Raider of the left sweatshirts

Cue the Indiana Jones theme song.  I've uncovered clues to three relics, and rescued two.  Sadly, the Hoosiers hoodie was beyond help. Worse, the goofy hat I found in the closet doesn't look like Indie's, but there you go.

Why am I searching for these relics in the empty nest closets? Because it is so chilly at the library. Most of the building has been gutted and/or demolished for a major renovation.  The library remains open, but without the luxuries of central heating, hot running water, or gas fireplaces.

These days it's so wonderful to have a paying job that I enjoy, that I gladly work around  inconveniences. But sixty degrees F is nicer for a hike than sitting at a computer cataloging or reading book reviews.

And so the search for sweatshirts. Now I regret nagging my grown sons to clean out their closets and drawers every time they came home for a visit.

Those sons were graduated from the University of Texas, Texas Tech University, and the University of New Mexico.  Found one Longhorns sweatshirt, but no Red Raiders or Lobos.

Said sons went on exchange and study abroad programs to UMass-Amherst, Paderno del Grappa and Viterbo, Italy. No souvenir sweatshirts. Bummer.

By grad school their laundry habits still included lengthy composting of dirty clothes followed by overloading washing machines and underfunding dryers, then another epoch of soggy strata. The U of  Indiana sweatshirt could have been found in a melting glacier next to a meal-ready mastodon. Saber-toothed tigers had ripped the drawstring out of the hoodie.

No sweatshirts from Georgetown, Northwestern, or George Washington U. This positive note--I found a never-worn navy hoodie from the school of Reebok, and it fits.

Happy New Year!


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Outdoor-in anole, but no carrots singing

How can it be seven years since the Woolly Mammoth's Lunch Bunch gang had the finger-flick place-kicking competition that impaled carrot sticks on the mini-blind slats?  This evening I am wishing those high school students would magically reappear to laugh with me about the anole lizard playing hide and seek in the condo.  Wishing too that Fritzi, my mother, was here to appreciate both the condo lizard excitement and the Woolly Mammoth's upcoming grad school commencement in D.C.

The anole on the mini-blinds is probably the same lizard I saw scurrying into the hot water heater closet early this morning after I'd been outside cutting flowers for a bouquet.  Still, it could be another anole.  I've been in and out both front and back doors so very many times today.  Anoles are quick.  I have no problem sharing my condo with any who get inside.



Don't know where the anole is at the moment.  I last spotted it on the theater programs saved by Fritzi, including a production with Florence Henderson as Maria in "Sound of Music".  High on a hill is a lonely anole,


Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Leftovers for breakfast

Enjoyed my breakfast pasta with mushrooms, garlic, peppers, celery, beef, and pine nuts.  Can't remember when last I wore my jammies at ten a.m.  There's no chance sleeping in could become a habit, but it was a real treat. While wishing for some grated Parmesan, I scanned Abigail Carroll's story about leftovers, "Remains of the Day" in the New York Times. 

Living alone has freed me from the breakfasts of/for champions.  No more cereal, pancakes, smoothies, or Jiffy muffin mixes.  Nothing sweet.  My preferred jumpstart is a breakfast burrito with strangled eggs, cheese, peppers, tomatoes, cumin, cayenne, sometimes beans, avocado, or yogurt in the tortilla. 

It's been several years since my sons and I were together for Thanksgiving.  When they rolled out of bed that Black Friday, the guys were stunned to find Mom eating turkey, stuffing, and sauerkraut for breakfast. 

Abigail Carroll reports that, "The morning of the grisly 1892 Lizzie Borden murders in Fall River, Mass., the family breakfasted on mutton soup and cold mutton from the day before."  If the Bordens had started the day with sauerkraut no axes would have been required.

I read a review of Dave Dewitt's "Founding Foodies: How Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin Revolutionized American Cuisine "  yesterday.  Would George have like my English muffin with egg, cheddar, mustard, and pickles for breakfast?

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Corks, quirks, and saving the world

In my escapist fantasies, I see myself living in a small cabin with a screened porch. The cabin interior is decorated in college town bar decor, but without the peanut shells on the floor. Every surface is covered with collected items--keys and license plates, especially, but also hardware, newspapers, vintage board games, maps, buttons. Tabletops and counters become an ever-changing collage of vintage sewing patterns, postage stamps, and magazine photos suspended between layers of clear polyurethane. The ceiling is hung with papier mache insects, wire sculpture lizards, origami, mobiles, Christmas ornaments and retro lamps. The floor is cushioned by mats made from thousands of donated wine corks.

My current abode has boxes, baskets, and jars full of wine corks (and no peanut shells). Friends and relatives have been saving corks for me for many years. Corks are useful for building art project palm trees on fantasy desert isles. Supply has exceeded demand in recent years, but I'll never turn down a bagful of corks. I appreciate the sacrifice that has gone into drinking the wine so artists can create.

Horror vacui is the abhorrence of empty space. Most art history students first learn about it when they study ancient Egyptian tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Tut and Nefertiti couldn't agree on wallpaper, so tombs are covered in wall-to-wall writings.

Tut was pondering large 3-D lotus sculptures entirely made of corks. Maybe Howard Carter should be my condo decorator. Tut. Stone. Silence. Inscriptions. Collections. Possessions. Overload. Alabaster canopic urns...

In my imagined abodes visual over-stimulation replaces excessive auditory noise. Since my sons have moved out, it is very quiet here. Quiet is good. In fact, I may have to track down George Prochnik's book, In Pursuit of Silence: Listening for Meaning in a World of Noise. I heard an NPR "Fresh Air" interview with the author. He said studies show people eat less when the volume level increases, but they drink more alcohol...

When I went a-googlin' for other cork uses, I found an artist who covered her car with corks. The Skylark could be transformed into a CorkMama-Mobile.

With enough hot glue and corks we could aspire to far greater good. We could build shelters for earthquake victims in Haiti. We could mulch our organic gardens. Huh? I saw it on Google, so it must be true.

Pooka garden plants

My fairy gardens are doing well and I especially like this little plant growing around the tiny chair. Don't ask me to pronounce it! Lysimachia Nummularia "Goldie". Got it at Home Depot.

Wish I'd taken better notes of plant names at the fairy garden workshop at Blue Moon Gardens. The miniature plants are healthy and happy, but I've forgotten their names.

Ah, yes. That would be a Senior Moments Fairy Garden ... Or maybe a pooka garden at Chumley's Rest.

I'm missing my sons this evening. This is a prop portrait of my eldest as Elwood P. Dowd next to his tall rabbit buddy. I did the drawing for a production of "Harvey" about fifteen years ago. I'm grateful for the joy and wisdom our family shared through rehearsals of this wonderful play.

Harvey would love playing tricks on this April Fool's Day.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

Crunch financials

"Cereal Crunch," was the answer when I asked Danger Baby what he wanted me to make for Thanksgiving. "Cereal Crunch," was the answer when I asked my dad, "and good sugar cookies." A turkey dinner doesn't seem to be a big issue for either of them.

Think I'll make Crunch, aka Chex Mix, and mail it to Dad and my three sons, then make another batch when I'm at Dad's for the holiday. It freezes well.

If only in 1977 I had started saving the grocery receipts whenever I bought the makings for Chex Mix or mailed it to my guys. By now I would have an Economic Chex Mix of Leading Indicators And Oleo with enough plots on the graph to make Warren Buffett sit up and take notice.

Today at Albertsons in the midst of the financial crisis:

Any 3 boxes of Chex cereals for $7.50, less a $3.00 peel-and-redeem coupon--$4.50 (Rice Chex, Corn Chex, Wheat Chex)
Cheerios, 8.9 oz. box--$1.59
Imperial Margarine, 4 sticks--$1.25
Rold Gold pretzel sticks, one lb. bag--$2.50
Store brand can of cashew halves and pieces--$3.99
Store brand can of party peanuts--$3.19

______________________


Basically, I've invested $17.00 in the batch so far. I already have the Worchestershire Sauce and the Lawry's Seasoned Salt. I'll have to buy garlic powder on my next shopping trip.



The Crunch Shipping Record has far more variables, but is interesting none the less. The CSR is the total annual domestic postage spent mailing multiple batches of homemade Crunch around the country. Variables include number of sons in college, whether any sons were studying abroad (they were out of luck!), my parents' health, shipping container weight, and my general kitchen outlook. We will not discuss the sanity of the person who records these amounts for future reference.

2008--YTD $0.00
2007--$11.00
2006--$77.50 That's a heckuva lot of Crunch, Dubya!
2005--$29.00
2004--$18.25
2003--$10.60
2002--$4.00
2001--Data not available, although we all needed the comfort food.
2000--$3.20

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Full nest, empty nest, Olympic nest

Took these nest photos before I spoke with a hard-core purple martin fanatic. Shot down! These photos show a nest built by house sparrows in a martin house. Alas, the elementary students who found the nest on a nature walk were steered by me to believe it was a purple martin nest.

I'm bummed about being wrong and misguiding students. Still, I'm glad we all examined the items incorporated into the nest. The expert says martins don't add feathers or gum wrappers to their nests. A martin nest is about two inches tall, she says, while a sparrow nest fills the whole interior of a martin house.

Building a nest is the aspect of the Olympics that has intrigued me so far. When I sit down on the couch to watch events I fall asleep or think of something more important to do. What sort of enormous bird did the Swiss architects of the Beijing stadium, Herzog and De Meuron, envision when they started their design? A cross between the dove of peace and the Goodyear blimp?

Even if I don't make it past the quarterfinals in the Olympic MOBO empty nest event, I'll be glad to fling my youngest back to college like an ancient classical ideal discus mama. This long, long summer had some fun moments I will happily paste into my scrapbook when I have a day off and some psychic distance.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

A little sad today, Nene

A friend writes that he's "on vacation", wearing Hawaiian shirts and building a deck on his house. It has suddenly turned to perfect fall deck weather here. Lows in the fifties and highs in the mid-eighties. How nice it would be to do the morning crossword puzzle out on the deck, writing in the requisite "nene" for the Hawaiian goose clue.

It's been nearly twenty years since I had a house with a backyard deck. Feeling generally sentimental and nostalgic today. My sons went through a very fun Hawaiian shirt phase as preteens and young teen. We had a large assortment of tropical flower, bird, and surfing motif apparel, and a crazy schedule of afterschool activities requiring Mom Mobile transportation. The boys outgrew the phase, and the shirts, and began to drive themselves. The shirts became costumes at a children's theatre. I'm not half as busy as I was then, but I still don't seem to have time for a crossword puzzle on a deck.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Act your age!

This blog is over four years old now. While it may not always remember to chew with its mouth closed, it ought to remember to flush and wash hands.

Sometimes writing a blog is like having a special bunny and a security blanket. The habit of writing has helped me as my sons graduated from high school, and then from an assortment of universities. It's seen me through the end of my soccer mom identity and into my 93.3333% empty nest.

I've written through the illness and death of my mother, and about the process of grieving. I've tried to distill the daily phone calls with my dad into homemade savory beef vegetable soups with barley.

Blogging has anchored me through the end of a job and the embracing of a new challenge. It's been good for reconnecting with phases in my life that I'd put on the shelf or brushed under the rug.

Blogging has nurtured me and demanded that I take care of myself when other responsibilities or the nurturing of others began to overwhelm me. It has been an essentially no-money-out-of-pocket therapy. Compared to Aetna, Blogger is a real preventive health care bargain!

Sometimes blogging nudges my creativity. Other times it feels great to freely share creative art and teaching ideas with a worldwide anonymous audience. It always helps me sort out my reactions and thoughts to experiences. I've heard there are people who know what they think and feel about events instantly. I'm not in that club. My ex used to ask me if I only experienced life as "pretty colors floating around." Not exactly. I just need time to run the sands through an hourglass of writing or making art to articulate my reaction to an experience.

Don't know when I became convinced that I couldn't verbalize my thoughts to my peers. If the thoughts were piggy-backed with loaded emotions, I was almost paralyzed. It became safer to write, so I had time to self-edit my ideas.

Four year-olds are responsible for their own bodies, their own actions, and the consequences of those actions. They are increasingly aware that they belong to family, a preschool class, and a community, and that they have a responsibility to contribute to those groups in a positive way. Four year-olds recognize and understand routines and sequences. Four year-olds still believe that if they ignore a mess or mistake it will be invisible to others. They love to demand others follow rules, but (like attorneys) don't always believe rules apply to them.

I hope that I have taken responsibility for the consequences of my writing, contributed to my community in a positive way, and cleaned up my own messes. Blogging tells me immediately if i have literary toilet paper stuck to my shoe!

Four year-olds crave attention, but are learning to express that need in ways that do not have a negative impact on others. I still crave comments to my posts, but write for my own enjoyment and improvement.

Four year-olds begin to understand that learning, effort, and becoming acceptable to a community have intrinsic rewards. Thank you and thank you! And all the little people who made it possible!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Hot-Air Henry

My youngest spent last weekend volunteering at Gallup's Redrock Balloon Rally. His reward was a ride in a hot-air balloon on a cold-weather day. Eleven degrees! His balloon photos are way down at the bottom of his photo album webpage.

This photo really speaks to my current life. I've let go of the draglines, and my sons begin their ascents. Sometimes I'm the one up in the balloon looking down on the highways and interchanges of their lives. Which direction will they go? Will they merge carefully? Are their seatbelts buckled?

Other times I'm the clueless land-bound driver gawking up at those glowing bubbles floating on invisible thermals I can't begin to understand. The world they will live in, the world they will help create, is a leap beyond what I can imagine.

Read my little students Mary Calhoun's wonderful story, Hot-Air Henry, today to set us off on a snowy project. Yowl-meow! My sons are high-flying cats!

Banded birds: Will they fly?

Had to put some Miles Davis in the cd player tonight, so I guess that means I am missing my youngest and his eclectic music tastes, if not his YRMLM complaints.

Sent him another postcard collage today. I don't know if my creations will pass Postal Service muster, as I have been running them through my Xyron laminator before adding the postage.

If you happen to receive a collage postcard, please let me know. I'm trying to find out what sorts of creations are acceptable to the Postal Gods. In the meantime, I'm listening to Chick Corea, and searching for Charlie Parker.

Big Board in the Dumpster

You'll be happy to know this is not an analysis of trading on the NYSE. Yes, I listen to Marketplace on NPR on the drive home from work most days. Yes, I stood in line at the post office today watching the tv infomercial about putting twenty percent of my retirement investments into gold. I suppose that is about right. I have a leftover gold wedding ring that could best be considered a retirement investment!

This Big Board is the dry erase board hung over the kitchen sink for eight years. It served as the Master Logistical and Grocery Store Calendar for our household, and highest transportation coordination authority. We all equated it with the map in the Strangelove War Room. Many times we quoted, "Gentlemen! You can't fight in here! This is the war room!", as a guiding rule in our post-divorce family make-over. My efforts to organize my crew sometimes led to quotes of Jack Ryan imitating Admiral Painter in The Hunt for Red October:

"The average Rooskie, son, don't take a dump without a plan." Wait a minute. We don't have to figure out how to get the crew off the sub. He's already done that, he would have had to. All we gotta do is figure out what he's gonna do. So how's he gonna get the crew of the sub. They have to want to get off. How do you get a crew to want to get off a submarine? How do you get a crew to want to get off a nuclear sub...

My crew is off the sub now. I should have taken a picture before I dumped the Big Board in the trash. It's a strange feeling not being the Condo Concierge/Recording Secretary/Mission Commander for the family. Rats. I suppose I have to manage my own life now!

But first, let's do the numbers... Enjoy the Larry Carlton music that's been showing up during NPR show breaks lately.

Highway 287

Taking my youngest to college. Maybe this will turn into an emotional trip, but all I feel now is exasperation over the car-loading, and anxiety about the bike on the trunk carrier and the inability to see much out the rear window.

The large drowsing animal in the passenger seat has spent a great deal of time saying farewell to his pals. He has not invested much thought or energy into packing and organizing for the move to the dorm. His belongings are not alphabetized, color-coded, or marked with indelible ink. No checklists were created, let alone harmed in this experiment. This child who can be so much like his mother sometimes, is being completely unlike her today.

The rain is coming down so hard I may have to stop under an overpass. What if the bike falls off the carrier, or the carrier falls off the trunk? The instructions for the new carrier were not user-friendly in the cloudy six a.m. light.

Three cars are in the ditch. I grip the wheel tighter, not wanting to join them. The large drowsing animal stirs enough to change the Ipod music from Miles to Coltrane. Have to cut him some slack for choosing music we both love.

Last drove this highway through Wichita Falls alone during a March snowstorm. Years ago now, but a major moment in my journey to being a strong, happily-divorced woman. The current downpour on 287 marks the next transition.

So the lion ate Pierre.

"I don't care."

Pierre is graduating from high school now, and his parents are about ready to bop him with the folding chair and leave him there. Not send him to college anywhere. Pierre has a wonderful scholarship offer to a fine and scenic university, but he does not care. He wants to go elsewhere.

Thank heaven for Maurice Sendak! I didn't realize his classic early reader from the Nutshell Library would be so apropos at this stage of the parenthood game. I wish I could spell out life for my eighteen year-old with "a cautionary tale in five chapters and a prologue". The whole empty nest scene looks more appealing when kids pour syrup on their hair!

One day
his mother said
when Pierre
climbed out of bed,
"Good morning,
darling boy,
you are
my only joy."
Pierre said,
"I don't care!"

Sentimental Soccer Mom

An important part of my life is coming to a close. I have loved being a soccer mom, and a sometime t-ball/baseball mom since the final year of the Reagan administration!

When I explained to my students and their parents that I would be rushing out of class right at six p.m. to make it to the last regular season game of the PYSA Recreational Soccer Under-19 League, they asked if I would cry on this occasion. They were kidding around, but I seriously answered that it was entirely possible.

Turned out I didn't get to cry. The game was close and well-played. Our team advanced to the playoffs. At least one more game for my career!

My dear college men:

You are about to embark on a grand adventure, but be sure to wear flip-flops in the shower so you don't get foot fungus! There is much to be said for independence, freedom, self-determination, cooperative living, and partying on. There is nothing to be said for foot cooties. What are your ideas about a shower caddy for hauling personal hygiene products to the potties (I can't help it if I teach preschoolers) There are some small buckets in the shed. Try to stock up at your dad's on shampoo, soap, hayfever medicine, ramen noodles, envelopes, stamps, vitamins, Tylenol, phone cards, detergent, deodorant, LOTS of deodorant!

You are welcome to take any towels and washcloths from upstairs EXCEPT the navy blue ones. Please check with me about blankets, but you are welcome to most of them. You can take ALL the Christmas coffee mugs, and it would be a great relief to me if you did. You are welcome to the icky silverware. I would be glad to show you what qualifies. I don't want any of this stuff back, ever! I have dreamed of this day for years.

Please sell off some role-playing books and card collections before you leave, or else store them in your dad's attic. The same goes for non-classic sci-fi books, and free weights.

I think you should take your suits and dress clothes for interviews and convocations. Do you need a refresher course on ironing?

I need all your dorm address and phone info, and your roommate's name. You do not have to like your roommates, but you do have to be respectful and pleasant. Set clear boundaries. Expect the same from them. Ask yourself, "How important is it?," when they leave their used dental floss on your desk. It's just like being brothers, really, and you have a lot of experience with that. If they bring a pet turtle and smuggle canned veggies from the cafeteria to feed it, you might be able to get a new roommate. It is not okay to make them eat their Moody Blues album. I speak from experience here.

I will continue to pay for your gas, especially if you are driving to a job! I will try to pay for your cell phone for awhile, but we will have to see how that goes. Try not to use it as your primary communication device.

Take the Zout and Shout! Remember, the longer dirt and sweat stay in clothes, the less they wash out! Composting is not the answer to your wardrobe needs. Somehow this reminds me that you may want to register to vote in your new town, or apply for absentee ballots!

Make sure you have all your health insurance information and cards from Dad. I can make copies of your immunization record if you need that. Remember you are both allergic to Ceclor.

Turning yourself blue with fabric dye can make you sick. If you must tattoo or pierce yourself, make sure it will never be visible to your mama or any potential employer. If you are going to do weird things with your hair, get it out of your system soon. If you are going to get religion or become a vegetarian, please expect a lukewarm response. Avoid box-cutters and gambling on football games.

Remember that I love you!!! Email me every week so I don't worry. When I worry, I call very, very early on Sunday mornings. I am so proud of you both. The world is lucky to have you on board.


Mom