J p O x

Looks like I fell asleep with my head on the keyboard, but it was actually a very successful drawing project for the preschool and elementary students. Driving home at six o'clock Monday, I was admiring the winter sunset of dusty lavendars, pinks, and smoky blues. Against that background the traffic lights were glowing red or green. At each stop the birds were coming to roost on the telephone wires. They were twittering in such a loud, large chorus as to overpower my car radio. It was so loud I couldn't even think.

Ah. Those moments when we can't even think are often the best for receiving inspirations. Arriving home, I checked my favorite blogs. Randel Plowman had posted this collage of band-aids and telephone wires:


I check Plowman's A Collage A Day blog for visual refueling several times a week.

No time to take photos of birds on the wires above the Walgreens parking lot across the way, and nothing right in my files, so I had to search online to prepare for my class. When I showed the students a photo, they clamored, "I've been there! I've been there!" Probably not, since it came from Britain. It's a copyrighted photo, so I won't put it in the blog, but if you follow the link and click through the slideshow you'll probably say, "I've been there," too. Birds crowd a crisscross of power lines in this bane of any urban business owners with lighted parking lots. The birds are loud and frequently messy, but they are NATURE to a child riding in a safety carseat and looking out the SUV window.

My goal is to help children become noticers and observers of their environment, as much as it is to draw or mix paints. It's nice to study meerkats and marsupials, but kids need a connection to the nature right here at home. If I can get them to notice starlings and grackles crowding onto a telephone wire, maybe they will catch sight of a cardinal on a bare branch some cold morning, or a mockingbird singing atop a chimney. If they look up they may feel privileged to see the aerobatic ballet of a scissortailed flycatcher or pause to note the red-tailed hawk surveying her world from the top of a power pole:



Much of the art project was a directed drawing, meaning that I drew samples to be copied. We were drawing birds on a wire, but using letters to begin our birds. Directed drawings help kids feel competent and confident to get started on a picture. I always build in opportunities for students' own creative additions.



J is for making jays and other birds with crests.

p is for birds who perch like the class parakeets.


O is for sleepy birds with their feathers all puffed up against the cold.


x is for a grumpy purple martin who doesn't want to be crowded.




[Is this one an opera libretto or a Looney Tune?]

We made our telephone wires by drawing a line across a sheet of colored letter-size paper, then cutting along the line. I still remember the awe I felt the first time I was shown how to slide the cut pieces apart to create a line against a black background paper. Right now I'm looking out my window at three power lines glowing flamingo pink in the late sunshine against a pale blue sky. To me the blue sky paper must have been cut and slid to let the pink paper show! You can imagine how I perceive jet contrails.



© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

SALT Talks After New Years

"You guys are fat!," I told my feet. "You, too, fingers! It's time to cut out the salt. You can't go around looking like grubworms, eating chips and salsa at all hours of the day and night!"

It was a darn good pep talk. I could give it in a locker room at SMU for the salary June Jones accepted to rebuild the Mustang football team. I like June Jones and his UHawaii style of football. Having Mike Leach and June Jones both in the Lone Star State could be interesting.

News broadcasts in the late Sixties droned on and on about the SALT Talks. Water retention was not the topic. Seems like much of the time I was unsure of the topic! You take the quiz--to a kid, these were mysterious entities:

U Thant
UFO
GOP
DQ
DMV
DMZ
DWI
Cold War
Iodized salt
Strategic Arms Limitation Talks
Assistant DA
AP
UPI
LP
ICBM
Big 8
Top 40
Sinai
Gaza Strip
OB-GYN
SAC
Sack the QB
Blitz
Zip Code
USSR
YWCA
KFMQ
When it rains it pours

Tonight I'm puzzling about the tiny plates in the set of Bavarian china. Six of the eight are in good shape. As best I can remember, these little plates are for salt. They are smaller than the bread and butter plates. Maybe I am confusing them with cut glass salt cellars. My searching for table setting information hasn't yielded any clarification, iodized or otherwise. I feel like a Miller and Paine Charm School failure!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Volare

Should auld Plymouth automobiles be forgot and never brought to mind? In the nostalgic moments of a New Year's Eve I recall with exaggerated fondness the '61 Sport Fury of my college years. In a bitter winter in the early Seventies I learned that eating the citrus fruits floating in a rum punch was a bad idea. We won't dwell on that now, but my son hosted a fairly impromptu party for college friends at the condo.

In between the whirr of making margaritas in my blender and shuffling cards, I caught the sound of "Volare"! This was not Jerry Vale or Petula Clark singing the Italian ballad. It was not Sergio Franchi singing the jingle for the Plymouth Volare of the mid-Seventies. This was the Gipsy Kings on an iPod.

For auto lang syne, my dear,
for old Plymouth lang syne,
we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, and a quart of oil
for auto lang syne.

To fly, Oh!, Oh!,

To sing, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!

In the blue of your blue eyes

Happy to be there.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

The weather outside is frightful

Capris in January unsightful.

Inside the night is fitful

Might have to turn on the air conditioner

and let it blow, let it blow, let it blow.



Okay, it's a bad rhyme, and unsightly, too. It's been HOT here, for winter, and the condo has heated up to 77 degrees. It's been very windy, too, blowing all sorts of sneeze-makers around with the old leaves, so the windows have to stay closed. Makes for bad nights' sleep, what with those nightmares of walruses in capri pants and crop tops. And then the trouble falling back to sleep worrying about the plural of walrus. I had to chant this little mantra, "Walri don't shave legs, walri don't shave legs..."

Inflected Form(s): plural walrus or wal·rus·es
Etymology: Dutch, of Scandinavian origin; akin to Danish & Norwegian hvalros walrus, Old Norse rosmhvalr



© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

ETD

An excuse to rise so very early, I love driving to the airport for the first flight out. It's nice to be going, myself, but better to be taking someone. Someone special I love enough to jump out from the warm covers without hitting the snooze though it is pitch black. Start the coffee, quick shower. Listen for the awakening and groans of the traveler who reveled to the last moment with old friends, the clunking of the suitcase down the stairs.

Wait for the light at the corner. Vacant intersection. No one driving through McDonalds yet. No one at Sonic for the breakfast burrito combo with tater tots. Two cars in the Albertsons parking lot.

Will there be time? There will for a bagel after baggage check-in and security and cream cheese. Did you print out the boarding pass? Pack the phone charger? I only worry because I love you.

Dusty pink neon halos in the darkness. The tollway welcomes with widespread on-ramps. Flash through the toll plaza two left lanes toll tag only. The moon amazes.

Skating. So effortless just like a favorite dream. Floating through the darkness, hanging weightless on the interchange bridges, overlooking the whole world. Travel time to I35 at 5:55 is estimated at 5 minutes on the big computerized sign.

Chilly. Spare. So hard to say I love you please be careful. Sip scalding coffee from the travel mug and comment on the radio news. Planes approach through a grainy charcoal/lilac/faded denim sky. More taillights now.

Past the big shopping mall. Warehouse's open doors looking clear through. Office windows reflect rows of beautiful sunrise eyes.

Flat. Land spreading out a vast linen tablecloth. Remote parking lots for plates. Control tower goblets. Jets parked like silver chafing dishes. Anticipation the first bite after the amen, the first pitch after the national anthem.

Going. To. Away. Or back. Arriving at Departures lower level. Wheely luggage and escalators. But first a big hug for your old mommy. Quick. Unloading only no parking or standing.

Pride Love Relief Grief cloud my view of the signage for the exit looping around the terminals as the tarmac gets rosy, silver, Delft blue, and wool dress slacks black. A thin band of gold around the rim.

Heading home I can breathe now. Red-tailed hawks perch on highway lights over I635. Peering down regal. Self-contained.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Napkin ring cycle

No, it's not a sci fi/fantasy trilogy. Don't even sing, "Lord not thrice for the napkin ring!" When you look at the spelling too often, it seems unlikely that it could even be a real word outside of the land of cold trolls, lemmings, and hobbits:

napkin

napkin ring

Cloth napkins are environmentally-friendly no-waste lunchbox items. Unfortunately, my ex got custody of all the napkin rings in the divorce, speaking of your scary sci fi guys! I'm pretty sure Wagner wrote an early opera with this plot.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

And Eve said, "Let there be coasters."

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the remote control.

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam and he slept on the comfy couch with the television droning on and on about the BCS, and his cold drink leaving water marks on the coffee table.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

The Aunties Roadshow

The guys looked with fear at the table set for them on Christmas Day. Their mom had gotten out The China. The younger two weren't sure if they'd ever even seen it before. Were they going to get stuck washing it all by hand????

The Bavarian china belonged to my great aunts in Pierce, Nebraska. Ada and Emma were spinsters, and I thank the Online Etymology Dictionary for its explanation of that term:

spinster
1362, "female spinner of thread," from M.E. spinnen (see spin) + -stere, feminine suffix. Spinning commonly done by unmarried women, hence the word came to denote "an unmarried woman" in legal documents from 1600s to early 1900s, and by 1719 was being used generically for "woman still unmarried and beyond the usual age for it."

I'm not aware of the Aunties spinning, but they certainly sewed, knitted, and quilted. Ada was a milliner, and Emma was a school teacher. Their mother was a quilter and seamstress. But now back to the china track.

Maybe families get out the old china on holidays to inspire full tummy rambles through knee-high dusty oral history and geneology. The Bavarian china had that effect, reminding me in the telling what a thin thread connects my sons to these strong women who influenced my life.

The Bavarian china is a cold white, more skim milk than cream. It is devoid of pattern or embellishment. As one son commented, it is "so modern." Although most, and maybe all, of it predates the Great Depression, its simplicity makes it timeless.

Some of the serving pieces have a handle shape that suggests Art Deco. A few others have rounded handles that are almost post-WWII Good Design. We don't know the dates, but it seems like the Aunties acquired the china in three phases.



My sons all know much more about identifying china than their mom. They've grown up in the "Antiques Roadshow" era. After dinner they would rather Google the porcelain maker's mark on the china than wash it!




My oldest determined that H&Co. under the crown was the mark of Heinrichs & Co. of Selb, Bavaria, Germany, a city now on the border with the Czech Republic. Founded in 1896, the company may still be producing china under the name Heinrich Porzellan, a subsidiary of Villeray & Buch. My china is not marked in red with an additional name of a department store. What I consider the later serving pieces are marked with the additional word, "Electra".

Some of the china was packed for about three decades in a foam that had deteriorated and adhered. After testing a few of the minor pieces in my dishwasher with the heated dry turned OFF, I scrub-brushed and sent most of the china through the dishwasher. No problem, but I wouldn't risk heated drying or microwaving!

My New Year's resolution is to unpack the china and the family stories at least once in 2008.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Rocky's Pancake Ranch

Not all that long ago, just forty-five or six years, our favorite Sunday morning restaurant in Lincoln was Rocky's Pancake Ranch on North 48th Street. In the Sixties dining out for any meal was reserved for special occasions. What a contrast to now when a sit-down meal at home is reserved for special occasions in many families.

Rocky's wasn't fancy, but it had "Fabulous Flapjacks", darn good golden brown waffles, three or four syrup flavors, and coffee for a dime. The cowboy decor appealed to my little brother, but the cast iron spurs on the hanging light chandeliers made me nervous. Growing up in an age of falling cartoon anvils and pianos, I worried about sharp spurs crashing down from above.

My walking buddy's retired dad is worrying about iguanas falling out of the trees during Florida's cold snap. I just hope the iguanas don't land in the syrup.



© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Cuff Shooting Gallery

My oldest needed dress clothes for work this Christmas, so a concerted effort was made by all gift-givers to get him items he can really use. My Mr. Speech and Debate has never been very interested in attire, partly because it is so difficult to don apparel while holding an open book. His dad and stepmom got him a sport coat and shoes. His brother, Danger Baby, and I took him shopping for khakis, a pair of wool slacks, a dress shirt, and socks at Jos. A. Bank. His Woolly Mammoth brother brought him a handsome neck scarf from Italy for Ohio's winter weather.

On his last day in Texas, Speech and Debate dressed up in his new duds for his flight. He struck poses for the camera, clearly enjoying himself. As I look at my photos*, I see the only thing forgotten was "shooting his cuffs". His shirt cuffs need to project a bit beyond his coat cuffs.

What a strange expression, "shooting his cuffs"! When we see it in print, we understand the meaning. Unlike "shooting oneself in the foot," or "shooting off your mouth," it doesn't involve ammunition. It's closer to "shooting the rapids", sending a whitewater raft full of cuff through the narrow canyon chute of the suitcoat sleeve.

Wisegeek.com explains cuff-shooting is "the male preening gesture that aligns jacket sleeves and shirt sleeves". Not being a guy, I can't pretend to accomplish this action, but it must make the arms and shoulders more comfortable. Nothing feels worse than having a sweater blobbed up at my elbow inside my winter coat.

Answers.com has help for the guy who doesn't have the moves of, say, Robert Redford, Sean Connery, or George Clooney:

One who is unable to throw his wrists gracefully may try another way to shoot cuffs: with the thumb and forefinger of one hand pull sharply on the sleeve of the other arm, to expose the cuff, and then switch hands and repeat.

The idiom also conveys a dandy suddenly showing off an unnecessary amount of cuff or a flashy cufflink.

About 1963 my brother received a "shooting gallery" for Christmas. It was a cardboard replica of the carnival midway game, intended for kiddie pop-guns. During cold winters we played in the basement, galloping around on stick horses, taking target practice, and writing on slates in the schoolmarm's classroom. Upstairs, we built with LEGO bricks. I don't think we ever made a LEGO shooting gallery, though. I'm trying to imagine a LEGO casino with guys shooting their cuffs and setting up the big Sting!

*My kids let me blog as long as I don't post their photos or otherwise blow their covers as 007 operatives.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Band-Aid Aisle

Wok with me to the Walgreens bandage aisle. It's a complicated place with far more choices than necessary. There are so many options that your wound will very likely be invaded by a staph infection before you can find the right sort of Band-Aid.

I had too many things on my mind the evening I poured the frozen broccoli into the wok's heated oil. We all know that is a no-no, and I'm sure my seventh grade home ec teacher, Mrs. Starr, is shaking her finger at me right now. Well, duh, the ice and oil exploded, giving me an ugly burn on my pinkie finger and wrist. Now that it has healed, I can share both my stupid moment and my amazement about bandage varieties.

For over a decade my minivan glove compartment contained a box of 1990 lime green Ninja Turtle bandages. One Ninja Turtle bandage remained in the zippered inside pouch of my purse until I had a son in grad school. After 1990, my sons had matured, if that's the word, with far fewer small Band-Aid-able kiss-to-make-it-better scrapes. They advanced to occasional major injuries requiring casts, crutches, x-rays, and collarbone contraptions

In my own preschool years I wore many Band-Aids on my knees. My favorites were shiny bandages in solid green, yellow, blue, and red. My parents called them "battle ribbons". Been Googling in search of those circa 1957 vintage bandages without success. Think they must predate both the Band-Aid "Stars and Strips", and the Curad "Battle Ribbon" tins. I've appreciated the unofficial online Band-Aid history museum and the Johnson & Johnson and Band-Aid websites.

Large antibiotic Band-Aids don't stick very well. I needed them because my wrist was irritated by sleeves and mousepads. Eventually, my wrist was irritated by the adhesive of those Band-Aids, too.

Tapered finger Band-Aids are a useful invention. The shape allows for wrapping around bends and knuckles. They are a useful addition to the home medicine cabinet.

I was really torn trying to project a boring, grown-up facade after my painful mistake. What I really wanted to sport were the Walgreens brand Crayon adhesive strips that reminded me of those old "battle ribbons" of my childhood. No Ninja Turtles from the glove compartment for me.


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Look For the Silver Lining

My hat is off to Jerome Kern, who wrote this song for the musical "Sally" in 1929:

Look for the silver lining
When e'er a cloud appears in the blue.
Remember somewhere the sun is shining,
And so the right thing to do,
Is make it shine for you.

A heart, full of joy and gladness,
Will always banish sadness and strife.
So always look for the silver lining,
And try to find the sunny side of life.

My current stitchery project includes a piece of shiny gray lining fabric, so I can't help but hear Andy Williams or Judy Garland singing Kern's song about the silver lining.

Perhaps the first time I made the big journey to Omaha as a child, we dined in the fancy Silver Lining restaurant at the Omaha Municipal Airport. In that era of sophisticated airline travel one was more likely to dine on scallops or steak than McMuffins while watching planes take off and land.

Jumping ahead twenty years, my optimistic sister-in-law had a fabulous gift for mangling idioms. To her, "every hat had a silver lining." Guess my glass was half-empty on those frigid Nebraska nights, as I paraphrased, "every hat gives me static hair cling."

Every cloud has a silver lining
A poetic sentiment that even the gloomiest outlook contains some hopeful or consoling aspect. Cf. [1634 Milton Comus I. 93] Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

‘Every cloud’, says the proverb, ‘has a silver lining.’[1869 P. T. Barnum Struggles & Triumphs 406]


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

George MacDonald Fraser, 1925-2008

I toast today to the author who made an evening curled up reading historical footnotes exciting, George MacDonald Fraser. Opening a Flashman historical novel was one of my favorite literary treats, and I'm sad that I can no longer anticipate Fraser's next fictional packet of Flashie's memoirs. I learned more history in the details of Flashman's swashbuckling adventures than I did in any college course, and had vastly more fun doing it.



© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Packaging mystery

Home from sock-shopping at Target with a new mystery. Why does my nine-pack bag of crew socks have a ziplock resealable top? So I can preserve freshness?


© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Christmas stocking

When I sat on Santa's lap I should have told him I wanted socks for Christmas. In the week since Christmas all my blue and black socks have been performing synchronized disintegration.

How do they coordinate the appearance of their heel holes? Is it the same secret signalling system that lightbulbs use to arrange their mass burn-outs? Is there music inaudible to human ears so they can count the beats, hold that ballet leg, take one last big breath, and go into that grand finale back dolphin?



© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder