Happy Valentine’s Day!
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We are finally off to Florida and the weather is certainly not cooperating. The lake effect snow is causing driving to be very treacherous. I am surprised the winds are kicking up as snow decreases visibility. Now the roads are getting slick, which doesn’t help much. I am gripping the wheel so tightly, I hands hurt. The forecast is not good. More snow. More wind. More ice. Our late start is not helping. I am sure we will not get as far as we would like. We’ll see how many miles we can get in today. Today I had a running dialogue with myself in my head. Words, phrases, pictures. Have you ever really listened to yourself? I just couldn’t turn it off. Scattered pictures bouncing around in my head. Deep discussions about everything. So I washed hardwood floors, polished furniture, treated leather furniture, ironed, folded laundry, washed the dog, clipped the dog, then cleaned the bathroom from washing the dog. It was day of physical work with constant talking in my head. I never put on the TV or radio. I think the noise in my head would have drowned out any other sound in the house. I managed to finish my book, No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I decided that when I neglect my writing, the stories and dialogue swim around in my brain, looking for an outlet. This afternoon when I sat down to open my email, I was greeted by an article that I had written a while ago that was published in Lanier Travel Newsletter (www.lanierbb.com). What a pleasant surprise! It made me think about the first time I saw my name in print – not on a rejection letter. I was writing for a local rag a high school sports column with my photography. At first the articles were just published; then later I was given a byline. Seeing my name in print was exciting, but with that excitement came anxiety. I was no longer writing anonymously. Readers knew who I was. I mean what if they didn’t like what I wrote. Scary stuff! Overtime I came to grips with the fact that I write for myself, to discover who I am, and what I really think. In the classroom, I told my students, “writing is the inking of your thinking.” And it’s true. It is only by writing that we discover what we really think about anything. Sometimes I think I know what I want to say only to discover that as I put my words on paper, I end up somewhere else. That is just so interesting. When I write, I get “into the moment” and the thoughts and ideas flow and I feel good as words become sentences and sentences paragraphs. Thank goodness I write for myself, otherwise, I probably would be having an anxiety attack right now!
Winter weather comes pretty quickly to New York. The temperatures drop and the snow falls. The last few days have been cold and blustery. RJ and Mike went out several times to push off accumulation before the next round of snow. We were fortunate to only get several inches, which really made everything look very pretty and pristine. At least we didn’t get pounded like Buffalo. The New York State Thruway was closed from Erie to the Pennsylvania State line. So there something good about living in the Genesee Valley. We are definitely protected. I guess that’s why the Indians called this region Genesee, which means beautiful valley. I am a knitter. Yes, that’s what I said. I am a knitter. How I relish the feel of the needles in my hands and the yarn wrapped around my fingers. Colors that are bold or subtle; yarn that is blended or pure, soft or coarse, smooth or nubby; each strand, with its own qualities, will be twisted, crossed, or woven into a pattern of novelty and creativity. What better way to spend my time then looking through pattern books imagining what that project would really look like as I worked the magic of needles and yarn. Scarves, hats, gloves, sweaters, toys – the projects are endless, limited only by my own creativity. So how did I become a knitter – a knitter of yarn – a weaver of dreams. Let me take you back to a simpler time – 1950s, Buffalo, New York. My mom was a very interesting woman. She was a Buffalo girl born to parents who were born in “the old country.” I always wondered what that really meant. “The Old Country.” For me, “The Old Country” became synonymous with tradition. Sounds like Fiddler on the Roof! “Tradition!” But tradition it was. My earliest recollection of yarn and needles goes back to when I was really young. All the women in my family were very creative when it came to needle and thread. My aunts were crocheters and knitters as long as I can remember. Dollies, afgans, and a variety of other knitted projects were always in tow no matter who we visited or where we traveled. I’m sure my mother knitted and crocheted long before I was ever a glimmer in anyone’s eye, but as a youngster, I only became aware of the craft and wanted to know how to do this when I was about six or seven. I know I took her skill for granted. I would watch as she gingerly handled skeins of yarn, running the strands carefully between her fingers deciding if it could be used to create the item she had selected. I would hang around just to see what she was doing. “Sit here,” she would say. I would climb up onto the couch and watch in awe as she swiftly wrapped the yarn around the needle and slipped it off to create “a stitch.” She was fast. Up, around, over, and through. Her fingers would fly… Up, around, over and through… creating knits and purls, rows and blocks of the most beautiful designs I had ever seen. “Teach me to do this, please,” I would beg. Mom would smile and say, “Here. Take these needles and hold them like this.” I would mimic the best I could, awkwardly trying to hold two needles and carefully wrapping the yarn around the needle to create a loop. Have you ever created a slip knot? Visualize wrapping yarn around your fingers, crossing the strands, and pulling the yarn on top through the loop underneath. This can be quite a feat for a six-year-old kid. Tenacious as I was, casting on became an event. But with practice – lots of practice – it became easier and easier. Soon casting on was not enough. I wanted to do something more with this new found skill. “What’s next? Show me more. I want to do what you’re doing,” I would whine. “This is how you knit,” she would say patiently. As she showed me an example, I would try to copy her. “Put the needle up into the first stitch,” she would instruct. (Up) “Then wrap the yarn around the needle.” (Around) “Slip the stitch over the needle” (Over) “and pull through (Through).” Up, around, over and through. She made it look so easy. I must have said these words over and over to myself, hundreds and hundreds of times, as I practiced making the knit stitch. Eventually I learned to purl, and soon I was looking for a simple pattern so I could really make something with these stitches. “Here. Let me show you how to make slippers,” my mom said. I could not believe it. I was ready, really ready, to make something. Using two strands of yarn and size 8 needles, I created my first pair of slippers. They hardly looked great, but I could wear them. The second pair looked better, and my dad was the proud owner of new slippers. With each pair, I got better and better until everyone in my family had slippers, whether they needed them or not! I love muffins and this recipe is perfect for those bakers that want a quick and delicious muffin to serve at breakfast or at dinner. Sweet Corn Muffins 1 1/2 cups flour Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cup, level with a knife. Combine flour, sugar, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk. Make a well in center of mixture. Combine yogurt, melted butter, milk, and egg, stirring with a whisk; add to flour mixture, stirring just until moist. Place 12 paper muffin cup liners in muffin tin. Divide the batter evenly among cups. Bake at 375 degrees for 20 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cooll on a wire rack. Yield: 1 dozen. Enjoy! Since we were invited to my sister’s for dinner today, I brought the dessert. I had made a pumpkin swirl brownie, which really turned out very well. The brownie was moist and the swirl added just the right amount of flavor. Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream and voila! A nice addition to a fabulous meal! Pumpkin Swirl Brownies Pumpkin Swirl Brownie Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease an 8-inch square baking pan. For pumpkin swirl, stir in cream cheese and sugar. Add pumpkin and beat well. Blend in egg, flour, vanilla, and cinnamon. Set aside. For best results, prepare brownies by hand, not with an electric mixer. For brownies, place chocolate and butter in a glass bowl and melt in a microwave until soft and easy to stir. Stir in sugar. Stir in vanilla, then eggs one at a time, blending well after each. Sift in flour, baking powder, and salt. Stir in gently. Scrape half of the batter into prepared pan and spread evenly. Dollop the pumpkin filling onto brownie and dollop remaining brownie batter around pumpkin. Swirl filling with tip of a knife and bake for about 30-35 minutes or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Cool at room temperature before slicing. Makes 16 slices. All the activity in my sister’s house revolved around the food. As Jo sliced the deep fried turkey with an electric carving knife, she lopped off the tail end and look at it carefully, saying, “Every time I look at this, I think of Dad.” She laughed. “Remember how I always got the neck and the tail end.” “The last thing over the fence,” I added as she nibbled at the fatty, crisp skinned “last thing over the fence.” I declined her offer of a taste and said, “I always got the wings.” Jo whipped up a piece of the wing, which I immediately scooped out of her hand and began to gnaw. “Wait!” she said. “For what?” “Dinner,” she replied. I paid her no mind and I continued to indulge in one mouthful after another of the juicy and delicate wing meat. The deep fried skin was crisp and flavorful after being in the peanut oil. Oh, I can feel the fat congealing in my arteries! My God, that is good turkey! Garlic potatoes, honey squash, stuffing, and turkey gravy rounded out the fare. My niece baked a whiskey apple pie. Interesting flavor and definitely a keeper. A piping hot cup of coffee hit the spot after such a wonderful dinner. The only thing better than all the great food was the wonderful stories of family and events that made us laugh and cry. We talked about mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, the farm and the bar. The time passed way too quickly before it was time to go home. I can’t wait for the next family gathering. I just love the stories. I was out shopping with RJ. We were trying to decide if we should invest in another bed frame for one of our guest rooms. The one currently in there is an gorgeous antique that is actually slowly wearing out its usefulness. Sad to say, it just doesn’t have the stability that I would like. It was getting late and I was tired, but we decided to stop anyway at a local furniture store. RJ parked the car and we went inside. Because we had been out and about most of the day running errands, we were dressed in blue jeans with a sweatshirts and sneakers. My New Zealand wrap finished off my “ensemble.” I was prepared to buy the headboard and frame, throw it into our truck and rectify the unstable bed the next day. I opened the door and an elderly gentleman approached me and asked if he could help. I told him what I was looking for – a metal full bed. He started to walk toward the back of the store (I think he may have taken 2 or 3 steps) and proceeded to point to the far wall and say, “See that sign back there? You’ll find the frames there.” I could barely get out an “OK” when he smartly turned and walked away. “What just happened there?” I asked RJ. “I guess the sale wasn’t big enough,” was his reply. We wandered back to the beds and mattresses. We have been known in the past to start looking for one thing and hitting on something that would be perfect in another room. It took a few minutes, but we finally found the sign and the frames that the salesman had eluded to. There were a few on display. “Do you want to see what else is around?” I asked “Sure.” Still no salesmen insight and I’m starting to have questions about the furniture I see. I looked around to no avail. “Wait here,” I instructed. “I’m going to find salesman,” I said as I headed for the customer service counter. I felt a bit annoyed since there was only one other couple in the store who was being helped and us. As I approached the counter, the young lady there is having a lively conversation is a stock boy. She smiled and he talked about what he was happening in the back room. “Excuse me,” I said. “Is there someone who would like to talk to me about buying a bed?” She immediately stopped her conversation and said, “Yes, of course someone would like to talk to you” and picked up the intercom, which broadcasted to the entire empty store in decibels harmful to the human ear, ” Sales personnel needed in bedding.” “Thank you,” I said as I tried to get the ringing out of my ears. “She paged someone,” I announced. RJ looked at me with the look that said, “I heard.” I continued to look at the metal frames. “Can you see how much?” RJ reached for the tags. “I think this one only comes in queen or king.” “How about this one?” “It doesn’t say.” My frustration is starting to mount. It’s been almost 15 minutes and still no salesman. “That’s it! I’m done,” I said as I start for the door. As I walked through the empty store, I saw 3, count them, 3 salesmen sitting in the front of the store. Two were having a vocal conversation and my salesman was sitting behind a desk reading a book! “I’ll just spend my money elsewhere,” I said with RJ right behind me. I couldn’t believe how ignored I was. The next day, I called the manager and explained the story. I said, “Business must be very good for you if all you customers are not important enough to be helped.” I told him of my frustration and of the salesmen sitting around at the front door. I said, “If I ran my business like that, I would be out of business.” Of course, he agreed and was very apologetic. He said, “Of course, that should not have happened” and “Yes, there should have been someone there to answer my questions.” He said he would give me a discount if I came back into the store and that I should ask for the manager. He asked when I could come in. I told him probably not until Sunday, since I had guests. Sunday came and went. I could not bring myself to go back to the store and deal with the manager or any of the sales people. But within a few days, I was back to looking for a new bed frame and had an opportunity to shop around. I found myself parking my car in the same local store’s parking lot. I could just buy it and put it in my truck. With a discount, it could be affordable. I was dressed up since I had been to church earlier and never bothered to change. As I walked through the doors, I was immediately approached by a younger gentleman, who asked how he could help. He asked all the right questions, took me back to where the full frames were on display and even though he was unable to meet my needs, he gave me the price and a business card. The frame was not all I thought is would be, so I thanked him for his help, took his business card, prepared to leave. He offered me a bottle of water to take with me and walked me to the door. Hmmmm…Okay. This got me thinking. What was the difference between the first visit and the second. Besides the fact I had two different sales people, the difference was my attire. I’ve shared this story. Others have had similar experiences. Lesson learned: You never know who you are talking to – no matter how they are dressed. At this time of year, when the leaves are a blaze of color and thoughts turn to harvests and canning, Richard and I visited the local pumpkin patch. Pully’s Farm had a wide selection of pumpkins from table size to 40 pounders. We managed to pick out several good size ones for the front patio, a bale of hay, and gourds for the tables in the dining room. I also found a couple of dried ears of corn to compliment the straw bale. The table gourds were in all different colors and shapes, perfect for decorating. I even managed to find one that looked like a swan or a duck depending which way you held it. Pully’s Farm had a corn maze on the hill behind the pumpkin patch, so I figured since we were already there, why not take a walk. It didn’t seem like it would be anything more than a walk through a cornfield. Have you ever walked through a cornfield? It is amazing how you can get turned around! After hitting a couple of deadends, and making a few right or left turns, meadering down a path between stalks 12 feet high, I got totally lost. Richard and Michael seemed to have a handle on which direction we should be going, but I felt so isolated. Thank goodnesss it was the middle of the afternoon and not dusk. I think I would have been a little more, let’s say, uncomfortable. Of course, Richard had to do the “jump out of the middle of the cornstalk, so If can scare you half to death.” And he did manage to make me jump. I was concentrating so hard and the path, I didn’ t even see which direction he went. Serves me right for not keeping up!
This evening, Michael and I went to the Granger Homestead in Canandaigua is listen to Mason Winfield, noted historian and author of ghosts stories in New York. It turned into a wonderful evening full of interesting tales about haunted houses in Canandaigua and on the Finger Lakes. The Grey Lady was probably my favorite story. She is a friend to the lost and appears to help those that have lost their way. Once she has aided those who need her, she dissipates into thin air only to reappear to the next soul who is lost. Although it was late when we returned to the Inn, we had no ghostly encounter along Route 5 and 20, which is said to be haunted. Oh well… maybe for Halloween. |
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