. My only complaint is that she insists that the deadline for article submission is noon on Friday! For the past several years, despite the fact the paper clearly states a deadline of noon Friday, I have worked under a noon Monday deadline for this column and other articles I’ve put together. Change is so hard…

I’m a Sunday night cruncher. Along about Friday night I realize I haven’t got a column written yet for the following week. By Saturday I’m usually frantically trying to think of a topic to tackle. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I’m sitting at my computer, tossing ideas around in my head, discarding a half dozen or so, and by Sunday night I sometimes have a passable start on what I’m going to say. More often than not I’m scrambling Monday morning to get something submitted by noon that day.

What have they done to me! Without the last minute weekend to fall back on I am now forced to think ahead an entire week! From the time I submit a column until it gets to your hands will be a week’s time. I’ll have forgotten what I wrote when you come up to me and say how much you enjoyed it because I’ll be scrambling to get another submitted the following day. I don’t know how I’m going to cope. It’s hard to teach an old writer new tricks.

My husband knows I’m a procrastinator. It irritates him when I don’t arrive on time. He sits and stews while waiting for me to show up at an appointed time. I really try to get places when I’m supposed to, but quite often I am distracted by other people. I love stopping to chat with someone. You never know what tidbits of information may come my way by just having a casual conversation. When it’s important, I get there on time. It’s just that my idea of what is important is often at odds with someone else’s.

My new hero is Elizabeth Taylor. Prior to her death, she arranged to have her body arrive at her funeral fashionably late. I’m thinking about having that done when my time comes. Talk about missing a deadline!

To quote Sam Levenson, humorist and writer, I’m going to stop putting things off, starting tomorrow.

Memorial Day 2011

As this Memorial Day approaches I’ve been drawn to East Ripley Cemetery where several of my ancestors have been laid to rest. As I tend to the graves, pulling weeds and planting flowers, I am once again full of curiosity about these men who went before me and served their country. The recent death of Sgt. Kevin White of Westfield has been more real to me than those of my uncle and great-grandfather. Sgt. White’s passing is immediate, current, drawing my attention to the present wars the United States is waging around the globe. I know several veterans who were deeply affected by the tribute paid to White. To them it’s personal.

I come from a long line of patriots, dating back to pre-Revolutionary War years. Conrad Near, a German immigrant and my sixth great-grandfather, fought in the Revolutionary War and was killed in the Battle of Klock’s Field, near Palatine, New York. Several great-grandfathers fought in the Civil War on both sides of the battlefield. But the one that piqued my interest this week was Bernard E. Manning, my mother’s grandfather, who was one of two Ripley residents who fought during the Spanish-American War.

Manning, mentioned briefly in Marie McCutcheon’s book, “Golden Glow of History Past,” was one of two Ripleyites who fought in the Spanish-American War, the other being Merle H. Cornell. Lasting only a matter of months, Spanish-American War veteran’s graves are difficult to find I’ve read. Because so few men were called to serve in Teddy Roosevelt’s “splendid little war” it is rare to have the opportunity to visit one of those graves, and we have one here in Ripley.

One of the saddest stories in my family’s history, to me anyway, is that of Harvey Lanphere, Jr. When he was a senior in high school here in Ripley, World War II broke out. He was due to graduate in June that year, but instead he and a friend decided to quit school in March of their senior year and enlist in the Navy. “It broke his mother’s heart,” I’ve often heard. Seaman 2nd Class Lanphere never made it to war, however. He contracted rheumatic fever shortly after signing up and was medically discharged before ever being shipped overseas. Not long after coming home to what I’m sure was his very relieved mother, he was killed in an auto accident. I never knew him, but I visit his grave and tend to its upkeep.

There are so many of our men and women who have fought and died for our country who are forgotten. Families have moved away or simply lost touch with their forebearers over the decades or centuries. A stroll through Quincy and East Ripley cemeteries will reveal 200 or more graves of servicemen who lived in Ripley, dating back to before Ripley was a town.

As you visit the cemeteries this Memorial Day weekend, give a thought to those American heroes who died in battle, as well as those who lived to tell the tale. And when you see a veteran, stop and shake their hand and thank them for their service. So few of them receive the gratitude they deserve for sacrifice they’ve made for our freedom.

Goin’ to Canada, eh?

On a whim, my ever-lovin’ and I decided recently to go to Niagara Falls, Ontario for the night. As we were packing the night before our jaunt, I reminded hubby to not forget the passports.

I do love traveling with my husband. It’s always an adventure. With everything loaded into the trunk early the next morning, we set off in the rain for our adventure. “Did you remember the passports,” I asked Bob, halfway to Buffalo. A look of horror appeared on his face. “NO! Did you?” was his reply. Of course I did. I know Bob. He relies on me for everything.

Somewhere along the way we decided to drive to Toronto to see the zoo there. I’ve heard it’s a good one, and I love zoos; good ones that is. Looking at the maps and calculating our route, we tried to figure out how long it would take to get there from Buffalo. (We don’t believe in GPS systems. We prefer to rely on the tried and true paper map system.) “I think it’s about two hours from Buffalo,” I say. “No, I think it’s more like three or four hours,” my long distance truck driver husband says. “We aren’t going to get there until almost 4 o’clock, Robyn! Are you sure you still want to go today?” Of course I’m sure. I KNOW it isn’t three or four hours away.

Bob has had some issues getting in and out of Canada in the past. He and his first family went to Canada, long before passports were required, and had a lovely time; until they returned to the United States, whereupon he realized he still had a pocketful of Canadian money. So they crossed back into Canada to exchange the money. Each passing of the border guard required questions about where they were from, where had they gone, how long had they been there. If you’ve ever traveled to Canada you know the routine. Upon crossing back into the United States for the second time within an hour, the border guard was a bit suspicious. Where are you from, he asked. Where have you been? Didn’t you just cross into the U.S. awhile ago? Are these children yours? Do you have proof of that? About an hour later they finally let poor Bob and his children reenter the homeland. I get a charge out of that story every time I hear it.

Consequently, I drive across the borders between the two countries and instruct Bob to keep quiet and let me do the talking.

After crossing the Queenston Bridge into Canada I suggested that Bob should look at our newly purchased map of Ontario to figure out the route to Toronto. There is much rustling of paper as he tried to unfold the map in the front seat of the car. I heard muttering coming from his side of the vehicle. “Stupid maps. Why can’t they make a map that’s simple to use? Which way is north on this stupid thing?!”

“Bob,” I said, “don’t fold the map backwards like that.” (I am a map aficionado, myself.) “Road maps are like an accordion,” I tell him. “You just unfold the tri-fold first, then it’s very simple if you just unfold the pleats you need to look at.” Something similar to “smart-alec” came from the other side of the car.

After finally finding the section of Ontario he wanted, he started spurting out route names and numbers all the way to Toronto. “Just give me the first road we’re looking for,” I told him. “Okay, you want to stay on 405 until you get to ‘Q E W’, what’s that, or 406,” he said. “The QEW is the Queen Elizabeth Way,” I told him. “So which is it, the 406 or QEW?” “I don’t know, it says both here!” is the flustered reply I got. “Bob,” I sweetly said, “you were a truck driver for over 40 years! How did you ever find your way around?”

“The speed limit is 100!” he said incredulously. “That’s Canadian, 100 kilometers per hour, dear, not 100 miles per hour,” I gently reminded him. “We’re going approximately 60 mph.” “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot,” replied my confused husband.

The U.S. dollar isn’t what it used to be. For the first time in MY memory the Canadian dollar is worth more. After stopping for a bite to eat and getting sticker shock with the bill, first converting American into Canadian and paying $1.05 for each dollar spent, then tacking on a thirteen per cent tax, we head back out mumbling about exchanging money at the border instead of using American money.

“Okay,“ I ask, “how far is it to Toronto?” A sign appears shortly, advising us that Toronto is 120k. “That’s gonna take us two more hours to drive, at least,” my darling told me. “It’s in Canadian kilometers, hun. Seventy five miles away, Bob. We’ll be there in about an hour and fifteen.” “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

The speed limit had dropped to 55 kph when Bob asked me why we were going so slowly. I explained 55 was Canadian, that it meant approximately 35 mph for us. Converting kilometers to miles is pretty easy when you have a speedometer that has both on it. It makes me look really smart.

Eventually we come to the outskirts of Mississauga, a suburb (really?) of Toronto, population 740,000. Wow! Is that in Canadian?