Geraniums Reincarnated

It was supposed to be “first frost” night in north Texas a couple night ago. Just like kids coming down to see what Santa left them, I rushed outside to check if my uncovered geraniums survived their night of peril. Now that they have proven themselves worthy, I will probably try and stretch their life out a few more days/weeks. My interaction with geraniums was not always this way. When we lived in Ohio, we handled them completely differently.

In Ohio, geraniums seem to really grow! Texas heat has made an exception to “everything is bigger in Texas”. We planted 3 geraniums here. They grew, but they certainly were not full. In Ohio, geraniums were usually planted after the last frost. (Rarely later than 5/15. And, if the weather from 5/5 looked good, we would often plant them earlier. If we committed to covering them if a frosting occurred, we might even plant them a few weeks before the last frost.) We usually planted a few new geraniums. Our little trick (Actually, my grandmother’s trick. She did about what we did, but she wintered hers in a dark corner of her basement.) was pulling geraniums from last year out of the basement and seeing which ones could be reincarnated and brought out of their winter slumber.

It has been a few years, but this is what I remember us doing:

After providing the geraniums as much time as possible by covering them a few times during the weaker nights of frost, we determined the freeze was coming that could not be survived. (Or, we were going out of town and didn’t want to risk it.)
I dug each of the geraniums, shook the dirt out, and set them down on a piece of newspaper in the garage. I let them dry out for a few days or weeks OR until I remembered.
I then hauled them downstairs and let them winter in a dark corner of the basement. If I was a good voodoo practitioner or Dr. Frankenstein, I would mist the roots of my subjects to try and get them to not dry out so much that the roots were brittle. (My grandmother was much more committed to the project. In her dark portion of the basement [almost the size of an entire room w/ no window wells or windows], she had “clothes lines” stretched from one side to the other of the room. She would attach the geraniums to the line w/ the roots side up. She would have already pruned most of the green off of the top of the plant (the bottom when attached to the line). She would periodically mist her roots and play “plant whisperer” with them. [Whose a good full geranium? You are! Who loves the Miracle Gro? You do, don’t you? Who thinks you are the prettiest geranium on the whole street? I do.]
Somewhere in April or early May, I would find the nasty spiderweb friendly part of the basement where i deposited my precious-es. I would bring them outside and put them in a bucket of warm water. They would soak awhile and hopefully provide some clear clues that they still had life dwelling within them.

The mortality rate was high. If I got over 50% of them coming back, I was happy. Of course, the true mortality rate was not apparent until they were in the ground for a couple of weeks. The biggest did not always survive, and the smallest were often pretty spunky. We did have one of the geraniums that survived multiple years. (maybe 5?) He was wide and had an attitude. Fortunately, he backed it up with beautiful, endless blooms….once he recovered from his amnesia.

When we moved to Texas, our geranium collection did not make the trip with us. I was sorry to see them go. (I didn’t really see them go. It just wasn’t practical considering the many miles and the happy years they gave us. Unfortunately, they likely ended up in a trash can rather than dying in the ground as the full moon beamed down upon them.) Fortunately, although Texas is not fond of geraniums, it does allow amaryllises to stay out all winter long. So, although it is not a completely fair trade, I will enjoy the blooms I am given!

Courting An Old Friend

I don’t know if I truly have fewer friends now then I did when I was younger. (I am certain I see them less often.) I have very good relationships with my kids, so that is likely where the focus of my friendliness has been directed. However, as the kids get older and I get glimpses into what the crib/nest/home will look like when it is just my wife and I consistently sitting down at dinner together (my wife and I do get along well so it is not very disturbing), I start wondering who will be in my “friend circle” when the kids are all out stretching their early adult wings. And, is at this point I consider the “courting” of an old friend…

This specific friend and I have known each other for over 40 years. It is no exaggeration to say we were very good friends back in “the day”. We both attended a small Christian school together for most of elementary school. And, while we went to different high schools, we usually saw each other once a month or so. When it came time to go to college, we both joined the National Guard and went through Basic Training together. (The tuition reimbursement was the reason I served our country – sad I know.) Due to different health issues, neither of us finished our obligation, but both did make the effort to serve. As we moved into early adulthood, we developed different interest and different friends. While I dated less often, I became engaged and married first (he was in the wedding). My friend was better looking then me. He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss the right gal when she came along. So, he made it through his 20’s without getting married.

When our 30’s rolled around, my wife and I were having kids. He came to visit a few times, but the relationship was certainly changing. Where I had been fortunate to marry a woman with a career that far exceeded my potential, he continued to work hard and not get any great breaks. I am sure I may have lacked sensitivity sometimes. I am sure I said some things that may have been taken much more personally than they were intended. I am sure life’s experiences have made me a better person than I was then.

In our 40’s, my wife and I did foster care. We had quite a few different kids in our house. And, if our friends didn’t have kids and didn’t like lots of kids, they were even less frequent visitors than they were in our 30’s. Our kids grew and stayed active in soccer or gymnastics or whatever other activity was appropriate for young girls and boys. The last half of my 40’s was spent in Texas, so social ties from my previous life were even scarcer.

With the arrival of a new decade and a new set of life’s events, I wonder if our friendship can still find enough mutual energy to be revived? After getting your number a few months ago, it took me multiple months to text you. When the text sat idle for a couple weeks, I figured I had the wrong number or there was no mutual interest. After your eventual reply, I find you now have a Facebook account. It doesn’t look like you have changed much at all!

Truly, I am not sure if friendship revival is a likely outcome. While I selfishly crave the sincere compliment of a very old friend and the memories of the good old days that would unavoidably occur, I am concerned that his emerging out of the time machine into my life anew might be better in the virtual than the reality. LOTS of time has past and LOTS of experiences have been lived and forgotten. We are no longer the same people. Assembling the puzzle pieces of our previously shared lives and connecting them to our present lives might be more challenging than either one of us has the energy to expend.

If we don’t ever really reconnect, I wish you the best.

The Scale Really Is Broken

My wife has been saying it for a number of weeks as she went on a very successful diet. I kept refusing to admit her critique of our scale had any merit. I tried to blame it on high humidity, low temperature or the scale just having a bad day. However, the facts can no longer be ignored, the scale is really broken.

After dreading the visit to the doctor where my physical would take place, I arrived and was quickly admitted to my own private room. Before making me aware of my accommodations, I did hop on the scale. Although my shoes were off, the weight did come in more than I expected – approximately the 6 pounds my wife had been telling me our home scale was off. While enjoying my excellent room and bed, I was prodded, pressured (as in blood), pulsed, and poked (in one of my most unfavorite ways). Considering my age, the quick evaluation made me look like a healthy old man. (This physical was far better than the Valentine’s Day physical of 2008. One particular “poking” seemed especially wrong on that day.) I did have an one odd finding…one ear was hoarding the ear wax and the other one was clean…???

Since there was nothing else serious to talk about, the doctor did have to mention the news provided by “their” broken scale. While my weight is less than 10% more than what it was when I graduated from High School, I still was sensitive about his comments. So, despite my near daily walking, almost daily vitamins, and attempts to get 7-8 hours of sleep every night, I can do better. (The fruits of Halloween do deserve some blame for the excessive weight spiking. Just because something whispers my name and won’t stop until I eat it is no excuse. I am an adult and should be immune to such childish contrivances.)

Going forward, a couple of possibilities exist:

I can crank the scale back so it “zeroes” below zero but still gives me the weight I want to see.
I can heed the advise of the doctor’s lying scale. I can add 6 lbs to my scales delivered weight until I am within the doctor’s recommendations.
I can move to a planet with a lesser gravity and greater accuracy in its weight providing equipment
I can cut off appendages until the necessary weight is achieved.

So, as tempting as these options are, I really am just going to have to make some goals. Whether it is “no noodle” November or “no sandwich” Sundays, I will have to have a plan and stick to it. Assuming all of the test come back within range and I don’t have to see the doctor again soon, I have a year to lose my weight or…move to Venus.

Nicknames For Naughty Children

After seeing all of the recent Christmas decorations at nearly every retail location and reading or hearing what stores will be open what hours on Thanksgiving day, it would only seem to be appropriate to have a Christmas post. Not wanting to follow common convention, I have only used it as a springboard rather than as a commentary on commercialization…

As my kids grew to have personalities, they also grew to have unique ways to go against the system of rules, both written and unwritten, that allowed our household to function, As part of this, each child had a unique pressure point we would ocassionally have to push to help them remember those rules and the importance of obeying the one responsible for implementing and overseeing whether they were adhered to the rules (i.e. the parent). (By definition, some household rules may be “stupid”, but stupid parents have been making the same stupid rules for so long, that the stupidity of the rules has become so ingrained it is now thought to be wise.) Each child required a different pressure point to encourage their cooperation in our mutual journey through these “rule-heavy” years of the “single digits”. (With our kids, the adolescent years have seemed much easier when a slightly firm hand was used while they were younger.) I think the “naughty names’ was most effective on my oldest daughter, but in the spirit of fairness, all of them were occasionally forced to be recipients of the “verbal abuse”.

Terrible Tim: Our oldest fit the definition of first born. He wanted to please. Almost every time we asked something of him, he responded on the first request. His “naughty name” was usually only used when followed by a wink.
Jerky Jeffy: This nickname did not get used often. I didn’t like how it flowed. It didn’t mean he didn’t deserve the name. He often required multiple requests to get moving and on task. On the positive side, he was usually smiling when he got there. A stern look could keep him from truly crossing the line.
Crabby Abby: She was know for her intermittent meltdowns. When all other methods of getting her attention had failed, the “Crabby Abby” name got her attention. (Her name also lends itself to “Grabby Abby” and “Gabby Abby”. When she was playing nicely, either of these other names might also have applied.) Uttering this name made her pause and evaluate how others might be perceiving her. Fortunately, she was then sensitive enough to calm down. We also found it was unfair to refer to her by her nicknames after bedtime-her bedtime continues to be rather necessary. Post-bedtime does not bring out the best in her!
Rotten Rachel: For nicknames, I far prefer the use of rhyming rather than alliteration. This nickname is no exception. It is difficult to picture my youngest daughter being anything other than sweet and helpful. Part of this “fogginess” is likely due to our doing foster care for most of her first 6 years of life. She “had” to have a name, but I either didn’t have to use it often, or the rest of the chaos in our lives far surpassed the possible mischief of our youngster. I have since been told by my older daughter how the sweetness was a partial mirage-she was not always as innocent as she tried to appear.

My kids have never been naughty enough to blow their commercialized Christmas reward. They are good kids, and we have never allowed coal into our household. We try and be fair with packages and fair w/ our budgets for each of the kids. As they open each package, they typically say “thank you”, and only sometimes do we feel guilty that we didn’t spend more on them.

Naughty or nice, kids need rules. And, coercing our kids to obey the rules was customized to the individual child. We messed up sometimes; we nailed it sometimes; and we were left wondering how to do it better most of the time. Nicknames was only one of the weapons in our arsenal against the cry of “Mine, mine, mine!” When the goal is a well-adjusted adult, every weapon is valuable – whether an existing tool or a new weapon/technique from a book.

Bottom line – God didn’t make any mistakes. Are we patient enough to find the right technique to help each child thrive?

Chinese Banana Bread

If anyone who reads Chinese wants to make my banana bread, this should get you there! While our Chinese exchange student helped me make the bread, she told me about the “3 Cleans” that used to be expected of a Chinese woman when making dough….clean hands, clean bowl, and clean, shiny dough. She hasn’t achieved this herself, but she is convinced it is something to do with the water temperature….???

She was very meticulous in her notes. When she forgot how to write an uncommon Chinese character, she resorted to English. (She had one moment where it took her a couple of minutes to remember how to write the proper character. Eventually the Chinese Brain search engine kicked in, and she had it.)Also, as part of the recipe, the bananas need to be smashed into a paste. She said the Chinese word she chose for this would be the same word used if you were “making something bloody”. She also gave me a tutorial in how a character is used when writing proper Chinese so the right “adverb” is associated with the right “verb”. (I put them in quotes because I am not sure those words would accurately describe them from a Chinese perspective.) Apparently, the older Chinese think this character is still essential; our exchange student did not seem to share this opinion.

Her goal before she leaves our house next June is to make a batch of banana bread all by herself. When she gets home, she wants to make it for her family. She has mentioned the possible difficulty in finding sour cream, vanilla extract, and possibly cinnamon in China. She is a resourceful girl – I am certain she will find some way to get there. (Our Korean exchange student sent the recipe to her mother in Korea. Her mother made it in Korea without sour cream or cinnamon, and they still claimed it tasted good. I am not as convinced…)

With exchange students, you need to fully engage them in your lives! You never know what activity you are going to participate in when some interesting rabbit trail will result. Some days it is harder than others (my wife is on a business trip for 3 days), but the potential for mental cross pollinating certainly puts the “hardness” into perspective!

I Am Not A Veteran

As another Veterans Day is nearly upon us, I am forced to look back at my brief military service and try to determine if I meet the criteria. Although, technically, I did go through basic training and participate in a number of weekend warrior activities, I was given an honorable medical discharge before I completed my enlistment. (The wrong broken bones in an infantry unit can be devastating.) Whenever they ask for veterans to stand at church or in other places where they honor veterans, I cannot with clear conscience stand and have my military achievements in any way be compared with those of real heroes.

As a National Guardsman, I:

was never gone from my home for more than 2 weeks (with the exception of Basic Training)
never served in an actual war zone. (While going through Basic Training, the drill sergeants threatened sending us directly to the Faulkland Islands once we graduated.)
joined the National Guard for very selfish reasons-to get college paid for. (When I signed up, the Ohio National Guard offered to pay 4 years of tuition at a state supporting school OR a certain amount of it at a private school. They also paid a bonus for signing up.)
never saw a friend die or be injured while on active duty. (At Basic Training, someone in our company got spinal meningitis and they threatened to quarantine all of us and not let us go home, but I didn’t know the guy.)
memorized my 3 general orders. I still remember them now using the acronym GOR. (Since I still remember them now, I must have memorized them well!)
went through Basic Training in a buddy platoon. So, I didn’t go into my first platoon with complete strangers. I went through with my brother, a couple of high school friends, and some others I met prior to arriving at Fort Benning, GA.
joined the National Guard in a program called “split-option”. This program allowed high schoolers going into their senior year (like my brother who came home from basic training to play football) and college bound students to complete basic training during one summer and finish their advanced training the next summer. Before I went back for my advanced training, I broke my elbow (I was a little careless). I then broke my wrist playing flag football. Because I was not able to complete my advanced training within the designated time, I was given an honorable medical discharge.

Regardless of my ability to get discounts on military insurance or the other things I may share with those I consider true Veterans, I am not worthy to wear the title because of how minimally inconvenienced my life has been due to this service:

I don’t have PTSD.
I have all of my appendages.
I don’t have overwhelming guilt because of a decision I made that got someone else killed.
I didn’t miss the birth of any of my kids or the death of any of my family members,
I didn’t have to overcome ridicule for doing something my country asked me to do.

At best I am a “veteran” (little ‘v’). I truly honor the Veterans who willingly or less willingly fought to protect this country. May I never be to rushed to pause and thank a Veteran for what he has done. May God have special mercy on Veterans. May heaven be full of Veterans who are completely restored with all physical, emotional and psychological scars removed.

Guinea Pig Standard Time

At 10:00 this morning, the guinea pigs started their yipping. Apparently, the Guinea Pig Council to the UN or whatever pet body that establishes guidelines for a country’s pet population does not officially recognize the time change that took place this past weekend. One might argue they are just pets. This argument does have merit, but my contention is they are just committed to trying to manipulate the human members of the household to attempt to usurp the necessary power in anticipation of the coming invasion.

Fortunately, I am either falling completely for their plan OR I am smart enough to recognize their efforts to use reverse psychology will need a more willing family. So, when their begging started at 10:00 AM, I said soothing things to them. Such as, “Not yet guys. Real soon.” or “Whose a good guinea pig? You are! Just wait a little longer.” or “Be patient. Your tummy isn’t ready for all of the carrots I am going to give you.” (It could be argued anyone who speaks to guinea pigs w/ such sincerity has already lost. I realize this as a valid point.) Due to their insistence, I was very willing to sate their appetites and quite their yipping when 11:00 arrived.

When I give them the carrots (this is almost always the little carrot nubs. If they are not available and we have the big carrots, I will snap one of those pretty much in two pieces, and attempt to get them to enjoy those, too. From Sprouts we bought some heritage carrots that had some weird colors. I believe orange is by far their preferred color to associate with the carrot “taste”. ) I usually hand feed them each of them their first carrots. They start chomping on the carrot and ignore me. Or, their near-blindness causes them to drop the carrot into their bedding and sniff out where the carrot wandered off. The remainder of the carrots are dropped on their “house” with no regard to how they will “share” the balance of the little orange nib-lets. Today, after dropping the carrots on the house, I am almost positive I saw the darker guinea pig rear up on his back legs and make a physical effort to touch each of the carrots on the house. Immediate consumption did not appear to be his goal. Whether he was taking a little nip out of each carrot or otherwise marking them in a rodent sort of way beyond human comprehension, he appeared to be declaring each of them as his own as he whispered “My carrot” in rodent-glish.

An Anti-Cheerleader

As my kids continue to grow and show a fair amount of success, I have found my role as “anti-cheerleader” is not a solitary one. Of course, I will be there to support them and attempt to out yell my wife as we cheer them to the finish line. I will ask them how they did on a test. If they reply they got the extra credit and got over 100%, I will still tell them great job. However, I do have a darker side…

I truly want them to do their best in whatever they do. I want the cross country medals to accumulate, and I want the report cards to reflect how bright my children are in EVERY subject. As much cheer as I may push up through my aging pours and out of my receding gum lined mouth, I secretly rejoice when the reply to my questions is not stated with a smile and absolute beamingness! I do want my children to fail or at least disappoint themselves sometimes. And, it is this warped and un-American view that makes me an anti-cheerleader.

The anti-cheering can present itself in a variety of ways. These are only a few examples:

At a recent cross country meet, a male runner (a sophomore) at my girl’s school finished second in the state meet. He was beaten by a senior, so it all seemed to be as it should be. When I spoke to the boy’s father, the father also told me he was secretly cheering for the other boy. He did not want his son to have success too early. He wanted his son to struggle and have to strive for being the best in state for at least another year. After his admission, we did the secret “anti-cheer” handshake. It is pretty secret, but did involve handshakes used on “Mork & Mindy” and “Star Trek” while giving a Bronx cheer. (i.e. raspberry)
My daughter worked very hard on a paper the night before it was due. She had known about it for a week, but chose to wait until the very last minute to try and get it done. If she would have gotten it done earlier, the teacher could have provided feedback on her rough draft. Since she chose to begin and complete her paper in one evening, I secretly hoped she didn’t get an “A” on her paper. She probably did fine, but not all of my “anti-cheering” cheers have equal success!
Anti-cheering can have some darker moments. My exchange daughters are not the most athletic, but they tried out for basketball. Their skills have plenty of room for improvement, but since so few girls tried out for the team, they could easily make the team by default. There is not cutting of players when you don’t have enough to cut. If they choose to play, we will have to work around a very ugly practice schedule (one gym shared by 4 teams [junior high and high school of both genders] ,means before school, after school, and at other school are all options.) The true darkness on this type of anti-cheering comes from my laziness-or, as I prefer to refer to it-my busyness.
A friend of mine’s son has made a few bad decisions lately. As his son’s court date nears, he wants his son to escape with minimal pain from the legal process. (The lawyer fees have prevented the lesson from being absolutely painless.) But, he wants the judge to assess his son’s situation, and make the penalty harsh enough that making future bad decisions will not pass the “it is so worth it” test! (I believe this is the true high end of anti-cheering.)

Please don’t be offended or call Children’s Services on me. I think many children today have lost the ability to “fail with dignity”. They believe they are required to meet all of their parents goals for them. Even if children don’t understand their parents are living vicariously through them, they feel the pressure to achieve to their parents expectations–whatever the cost! They see failure as something to absolutely avoid rather than something that sometimes happens.

Life’s hiccups keep us humble. And, if we can learn at a young age hiccups are too be expected rather than always holding our breath to avoid a series of hiccups, we might not be so hard on ourselves when lives plan forks off from the plan we are “sure” is the right one. Life has been a good teacher for a few thousand years. It has not always been a fair teacher, but it hasn’t killed off our race yet. I am grateful when I am allowed to watch the consequences of life teach my kids great life lessons….it is why us “anti-cheerleaders” work so hard to be good parents.

Deseeding The Jalapenos

We typically make our carnitas once a month or so. And, although the eating of the carnitas (tacos, fajitas, tex-mexey stuff) is quite popular, the prepping of them is not. While the use of the food processor helps greatly in mincing the jalapeno into many mini bite-sized pieces rather than many larger ones, it is the deseeding and the mere handling of these scovillian packages of mouth-granting pain (and eye and skin and nose and anywhere else where there is skin sensitivity) that causes near mutinous rebellion. (They also complain about onion prepping as well. Fortunately, they are still willing to cut zucchini, broccoli and egg plant.)

The techniques for cleaning the jalapenos have varied, but not by much. My personal technique and the technique I was prepared to use prior to the ambitious volunteer arising from the household of homework-focused young ladies was simply, “cutting off the ends; cutting them in half longwise; and using a spoon to scrape out the seeds”. Most of the techniques previously tested in our house were this technique or variants of it.

Our Chinese student (AKA The Volunteer) was not a newbie to the test of the jalapeno. (As the Chinese have some sort of torture which likely involves bamboo and being tickled by a panda, a person from Mexico may have a torture involving jalapeno [or hotter] peppers and being licked by a lizard.) She had not left her first contact with jalapenos unscarred. She was having to use some acupuncture and hypnosis strategies prior to again approaching the jalapeno task. Despite her initial reluctance, she committed herself to cleaning all of the 15-20 jalapenos she encountered on this visit. Her technique was largely the one I used with the exception of the plastic sandwich bag worn over her hand. As she worked her way through her pile of peppers, (Did Peter Piper pick a pile of pepper or was it a peck?) the pepper juices were seeping into her protective bag. To limit the seeping, she installed a paper towel to try to minimize the jalapeno/skin contact.

As the carnitas cooked all night and we awoke to our Friday morning routine, I did not hear any complaints from our “volunteer” For that, I was grateful. She didn’t complain about the odd skin tingling that follows soaking hands in jalapeno juices. She didn’t mention her eyes hurting from the introduction of juice into them. (Although the juice could get into the eyes by holding a pepper over your eye and squeezing, touching the eyes with tingling jalapeno hands [Odd “jalapeno hands” uses alliteration when it is two totally different letters of the alphabet.] is the most likely source of the pain.)

I love the interaction with our teenagers. Whether they are my bio-daughters or my exchange-daughters, they keep me guessing on how to relate to them. They can be moody; they can be curious, and they can sit back and stare in complete wonder why an adult is not acting how they believe an adult should act. I am good with all of that! It is my hope (and prayer) each one of them can keep their sense of wonder and ability to be slightly inappropriate a couple hours a week!

Politically Correct Sign?

Even though I REALLY like to talk politics, I believe it is better to focus on what is better for our nation than doing excessive venting. For this reason, the Gruenbaum house is choosing to promote something non-political. (Whoops! Forty years ago, this sign would have been much less political than it is now. In today’s climate, choosing to think differently then some politicians makes you VERY political regardless of how vocal you are.)

Our church offered these signs for pickup after the service. Besides our house, there are 3 or 4 other houses that also have this sign up in our neighborhood. (My dad’s excuse for not telling people how he voted or being on the church registry was, “What if the communist get a hold of the list? What will they do then?”) Besides the few signs out in peoples yards, I am guessing there are a few sympathizers in other homes. (Living in my part of Texas makes me pretty certain of this.)

Other homes have signs encouraging you to vote “yes” (Are you a Backer?) or “no” on the school bond. (The “yes” signs seem much more popular–I guess a visible “yes” for kids is much better than a visible “no”. ) I have not seen many political signs for candidates in yards. Off of the main roads, I see a few. I get the feeling the enthusiasm this year is not there…(The “…” is all of the political things I want to say, but since I have already likely shown my political hand, it probably doesn’t matter.)

Regardless of where this election or this nation go, the sign points us to Whom we need to put our trust in. The Senate may change hands, or it may not. The evils of the world may infiltrate our borders and make us feel less safe than we have felt in many years. Chaos may reign internationally, nationally or on the local level. But, in your household, commit to a focus on eternal things. You will be rewarded with a peace that will survive any election process.

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy