I must have been a good girl this year because Santa stopped at our house. He brought a guest to stay with us. His name is Sandy. He is short and round and loves to eat. In fact, he eats so much, his little belly gets full and he has to stop and rest. We fixed up his own room to make him comfortable. Sandy is still getting accustomed to the house. I think he finds it a bit overwhelming. He seems to be a bit confused at times. He enters a room, bumps into things and turns around in circles like he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. After wandering around the house for a while, having a snack, and exploring, he heads back to his bed to rest.
Sandy is supposed to earn his keep by doing some of the cleaning. He seems to really enjoy helping. He zips here and there, humming all the time. His little eyes twinkle sometimes and his big round nose shines. Though he tries his best to help, he sometimes misses a few spots. I guess he’ll get the hang of it once he gets in a routine.
I think we’ll keep him. He’s more fun than a watching a kitten play with a ball of yarn or a puppy chase a laser pointer. Now where did Sandy the Roomba go?
I thought I’d share a few recipes for new appetizer favorites I added to my holiday table this year.
Spicy Pecans Beat 1 egg white with 1 T. water and ½ tsp. vanilla. Stir in 1 pound of pecans (I use a mixture of pieces and halves). Stir in 1 c. sugar, 1 tsp. salt and 1 tsp. cinnamon. Spread on a baking sheet. Bake 1 hour, stirring at 15-minute increments. These are great to add to a green salad or just for a snack. I made a cranberry salad topped with a cream cheese mixture and topped it with the spicy pecans. It was delish! Warning: these are addictive.
Spiced pecans on the left, Cranberry salad topped with spiced pecans in the middle to the left
Snowman Cheese Ball Mix up your favorite cheese ball but shape it into balls like a snowman. Roll each part in finely shredded white cheese. I used Monterey Jack. Place the snowman on a bed of shredded white cheese. Use toothpicks to hold it in place. Use peppercorns or chocolate chips for eyes and mouth, a baby carrot for its nose, pretzel arms, tin cup hat, ribbon, etc. I served it with crackers and Raspberry Jalapeno Jam which was really yummy.
Raspberry Jalapeno Jam 6 c. raspberries 3 c. sugar 1/3 c. chopped jalapenos 3 T. lemon juice Stir sugar into raspberries and let set 5 minutes (longer if you use frozen berries) for sugar to dissolve. Stir in jalapenos. Cook to 220°. Remove from heat. Stir in lemon juice.
White grape juice with Berry Sparkling Water, snowman cheese ball
Festive Holiday Drink I had been wanting a beverage dispenser, so I broke down and ordered one from Amazon. I wanted to prepare a festive holiday drink. The directions for use of the dispenser says “no hot liquids” so my usual hot spiced cider was not an option.
Put washed and sorted cranberries into dispenser. (I froze some of the cranberries and added them to the mixture to keep the drink cold.) lime slices. Options are limitless for what goes in next. You can just use water or juice but you can add a little umph to it. Try frozen juice concentrate but mix in sparkling water instead of regular water. I used Berry Sparking Water. Since I used it for Christmas, I wanted a light colored drink so the red and green would shine through. Frozen white grape juice concentrate or lemonade concentrate works great and tastes great. I haven’t tried it with apple juice yet but I’m sure it would be yummy. Note: If you use sparkling water, make your holiday drink in small batches. It doesn’t taste very good left over because it goes really flat.
Each part of the country has its own culture, dialect and language, the South included. That’s the place where you can get by with talking about someone if you add, “Bless her heart,” and somehow that is supposed to magically negate any unflattering remark.
I have often thought a book should be written that contains sayings from all across the country. Maybe an audio book could be included so the reader could also hear the accents to give a more accurate picture of each culture.
Working with the public for 35 years, I have heard all kinds of things. There are times I have to ask someone to repeat what they just said. Sometimes it’s a matter of not being able to understand them, but sometimes it’s a matter of disbelief. Did I really hear what I thought I heard? No verbal response is necessary for such a statement. A shake of the head and an eye roll is sufficient. Of course, that is only after the customer leaves.
One day a sweet Southern lady came to my window. She was one of those Southern church-going ladies who always wore a dress. Her hair was poofed up just so and she wore a smidgen of makeup with a splash of color on her cheeks and bright lipstick. Her Southern drawl couldn’t have dripped any thicker or sweeter if it had been honey. We took care of her business and then she asked what I thought was a strange question. “Is it alright to wear a flared dress to a wedding?” I looked a bit shocked and amused and said, “I don’t see a problem with wearing a flared dress to a wedding.” The conversation continued as to the appropriateness of a flared dress. I found out what the wedding party was wearing as well as the mothers of the bride and groom. Finally, she said, “So something like this would be okay?” She stepped back a few steps and lifted her skirt slightly so I could get a good look at it. That wasn’t a flared dress! Then it hit me! “Oh, you’re talking about a flowered dress.” “I think a flowered dress would be fine to wear to a wedding.” She smiled, thanked me, and walked out the door completely satisfied. After all, our institution is full-service!
“I want to be just like you when I grow up.” You might think those are words a kid says to their mom or dad or grandparents. Actually, they are words I say to my short daughter even though she’s taller than me.
Heroes come in all sizes, shapes and ages. (In fact, my littlest grand-daughter is a hero because she brought life to a little old man for 3 years.) Sometimes they do great heroic deeds. Sometimes they are loud and brash. Sometimes they are quiet and reserved. My daughter is one of those quiet heroes. She doesn’t crash into a room with drama and demand attention. When she comes into a room, she brings a spirit of calmness and peace.
She is a wonderful wife and mama. She’s also magic. If the kids get into trouble, she takes them aside and whispers in their ear. I don’t know what she tells them, but when they return, they behave and aren’t even screaming or crying. I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s magic! She is resourceful, very frugal, creative, good cook, musician, carpenter, wood burner, drywaller, hard worker, always busy, teacher, outdoorsman, listener, counselor, seamstress, quilter, wonderful wife, patient, painter, caregiver, excellent mother, trusted friend, gardener, chicken whisperer, lawn manicurist, tractor driver, employee, can work at least three jobs at a time while juggling all those other things.
This gal can start up the tractor and plow her garden, build a fence for the chicken pen, pamper her seedlings for the garden bed, frame up a door, build a shelf or chair, install a sink and plumb it, lay out a nice meal, take care of kids and find time to do one of her regular jobs – all in the same day. You can give her a mitre saw or power tool and you would think she had been handed the greatest gift ever.
Though she can do all those things, and do them well, it is her personality and qualities that are most endearing. She is beautiful inside and out. As a kid, she was the one who loved the mangy old mutts and befriended those kids no one else would talk to or play with. She is kind, compassionate, loving, giving, forgiving, encouraging and the list goes on. I want to be just like her when I grow up. She’s my hero.
The sound of uneven footsteps coming down the long hallway echoed through the wing of the trauma unit. The steps stopped at the doorway of the corner room at the end of the corridor. A soft rap on the door was followed by the door being opened slowly. In walked a hero, a fellow veteran who had shared war stories with Daddy, he of Viet Nam and Daddy of WWII. There was something else unique about this man. He had one leg. He lost his other leg in a biplane accident.
Daddy roused out of his stupor to see a fellow veteran beside his bed standing on one leg and a metal rod with a shoe attached. He leaned lightly on the crook of his cane. “How are you doing, Robert?” He was the only person I knew, besides Daddy’s mother, to call him Robert. They chatted a bit and soon the sound of footsteps faded as Daddy’s visitor walked back down the hall.
I appreciated him coming to see Daddy, but it wasn’t until later that I realized the importance of his visit. My mother had just died as a result of an automobile accident. She was in the hospital for a few days but there was nothing that could be done to save her life. Though Daddy did not receive life threatening injuries, his health rapidly declined. Daddy was planning on checking out of life. He promised Mama he would take care of her until parted at death. Since she was gone, he thought his job was done. He simply gave up. Sometimes the battles take place in the mind.
When the one-legged hero walked through the door, Daddy was slapped in the face with his self-pity. There was a change in Daddy. Though he still had many more days in the hospital and rehabilitation, that day was a turning point. We still had many obstacles to overcome, but he had been given the gift of another chance. For over eleven years, we had Daddy with us, thanks to a one-legged hero.
Artillery shells screamed as they fell like rain. Some hit the ground but never exploded. Others burst without warning. The flat open fields near Flossdorf made the soldiers open targets for machine gun and rifle fire. Bullets sprayed the ground. Artillery was hidden behind a low hill that overlooked the beet field. The enemy aimed for the legs of the soldiers as they ran across the open fields. Some were hit. Caught in a barrage of fire, Lieutenant Lovell called for “Little One” to “get them to raise the artillery.” Pvt. Ward got the radio message through. The enemy unleashed everything they had. “Little One” was knocked to the ground by something that felt like a sledgehammer in his back. He fell back into the shell hole where his Lieutenant lay. The Lieutenant had been hit with the same blast. Pvt. Ward bandaged the Lieutenant’s legs the best he could. He reached for the boot that lay ten feet away. Part of the Lieutenant’s foot was still in it. Pvt. Ward stuck the rifle in the ground, bayonet down, so the medic was alerted that a soldier was down. He then gave the Lieutenant his sulfa pills and threw his raincoat over the bloody legs. He managed to dig the hole deeper then went for help. The word went down the line. Lieutenant Lovell was taken off the field that day but he did not survive the conflict.
Pvt. Ward heard another call from the beet field behind him. A soldier from F Company, Pvt. Leo Halash, was lying in the field. His helmet was sticking up among the beet tops. Every time he moved, a bullet whistled over his head. Pvt. Ward bellied his way to the wounded soldier. A bullet had torn a hole through the soldier’s leg. Pvt. Ward bandaged the wound and gave him his wound pills. He used a belt as a tourniquet and then dug into the ground for a trench deep enough to get the wounded soldier below the ground. Again, he jabbed the bayonet end of the rifle in the dirt to signal the medic. The trench wasn’t deep enough for two, so Pvt. Ward crawled away, hoping his helmet would deflect shots that came his way. He crawled sixty feet toward a voice that called to him from a foxhole. He slid into the hole with Robert Kendall who administered sulfa pills to Pvt. Ward, bandaged the hole in the back of his ribs, and covered him with a raincoat. Robert Kendall lost his life shortly after that action.
Robert Ward
Leo Halash
Pvt. Halash did survive. He spent countless days in hospitals fighting to keep his leg. For two and a half years, he was in VA hospitals. He steadfastly refused amputation and underwent numerous bone and skin grafts and various treatments. He kept his leg despite being stricken with osteomyelitis but walked with a limp and couldn’t bend his knee. Back home, he married and had seven children. A heart attack claimed his life in 1971 at the age of forty-six, but that’s not the end of the story.
Years later, in 2016, Robert Ward received a call from the Library of Congress asking permission to give his phone number to someone in the Halash family. They had found the story of the events of December 2, 1944 as told by Robert Ward. In no time at all, the call came. One of the sons of Leo Halash thanked him for saving his father’s life. Other calls came from other family members including the wife of Leo Halash. Soon a letter arrived from Mrs. Halash. Robert Ward said, “I didn’t do anything. The belt saved Leo’s life.” It was the soldier’s quick thinking, his passion for life, his willingness to sacrifice himself, love for his fellow man and his available hands that saved Leo Halash’s life. God placed him there that day.
Not long after that, Robert Ward spent some time in the hospital. He received a letter from the Halash family. When I handed it to him, he asked me to read it because his eyes were blurry. By the time I was done, he had silent tears sliding down his cheeks. He recounted the story of December 2, 1944 again. That time, he gave a fresh description of the incidents of that day, even telling how the enemy weapons were lined up low at the edge of the field. It was like he was seeing it all over again, adding descriptions I had never heard before. He showed me where Halash was wounded. He described the kit he carried with the bandages and pills and gave the step by step administration of those:
“I gave him his pills and I bandaged his wound. If I had not put the belt on his leg, he would have bled to death. But time was critical. If the tourniquet was on for too long, he would lose his leg. It had been raining so I was able to take the claw-looking tool and dig into the soft ground. I don’t remember the first time I saw Leo Halash, but I sure remember the last time. When it was all over I looked through the list of casualties and didn’t find his name listed among the dead. So I knew he survived.” He said, “For over seventy years I have had flashbacks on December 2. I see Frank Svoboda. I see Lieutenant Lovell lying on the ground – wounded – and his detached boot with his foot still in it. I see others who lost their lives. I see a soldier in the field and hear him call for help. I hear enemy fire all around.” A tear escaped and he continued, “But now I have been given a good flashback. After seventy years, I can now see life – that of Leo Halash. I thank God that I was there that day and that Leo survived and had a good family. That’s a good flashback!”
Pfc. Halash and Pfc. Ward were both recipients of the Purple Heart and Bronze Star. They also studied at Purdue University at the same time where they saw one another in passing, not knowing that their lives would cross paths so intimately on the battlefield or that their stories would be intertwined.
Some call my father a hero, and that he is. But I find other heroes in this story – those who gave their lives in the line of duty – those who administered aid to their fallen comrades – those who fought for our freedom. Another hero emerges as well. The family of Leo Halash is my hero. They brought closure and gave an old soldier peace after seventy years. For the first time since December 2, 1944, he did not have flashbacks on the anniversary date of the battle. Memories that rose from the ashes of loss and death were met with hope and a smile.
As kids, we probably all admired comic book superheroes. We may have even fantasized about being rescued in one of their stories. Superman wore a cape and saved the cities of the earth from annihilation. Wonder Woman ran super-fast and used her tiara as a boomerang to catch the bad guy. Spiderman hid his identity and shot webs from his wrist to entangle his enemy. Captain America had an indestructible shield and extraordinary strength. The Hulk was a mean green superpower machine, able to travel miles with one jump and breathe underwater. These heroes had the same goal in mind, to overthrow evil and balance the scales of justice.
A hero isn’t necessarily someone who rescues damsels in distress. Heroes are everyday people. They are often someone unassuming who we pass in the aisle of the store and not give them another thought. Every day heroes don’t wear capes. They don’t have a magic wand to wave and make all things right. Some are facing life’s hardships. Some are caregivers fighting against illnesses and diseases that claim body and mind. Some are young widows raising their children. These heroes don’t throw tiaras to knock the weapon from the hand of the obstacles in front of them. Their superpowers and weapons are love, compassion, kindness and perseverance.
I know heroes who have captured my admiration. A friend is caring for her husband who has Alzheimer’s. She awakens to a new world every day, never knowing if her husband will try to drive or wander away, or even if he knows her. Another friend is facing an overwhelming trial caring for her mother who is bedridden with ill health and mind. The toll is taken not just on the patient but more so on the caregiver. Another friend is a young widow with three teenage daughters. She has devoted her life to raising her girls. I watch in amazement as she maintains and teaches them life skills and gives them spiritual guidance in preparation for their future. These are just a few among many who have my utmost respect. I’m sure they have all questioned if they have made right choices, yet they made their decisions based on the need of the moment. They learn to laugh to keep from crying. They put on their “big girl panties”, dig in their heels and do what they must.
You may well be a hero to someone who needs a champion. Just an ounce of kindness toward someone can lift the weight of the world from their shoulders. A gentleman stopped by my desk one day to tell me the story of a young man who was his hero. The gentleman had every intention of taking his own life. He had pulled off the road in a remote location and contemplated his suicide when a young man stopped and began talking with him. He offered words of encouragement and prayed with the older man. That one simple act gave hope to someone who had nothing to live for. Years later, this gentleman still thanked his hero for saving his life.
You may not wear a cape and fly faster than a speeding bullet, but with just a single act of kindness you might just be someone’s hero.
“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
I get a wild hair on occasion. It’s like getting an itch that has to be scratched. I don’t know where these ideas come from. They just pop into my head from who-knows-where and bam! I have to scratch that itch.
A couple of years ago, I got a box in the mail that weighed about ten tons. Inside was an older model KitchenAid Mixer. It was sent as a gift, purchased for twenty dollars at an estate sale. One day I got it out of the pantry and decided to use it. Since that time, I’ve gotten kind of attached to it.
before
sanded and taped
The other day one of my wild hairs stood straight up on my head. What a good idea! “I’ll paint the mixer.” The old mixer was cream colored. In a few places the enamel was worn off. It had definitely been used through the years. Operation face lift!
I took a few videos as I removed the screws so I’d know how to put it back together. Then I taped up the places I didn’t want painted. That was a challenge! How do you put tape on those itty-bitty screws? Next I sanded the mixer with 100 grit and 320 grit sandpaper.
A normal person might get a less drastic color to use on a perfectly good appliance but if you have a wild hair to paint, why not go with the brightest color you can find? Candy Apple Red! It sure was bright. The next day I got Colonial Red. That toned it down a bit, so it was no longer fluorescent. Lastly, a clear coating was sprayed on.
Candy Apple Red
Colonial Red
Impatience is not a good thing when you have to wait for all the various coats to dry. I managed to restrain myself before I yanked off the tape. Actually, I tried to do that gently, even taking the time to warm the tape and then I pulled gently – very gently. Once the tape was off, I had to put the mixer back together. Hmmm…. All the pieces went together. I held my breath when I plugged it into the outlet. It purred like a new kitten! I haven’t used it yet. I think I’ll put my “new mixer” back in the pantry so it doesn’t get dirty.
Completed project
If the person who sent the mixer is reading this – thanks for the twenty-buck mixer – and I didn’t even get electrocuted.
Now, if I can just find where this extra screw goes.
The Autumn morning rain peppered the earth. Trees adorned in the colors of Fall shivered as they cast off the last of their clothing. A cool breeze joined in the dance as the leaves twirled and floated gracefully to the ground. The wind tugged at the remaining stubborn leaves that clung to the branches. With the washing away of the colors of Fall came the song of life promising that the chorus of fall would be sung again next year.
A moment of thoughtfulness washed over me just like the Autumn rain washes away memories of summer and ushers in the cold north winds. As each season comes to an end, another emerges to take its place.
Life is brief. Seasons come and go. The cycle of life continues. New life bursts forth in the spring of our youth. Spring turns to summer when we run and play in the sun. Summer turns to fall when the earth prepares for the snows of winter. Winter brings its own beauty as it waits for the earth to awaken from slumber. Each season makes preparation for the next.
So it is in our lives. How quickly things change. Unexpected events take us by surprise. One season slips into another. We have experienced the new life of Spring and the joys of Summer. We have shared the falling leaves of Autumn and have felt the cold winds of Winter. Even in the season when our heroes, friends and family go to eternal rest, we can still be assured that life will be reborn in the Spring.
Growing up in the South fifty and sixty years ago was a lot different than it is today. Though I grew up in the south, I didn’t consider myself a Southern girl, even if I sounded like one. My parents were Northwesterners. There were definite cultural differences that were evident in our household, including the food.
My dad was a preacher, mostly of small country churches. When we had church-wide meals, we ate outside if weather permitted. Some of the churches had tables set up in the church yard just for the meal. Others had concrete tables just waiting for an excuse to be used. Tall trees offered shade for the occasion.
Country church folks took every opportunity to get together. Homecoming and any other occasion warranted a church-wide or community gathering to eat. Ladies brought covered dishes filled with all kinds of food. I bypassed some dishes with no trouble. Turnip greens, collards, black eyed peas cooked in fat back, over-cooked vegetables with bacon grease, cornbread and grits were items that certainly did not tempt me in the least. Now, southern fried chicken and fresh baked pies were a different story! Neighbors and friends talked through the afternoon about their families, crops and jobs. Children ran and played. Laughter was caught up in the breeze.
Up until just a couple of weeks before Daddy died, he still talked about one of the first church gatherings they attended. It seems the ladies talked about what they brought to the meal. One lady said she brought a chocolate cake that “the preacher” just had to try. He went to the end of the table that held the desserts. Where was the chocolate cake? He soon learned what southern ladies considered to be a “chocolate cake.” It was a yellow or white cake with chocolate icing. There was no chocolate cake anywhere under that icing.
Occasionally at one of the churches, especially in the fall, a big pot was set up in the church yard with a fire under it. Parishioners brought ingredients for Brunswick Stew, dumped them in the pot and let the stew cook for hours as they took turns stirring. When it was ready, people got in line with their bowls. They walked away with stew slopping over the sides of their bowls and gathered up a handful of cornbread and had a feast. I never stood in either of those lines! Yes, I did taste it and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the texture and I sure didn’t like the way it looked. To me, it looked like a meal that had already been eaten once and it sure didn’t appeal to my senses.
Sometimes now when we’re driving down country roads, we might pass a little church with all the doors and windows boarded up. And sometimes off to the side in the church yard is a concrete table leaning unsteadily on broken or sunken legs, the top covered with moss, sticks and leaves. It brings thoughts of years gone by when gatherings under the shade trees were a central part of the community. For just a fleeting moment those memories are recaptured as I see neighbors sharing their lives with one another.
