Last night as I was heading off to bed I passed through my living room. The lights on my Christmas tree glowed off my hardwood floors, and I experienced a sudden surge of gratitude for my home.
"I love this house!" I said aloud, and not for the first time.
I'm ashamed to say that I didn't always feel that way. When we moved to Kitchener nine years ago we left a behind a house that oozed charm and character. It was the kind of house I always saw myself living in, whereas the house we purchased here wasn't "me" at all. (I still joke that this four level side split is very "Mike Brady", from its avocado ceramic entrance tiles to the metal railings down the staircases.) It didn't help that the previous owners had made some odd design decisions - like horrific floral embossed wallpaper and shag carpeting in shades of various bodily fluids. (And WHO, may I ask, puts a maroon carpet in a sun room?)
I viewed this house as a compromise. We could afford it, and over time make it resemble the more expensive house we'd liked better. We did make changes that improved the place considerably, but I still didn't love the house. That didn't happen until we'd been here a few years and I got news that good friends in Sudbury had their house burn to the ground days before Christmas. Suddenly the ingratitude I'd felt for my home hit me like a slap in the face. I quickly learned to appreciate what I had, and began to love my house.
Wouldn't the world be a happier, healthier place if we all could just learn to appreciate what we have, and to "love our own stuff best"? I'm not putting in a plug for crass materialism here, but appreciation for things is important. Having said that, I recognize that understanding the value of relationships is even more so. I'm happy to say that the love of my family is something I've never taken for granted.
Over the course of my life I've met a lot of wounded souls. People with sad stories to tell seem to seek me out. I've met people who have never been part of a loving family; people who have few friends and suffer from a dearth of love in their lives. I am grateful that my experience differs vastly from theirs. Every night, the last words I speak, and the last words I hear from my husband and sons are "I love you". I was thinking about that last night too, as that wave of gratitude washed over me. Then, as I brushed my teeth and washed my face I thought about how wonderful it is that I enjoy good health and can perform these little hygiene rituals for myself, unlike my wheelchair bound mother in law.
I reviewed all of my assets last night, and decided that my life was pretty amazing - happy family life, plenty of food in my fridge, good health, and even a nice house. Thankfully, somewhere along the line I've developed sufficient maturity and gratitude to appreciate all of it. May we all continue to perfect the art of gratitude over this coming year. Happy 2013 everyone!
Gratitude - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April '09)
At end of day we ought to be
grateful for all we've gained -
for any wisdom we accrued
from questions now explained.
Did we notice just how many
little problems were worked out -
Or pause to give thanks for new hope
when faith replaced our doubt?
If at the close of one more day
some money has been earned,
and to the shelter of our home
all safely have returned;
if bedtime finds our stomachs full,
our bodies well and strong -
If we are healthy, loved and fed
for what else could we long?
If we've been given one more day
that's free of pain and grief -
or suffered some, but through a friend
found help, comfort; relief -
then we have reason to give thanks
for many fare far worse
and unlike us don't grumble so -
complain or whine or curse.
If we don't fear the violence
of life in war-torn lands,
or live under a tyrant's rule
where poverty expands -
then perhaps we've grown complacent
about all that we've got,
and wasted too much energy
pursuing what we've not.
If we took time to really see
how richly we are blessed -
I cannot help but think there'd be
more gratitude expressed.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Friday, 21 December 2012
An Invitation to a New Beginning
Today is "supposed" to be the end of the world, according to some. For most of us, though, it has been "business as usual" with the extra tasks of preparing for Christmas thrown in for good measure. I can't say I've given the doomsayers much thought this season, in part because my mind has been too much on endings and beginnings in my own household.
My older son, Sam, completed his course in Toronto in mid-October, and now he and I are both back under the family roof full time. I am re-establishing routines that were interrupted by my frequent back and forth trips to visit him at his apartment. It's more of an adjustment for our family than most would think.
I got very used to my first thought of the day being "Which city am I in?" and then deciding from there what my daily priorities should be. It was all a very "seat of the pants" kind of lifestyle, and while I learned a lot about myself through embracing constant change, I am struggling now to get back into a familiar groove.
Todd got used to living in a very quiet household. When you conduct much of your business at the dining room table it can be challenging to go from having the house to yourself to having two, and then three extra bodies milling about, eating breakfast and lunch at all different hours and turning on the microwave when you're expecting a conference call any second.
Sam grew accustomed to navigating "the big city" and seeing new sights and talking to peers who had common interests. I know he must find "K-town" and the family pretty boring these days. He's developed a new skill set, but isn't sure how or where to use it yet.
With Dan's return to the family fold on November 27th, we all had to begin again. People change over the course of two years, and we are all getting acclimatized to being a family of four, together under one roof again.
I can only be grateful that these changes all occurred as the Christmas season was approaching - a time when the emphasis is on giving. Thus each member of the family has made the requisite sacrifices of time (to decorate the trees), of money (to dress the literally poor RM in some decent attire) and personal convenience (like relocating from the dining room when the mixer or blender are required to prepare the usual holiday goodies) without complaint. The approaching holidays have been a lovely distraction from all of our individual re-orientation struggles.
Likewise, the holidays have cushioned me from any concern about an apocalyptic end occurring today. If it were to happen, I'd fare better than I would ordinarily by sheer timing. After all, it's Christmastime, and I'm on my best behavior. I'm thinking more about the wants and needs of those around me than usual - buying gifts, sharing treats and generally being more charitable than is my norm.
It looks like we're all here for a bit longer at this point, so I propose that we look at this Christmas season as being a new beginning in our lives. Perhaps this Christmas we can somehow manage to carry more of that charitable feeling with us into the new year. Perhaps we can demonstrate the gratitude we feel for having so much in a world where so few even have enough. We can hold our children closer for those who have recently lost theirs. We can offer a smile to the disheartened and an ear to the troubled. We can try in small ways to make the world a lighter, brighter, kinder and more buoyant place.
And perhaps more than anything, we can remember the importance of beginnings, and one beginning in particular. In the absence of raining fireballs let's try to remember one significant star, and the new life that it symbolized. Merry Christmas to all of you, and may the new year bring peace and happiness.
Angelic Invitation (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - October '06)
A new star sets the world alight illuminating earth -
A Savior has been born tonight, come celebrate His birth.
Good shepherds look ye to the sky and quake ye not in fear -
make haste to listen and draw nigh, glad tidings thou shalt hear.
Fear not the strange light ye behold - it beckons unto thee
to witness prophecies foretold, go follow it and see.
A holy child is born this night, He is the promised one -
who'll lead us into Heaven's light for He is God's own son!
Fear not to leave thy flocks behind - thy watch I'll surely keep,
while in a stable thou shalt find the tiny babe asleep.
Go bow before this king of kings, leave Him thy lambs most fair -
a gift most perfect of all things that thou dost have to share.
For someday He will shepherd all who yearn for pastures sweet -
He'll rescue mankind from the fall and sinners from defeat.
Go worship Him this holy night, bear witness to His birth -
Sing praise aloud with all thy might - God's son is born on earth!
Angelic voices, ever near, call us to join His fold
and heed the chorus, sweet and clear, they sang in times of old.
Come celebrate the holy birth of our triumphant Lord -
who brought salvation to the earth and innocence restored.
This invitation they extend to all the sons of men
'til all heads bow and all knees bend when Christ returns again.
He will lead on to victory hearts who grant Him a place -
and heed the call to come and see the wonders of His grace.
My older son, Sam, completed his course in Toronto in mid-October, and now he and I are both back under the family roof full time. I am re-establishing routines that were interrupted by my frequent back and forth trips to visit him at his apartment. It's more of an adjustment for our family than most would think.
I got very used to my first thought of the day being "Which city am I in?" and then deciding from there what my daily priorities should be. It was all a very "seat of the pants" kind of lifestyle, and while I learned a lot about myself through embracing constant change, I am struggling now to get back into a familiar groove.
Todd got used to living in a very quiet household. When you conduct much of your business at the dining room table it can be challenging to go from having the house to yourself to having two, and then three extra bodies milling about, eating breakfast and lunch at all different hours and turning on the microwave when you're expecting a conference call any second.
Sam grew accustomed to navigating "the big city" and seeing new sights and talking to peers who had common interests. I know he must find "K-town" and the family pretty boring these days. He's developed a new skill set, but isn't sure how or where to use it yet.
With Dan's return to the family fold on November 27th, we all had to begin again. People change over the course of two years, and we are all getting acclimatized to being a family of four, together under one roof again.
I can only be grateful that these changes all occurred as the Christmas season was approaching - a time when the emphasis is on giving. Thus each member of the family has made the requisite sacrifices of time (to decorate the trees), of money (to dress the literally poor RM in some decent attire) and personal convenience (like relocating from the dining room when the mixer or blender are required to prepare the usual holiday goodies) without complaint. The approaching holidays have been a lovely distraction from all of our individual re-orientation struggles.
Likewise, the holidays have cushioned me from any concern about an apocalyptic end occurring today. If it were to happen, I'd fare better than I would ordinarily by sheer timing. After all, it's Christmastime, and I'm on my best behavior. I'm thinking more about the wants and needs of those around me than usual - buying gifts, sharing treats and generally being more charitable than is my norm.
It looks like we're all here for a bit longer at this point, so I propose that we look at this Christmas season as being a new beginning in our lives. Perhaps this Christmas we can somehow manage to carry more of that charitable feeling with us into the new year. Perhaps we can demonstrate the gratitude we feel for having so much in a world where so few even have enough. We can hold our children closer for those who have recently lost theirs. We can offer a smile to the disheartened and an ear to the troubled. We can try in small ways to make the world a lighter, brighter, kinder and more buoyant place.
And perhaps more than anything, we can remember the importance of beginnings, and one beginning in particular. In the absence of raining fireballs let's try to remember one significant star, and the new life that it symbolized. Merry Christmas to all of you, and may the new year bring peace and happiness.
Angelic Invitation (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - October '06)
A new star sets the world alight illuminating earth -
A Savior has been born tonight, come celebrate His birth.
Good shepherds look ye to the sky and quake ye not in fear -
make haste to listen and draw nigh, glad tidings thou shalt hear.
Fear not the strange light ye behold - it beckons unto thee
to witness prophecies foretold, go follow it and see.
A holy child is born this night, He is the promised one -
who'll lead us into Heaven's light for He is God's own son!
Fear not to leave thy flocks behind - thy watch I'll surely keep,
while in a stable thou shalt find the tiny babe asleep.
Go bow before this king of kings, leave Him thy lambs most fair -
a gift most perfect of all things that thou dost have to share.
For someday He will shepherd all who yearn for pastures sweet -
He'll rescue mankind from the fall and sinners from defeat.
Go worship Him this holy night, bear witness to His birth -
Sing praise aloud with all thy might - God's son is born on earth!
Angelic voices, ever near, call us to join His fold
and heed the chorus, sweet and clear, they sang in times of old.
Come celebrate the holy birth of our triumphant Lord -
who brought salvation to the earth and innocence restored.
This invitation they extend to all the sons of men
'til all heads bow and all knees bend when Christ returns again.
He will lead on to victory hearts who grant Him a place -
and heed the call to come and see the wonders of His grace.
Monday, 19 November 2012
Scents and Sensibilility - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I noticed it again last night - the cloying smell of somebody's dryer sheets somehow making it's way into my hermetically sealed home. This, to me is an indication that said dryer sheets contain too much scent, but that's hardly news to me. Some days I can barely walk in my neighbourhood without wearing a clothespin.
Yes, my sniffer is a bit hyperactive. It not only itches and runs when perfumes proliferate, it kindly alerts my eyes, lips and ears that they should commence itching too. I can actually taste smells, and the sensation gives me a sore throat. Prolonged exposure gives me a head-ache, and once my eyes begin to water I'm in agony, as I have "Dry Eye Syndrome" and tears make my eyes burn and hurt. If I'm lucky, I can flee the scene of the stinky offense before the skin on my entire face begins to crawl.
There was a time, many moons ago, when I could manage a dab of perfume, but after my second son was born those days ended. I had to stop wearing perfumes, and told my husband to go easy on the aftershave.
I'm convinced there are a lot of people out there almost as "scent-sitive" as I am. Scent free zones are popping up in churches and auditoriums, and unscented products are at long last becoming easier to find. I am grateful that this is the case, and my nose thanks those who have spearheaded these initiatives. Still, society has a long way to go before it begins to grasp the potential problems of an overly scented planet. Personally, I find it hard to comprehend how so few people grasp that there are already abundant scents in nature without adding scented everything into the mix.
Think about it. Most of us shower with soap that has a smell, and then apply deodorant that has a smell (even if it says it doesn't) and some of us are wise enough to stop there. I'm pretty confident that except for those post-treadmill and pre-shower moments in my life I manage to not stink up any room that I'm in. I look for the most gentle scents available in household cleaning products and still my house smells clean - no need for scented candles or air-fresheners. In fact, I would go so far as to opine that layers of perfume in our environment are REALLY bad for us. Everyone seems to have allergies now, and more and more people seem to be developing asthma and similar lung conditions.
"But it's just a little perfume" you might be arguing at this point. I'm sure that's what the managers of Pier One, The Linen Chest, and all those other stores that I (and a whole raft of other people I know) avoid as much as possible think too, but in reality their "incense-sitivity" keeps an entire segment of potential buyers from shopping there. I have gone into those "scented" stores on occasion to see sales clerks gasping for air. Tell me those people aren't having their health compromised on a daily basis!
"But this is a NATURAL scent!" people argue when I tell them I have a hard time with smells. Sorry, but if it came out of a bottle it's more processed than "natural". And even if it is attar hand-wrung from rose petals it may still manage to drive me wild. Last spring I brought a sprig of lilac into my kitchen, and three hours later it was driving me so insane that I had to dispose of it by putting it on the compost heap in the back yard.
I know I won't change the minds of the truly scent addicted out there, but for those of you who wonder why I don't ever use the scented candles you give me, this may be informative. Please people, be scent sensible, and understand that there is a whole sector of society that suffer from scent sensitivities on a constant basis.
And with that thought in mind, I grace you with my latest poetic offering.
De-Scentsitized: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Novenber 17th, 2012)
Repent, repent, all ye who scent!
Assail my nose no more.
I must pick bone, with your cologne-
it's too strong to ignore.
My nose doth twitch, my ears they itch -
my eyes they pour like rain.
My lungs, they burn - for air they yearn
from scent you should abstain.
I shouldn't grouse, but oh - your house!
I dare not step inside.
Your potpourri is killing me!
(What DO you have to hide?)
With candles lit strong fumes emit
to toxify the air -
still you can't grasp how much I gasp
from what is burning there.
Can you not see I'd rather be
waist deep in cow manure
than have to greet scents cloyed and sweet
you force me to endure?
If to sweet smells my soul impels
I'll go and sniff a rose,
or maybe bake a chocolate cake
to satisfy my nose.
Yes, my sniffer is a bit hyperactive. It not only itches and runs when perfumes proliferate, it kindly alerts my eyes, lips and ears that they should commence itching too. I can actually taste smells, and the sensation gives me a sore throat. Prolonged exposure gives me a head-ache, and once my eyes begin to water I'm in agony, as I have "Dry Eye Syndrome" and tears make my eyes burn and hurt. If I'm lucky, I can flee the scene of the stinky offense before the skin on my entire face begins to crawl.
There was a time, many moons ago, when I could manage a dab of perfume, but after my second son was born those days ended. I had to stop wearing perfumes, and told my husband to go easy on the aftershave.
I'm convinced there are a lot of people out there almost as "scent-sitive" as I am. Scent free zones are popping up in churches and auditoriums, and unscented products are at long last becoming easier to find. I am grateful that this is the case, and my nose thanks those who have spearheaded these initiatives. Still, society has a long way to go before it begins to grasp the potential problems of an overly scented planet. Personally, I find it hard to comprehend how so few people grasp that there are already abundant scents in nature without adding scented everything into the mix.
Think about it. Most of us shower with soap that has a smell, and then apply deodorant that has a smell (even if it says it doesn't) and some of us are wise enough to stop there. I'm pretty confident that except for those post-treadmill and pre-shower moments in my life I manage to not stink up any room that I'm in. I look for the most gentle scents available in household cleaning products and still my house smells clean - no need for scented candles or air-fresheners. In fact, I would go so far as to opine that layers of perfume in our environment are REALLY bad for us. Everyone seems to have allergies now, and more and more people seem to be developing asthma and similar lung conditions.
"But it's just a little perfume" you might be arguing at this point. I'm sure that's what the managers of Pier One, The Linen Chest, and all those other stores that I (and a whole raft of other people I know) avoid as much as possible think too, but in reality their "incense-sitivity" keeps an entire segment of potential buyers from shopping there. I have gone into those "scented" stores on occasion to see sales clerks gasping for air. Tell me those people aren't having their health compromised on a daily basis!
"But this is a NATURAL scent!" people argue when I tell them I have a hard time with smells. Sorry, but if it came out of a bottle it's more processed than "natural". And even if it is attar hand-wrung from rose petals it may still manage to drive me wild. Last spring I brought a sprig of lilac into my kitchen, and three hours later it was driving me so insane that I had to dispose of it by putting it on the compost heap in the back yard.
I know I won't change the minds of the truly scent addicted out there, but for those of you who wonder why I don't ever use the scented candles you give me, this may be informative. Please people, be scent sensible, and understand that there is a whole sector of society that suffer from scent sensitivities on a constant basis.
And with that thought in mind, I grace you with my latest poetic offering.
De-Scentsitized: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Novenber 17th, 2012)
Repent, repent, all ye who scent!
Assail my nose no more.
I must pick bone, with your cologne-
it's too strong to ignore.
My nose doth twitch, my ears they itch -
my eyes they pour like rain.
My lungs, they burn - for air they yearn
from scent you should abstain.
I shouldn't grouse, but oh - your house!
I dare not step inside.
Your potpourri is killing me!
(What DO you have to hide?)
With candles lit strong fumes emit
to toxify the air -
still you can't grasp how much I gasp
from what is burning there.
Can you not see I'd rather be
waist deep in cow manure
than have to greet scents cloyed and sweet
you force me to endure?
If to sweet smells my soul impels
I'll go and sniff a rose,
or maybe bake a chocolate cake
to satisfy my nose.
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Communion - with whom - or what...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 23, 2012
How connected are you - really?
Lately I've been noticed a marked decline in civility. Everyone seems to be rushed, terse, short on patience and manners. All of these factors seem to denote a lack of true connectedness between human beings - in spite of the fact that we're "plugged in" to each other like never before. Interesting isn't it, that I make these observations in an age where everybody seems to be capable of almost instantaneous connection to just about anyone, anywhere on this vast planet. Even the "Luddites" among us, myself included, have bought into the notion that everyone needs to have constant internet access and a cell phone on hand at all times. We are obsessed with the flimsiness of technological connections, so much so that our interpersonal relationships are suffering.
Case in point - in my rush to get out the door on my way out of town for a few days, I forgot two items at home - my cell phone and my watch. Loathe as I am to make such a confession, I'm feeling a bit lost - wondering constantly what time it is and whether one of the (admittedly few) people who have my cell phone number might be trying in vain to call me. And you know what? My phone dependance is probably about one on a scale of zero to ten. I don't like the thing much, and miss the feeling that I can travel incognito, unreachable by anyone at all. Heck, I even downgraded to a more basic model when the first one I got refused to hold a charge. Still, now that I've grown accustomed to being tethered to my portable locator I feel strangely vulnerable without it.
Look around you when you are in any public place. Make note of how many people are fiddling with their telephones. Observe the packs of roaming teens who, while traveling together, are all still managing to rather pointedly ignore the people who are physically present in favor of texting or chatting with those who aren't. Scarier still, go to a nice restaurant with your significant other and you'll see a lot of other couples dining together/apart, each with phones out, ignoring the person they THINK they're spending "quality time" with so that they can check in with Facebook or surf the internet or respond to emails from the office.
Am I the only one who thinks priorities are a little out of whack? Why is it that this false sense of connectedness to an online/over a receiver audience has taken over our commitment to what I call "realtime facetime", not to mention our commitment to our jobs, our responsibilities and our physical health?
We have all become addicted to immediacy and bought into the notion that we need to be accessible to the masses at all times. We are bombarded with electronic stimuli, and starving for a real sense of community and congeniality in our lives. I'd like to think it's not too late to make changes - to learn to check your phone at the door, to limit your after-hours business calls and your time on the computer.
This poem was written as a response to a scene my husband witnessed at an airport, the kind of thing we all see, but seldom notice...
Communion: (Sharon flood Kasenberg - February '09)
A man seen at an airport
in reverential stance
appeared to be in consort
with God upon first glance.
But on closer inspection
I had to heave a sigh -
what first escaped detection
had now captured my eye.
It seemed his rapt attention
was not given to prayer,
but to modern invention
a "Blackberry" was there,
held reverently in his hands
and cradled near his heart;
as he entered his commands
it did wisdom impart.
It's terribly ironic -
the way that we commune -
with all things electronic
we're ever more in tune.
Lately I've been noticed a marked decline in civility. Everyone seems to be rushed, terse, short on patience and manners. All of these factors seem to denote a lack of true connectedness between human beings - in spite of the fact that we're "plugged in" to each other like never before. Interesting isn't it, that I make these observations in an age where everybody seems to be capable of almost instantaneous connection to just about anyone, anywhere on this vast planet. Even the "Luddites" among us, myself included, have bought into the notion that everyone needs to have constant internet access and a cell phone on hand at all times. We are obsessed with the flimsiness of technological connections, so much so that our interpersonal relationships are suffering.
Case in point - in my rush to get out the door on my way out of town for a few days, I forgot two items at home - my cell phone and my watch. Loathe as I am to make such a confession, I'm feeling a bit lost - wondering constantly what time it is and whether one of the (admittedly few) people who have my cell phone number might be trying in vain to call me. And you know what? My phone dependance is probably about one on a scale of zero to ten. I don't like the thing much, and miss the feeling that I can travel incognito, unreachable by anyone at all. Heck, I even downgraded to a more basic model when the first one I got refused to hold a charge. Still, now that I've grown accustomed to being tethered to my portable locator I feel strangely vulnerable without it.
Look around you when you are in any public place. Make note of how many people are fiddling with their telephones. Observe the packs of roaming teens who, while traveling together, are all still managing to rather pointedly ignore the people who are physically present in favor of texting or chatting with those who aren't. Scarier still, go to a nice restaurant with your significant other and you'll see a lot of other couples dining together/apart, each with phones out, ignoring the person they THINK they're spending "quality time" with so that they can check in with Facebook or surf the internet or respond to emails from the office.
Am I the only one who thinks priorities are a little out of whack? Why is it that this false sense of connectedness to an online/over a receiver audience has taken over our commitment to what I call "realtime facetime", not to mention our commitment to our jobs, our responsibilities and our physical health?
We have all become addicted to immediacy and bought into the notion that we need to be accessible to the masses at all times. We are bombarded with electronic stimuli, and starving for a real sense of community and congeniality in our lives. I'd like to think it's not too late to make changes - to learn to check your phone at the door, to limit your after-hours business calls and your time on the computer.
This poem was written as a response to a scene my husband witnessed at an airport, the kind of thing we all see, but seldom notice...
Communion: (Sharon flood Kasenberg - February '09)
A man seen at an airport
in reverential stance
appeared to be in consort
with God upon first glance.
But on closer inspection
I had to heave a sigh -
what first escaped detection
had now captured my eye.
It seemed his rapt attention
was not given to prayer,
but to modern invention
a "Blackberry" was there,
held reverently in his hands
and cradled near his heart;
as he entered his commands
it did wisdom impart.
It's terribly ironic -
the way that we commune -
with all things electronic
we're ever more in tune.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Overspun - Reflections of a Control Freak - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I have talked a lot about how these past few years have been filled with self-examination. I've learned that there are aspects of myself that I am grateful for, that I appreciate and actually love. However, there are others that don't thrill me as much.
Today I hoped to get out and do some shopping. I had a list and was ready to go. Then a quick glance out the window confirmed the weatherman's forecast for rain. Hmmm...wet weather forced me to reconsider my plan. A few degrees cooler and my waterproof jacket would enable me to walk and make multiple stops in comfort, but experience has taught me that warm days make said jacket unbearably hot, so a re-think was called for. Laundry, I thought, would be just the chore! Then I took stock of the amount of laundry in the hamper (towels and pants=laundromat), which in turn made me consider my coinage (not plentiful=a trip to the grocery store for "cash back" to turn into coin) and before long it became apparent that all outings were off the board - especially since the drizzle had turned into a steady stream of wet. Stymied by the cursed weather!!! Oh - the frustration of it all!!!
And said frustration brings me back to those less savory aspects of my character alluded to in my first paragraph. I am a bit (HA!) of a control freak. I want everything to go as I planned. If I could, I would control the very weather itself, in which case our lawn would NOT be dead, as rain would fall on MY cue, twice a week between midnight and seven am. In that same alternate Sharon-controlled reality I would have a published book (that never had to go through the "processes" of finding an agent or making submissions to publishers) - not to mention perfect children, a twenty-three inch waistline, perpetual youthfulness...
Of course everything would be wonderful if I were in control - right?
Wrong. I don't have the answers to world peace (or even inner peace) but that doesn't change the fact that on some level I want to be in full control of everything, or at the very least everything as it relates to me.
So without further ado, here is the story of a caterpillar named Kate, who has a few "control issues" of her own.
Over-spun - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September '10)
A caterpillar named Miss Kate
was building her cocoon
when Mr. Bee called, "That looks great!
You're sure to be done soon!"
"Oh NO!" replied the caterpill -
"There's SO MUCH MORE to do -
all of this spinning takes great skill -
I'm not yet nearly through!
I want it finished PERFECTLY
before I settle in -
the best cocoon you'll ever see.
Now GO and LET ME SPIN!"
So Mr. Bee droned on his way
and left her to her chore -
while she spun on, all night and day,
she'd spin, then spin some more.
At length along came Lady Bug,
she too began to praise.
But our Miss Kate responded, "UGH!
It won't be done for days!
I spin and spin, but all I've spun
is never really right!
I don't know when I will be done -
It's such a sorry sight!"
And at this rather rude display
poor Lady Bug moved on,
observing as she went her way
all caterpillars gone.
Miss Kate spun on, alone once more -
far too alone, for she
was so intent she did ignore
cocoons in every tree.
No other caterpillars worked
alongside our Miss Kate.
It wasn't that they lazed or shirked,
they knew when not to wait.
As soon as their cocoons were spun
for rest they felt an urge.
Their spinning stopped, for work was done
'til they would re-emerge.
They understood what Kate had missed -
Transforming can't begin
until you learn when to desist,
and stop yourself mid-spin.
It's not the size of the cocoon
that yields a better moth.
Our epic dreams, so oft' a boon,
sometimes must be switched off!
A "Caterpillar Kate" am I
with tales of rhyme all spun.
"Not good enough!" I'm apt to cry -
"Don't read that! It's not DONE!"
I write and write, spin reams of verse
and get into a snit -
grandiose visions are my curse -
I don't know when to quit!
Transforming can be difficult -
at least for me and Kate.
With every effort we find fault,
and so we hesitate.
But when it's time for wings to sprout
or stories to be told,
those who continue to spin doubt
will see no change unfold.
To protocol all must submit
or growth we will impede -
before with wings we fly and flit,
control we learn to cede.
Today I hoped to get out and do some shopping. I had a list and was ready to go. Then a quick glance out the window confirmed the weatherman's forecast for rain. Hmmm...wet weather forced me to reconsider my plan. A few degrees cooler and my waterproof jacket would enable me to walk and make multiple stops in comfort, but experience has taught me that warm days make said jacket unbearably hot, so a re-think was called for. Laundry, I thought, would be just the chore! Then I took stock of the amount of laundry in the hamper (towels and pants=laundromat), which in turn made me consider my coinage (not plentiful=a trip to the grocery store for "cash back" to turn into coin) and before long it became apparent that all outings were off the board - especially since the drizzle had turned into a steady stream of wet. Stymied by the cursed weather!!! Oh - the frustration of it all!!!
And said frustration brings me back to those less savory aspects of my character alluded to in my first paragraph. I am a bit (HA!) of a control freak. I want everything to go as I planned. If I could, I would control the very weather itself, in which case our lawn would NOT be dead, as rain would fall on MY cue, twice a week between midnight and seven am. In that same alternate Sharon-controlled reality I would have a published book (that never had to go through the "processes" of finding an agent or making submissions to publishers) - not to mention perfect children, a twenty-three inch waistline, perpetual youthfulness...
Of course everything would be wonderful if I were in control - right?
Wrong. I don't have the answers to world peace (or even inner peace) but that doesn't change the fact that on some level I want to be in full control of everything, or at the very least everything as it relates to me.
So without further ado, here is the story of a caterpillar named Kate, who has a few "control issues" of her own.
Over-spun - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September '10)
A caterpillar named Miss Kate
was building her cocoon
when Mr. Bee called, "That looks great!
You're sure to be done soon!"
"Oh NO!" replied the caterpill -
"There's SO MUCH MORE to do -
all of this spinning takes great skill -
I'm not yet nearly through!
I want it finished PERFECTLY
before I settle in -
the best cocoon you'll ever see.
Now GO and LET ME SPIN!"
So Mr. Bee droned on his way
and left her to her chore -
while she spun on, all night and day,
she'd spin, then spin some more.
At length along came Lady Bug,
she too began to praise.
But our Miss Kate responded, "UGH!
It won't be done for days!
I spin and spin, but all I've spun
is never really right!
I don't know when I will be done -
It's such a sorry sight!"
And at this rather rude display
poor Lady Bug moved on,
observing as she went her way
all caterpillars gone.
Miss Kate spun on, alone once more -
far too alone, for she
was so intent she did ignore
cocoons in every tree.
No other caterpillars worked
alongside our Miss Kate.
It wasn't that they lazed or shirked,
they knew when not to wait.
As soon as their cocoons were spun
for rest they felt an urge.
Their spinning stopped, for work was done
'til they would re-emerge.
They understood what Kate had missed -
Transforming can't begin
until you learn when to desist,
and stop yourself mid-spin.
It's not the size of the cocoon
that yields a better moth.
Our epic dreams, so oft' a boon,
sometimes must be switched off!
A "Caterpillar Kate" am I
with tales of rhyme all spun.
"Not good enough!" I'm apt to cry -
"Don't read that! It's not DONE!"
I write and write, spin reams of verse
and get into a snit -
grandiose visions are my curse -
I don't know when to quit!
Transforming can be difficult -
at least for me and Kate.
With every effort we find fault,
and so we hesitate.
But when it's time for wings to sprout
or stories to be told,
those who continue to spin doubt
will see no change unfold.
To protocol all must submit
or growth we will impede -
before with wings we fly and flit,
control we learn to cede.
Thursday, 9 August 2012
Potholes on the Road to Romance...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Potholes on the path to passion, rocks on the road to romance...all of us have found ourselves (or find ourselves) tripped up from time to time as we travel the trails toward true love. The stuff of romantic literature is mostly pure fiction, because in reality our romances fall somewhere between Harlequin territory and the tales of P. G. Wodehouse. (Which I suggest you read, if you never have - the man was prolific and there are plenty of his books to choose from - but I digress.) "True romances" are tales full of contradiction and miscues and frustration. We trip, we fall, and if brave enough to get up and try again and again, we just may get a crack at that happily ever after.
This month I'm celebrating an even twenty-four years of marriage, and I'm hoping Todd is too! In honour of our anniversary on the 25th of August I'm posting "Herbie's Romance" - a tale with almost as many twists and turns as our own courtship.
Like Hester, (the heroine in said tale), I was mistaken about what I really wanted in a mate. Luckily, I was smart enough to admit that I was wrong. (It doesn't happen all that often - ha! - so I can be gracious when it does!)
You see, about twenty-five years ago I sat my now husband down on a curb and told him in no uncertain terms that romance between us was a no go, and we were destined to remain nothing but friends. It was the same old story - he wanted me, my attentions were elsewhere - and by the time I realized I wanted him too he'd almost refocused his attentions on someone else.
I feasted spectacularly on crow the day I phoned him and told him that I'd changed my mind about the "only friends" thing, and he replied that he was "pleasantly surprised" by my change of heart. Romance ensued, and has (mostly) continued to this day.
So here's to the best man that a girl could ever be wrong (and right!) about....Happy Anniversary Toddy!
(Hope you all enjoy the poem...)
Herbie's Romance - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January '07)
Herbie fixed his sights on Hester, who embodied his desire -
While his starry eyes assessed her he could feel himself perspire.
For 'though his heart was ignited when he looked upon her face,
'twas a passion unrequited - of love she felt not a trace.
Not that she was heartless (really) - but like most in girlish youth
she was somewhat vain and silly and uncivilly uncouth.
All of his attempts to woo her won him nought but her disdain -
witticisms never drew her; she was once heard to complain,
"I grow weary when he chatters, he's intelligent enough,
but speaks much of mundane matters - I don't care about such stuff.
He's a bland and boring fellow ( although Ma thinks he's a prince...)
still, my knees don't turn to jello and to see him makes me wince."
This she spoke, but not unkindly did she view the lovestruck sap
who (she knew) worshipped her blindly - a discriminating chap!
Herbie's friends said he was dreaming, he would never win her hand -
he should stop his endless scheming - true love never went as planned.
"The path of love is rough and hard - " he mused to self morosely,
"It seems that I've in this regard miscalculated grossly.
She won't respond to wit or praise; with these I've not impressed her.
Therefore I must find better ways to woo my darling Hester.
She doesn't like the way I speak - her presence - it confounds me!
Too clumsily her glance I seek whenever she's around me."
Thus he did strive to court by stealth with ink profusely flowing.
(He hoped to restore mental health by worship never showing...)
In secret then he penned her praise with eloquence unstinting -
expounding in such varied ways his hand grew tired of printing!
Then he posted his epistle, but she never did reply.
"Her heart - it's like a thistle!" said he with a heartfelt sigh.
Night and day he concentrated on evicting her from mind,
but to see her he seemed fated and no respite could he find.
"It's no good!" he moaned, despairing, "Hester I just can't forget!
She's been ruthlessly uncaring, but this isn't finished yet!
She protests she's not attracted, yet it seems she's always near -
to my words she's not reacted, but she will not disappear!
She complains that I am boring and that I too often drone
and yet now that I'm ignoring she will NOT leave me alone!
Her behavior so contrary - only warm when I grow cold -
may for her be ordinary so perhaps I should be bold!"
Thus when questioned on intentions where fair Hester was concerned
He did not decline to mention how her interest he had spurned.
"Yes, she once held my affection, now I'm really not so sure -
her flaws merit more correction than my patience can endure.
She's too fluttery and flouncey, and a fearsome sort of flirt -
so abominably bouncy that she makes my poor head hurt!"
He denied his love for Hester 'til to all it did appear
that he must indeed detest her, and disinterest drew her near.
Like a fly in web of spider she was lured by his deceit.
The attention he denied her made her grovel at his feet.
If our hero had been tougher her abasement might amuse,
but too kind to let her suffer, past disdain he did excuse.
Gallantly he sprang to action, scooped his dearest off the floor,
and in proof of real attraction vowed he'd love her evermore.
Herbie held his contrite Hester (not uncivil now at all...) -
Though it took great will to best her, he now held her in his thrall.
In those eyes that once dismissed him, he stood brave, heroic - good!
And without a word she kissed him as a rescued maiden should.
This month I'm celebrating an even twenty-four years of marriage, and I'm hoping Todd is too! In honour of our anniversary on the 25th of August I'm posting "Herbie's Romance" - a tale with almost as many twists and turns as our own courtship.
Like Hester, (the heroine in said tale), I was mistaken about what I really wanted in a mate. Luckily, I was smart enough to admit that I was wrong. (It doesn't happen all that often - ha! - so I can be gracious when it does!)
You see, about twenty-five years ago I sat my now husband down on a curb and told him in no uncertain terms that romance between us was a no go, and we were destined to remain nothing but friends. It was the same old story - he wanted me, my attentions were elsewhere - and by the time I realized I wanted him too he'd almost refocused his attentions on someone else.
I feasted spectacularly on crow the day I phoned him and told him that I'd changed my mind about the "only friends" thing, and he replied that he was "pleasantly surprised" by my change of heart. Romance ensued, and has (mostly) continued to this day.
So here's to the best man that a girl could ever be wrong (and right!) about....Happy Anniversary Toddy!
(Hope you all enjoy the poem...)
Herbie's Romance - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January '07)
Herbie fixed his sights on Hester, who embodied his desire -
While his starry eyes assessed her he could feel himself perspire.
For 'though his heart was ignited when he looked upon her face,
'twas a passion unrequited - of love she felt not a trace.
Not that she was heartless (really) - but like most in girlish youth
she was somewhat vain and silly and uncivilly uncouth.
All of his attempts to woo her won him nought but her disdain -
witticisms never drew her; she was once heard to complain,
"I grow weary when he chatters, he's intelligent enough,
but speaks much of mundane matters - I don't care about such stuff.
He's a bland and boring fellow ( although Ma thinks he's a prince...)
still, my knees don't turn to jello and to see him makes me wince."
This she spoke, but not unkindly did she view the lovestruck sap
who (she knew) worshipped her blindly - a discriminating chap!
Herbie's friends said he was dreaming, he would never win her hand -
he should stop his endless scheming - true love never went as planned.
"The path of love is rough and hard - " he mused to self morosely,
"It seems that I've in this regard miscalculated grossly.
She won't respond to wit or praise; with these I've not impressed her.
Therefore I must find better ways to woo my darling Hester.
She doesn't like the way I speak - her presence - it confounds me!
Too clumsily her glance I seek whenever she's around me."
Thus he did strive to court by stealth with ink profusely flowing.
(He hoped to restore mental health by worship never showing...)
In secret then he penned her praise with eloquence unstinting -
expounding in such varied ways his hand grew tired of printing!
Then he posted his epistle, but she never did reply.
"Her heart - it's like a thistle!" said he with a heartfelt sigh.
Night and day he concentrated on evicting her from mind,
but to see her he seemed fated and no respite could he find.
"It's no good!" he moaned, despairing, "Hester I just can't forget!
She's been ruthlessly uncaring, but this isn't finished yet!
She protests she's not attracted, yet it seems she's always near -
to my words she's not reacted, but she will not disappear!
She complains that I am boring and that I too often drone
and yet now that I'm ignoring she will NOT leave me alone!
Her behavior so contrary - only warm when I grow cold -
may for her be ordinary so perhaps I should be bold!"
Thus when questioned on intentions where fair Hester was concerned
He did not decline to mention how her interest he had spurned.
"Yes, she once held my affection, now I'm really not so sure -
her flaws merit more correction than my patience can endure.
She's too fluttery and flouncey, and a fearsome sort of flirt -
so abominably bouncy that she makes my poor head hurt!"
He denied his love for Hester 'til to all it did appear
that he must indeed detest her, and disinterest drew her near.
Like a fly in web of spider she was lured by his deceit.
The attention he denied her made her grovel at his feet.
If our hero had been tougher her abasement might amuse,
but too kind to let her suffer, past disdain he did excuse.
Gallantly he sprang to action, scooped his dearest off the floor,
and in proof of real attraction vowed he'd love her evermore.
Herbie held his contrite Hester (not uncivil now at all...) -
Though it took great will to best her, he now held her in his thrall.
In those eyes that once dismissed him, he stood brave, heroic - good!
And without a word she kissed him as a rescued maiden should.
Monday, 2 July 2012
One Tree...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010
I've always been introspective , and sometimes get so caught up in my thoughts that I fail to do much of significance. Over the past year and a half I've been more committed to taking action; to trying new things and pushing myself at least a bit farther out of what is admittedly a rather narrow comfort zone.
Last year I wrote a book. I don't know whether it's good enough to ever be published, but instead of whining about wanting to write, I got proactive enough to sit down and do it. I didn't second guess myself constantly or talk myself out of it "because probably nobody would want to read anything I write anyway", which was always my excuse for giving up before. It's progress, right?
This past winter I did something that was equally daring - for me, at least. I made a commitment to spent plenty of time in Toronto with my son, to encourage him as he finishes his course, and to show him (and myself) that we can do difficult things. Spending time away from husband and home frightened me. What if Todd didn't miss me, or he didn't keep the house clean enough to meet my standards? What if I got too lonely or bored? What if I got lost in the "Big City" or I proved to be no real help to Sam at all?
Once again I didn't give in to the negative voices that always encourage me to take the safest, easiest route. I had my own firm convictions on my side, my husband's blessing and my son's approval. (Even if there are times when he craves a bit more "parental neglect", he's still appreciative when I take him out to supper or do his laundry.) It was all enough to make me follow through.
For the record, I know I'm no paragon of virtue or wisdom. I'm seeing a bit of progress in myself as I learn that I can be happy in new situations, change resistent as I am. I'm discovering that variety in life is invigorating. The fact that independence does NOT equal loneliness is finally sinking in. I'm not a wise woman yet, but I maintain hope that someday I will be.
I've recently had another challenge come my way. Last week my mother moved to town - a brave move on her part, since she's reached a relatively advanced age and lived in the same city almost her entire life. It's difficult for me to watch her find her bearings in this new environment, and to see the wistful look in her eyes when she talks about her friends "at home". I'm uncomfortable with being needed by her in this new way, as a navigator and advisor, just as Sam is uncomfortable with needing me, and I'm uncomfortable with needing Todd. But the fact that we do need each other is undeniable.
So what exactly does all this rambling about my experiences this past year have to do with a poem about a tree? Well, no matter how impressive the specimen, no tree really stands alone. Each tree needs the earth to support it and the rain and the sun to provide nourishment. In return it nurtures flora and fauna of various types while it stands, and continues to contribute to the world long after it has been felled.
We are all like the One Tree - rooted, but reaching. We're all interconnected - needing support and approbation on one hand, and needing to offer our own brand of nurturing on the other. Will my contributions outlive me? Hmmm... I don't know, but I like to think that's something I can aspire to.
One Tree: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010)
Part of the forest, but not quite
with leafy boughs that filter light
one tree stands tall against the sky -
a home for those that flit and fly.
Its roots run deep into the earth
that gave a spindly sapling birth,
and thrived despite harsh elements
'til tree grew high in increments.
Into the clouds its branches thrust
from roots entrenched in dirt and dust.
And though this tree could stand alone,
it was into a woodland sown -
where roots and branches both entwine
with trees of differing design.
I am merely a single tree
in forest of humanity -
though independent, not alone
within the glade where I have grown.
Strong roots I have to nourish me
in rich brown loam of family,
and hopeful sunshine, loving rain
might help me lofty stature gain.
Perhaps someday I'll rise in might,
distinguished by outstanding height.
Until, in autumn of my day
I'll cast my wisened thoughts away
to catch the winds like leaves of gold,
and shelter saplings from the cold.
Last year I wrote a book. I don't know whether it's good enough to ever be published, but instead of whining about wanting to write, I got proactive enough to sit down and do it. I didn't second guess myself constantly or talk myself out of it "because probably nobody would want to read anything I write anyway", which was always my excuse for giving up before. It's progress, right?
This past winter I did something that was equally daring - for me, at least. I made a commitment to spent plenty of time in Toronto with my son, to encourage him as he finishes his course, and to show him (and myself) that we can do difficult things. Spending time away from husband and home frightened me. What if Todd didn't miss me, or he didn't keep the house clean enough to meet my standards? What if I got too lonely or bored? What if I got lost in the "Big City" or I proved to be no real help to Sam at all?
Once again I didn't give in to the negative voices that always encourage me to take the safest, easiest route. I had my own firm convictions on my side, my husband's blessing and my son's approval. (Even if there are times when he craves a bit more "parental neglect", he's still appreciative when I take him out to supper or do his laundry.) It was all enough to make me follow through.
For the record, I know I'm no paragon of virtue or wisdom. I'm seeing a bit of progress in myself as I learn that I can be happy in new situations, change resistent as I am. I'm discovering that variety in life is invigorating. The fact that independence does NOT equal loneliness is finally sinking in. I'm not a wise woman yet, but I maintain hope that someday I will be.
I've recently had another challenge come my way. Last week my mother moved to town - a brave move on her part, since she's reached a relatively advanced age and lived in the same city almost her entire life. It's difficult for me to watch her find her bearings in this new environment, and to see the wistful look in her eyes when she talks about her friends "at home". I'm uncomfortable with being needed by her in this new way, as a navigator and advisor, just as Sam is uncomfortable with needing me, and I'm uncomfortable with needing Todd. But the fact that we do need each other is undeniable.
So what exactly does all this rambling about my experiences this past year have to do with a poem about a tree? Well, no matter how impressive the specimen, no tree really stands alone. Each tree needs the earth to support it and the rain and the sun to provide nourishment. In return it nurtures flora and fauna of various types while it stands, and continues to contribute to the world long after it has been felled.
We are all like the One Tree - rooted, but reaching. We're all interconnected - needing support and approbation on one hand, and needing to offer our own brand of nurturing on the other. Will my contributions outlive me? Hmmm... I don't know, but I like to think that's something I can aspire to.
One Tree: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010)
Part of the forest, but not quite
with leafy boughs that filter light
one tree stands tall against the sky -
a home for those that flit and fly.
Its roots run deep into the earth
that gave a spindly sapling birth,
and thrived despite harsh elements
'til tree grew high in increments.
Into the clouds its branches thrust
from roots entrenched in dirt and dust.
And though this tree could stand alone,
it was into a woodland sown -
where roots and branches both entwine
with trees of differing design.
I am merely a single tree
in forest of humanity -
though independent, not alone
within the glade where I have grown.
Strong roots I have to nourish me
in rich brown loam of family,
and hopeful sunshine, loving rain
might help me lofty stature gain.
Perhaps someday I'll rise in might,
distinguished by outstanding height.
Until, in autumn of my day
I'll cast my wisened thoughts away
to catch the winds like leaves of gold,
and shelter saplings from the cold.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker...
I love to bake - which isn't exactly news to anyone who knows me well. I love to bake so much, that in spite of the fact that it's a mighty hot day out there, (and up here in my son's apartment), I am posting this blog as the scent of apple cinnamon muffins fills the air. Whatever the weather, a girl still has to eat, and I thought the muffins would be a nice accompaniment to the quinoa and spinach salads I've planned for my supper.
My love affair with baking goes back a long way. I have very early memories of watching my mother bake pies and cakes. (Mom bakes pies that can't be beat!) She quickly sensed my interest, and allowed me to "help" with her baking endeavors. I remember one incident where I got to roll out my own glob of pie crust and bake it in my doll-sized tart shells. These very tough and over-worked little gems were filled with jam and presented to my father at supper time. He seemed impressed that I'd "made them myself" and said they were great. (Which was sweet of the guy, considering the fact that he was used to my mother's divine crusts - so it's likely that he just wanted to encourage my interest in culinary arts.)
By the time I was ten or twelve I was baking often, progressing fairly rapidly from cake mixes and simple recipes to cookies, which according to my younger brother I excelled at. He would often come to me with requests to bake him cookies, saying. "Yours are better than Mom's, Shar - they're chewier!"
As a teenager I discovered a passion for baked cheesecakes, and during my twenties became proficient at baking them. My thirties were spent mastering pies and tarts. My husband doesn't "do" fruit, and Sam won't touch fruit that's cooked, so my early pies were all of the cream variety. Dan however, soon let it be known that HE would appreciate the odd apple or pumpkin pie. (Who are we fooling here? My younger son, like myself, has never met a dessert he doesn't appreciate.) I will admit that my apple pies are a bit inconsistent - in part because I make them on a whim and seldom use the best baking apples. (And there was the one time that I used salt instead of sugar, which is a favorite story of Dan's. The poor kid actually choked down several mouthfuls before I got a taste and told him to toss the rest out!!)
So over the years I've become a good enough baker that a few friends have dubbed me "The Pastry Queen", which is flattering to say the least. It's good that I'm a decent baker, because my cooking skills remain fairly rudimentary. (I have mastered a shortish repertoire of "company meals", and when those aren't on the proposed menu I apologize in advance.)
"Main course may be iffy" I tell invited guests, "But dessert will be good!"
In spite of how much I love to bake there was one area that left me feeling daunted. For several years I refused to even attempt to make a loaf of bread. Finally, about four years ago I gave in to Todd's request to try making cinnamon buns. My first attempts were less than stellar, but after repeated efforts and recipe changes (and my discovery of a superior brand of yeast), I think I've finally got it down.
I hope that some day I'll be able to pass on my baking skills to another generation, just as my mother passed hers on to me. To date, it hasn't happened. Sam showed brief interest in learning to make cookies, but quickly got discouraged when he learned that you can't just throw everything into the bowl at once and stir it together. Dan is the least domestic male on earth, and only cares that food appears before him. MAYBE someday there will be grandchildren - maybe even a long overdue female child who will want to bake with Grandma. That would be the sweetest thing ever in a life that is already pretty sweet!
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 12, 2012)
In childhood I helped Mother bake
by coating pans with grease,
and sometimes flour I'd sift and shake
as duties did increase.
By ten I could bake from a mix;
make simple recipes-
before too long I learned some tricks
and taste buds I could please.
My teenage years were filled with treats
to tempt most any tongue -
my praises, for producing sweets
were oft' by others sung.
It took a while to master pie -
(Good crusts are difficult)
One, apple-filled, I can't deny
was seasoned well with salt!
Through practice crusts have passed the test,
they're flaky and they're light:
My bread, I fear, was not as blessed -
Took years to get THAT right!
Those yellow packets filled with yeast
would NOT cooperate -
though leavening I did increase
loaves barely did inflate.
Persistence once again has paid -
now all will go as planned -
since change to recipe was made,
and yeast? Another brand!
Now I can make a loaf or bun
with texture light as air -
and gooey rolls of cinnamon
I almost hate to share!
At fifty I've acquired the skill
to decent loaf present -
Of home baked buns we eat our fill
and husband is content.
My love affair with baking goes back a long way. I have very early memories of watching my mother bake pies and cakes. (Mom bakes pies that can't be beat!) She quickly sensed my interest, and allowed me to "help" with her baking endeavors. I remember one incident where I got to roll out my own glob of pie crust and bake it in my doll-sized tart shells. These very tough and over-worked little gems were filled with jam and presented to my father at supper time. He seemed impressed that I'd "made them myself" and said they were great. (Which was sweet of the guy, considering the fact that he was used to my mother's divine crusts - so it's likely that he just wanted to encourage my interest in culinary arts.)
By the time I was ten or twelve I was baking often, progressing fairly rapidly from cake mixes and simple recipes to cookies, which according to my younger brother I excelled at. He would often come to me with requests to bake him cookies, saying. "Yours are better than Mom's, Shar - they're chewier!"
As a teenager I discovered a passion for baked cheesecakes, and during my twenties became proficient at baking them. My thirties were spent mastering pies and tarts. My husband doesn't "do" fruit, and Sam won't touch fruit that's cooked, so my early pies were all of the cream variety. Dan however, soon let it be known that HE would appreciate the odd apple or pumpkin pie. (Who are we fooling here? My younger son, like myself, has never met a dessert he doesn't appreciate.) I will admit that my apple pies are a bit inconsistent - in part because I make them on a whim and seldom use the best baking apples. (And there was the one time that I used salt instead of sugar, which is a favorite story of Dan's. The poor kid actually choked down several mouthfuls before I got a taste and told him to toss the rest out!!)
So over the years I've become a good enough baker that a few friends have dubbed me "The Pastry Queen", which is flattering to say the least. It's good that I'm a decent baker, because my cooking skills remain fairly rudimentary. (I have mastered a shortish repertoire of "company meals", and when those aren't on the proposed menu I apologize in advance.)
"Main course may be iffy" I tell invited guests, "But dessert will be good!"
In spite of how much I love to bake there was one area that left me feeling daunted. For several years I refused to even attempt to make a loaf of bread. Finally, about four years ago I gave in to Todd's request to try making cinnamon buns. My first attempts were less than stellar, but after repeated efforts and recipe changes (and my discovery of a superior brand of yeast), I think I've finally got it down.
I hope that some day I'll be able to pass on my baking skills to another generation, just as my mother passed hers on to me. To date, it hasn't happened. Sam showed brief interest in learning to make cookies, but quickly got discouraged when he learned that you can't just throw everything into the bowl at once and stir it together. Dan is the least domestic male on earth, and only cares that food appears before him. MAYBE someday there will be grandchildren - maybe even a long overdue female child who will want to bake with Grandma. That would be the sweetest thing ever in a life that is already pretty sweet!
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 12, 2012)
In childhood I helped Mother bake
by coating pans with grease,
and sometimes flour I'd sift and shake
as duties did increase.
By ten I could bake from a mix;
make simple recipes-
before too long I learned some tricks
and taste buds I could please.
My teenage years were filled with treats
to tempt most any tongue -
my praises, for producing sweets
were oft' by others sung.
It took a while to master pie -
(Good crusts are difficult)
One, apple-filled, I can't deny
was seasoned well with salt!
Through practice crusts have passed the test,
they're flaky and they're light:
My bread, I fear, was not as blessed -
Took years to get THAT right!
Those yellow packets filled with yeast
would NOT cooperate -
though leavening I did increase
loaves barely did inflate.
Persistence once again has paid -
now all will go as planned -
since change to recipe was made,
and yeast? Another brand!
Now I can make a loaf or bun
with texture light as air -
and gooey rolls of cinnamon
I almost hate to share!
At fifty I've acquired the skill
to decent loaf present -
Of home baked buns we eat our fill
and husband is content.
Friday, 20 April 2012
In the Wee Hours - Advice to Insomniacs Everywhere
In the Wee Hours - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (May '09)
I waken and my brain's abuzz -
the reason for this is because?
(And as I lie alert in bed,
I run through this list in my head...)
I heard a noise?
I have to pee?
Is it too bright? (At ten to three?!!)
Was it a dream that made me wake?
Do head or shoulders/knees/toes ache?
Am I too cold?
Am I too hot?
Do I feel hungry? (I think NOT!)
There seems no reason to explain
this over-taxing of my brain.
All that I know is I feel wired
at hour when sleep is most desired,
and thus I wallow in despair -
This isn't right - it isn't fair!
My loved ones all serenely sleep
while I lay multiplying sheep!
I WON'T get up and rouse the house,
I'll stay here quiet as a mouse
and boring tome I will accost
'til consciousness again is lost.
As pages turn I start to yawn -
I nod-
and then
at last
I'm
gone.
Ahh yes - Insomnia. We all experience it from time to time. Some of us experience it a lot...I've had "sleep issues" for longer than I remember, at least according to my mother, who I accept as an expert on the topic.
When I was young I had trouble getting to sleep, but somewhere along the way that changed. Now I usually drop off quickly, but after three or four hours my brain gets some misguided signal that it is now well slept, and thus I should commence solving the problems of the world.
I have developed some tried and true strategies for coping with the state of wakefulness in the wee hours, which are as follows:
1) Never assume that because you're awake anyone else in the house (or the apartment next door) cares a fig or wants to be awake too. (Rousing your spouse with a plaintive cry of "I can't sleep" is counterproductive to a happy union.)
2) The "to pee or not to pee" dilemma becomes even more of an issue as we age. Honestly people, by the time you're fifty you PROBABLY DO need to pee once you've been in bed that long. Just get up as soon as you wake up and get it over with once and for all.
3) Relocate if you are still awake twenty minutes after you peed. (That is, unless you can lay very still and quiet or you have a super duper mattress that can have a bowling ball dropped on it without waking up the person on the other side of the bed. Even then, it might be a good idea to move on...)
4) And the reason it might be a good idea to find a comfy couch is that human beings awake at three in the morning make more NOISE than a bowling ball dropped on the mattress, and because if your brain is trying to work out the mysteries of the universe it needs something trite or boring to numb it into submission.
5) Keep a stash of really dull books near your favorite couch. "How To..." manuals work well, and it can be useful to frequently review things like how to how to set the oven's self cleaning mechanism. Old computer manuals work well (DOS anyone?) as do math textbooks, or any other textbooks that you found too boring to actually read when you were supposed to. I recommend "Middlemarch". (I know it's a classic, but it put me to sleep for a solid year before I got through it. Todd swears by a scholarly tome entitled "James, the Brother of Jesus".)
6) If you are lucky enough to not own anything REALLY dull all the way through, simply put bookmarks in the most plodding and annoying parts of books you otherwise enjoyed, and read ONLY the selected passages when you need a good "put me down". I recommend the chapters in the scriptures that have pages on end of "and so-and-so begat so-and-so...", as well as the fifty page history/description of the sewers in Paris in "Les Mis". Readers Digest articles like "I am Joe's Spleen" are also a helpful resource to have on hand.
7) Do NOT make a snack for yourself. Your waistline probably doesn't need it, and in case you've forgotten, the microwave makes noise!
8) If your eyes begin to feel droopy and your brain reaches that pleasantly mushy state where it truly does NOT wish to think, you may return to the marital bed or hunker down where you are.
Sweet dreams!
-Sharon
I waken and my brain's abuzz -
the reason for this is because?
(And as I lie alert in bed,
I run through this list in my head...)
I heard a noise?
I have to pee?
Is it too bright? (At ten to three?!!)
Was it a dream that made me wake?
Do head or shoulders/knees/toes ache?
Am I too cold?
Am I too hot?
Do I feel hungry? (I think NOT!)
There seems no reason to explain
this over-taxing of my brain.
All that I know is I feel wired
at hour when sleep is most desired,
and thus I wallow in despair -
This isn't right - it isn't fair!
My loved ones all serenely sleep
while I lay multiplying sheep!
I WON'T get up and rouse the house,
I'll stay here quiet as a mouse
and boring tome I will accost
'til consciousness again is lost.
As pages turn I start to yawn -
I nod-
and then
at last
I'm
gone.
Ahh yes - Insomnia. We all experience it from time to time. Some of us experience it a lot...I've had "sleep issues" for longer than I remember, at least according to my mother, who I accept as an expert on the topic.
When I was young I had trouble getting to sleep, but somewhere along the way that changed. Now I usually drop off quickly, but after three or four hours my brain gets some misguided signal that it is now well slept, and thus I should commence solving the problems of the world.
I have developed some tried and true strategies for coping with the state of wakefulness in the wee hours, which are as follows:
1) Never assume that because you're awake anyone else in the house (or the apartment next door) cares a fig or wants to be awake too. (Rousing your spouse with a plaintive cry of "I can't sleep" is counterproductive to a happy union.)
2) The "to pee or not to pee" dilemma becomes even more of an issue as we age. Honestly people, by the time you're fifty you PROBABLY DO need to pee once you've been in bed that long. Just get up as soon as you wake up and get it over with once and for all.
3) Relocate if you are still awake twenty minutes after you peed. (That is, unless you can lay very still and quiet or you have a super duper mattress that can have a bowling ball dropped on it without waking up the person on the other side of the bed. Even then, it might be a good idea to move on...)
4) And the reason it might be a good idea to find a comfy couch is that human beings awake at three in the morning make more NOISE than a bowling ball dropped on the mattress, and because if your brain is trying to work out the mysteries of the universe it needs something trite or boring to numb it into submission.
5) Keep a stash of really dull books near your favorite couch. "How To..." manuals work well, and it can be useful to frequently review things like how to how to set the oven's self cleaning mechanism. Old computer manuals work well (DOS anyone?) as do math textbooks, or any other textbooks that you found too boring to actually read when you were supposed to. I recommend "Middlemarch". (I know it's a classic, but it put me to sleep for a solid year before I got through it. Todd swears by a scholarly tome entitled "James, the Brother of Jesus".)
6) If you are lucky enough to not own anything REALLY dull all the way through, simply put bookmarks in the most plodding and annoying parts of books you otherwise enjoyed, and read ONLY the selected passages when you need a good "put me down". I recommend the chapters in the scriptures that have pages on end of "and so-and-so begat so-and-so...", as well as the fifty page history/description of the sewers in Paris in "Les Mis". Readers Digest articles like "I am Joe's Spleen" are also a helpful resource to have on hand.
7) Do NOT make a snack for yourself. Your waistline probably doesn't need it, and in case you've forgotten, the microwave makes noise!
8) If your eyes begin to feel droopy and your brain reaches that pleasantly mushy state where it truly does NOT wish to think, you may return to the marital bed or hunker down where you are.
Sweet dreams!
-Sharon
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
A Mouse! In MY House!! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 20, 2011)
Okay - let me start out this post with a definite disclaimer. I am a very good house-keeper - I swear I am. In my youth I used to clean houses for a living. I know where dirt lurks and diligently seek to eradicate it. I will confess that at times I may be messy, but there's a difference. A few scattered newspapers or unhung clothes make a place look lived in, but dirt just looks gross, and I won't tolerate it.
Seventeen months ago I saw a mouse in my basement. We were all down there. One son was chatting with his brother, who sat at the computer, Todd was in the bathroom and I had just sat down to watch television when something scampered out from beneath the couch I was sitting on. I let out a shriek that my sons still marvel at. ("I didn't know you could even make that noise, Mom!" one said.) It caught their attention though, and both rushed over to where I had assumed a typically girly pose - standing on a chair and pointing in the general direction of where the thing had disappeared.
I was filled with righteous indignation that A MOUSE would dare come into MY house! ( I had been warned that if you saw one of their kind in your house, there were probably ten more in hiding, but when rational thought kicked in I realized that the begonias I'd brought into the family room the day before had carried the thing in. There was a nice little one mouse sized tunnel in one of the pots, which were promptly carried to the garage.) Off we went to buy a couple of catch and release traps. We baited them with cream cheese and medium cheddar. Friends had suggested peanut butter, but as that's a deadly substance in our household cream cheese seemed like a decent alternative. The critter was caught that very night and released into the wild (well, onto the conservation trail) the next morning. Judging by the amount of poop in the trap, the cheese combo was a big hit so we continued to use it as bait and set out the two traps we had for the next week, just to be safe. Luckily, the mouse had been an unwitting stow away in the begonia pot as I'd suspected, and no more mice were ever spotted.
Until last week. Before bed Todd left some croissants on the counter, for his breakfast, and alongside them was a loaf of banana bread I'd baked for a friend. When he got up the next morning it became obvious that a mouse had somehow found its way into MY KITCHEN and had a feast. Todd wasn't impressed, and went in search of traps. It took two nights, but he caught the culprit and again the trail inherited one more mouse. Problem solved - we hoped. After all, there was no easy explanation for how this one had found its way in, and therefore we knew the possibility existed that it could have friends. The trap stayed baited for another two nights, and when no mice took the bait we were fairly confident it had been another isolated incident. In the meantime I spent my weekend at home sterilizing my kitchen and cleaning out the cuboards the mouse had gotten into. (Luckily none that contained food.)
The third mouseless night rolled around and Sam ate a midnight snack - a bowl of yogurt - and left his unrinsed bowl beside the sink. Morning four as I downed my pre-breakfast glass of water I noticed the bowl beside the sink, liberally strewn with mouse droppings. I almost cried. I called Todd and Sam over to see the evidence and we three set about cleaning the kitchen AGAIN. The trap was still empty, and Todd vowed he'd rebait it that night and catch the little pest. I made him promise to call in the exterminators if there was any evidence of a third mouse. It took two nights but the second dairy loving rodent was caught and released. Now we play the waiting game to determine if there are more...
Needless to say this whole unsavory incident has unleashed a torrent of poetic vitriol toward mice. Here goes:
A Mouse! In MY HOUSE!! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
"Not big enough for both of us -"
I bellowed, "is my house!"
(While standing on chair in disgust
and pointing at...A MOUSE!!)
"I'm gone three weeks and in you come
to eat a fine buffet -
I'll send you off to where you're from
you will not get away!
Perhaps you thought the house too still
with only one around,
and that at night you'd sneak with skill
to nibble all you found.
But Todd, alone though he may be
is now of you aware.
He's not thrilled with your company
and loathes his food to share.
Our kitchen you cannot invade
to eat croissants and bread -
try that again, and I'm afraid
that you will wind up DEAD!
At first appearance trap we bait
with cheddar and cream cheese -
then patiently we'll sit and wait
'til into trap you squeeze.
And with that cheese you'll then remain
until you are let go -
you're lucky we are so humane -
most mice fare worse you know!
If you return - you or your kin -
you'll meet another fate.
The Orkin man will be called in
and he'll exterminate!
All Mousedom - take me at my word -
warn friends and family -
If I must clean up ONE more turd
the culprit won't go free!
So please, don't make me say it twice
I have no time for that.
We have no room for mouse, or MICE
but wish we had A CAT!!"
Seventeen months ago I saw a mouse in my basement. We were all down there. One son was chatting with his brother, who sat at the computer, Todd was in the bathroom and I had just sat down to watch television when something scampered out from beneath the couch I was sitting on. I let out a shriek that my sons still marvel at. ("I didn't know you could even make that noise, Mom!" one said.) It caught their attention though, and both rushed over to where I had assumed a typically girly pose - standing on a chair and pointing in the general direction of where the thing had disappeared.
I was filled with righteous indignation that A MOUSE would dare come into MY house! ( I had been warned that if you saw one of their kind in your house, there were probably ten more in hiding, but when rational thought kicked in I realized that the begonias I'd brought into the family room the day before had carried the thing in. There was a nice little one mouse sized tunnel in one of the pots, which were promptly carried to the garage.) Off we went to buy a couple of catch and release traps. We baited them with cream cheese and medium cheddar. Friends had suggested peanut butter, but as that's a deadly substance in our household cream cheese seemed like a decent alternative. The critter was caught that very night and released into the wild (well, onto the conservation trail) the next morning. Judging by the amount of poop in the trap, the cheese combo was a big hit so we continued to use it as bait and set out the two traps we had for the next week, just to be safe. Luckily, the mouse had been an unwitting stow away in the begonia pot as I'd suspected, and no more mice were ever spotted.
Until last week. Before bed Todd left some croissants on the counter, for his breakfast, and alongside them was a loaf of banana bread I'd baked for a friend. When he got up the next morning it became obvious that a mouse had somehow found its way into MY KITCHEN and had a feast. Todd wasn't impressed, and went in search of traps. It took two nights, but he caught the culprit and again the trail inherited one more mouse. Problem solved - we hoped. After all, there was no easy explanation for how this one had found its way in, and therefore we knew the possibility existed that it could have friends. The trap stayed baited for another two nights, and when no mice took the bait we were fairly confident it had been another isolated incident. In the meantime I spent my weekend at home sterilizing my kitchen and cleaning out the cuboards the mouse had gotten into. (Luckily none that contained food.)
The third mouseless night rolled around and Sam ate a midnight snack - a bowl of yogurt - and left his unrinsed bowl beside the sink. Morning four as I downed my pre-breakfast glass of water I noticed the bowl beside the sink, liberally strewn with mouse droppings. I almost cried. I called Todd and Sam over to see the evidence and we three set about cleaning the kitchen AGAIN. The trap was still empty, and Todd vowed he'd rebait it that night and catch the little pest. I made him promise to call in the exterminators if there was any evidence of a third mouse. It took two nights but the second dairy loving rodent was caught and released. Now we play the waiting game to determine if there are more...
Needless to say this whole unsavory incident has unleashed a torrent of poetic vitriol toward mice. Here goes:
A Mouse! In MY HOUSE!! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
"Not big enough for both of us -"
I bellowed, "is my house!"
(While standing on chair in disgust
and pointing at...A MOUSE!!)
"I'm gone three weeks and in you come
to eat a fine buffet -
I'll send you off to where you're from
you will not get away!
Perhaps you thought the house too still
with only one around,
and that at night you'd sneak with skill
to nibble all you found.
But Todd, alone though he may be
is now of you aware.
He's not thrilled with your company
and loathes his food to share.
Our kitchen you cannot invade
to eat croissants and bread -
try that again, and I'm afraid
that you will wind up DEAD!
At first appearance trap we bait
with cheddar and cream cheese -
then patiently we'll sit and wait
'til into trap you squeeze.
And with that cheese you'll then remain
until you are let go -
you're lucky we are so humane -
most mice fare worse you know!
If you return - you or your kin -
you'll meet another fate.
The Orkin man will be called in
and he'll exterminate!
All Mousedom - take me at my word -
warn friends and family -
If I must clean up ONE more turd
the culprit won't go free!
So please, don't make me say it twice
I have no time for that.
We have no room for mouse, or MICE
but wish we had A CAT!!"
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
On Bathing the Cat - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (For all the cat lovers out there!)
I love cats, but haven't owned one for twenty four years. Before I married my husband I had two cats, a mother and son named Mitts and Bits. I had to give both away when Todd came on the scene. ( He loves cats too, but is allergic to them.) So, I traded two cats for one man, and all these years later I still feel (most days!) like I made a good swap.
These last four days I've been cat-sitting for my sister while she visits our mother. Her cat, Vada, is a funny little beast. She was found as a very small kitten by my niece, and the theory that accounts for her drooling is that she was never sufficiently nursed by her mother. For years she lived like a hermit in my sister's basement - by choice. She was skittish, wary of people and perhaps a bit intimidated by my sister's older and larger cats. My sons, as small boys were always excited by a Vada sighting. ("I saw the little cat!" they'd tell me with excitement, like they were reporting a sighting of Yeti or something equally unbelievable.)
When Vada was about seven years old my sister acquired a Golden Lab named Jake, and for some inexplicable reason Vada adored him. The two would snuggle up together, which was always a sweet sight. Maybe she loved the big galoot because he was the laziest and gentlest dog you could ever meet. (He took his meals lying down, for goodness sake!) Jake died a year ago, and Vada misses him.
She's an old cat now - nineteen years old. According to my sister she has maybe one tooth left. She still drools, and has the loudest, most alarming voice I've ever heard. Vada is a high maintenance kitty at this point. She gets three square meals a day of watered down wet food with a side order of kibble. Two meals a day she gets pills, divided and disguised in pill pockets, and she gets a few treats with each meal too - which she always gobbles first. Meals don't stay with her very long. I've scooped her litter box multiple times a day since I took over as caretaker, and this morning I had to spend several long, memorable moments scrubbing cat vomit off my sister's treadmill. The strange part of all of this is that old and infirm as she is, I've never seen Vada happier. In her dotage she's become an affection junkie, purring for hours on end as my son Sam and I take turns stroking her.
I like to think we're helping to make her last days her best days.
In honor of Vada I'll share the one and only poem I've ever written about cats - a lighthearted description of how to bathe our feline friends. (I'm not about to try this with Vada!)
On Bathing the Cat (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Aug. '07)
Cat owners who have allergies
can try to bathe dear Fluffy -
or they can choose to sniff and sneeze
and go on feeling stuffy.
I read instructions recently
that explained how you proceed
to get this job done decently
and survive the nasty deed.
Most cats aren't fond of getting wet,
so you ought to trim her claws -
(it takes a certain etiquette
to give manicures to paws.)
If you have managed this first chore,
arms and sanity intact -
then fill the tub and bar the door,
or she'll bolt and that's a fact!
Now I'm afraid you must get tough -
with gentle force just grip her -
and hold her firmly by the scruff
as you attempt to dip her.
Be warned that she will hiss and spit
when you put her in the tub -
and be braced for a serious fit
when you shampoo and you scrub.
Make sure that thoroughly you rinse;
don't attempt to blow her dry -
or you'll risk further accidents -
neither of you wants to fry!
When this ritual's quite complete -
you and Fluffy both still living -
then offer her a little treat,
and pray she'll be forgiving!
These last four days I've been cat-sitting for my sister while she visits our mother. Her cat, Vada, is a funny little beast. She was found as a very small kitten by my niece, and the theory that accounts for her drooling is that she was never sufficiently nursed by her mother. For years she lived like a hermit in my sister's basement - by choice. She was skittish, wary of people and perhaps a bit intimidated by my sister's older and larger cats. My sons, as small boys were always excited by a Vada sighting. ("I saw the little cat!" they'd tell me with excitement, like they were reporting a sighting of Yeti or something equally unbelievable.)
When Vada was about seven years old my sister acquired a Golden Lab named Jake, and for some inexplicable reason Vada adored him. The two would snuggle up together, which was always a sweet sight. Maybe she loved the big galoot because he was the laziest and gentlest dog you could ever meet. (He took his meals lying down, for goodness sake!) Jake died a year ago, and Vada misses him.
She's an old cat now - nineteen years old. According to my sister she has maybe one tooth left. She still drools, and has the loudest, most alarming voice I've ever heard. Vada is a high maintenance kitty at this point. She gets three square meals a day of watered down wet food with a side order of kibble. Two meals a day she gets pills, divided and disguised in pill pockets, and she gets a few treats with each meal too - which she always gobbles first. Meals don't stay with her very long. I've scooped her litter box multiple times a day since I took over as caretaker, and this morning I had to spend several long, memorable moments scrubbing cat vomit off my sister's treadmill. The strange part of all of this is that old and infirm as she is, I've never seen Vada happier. In her dotage she's become an affection junkie, purring for hours on end as my son Sam and I take turns stroking her.
I like to think we're helping to make her last days her best days.
In honor of Vada I'll share the one and only poem I've ever written about cats - a lighthearted description of how to bathe our feline friends. (I'm not about to try this with Vada!)
On Bathing the Cat (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Aug. '07)
Cat owners who have allergies
can try to bathe dear Fluffy -
or they can choose to sniff and sneeze
and go on feeling stuffy.
I read instructions recently
that explained how you proceed
to get this job done decently
and survive the nasty deed.
Most cats aren't fond of getting wet,
so you ought to trim her claws -
(it takes a certain etiquette
to give manicures to paws.)
If you have managed this first chore,
arms and sanity intact -
then fill the tub and bar the door,
or she'll bolt and that's a fact!
Now I'm afraid you must get tough -
with gentle force just grip her -
and hold her firmly by the scruff
as you attempt to dip her.
Be warned that she will hiss and spit
when you put her in the tub -
and be braced for a serious fit
when you shampoo and you scrub.
Make sure that thoroughly you rinse;
don't attempt to blow her dry -
or you'll risk further accidents -
neither of you wants to fry!
When this ritual's quite complete -
you and Fluffy both still living -
then offer her a little treat,
and pray she'll be forgiving!
Thursday, 26 January 2012
FIFTY!
There was a time when a lady's age wasn't something she talked about. Those days are gone. In an era where age is a matter of public record, why be shy? Anyone who wants to know how old you are can find it out online anyhow. So, unabashed I will shout it out to the world - "I'M FIFTY!!"
I'm happy to be fifty. I'm old enough to have the really hard work of raising kids behind me, but young enough to enjoy my less demanding days. I'm healthy and grateful to be enjoying relative prosperity. I have no reason to dread being fifty.
I've been officially "in menopause" for well over a year. I know this is another of those taboo subjects, and that the thought of no longer being able to bear children is supposed to make me all weepy and maudlin, but why? I think it's wonderful to no longer buy a zillion "supplies" that you need to haul around with you everywhere you go "just in case". It is sheer bliss to not have to put up with feeling bloated and cranky and head achy for a week out of every month! As for childbearing, that boat pulled out of port years before I got anywhere near menopause. I had two children and three miscarriages - and after the third I decided the odds of having more children weren't on my side, and made a conscious decision to be happy with the two sons I had. So menopause ushered in an era where I no longer had to worry about whether there would be anymore "surprise" pregnancies that seemed more likely to end in disappointment than in a squirming bundle of joy.
I'm happy enough to just look forward to the day I'll have grandchildren.
Of course, it's not ALL fun. Skinny as a rail most of my life the pounds began to accumulate in my late thirties - about the same time my body began to be a lot less predictable. Since then I've gained thirty pounds that stubbornly refuse to leave my backside regardless of how much I exercise or how careful I am with my diet. I have decided to love myself as I am - which doesn't mean I'm giving up hope that somehow I'll still manage to drop those pounds. No, I'm just going to focus on the things I like about myself when I look in the mirror. It means I'm going to stop complaining about how I look and NOT put my husband on the spot by asking awkward questions like "Does this outfit make me look fat?"
I've been experiencing hot flashes for more than ten years now, so they're not a big deal anymore. I dress in layers, and sleep with my feet hanging out of the covers - which seems to help. When I feel the heatwave approaching I step outside for a minute (in winter) and stand in front of the open fridge if it's warm outside. I'm still not loving that part, but after all these years I've learned to cope.
I wear reading glasses now. For the time being the drugstore off the the rack variety is sufficient, but I know the day will come where I'll have to get a prescription for the real McCoy. I'm aging, and that's okay. In fact, it sure beats the alternative!
I leave you now with a few poems I've penned on these (Oh so "delicate") subjects. The tone is light, but the wisdom is relevant. Enjoy!
On Aging: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March '06)
I try not to sweat the subconscious -
but aging's not all in my mind.
It's there in my arthritic fingers,
it's there in my sagging behind.
Sometimes I'm still called a "hot mama" -
I carry myself with panache -
Though often it's not that I'm sexy -
just embroiled in another hot flash!
My mind's in a muddle too often,
I can be forgetful, I fear -
I feel young 'til I look in the mirror -
my vision's still ruthlessly clear.
I consciously try to stay upbeat
while gravity plays with my face -
Perhaps with that long promised wisdom
I'll learn to grow older with grace.
Men - Oh - Pause! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April '07)
Men, oh pause before you speak
and ask her to cool down -
unless you are a circus freak,
or better yet, a clown -
she isn't apt to be amused
by references to heat
and ignorance won't be excused
unless you're very sweet.
Men, oh pause - for goodness sake -
before you speak of weight.
This topic would be a mistake -
oh think man - hesitate!
You mustn't draw attention
to any of her flaws,
those hormones we won't mention
can cause her to grow claws!
Men, oh pause and heed my voice,
consider what I say -
her mood swings do not come by choice;
she can't hold them at bay.
She is not thrilled by all this change,
so pause before you act.
Consider how you might arrange
to show a little tact.
I'm happy to be fifty. I'm old enough to have the really hard work of raising kids behind me, but young enough to enjoy my less demanding days. I'm healthy and grateful to be enjoying relative prosperity. I have no reason to dread being fifty.
I've been officially "in menopause" for well over a year. I know this is another of those taboo subjects, and that the thought of no longer being able to bear children is supposed to make me all weepy and maudlin, but why? I think it's wonderful to no longer buy a zillion "supplies" that you need to haul around with you everywhere you go "just in case". It is sheer bliss to not have to put up with feeling bloated and cranky and head achy for a week out of every month! As for childbearing, that boat pulled out of port years before I got anywhere near menopause. I had two children and three miscarriages - and after the third I decided the odds of having more children weren't on my side, and made a conscious decision to be happy with the two sons I had. So menopause ushered in an era where I no longer had to worry about whether there would be anymore "surprise" pregnancies that seemed more likely to end in disappointment than in a squirming bundle of joy.
I'm happy enough to just look forward to the day I'll have grandchildren.
Of course, it's not ALL fun. Skinny as a rail most of my life the pounds began to accumulate in my late thirties - about the same time my body began to be a lot less predictable. Since then I've gained thirty pounds that stubbornly refuse to leave my backside regardless of how much I exercise or how careful I am with my diet. I have decided to love myself as I am - which doesn't mean I'm giving up hope that somehow I'll still manage to drop those pounds. No, I'm just going to focus on the things I like about myself when I look in the mirror. It means I'm going to stop complaining about how I look and NOT put my husband on the spot by asking awkward questions like "Does this outfit make me look fat?"
I've been experiencing hot flashes for more than ten years now, so they're not a big deal anymore. I dress in layers, and sleep with my feet hanging out of the covers - which seems to help. When I feel the heatwave approaching I step outside for a minute (in winter) and stand in front of the open fridge if it's warm outside. I'm still not loving that part, but after all these years I've learned to cope.
I wear reading glasses now. For the time being the drugstore off the the rack variety is sufficient, but I know the day will come where I'll have to get a prescription for the real McCoy. I'm aging, and that's okay. In fact, it sure beats the alternative!
I leave you now with a few poems I've penned on these (Oh so "delicate") subjects. The tone is light, but the wisdom is relevant. Enjoy!
On Aging: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March '06)
I try not to sweat the subconscious -
but aging's not all in my mind.
It's there in my arthritic fingers,
it's there in my sagging behind.
Sometimes I'm still called a "hot mama" -
I carry myself with panache -
Though often it's not that I'm sexy -
just embroiled in another hot flash!
My mind's in a muddle too often,
I can be forgetful, I fear -
I feel young 'til I look in the mirror -
my vision's still ruthlessly clear.
I consciously try to stay upbeat
while gravity plays with my face -
Perhaps with that long promised wisdom
I'll learn to grow older with grace.
Men - Oh - Pause! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April '07)
Men, oh pause before you speak
and ask her to cool down -
unless you are a circus freak,
or better yet, a clown -
she isn't apt to be amused
by references to heat
and ignorance won't be excused
unless you're very sweet.
Men, oh pause - for goodness sake -
before you speak of weight.
This topic would be a mistake -
oh think man - hesitate!
You mustn't draw attention
to any of her flaws,
those hormones we won't mention
can cause her to grow claws!
Men, oh pause and heed my voice,
consider what I say -
her mood swings do not come by choice;
she can't hold them at bay.
She is not thrilled by all this change,
so pause before you act.
Consider how you might arrange
to show a little tact.
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