Moving Along

I won't be posting blogs at Blogger.com anymore, but you can still find me at:

LeeAnnRubsam.com

Over 50, Still Kickin' -- Humor Blog

Out of the Fire -- Intercessor and Christian Teaching Blog

Full Gospel Family Publications -- Our publishing web site


Thanks for visiting!

Grandpa Sets 'Em Straight

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Grandpa was the no-nonsense type. He had emigrated from Germany in the 1920's and had come to America, hoping to stay a few steps ahead of starvation. Leaving your entire family behind and avoiding starvation are not trivial items on the calendar, so he didn't have a whole lot of sympathy for the rest of us whining over minor problems. I guess he figured that if he could make changes of that magnitude, succeed in a whole new culture, and manage to be happy to boot, he must be an authority on living well – and he liked to see other people live well along with him.

Grandpa worked as a cabinetmaker and all-around fix-it man at the local hospital for fifty years. By the time he was nearing retirement, he felt like he owned the place, and he didn't mind dispensing a little medical advice to the patients when he felt it was in order to do so. One of his favorite stories was about a woman with severe depression problems and how he cured her. I'd like to tell it the way he would have:

I remember vhen I still verked at da hospital, and I vas painting on da psych floor. I vas valking t'rough vit' my ladder, and dere vas dis voman, and she vas cryin' and cryin', see? (Grandpa pointed his cigar at us for emphasis.) I never heard such a squallin' goin' on! And I says to her, "Vhat's da matta vit' you?"

And she starts a-wringin' her hands. "Oh, I am so sad! Everyt'ing's goin' all wrong! Da Good Lord must not love me!" (Grandpa would tell it in a falsetto, complete with sobs.)

And I says to her, "Vell, do you hurt somevhere? Is yer body sick?" And she says no. And I says to her, "Ya got a good husband?" And she says yes. "Does he put food on da table?" Yes. "Does he beat you?" No. "Does he run around vit' otter vimmen?" No. And da light's beginnin' to dawn, see.

So, I says to her, "Ya got kids?" And she says yes. "Are dey all healt'y?" And she says yes.

So, I says to her, "Vell, vhat ya cryin' about den? You got nottin' to cry about! You jes' need to set up and stop feelin' sorry fer yerself, and count yer blessings. Dat's vhat you need to do!"

And she stopped her snifflin' right den and dere.

(Here Grandpa liked to stop for emphasis, shake his cigar at us, and give us a knowing nod before he continued.) "And da next day she vent home from da hospital." (He sat back with a satisfied smile on his face.)

Grandpa dished out his own brand of encouragement in various ways until the day he died. He took life as it came in his stoic way, and felt it was his God-given mission to bring calm and reason to the arm-flapping panic attacks going on around him. Some of us didn't appreciate his unasked-for opinions, but his stories continue to make us laugh as we remember, from time to time, the wise man who knew how to be happy.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Accidents Will Happen

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Once upon a time, there was a handsome young mailman named Paul. Every day he kissed his very lovely wife Lee Ann goodbye, shouldered his mailbag, and courageously headed out into the concrete jungle to deliver vital pieces of junk mail to every home. Daily, many dangers faced him, but he laughed in the face of hardship, as he did his duty to his country and neighborhood for, “The mail must go through.”

The difficulties that opposed him came in various shapes and forms, most of which would not be appear, to the uninitiated, to be dangers. There were bird feeders and ladders lurking around every corner, hoping to smack him in the forehead and knock him silly. (But his official postal jungle helmet always saved the day and his noggin.) There were ankle-biting Chihuahuas hiding behind the petunia patches. In the winter, there were sidewalks with hidden ice patches, just waiting to rise up and bang the honest man’s backside or cranium. AND there were dump trucks. Dump trucks here and dump trucks there, all waiting to run into our handsome hero’s mail vehicle and flatten it into a pancake.

Let us examine, a little more closely, just one of these dump truck incidents. Our dedicated letter carrier was minding his own business, attempting to deliver mail to a curbside box. Unbeknownst to him, construction workers have a certain quota of mailboxes that MUST become casualties to their construction job, and a dump truck driver had chosen that very mailbox to help him meet his quota. Unfortunately, the dump truck driver had determined to back into said mailbox at the exact moment that Paul was putting mail into it.
Beep, beep, beep, beep went the dump truck, as it relentlessly bore down on the mailman and his faithful mount. BEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!! went the mail truck’s horn, as our horrified hero thought, “This is the end of me!”

Fortunately, the dump truck hit and destroyed the front end of the mail vehicle, not the part where Paul was located. Shaken, but happy to still be alive, he called headquarters to give them a report of how much fun he was having delivering mail.

In the days that followed, our courageous hero found out that he was NOT a hero. He was the object of wrath, for everyone knows that being in the wrong place at the wrong time is the same as being completely at fault when there is an accident of this magnitude. The Postmaster General does not like to hear, while sitting at his fine desk in Washington D.C., that another postal vehicle has been demolished and must be replaced. He worries about the price of stamps going up, each time this happens. He has a very hard job, poor thingie! Mailmen are easy to replace, but alas! mail trucks are not. Had our hapless letter carrier been outside of his truck and been hit in his own insignificant person, there would not have been much problem. But such was not the case.

Weeks went by, during which the fearless? young mailman tiptoed gingerly around the post office, hoping the postal hotline would not ring with orders from the top command to eliminate the foul perpetrator of the crime (himself). Ahhh! But while being interrogated for the umpteenth time about HOW such a thing could happen to a postal truck, the light bulb suddenly went on, and he remembered a very important piece of evidence: the dump truck driver had been wearing hearing aids! This undoubtedly meant that there was a reason that the driver did not stop backing up when the mail truck’s horn went BEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!! He did not hear it! Perhaps he had forgotten to replace the batteries in his hearing aids, did not hear the BEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!! and this was why he destroyed the poor little mail vehicle.

The result of this important bit of data was that the Postal Service went after the construction company to pay for the replacement of the mail truck, the price of stamps therefore did not go up, the Postmaster General stopped treating his stress with TUMS and resisted the temptation to go postal, and …

Our handsome, courageous, completely competent, and perfectly vindicated young mailman hero and his very lovely wife lived happily ever after.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Man's Best Friend Is Not

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Dogs have always been attracted to my mailman husband, but not in a “man’s best friend” kind of way. It’s been more along the lines of them thinking he was a giant chew toy, waiting to be pulled apart. There is a reason that the top-selling bumper sticker among letter carriers is one that announces, “I hate your dog!”

Anyone who has delivered mail for any length of time accumulates mutt stories, and Paul is no exception. There was the beast that took Paul’s daily appearance on the scene as his cue to tone his muscles by doing body slams against the picture window. The day came when it shattered. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. How melodic falling glass shards sound! Fortunately for Paul, the window was double-paned, and Pooch must have decided that was enough exercise for one day.

Then there was the pit bull that was tied to the front porch pillar — and ripped the pillar off the porch in his frenzy to devour the mailman. He made his dash for the kill, but Paul, not having time to grab his mace can, called out, “Help me, Jesus!” and the dog swerved past him and kept running.

Just like with people, some dogs are sneaky types. Paul experienced one that seemed to be the model of comportment while his owner was standing nearby, but the moment the man’s back was turned, the dog took a quick look to make sure he would not be discovered, and then wrapped his teeth around Paul’s kneecap.

Letter carriers keep mace handy for the emergency cases, but putting their mailbag between themselves and the aggressive dog is usually the first line of defense. Mace is generally a last resort, since dogs who have been treated to mace are not forgiving. If they merely wanted a little snack of flesh to entertain themselves with before, once maced, their intent is murder and a full course meal. Most people probably don’t know, but before mace was invented, mailmen packed guns to dispatch any troublesome canines. Bizarre, but true.

Dog owners are mighty defensive about their darlings, and generally have the notion that Fido wouldn’t harm a flea. Maybe Fido leaves his fleas alone, but the mailman is another story. Paul has had the beasties growling and lunging, their lips curled back over their teeth, while the owners stood by doing nothing, except to assure him from a distance that their baby wouldn’t hurt anybody, and is just playing.

On one occasion, when Paul resorted to his can of mace, the dog’s owner suddenly appeared from out of the bushes, and snarled at him that if he ever did that again, she would bite him herself. Paul’s eyes got wide, but he wisely refrained from saying anything, and just kept movin’ on down the street.

Paul has never had hand-to-hand combat (or shall we say, mouth-to-mouth combat?) with any critter, but one of the other carriers did. The dog bit him — and he bit back. It must have been one of those moments when survival instincts rise to the surface and dignity takes a leap off the cliff. I wonder what dog ear tastes like?

As retirement drew near, Paul began to fantasize about farewell messages he would like to leave for several of his favorite pooches. He talked about how much fun it would be to finally get back at all the mutts who had tried to nibble his fingers through those mail slots that are on the doors of some homes. He could just squirt a little mace through the slot and go on his merry way, whistling Dixie, a satisified smirk plastered on his lips — but it wouldn’t have been fair to the letter carrier destined to succeed him.

Fortunately, although there were a few small bites through the years, Paul never had any dog chomp down badly enough to break the skin. I attribute this to my daily prayers for him that God would protect him from accidents, bad dogs, and terrorists — but terrorists are another story for another day.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Postal Romance

Over 50, Still Kickin'

I don’t know if you have noticed, but elderly people spend a lot of time looking out the window. No, not just to see what the weather is doing. They are watching their neighbors for entertainment purposes — much like other folks watch TV. Apparently, our life was an ongoing soap opera for one of our neighbor ladies for awhile.

We’ve been blessed with Paul having a mail route close to our home for most of his postal career. This meant he could come home for lunch. It’s been wonderful for the girls and me to be able to connect with him midday. For the few years when this was not possible, the day was sooo long without him!

Most of our neighbors got the idea fairly quickly that the mail truck parked out in front of our house everyday about noontime was Paul’s, and that he was home for a sandwich. It was pretty much a no-brainer — except for one elderly woman, who got the notion in her noodle that the lady at our house had something of a peculiarly spicy variety going on with the mailman. Now, she was partially right; the lady at our house does have a spicy little romance going on with her mailman, but since he’s my husband I think it’s probably OK.

In vain did her son explain to her that it was all right. “He lives there, Mom! He’s just home for lunch. They’ve got a little girl. She’s home during the day, too.”

But the idea that something soap opera-ish was going on had lodged in her cranium, and there was no getting it to budge. The possibility that the mailman could live in the same neighborhood that he delivered to was incomprehensible. Perhaps the idea that the mailman lived a normal, ho-hum existence outside of delivering mail was incomprehensible as well. Every day, she watched for that mail truck to pull up in front of our house. Every day, she timed how long it sat there. And every day, she clucked her tongue to her family about the shenanigans going on over at the neighbors’.

We heard the whole tale over the back fence from her son many months later, and all had a hearty laugh over it. I had never dreamed of being such an interesting character. That my neighbors would give me more than a few seconds’ thought — and that the thoughts would be of such an unusual nature — was a novel idea in itself! I doubt if he ever did convince Mom.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

The Eve of Retirement

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Today is my husband Paul’s big moment — his last day as a letter carrier. He has finally fulfilled the requirement of 55 years of age and 30 years of service. He’s been excited about making this change for months now, and the day has arrived at last.

Yesterday they had a little party for him at the P.O. They told him he could make a speech to everyone and say whatever he wanted to. If you knew Paul, you would have already guessed — he told them how he came to know the Lord, and invited them all to give their hearts to Jesus. They gave him a large crystal eagle sculpture, and he brought home enough leftover cake to add five pounds to his wife’s hips. (No, I will NOT let that happen!) They also chipped in for a monetary gift, which was overwhelmingly generous.

Truth be known, letter carriers are like Marines: once a Marine, always a Marine; once a postal worker, always a postal worker. Paul will still make snide remarks about FedEx every time we pass one of their trucks on the street. He will continue to roll his eyes in contempt every time his wife runs to the UPS station with a package that must get somewhere within days (not weeks).

Paul has always loved his job. He has built mutual bonds with many of his customers and fellow workers through the years. He has helped them with their postal frustrations, listened to their personal troubles here and there, and prayed with them when they or their families were sick, most of the time on off-duty hours. He’s kept an eye on the elderly by letting their families know when they haven’t emptied the mailbox for a few days. Small wonder that postal workers are the most trusted government employees in the nation.

Some of his customers know frightening amounts of details about our personal life — not because Paul has told them, but because they have gone to great lengths to find out for themselves. They know how many kids we have, their names, and how old they are. They know exactly when Paul comes home for lunch — and call or show up on the doorstep for personal attention during that time. I’m hoping they don’t know our social security or bank account numbers. When the girls were small, there were special little gifts just for them from some of the grannies at Christmas time. If people are going to know so much about us, at least it’s good that they like us!

It’s going to be a big adjustment for Paul’s girlies, having him home with us so much. He has volunteered to help with the home schooling. We’ll see. People who had to take remedial math courses throughout high school should not be teaching their daughters algebra. But we may let him get his fingers in on the science labs or let him expound on Civil War history once in awhile. (And shop class — he can teach shop. Beebee informed me the other day that she has no clue how to use the back side of a hammer to remove a nail from the wall, so she hurt her fingers trying to do it bare-handed. We will have to explain shop class, or she will think Daddy is going to give her a guided tour of Old Navy and Target.)

Paul does have some plans for his future — and God has bigger plans for him than Paul does! (So does my mom. She can’t wait to have her own personal lawn care and maintenance man.) But we’ll let the ol’ guy have the first few weeks to just enjoy doing whatever he pleases — unless he starts to drive us nuts, in which case we’ll launch him into his future career sooner than he anticipated!

I suppose I will have to tell thirty years’ worth of postal anecdotes in days to come. Some are pretty entertaining. I feel a series coming on!

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Rummage Sale vs. Lawn Mower

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Every year we have a rummage sale (a.k.a “yard sale” or “garage sale”), and every year, when it’s all done, I vow I will never have another one. They are just too much work. But come summertime, my teenager gets the bug for cleaning out the junque, and I comply again.

Once we have everything set up and ready to go, I usually decide rummage sales are not so bad after all. I settle into my lawn chair, open my eyes wide, and wait for something bizarre to happen. If I stay carefully observant and wait long enough, something will happen, guaranteed.

There was the year the lady next door decided she did not appreciate us having a yard sale. I don’t think she liked the cars parked in front of her house. (We had heard about this before: “Do not park in front of my house. I want MY friends to be able to park there.” Well, it wasn’t my friends or myself parked in front of her house this time; it was the rummage customers.) Anyway, she decided to display her displeasure with our rummage sale, using her lawn mower as her prop.

Our tables were parked flush with the edge of our driveway. Never mind that we own six feet of grass on the other side of the driveway. She expressed her distress at not being able to mow her lawn with the rummage sale going on next to the grass. My husband assured her she need not worry about it; he would mow the strip of grass next to the driveway when we were done with the sale. However, she did not want to wait. Besides, she had already planned that the lawn mower would be her vehicle of exhibiting her displeasure with us.

She proceeded to mow. When she got close to the strip along the driveway, I noticed that her grim facial expression was crescendoing into one thunderhead of a scowl, and her mowing action was becoming decidedly more emphatic. Violent would be a better word. I was dealing with several customers right at that moment, but I remember seeing her throwing that mower in and out under a table and thinking she was getting mighty close to the table legs and what if — too late. CRASH! She took out the table legs. Everything went sliding to the ground. Fortunately it was all clothes and books, not breakables.

Her face had a fearful, stricken look upon it. She had not intended to destroy, only to communicate disgust. She was desperately hanging onto one end of the table, trying to stop the avalanche, but to no avail. I ambled over, helped her wrestle the rest of the mangled mess to the ground, cleared my throat, and said in a relatively even tone, “Maybe this was not a good idea! Perhaps we had better let Paul finish the mowing later!” Truly I know she felt bad. The table was a total loss, legs snapped right off the bottom.

I tried hard not to be annoyed. It was a monumental challenge. I had succeeded in being calm with the neighbor lady (after a fashion), but I had not continued smiling pleasantly throughout the incident. (So, tell me you would have done any better!) But I consoled myself with having a story to tell among all my acquaintance for weeks to come. I love stories! They tend to make up for most of the unpleasant events that birthed them in the first place.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Happy Music for Happy People

Over 50, Still Kickin'

A while back, an acquaintance commented that Latinos listen to polka music. I’m sure I gave her a blank stare. They listen to Dick Rodgers? Romy Gosz? Alvin Stacinski? Why?

If you do not live somewhere in the belt between Milwaukee and Rhinelander, you may not only be asking “why,” but “what.” You can see and hear “what” at http://www.polkacatalog.com. (Sorry, it might not work in Firefox.) If you’ve ever lived in Wisconsin, you don’t need to visit the polka link to know what (but it will still make you smile if you do). Polka, at one time, was so much a part of our culture that I had to learn the dance steps in gym class (I flunked). My high school band director used to give us hysterical imitations of Alvin Stacinski playing the accordion and stomping to the music. He sang in Polish while he did it! We have polka festivals all over the state all summer long — but it is an aging cultural form, and I have sometimes commented that when the retired people of today die out, polka will die with them.

Apparently this is not true! Polka lives on in the Mexican people of our area. I am so relieved! Why should such a wonderful art form be gone with the wind? I thought, when my friend told me about the Latino connection, that she had been slurping something laced with … something. But no, she knew what she was talking about. I have our rummage sale last summer to thank for setting me straight.

We had been having a few quiet moments at the sale, when suddenly the air was filled with happy music (Polka — “Happy music for happy people” — see the web site). It really was happy music! And it was in Spanish! A couple of happy-looking guys got out of a happy-looking pickup. Unfortunately, they could not speak a lot of English, so I opted out of asking about the music.

We had an interesting conversation about the backpack one of them purchased, though — “For mi niña,” he explained. He informed me, with pride, that it had a tag saying it had been made in Mexico. The other one pointed to a box on my garage floor, and said the kids in Mexico carry their books to school in boxes. I think he was trying to express the oddity of backpacks being made in Mexico for U.S. kids, while the Mexican kids use boxes instead. Well, one father was making sure his little girl was going to use a backpack instead of a box from now on.

But polka — we were talking about polka, sort of. When Paul and I were a young married couple, we used to entertain ourselves by going to the Cinderella Ballroom on a Saturday night. We didn’t boogie, disco, line dance, or square dance. We did the polka. We were the only young folks in the place. The seniors all smiled and pointed at us. This may have been because they thought it was odd that young people would want to polka. It may have been because they thought we looked funny. But it was probably because we didn’t really know how to polka (remember, I flunked that course in gym class), and just sort of hopped around without stamping on each other’s feet. We didn’t care. We were having a good time in our own little way. But it wasn’t a good time when they had a “change dance partners” song. Then I stepped all over the old guys’ feet. (Paul knew how to keep his toes out of the way.) I learned quickly — when it even mildly looked like they might do a change partners song, I made a beeline for the ladies’ room.

The Cinderella has been gone now for almost twenty-five years, and all the old folks with it. Sigh! But polka lives on — among the Latinos.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

TV Dinners

Over 50, Still Kickin'

We just finished supper. I can’t believe what we ate. There was a sale on TV dinners at the grocery store this past week — 10 / $5.00. We swallowed the bait, and ended up with four chicken, four barbecued pork ribs, and two tamale dinners.

When I was a child, we ate TV dinners frequently at our house. I remember them as being a good feed, a satisfying experience. But for one reason or another, in twenty-nine years of married life, I don’t think I have ever bought TV dinners. They are not the same as I remember from childhood days. This is an understatement, by the way.

They looked rather appetizing from the picture on the box. You’re either laughing at me or just rolling your eyes in disgust. Ha! You knew the outside of the box was not a true picture of what was inside. I, however, am a trusting, naive little creature. I believed the box! But they lied. And believe me, it was NO Banquet!

Upon looking inside, my first thought was, “I’ve been had!” (OK, so I shouldn’t expect much for $.50 per box.) There were about ten little french fry crumbs in one cubicle of the tray, and some black stuff that would have been soupy if it hadn’t been frozen in another. Mystified as to what it was, I consulted the box picture again. Oh. It was a brownie waiting-to-be. The chicken strips looked more promising, but I couldn’t help but wonder how this was going to feed one whole person.

We cooked enough of these little entrees to feed one and a half medium-sized humans — but since that was three dinners, and there were three of us, it wasn’t an abundance of food. It provided a lot of table conversation of a jovial sort. Fun conversation is an important part of every meal, so I suppose we really got more than our money’s worth (if humorous quips were figured into the purchase price).

After entertaining ourselves with our four or five forkfuls of food and the witty remarks they magically produced, I got curious as to what we had just done to ourselves. Oh, horrors! 470 calories per meal, with a whopping 27 grams of fat each! 42% of our recommended daily fat intake, according to the fine print. It will be dry bread crusts dipped in diluted skim milk for the family for the next week, so that we can recover and unclog our arteries!

I have decided that TV dinners are an experience to remember … but not to repeat.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Cell Phone Upgrade

Over 50, Still Kickin'

My husband, like most men, likes technology -- gadgets in any shape or form. If it weren't for him, it would have taken us at least ten years longer than it did to get our first computer. He loves his iPod, his flash drive, and his wireless this-and-that. I don't even know what he is talking about most of the time. What is Wi-Fi anyway? Paul would know, and I don't care! He listens to podcasts of all descriptions, and his Internet radio, and gets his God-TV broadcasting via his computer. On the other hand, I am barely conscious of what these things are or why they exist. Now, if I can just find a way to get him tuned into what I am saying!

There is one area, however, in which Paul is rather technologically challenged -- cell phones. He has had one for years (one of those prepaid card types), but has just recently figured out how to record a personalized voice mail message. Our current goal is to get him to learn how to pick up his voice mail.

One thing overrides Paul's love of technology, and that is his love of free stuff. He would not have an iPod, a wireless thing-a-ma-bob of any sort, an anitvirus program, and maybe not even an alarm clock if he had not found a way to get each of these items free. (Read "free" as in signing up for credit cards offering premium gifts, doing Best Buy and Office Depot rebates, completing surveys, and otherwise giving out more personal information than he ever ought to. Cringe!) I have ceased to worry about who knows what about us that they shouldn't. It doesn't help to worry about it anyway.

Thus, the main reason Paul has any kind of cell phone at all is not because he needs one or uses it much. It was free with a rebate. Of course, he pays for his minutes, but the phone with its original allotment of minutes was free. This explains why he has one that is the size of a toaster. While other people's cell phones have gotten smaller and smaller, and now do almost everything except cook supper from a distance, Paul's just talks to him and allows him to talk back. How novel!

Beebee is embarrassed to be in public with her dad when his cell phone is visible. How many other dads carry a gadget that large with them? If she has to borrow it when she goes to the mall, be assured it is well hidden in the bottom of her purse. Paul lost his phone once, and we had a good idea where it might be. "Hector, could you check your car and see if Paul's phone might have gotten under the seat? It doesn't look like a cell phone, though, so you might not recognize it. Think LARGE, like the transistor radios were thirty years ago. Don't hurt yourself lifting it when you find it."

But unexpected help has finally arrived. A few days ago, Paul's cell phone provider informed him that technology has moved way beyond him, and that his phone will no longer function with the newest way they do stuff. So, in the magnanimity of their hearts (and their desire to keep selling him more unneeded minutes), they decided to send him a new phone. (Well, it's not really new. It's refurbished, which means it was the hottest item out there two to three years ago.) It is not exactly streamlined, but it IS smaller than a toaster. I'm not sure that Paul has achieved the ultimate in coolness with his new phone, but my teenager's feelings are at least partially relieved. She can now be seen with her dad in public, even if he's got his cell phone visible.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Daniel Fast

Over 50, Still Kickin'

Our church family just finished a 21-day Daniel fast and time of prayer. For those of you who may not know, a Daniel fast is patterned after how Daniel in the Bible fasted and prayed:

Daniel 10:2, 3 -- In those days, I Daniel was mourning [probably repentance prayer for his nation] three full weeks. I ate no pleasant bread, neither came flesh nor wine in my mouth, neither did I anoint myself at all, till three whole weeks were fulfilled.

At the end of the 21 days that Daniel fasted, an angel came with revelation from heaven for Daniel. His prayers were answered.

It's amazing what people do with a small passage in the Bible like that. There are umpteen web sites that will tell you exactly how to do a Daniel fast. Supposedly, the web site authors have done research, and have discovered exactly what Daniel ate and what he didn't eat during that time. But the web sites do not agree with each other, so either several somebodies' research is faulty, or else they are making it up as they go along. (Can I say this, and get away with it?)

One web site declares that on a Daniel fast, we must eat all whole-grain bread, fruits and veggies galore, no preservatives, no sugar, no meat, no dairy, no oil of any kind. Another site allows dairy, including butter (but not margarine). Another says sugar is bad, but honey is acceptable. Still another says we cannot eat any bread.

I did not think the verses in the Bible were as hard as all that to understand -- No wine and no flesh is pretty straightforward: we weren't going to be eating meat, and we don't drink wine anyway. No pleasant bread tells me just that -- the cookies, sweet breads, and goodies of that ilk gotta go. Some translations say "no pleasant food." OK, so fruit is a pleasant food in my book, so shouldn't that go, too? (But we ate fruit. We had to eat something.)

My family obsessed over food for two weeks leading up to the fast. I never saw my husband and child so preoccupied with their stomachs before! They were wringing their hands about what in the world they were going to eat. Now, you have to understand how serious this was to them. My daughter is a growing teenager, and teenagers need a lot of fuel. My husband is six feet tall and weighs about 150 pounds on a good day. He has a high metabolism and a high-energy job. He eats constantly, just to keep going and maintain weight in the process. We call him The Hummingbird. I, on the other hand, do not need more fuel. Maintaining weight, for me, means not blimping out and breaking the scale. I saw this fast as a marvelous opportunity to lose a few pounds and not have to cook!

It was very interesting hearing from our church friends how they were doing the fast. They ran the gamut from hard core fruit-and-veggies-only people to letter-of-the-law types who tried to get as close to the line without stepping over it as possible. One family in our acquaintance finally decided that cheese pizza would fit the fast criteria, since there wasn't any meat on it. They managed to find one with a whole wheat crust. Hmmm. Some spent many hours in the kitchen, coming up with gourmet bean delights that were as tasty as any meat dish ever thought of. I rather thought this might be defeating the purpose. I thought we were supposed to suffer a little, and use the time we would normally spend preoccupied with eating on prayer. Well, what do I know?

Several of our people suffered horribly without their Starbucks or Mountain Dew fix. The caffeine withdrawal was enormous. My sympathies to them.

My daughter decided she was going to fit into the get-as-close-to-the-line group. She read all those web sites, and picked the most appealing "acceptable" foods from each. On the first day of the fast, I caught her eating white bread with honey on it. I think potato chips (a veggie) would have been next on her agenda, if I hadn't put my two cents' worth in.

"This is a fast, after all, Beebee! It's supposed to be a little hard for you. Somehow I don't think honey bread is fast material." I noticed that the next day she was dutifully gagging down the whole grain bread with no sweeties on top.

It was a hard three weeks. We were not hard core. I would describe our eating patterns as moderate. We drank milk and ate some butter on our bread. We popped pounds of popcorn in olive oil. We ate a few baked potatoes. We will be paying off the credit card debt for the fruit and veggie grocery bill for the next year! (Daniel fasts are an expensive way to eat.) My child refused to eat beans under any circumstances. We were hungry a lot; the food was just too boring to care about eating it, hungry or not.

I reminded my family that things could be much worse. What if the angel hadn't come to Daniel at the end of 21 days? We could have been on this fast for three months, or a year, if the angel had taken that long to get to Daniel! So, I heard a few thanksgiving prayers from our teenager, "Thank you, Jesus, for not waiting 52 days to send the angel to Daniel!" It's amazing the things you can find to be thankful for.

Yesterday was the first day off the fast. You want to know what we ate, don't you? We had been carefully planning the menu for a week, and it was outrageous. I had a Toaster Strudel for breakfast and potato chips for midmorning snack. Also part of a chocolate candy bar. Beebee ate a fat-laden store-bought muffin as big as a softball. We had milk and an apple, to assuage our consciences. We had Dairy Queen ice cream cake for lunch. I did not feel well all afternoon. I prayed my gall bladder would hold up! This did not stop the excess at suppertime, however. We indulged in a Little Caesar's pizza. We controlled ourselves a teeny bit and did not eat quite the whole thing.

Today, we will climb back out of the abyss of indulgence and eat with more sanity. The junk we ate yesterday is not typical for us. I think I've bought Toaster Strudels only once before in my whole life, and if the potato chip companies had to depend on people like us, they'd all be bankrupt. Ditto for Dairy Queen and Little Caesar's. It was fun for a day, but will not be a trend. (And my gall bladder prayers were answered, by the way.)

I know I've made our church family sound like a bunch of the most carnal Christians you've ever met, but seriously, it was not that way. Everybody was pretty cheerful about doing the fast, a lot of serious prayer went heavenward, and even the cheese pizza-eaters probably managed to deprive themselves a little. (I will give them the benefit of the doubt.)

So yes, thank You Lord, for coming to Daniel after 21 days instead of 60, thank You for the answers to prayer you are sending our way -- and thank You for potato chips!

leeannrubsam.com

Shopping Excursion

From the files of Over 50, Still Kickin':

My daughter Beebee and I went thrifting at St. Vincent de Paul this morning. I can find a story in almost anything, but there is ALWAYS a story waiting to happen at Vinnie's. Today, it was a mob of grownup sisters shopping with their mom. There was the bushy, long-haired gal who was the consultant of the family. We'll call her "Cinderella" for convenience' sake. (Don't ask why, just live with it. Beebee informs me she was no Cinderella.) Her sisters were taking up two of the three dressing rooms for a very long time. It was long, not only because they had to try on lots of stuff, but because of how they went about it. Go there in your mind with me:

Sister #1 puts on an outfit. She steps dramatically forth from the dressing room and strikes a modeling pose, to be admired by all. I happen to look their way, just then, because they are all loud. (I am in the book department, yards and yards away.) "Loud, loud, loud," as the Dick, Jane, and Sally readers would say. Sister #1 does not look appealing in her outfit. Cinderella thinks otherwise.

"Ooohhh, Rachel, you look beautiful! Mom! Mom! Come see! You gotta see this!" Rachel looks anything but beautiful, and the dress does not help. Wrong color, a few sizes too small. Mamma waddles over. She has been in a completely different section of the store, so it takes some time for her to arrive. But she hears the call and makes her way as fast as her legs will carry her.

They ooh and aah briefly, and then go on to the next outfit. Sister #1 seems to be majoring on smart little dresses and power suits. Each one has to be modeled, exclaimed over, and discussed to the Nth degree, whether she is going to take it home or not. Even if she does not like an outfit, she models it for the family and the rest of us poor people waiting to get a dressing room.

After we have heard several outfits declared cute (they might have been -- on somebody several sizes smaller than Sister #1), Cinderella wants to know, "Rachel, what size do you wear?" Rachel announces to anyone who doesn't care to hear that she wears 8's and 10's. This is why the stuff she is trying on looks so awful on her. Yours Truly only wears 8's or 10's when the clothing is from a very expensive shoppe--or when someone has sized it wrong. Yours Truly wears 12's, 14's, and an occasional 16. This woman is quite a bit larger than Yours Truly. She is also tall, and is trying on petite-ish type thingies. It is embarrassing to look at her, stuffed into those little bitty outfits. I wonder what is wrong with the family. They all look like normal, average, attractive people. They do not appear to have mental challenges of any sort. Clothing challenges, yes, however. (Please understand that I do not have issues with large. One can be very attractive and large. It is all in how one dresses.)

Sister #1 continues to pose and model for us, with an occasional interruption from Sister #2, in the next dressing room. She also likes to wear her clothes way too small. She is not into power suits and business dresses. She is doing shorts and slacks. (Beebee's feet are sore from standing. My eyes and mind are sore from watching.) Sister #2 does not have the confidence and modeling ability of Sister #1. She does not jump and strut out of her dressing room and strike poses. (Good, I'm getting too much of this already.) She can't find pants that are long enough, but they are plenty tight enough to make her happy. Finally, Voila! pants that are long enough. The whole family agrees that they are long enough AND cute! Sister #2 does not like them, though. They are "too baggy" (translation--they fit her just fine for a change). Cinderella likes them and thinks she should buy them. She turns to me for moral support. Aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!! She wants my opinion. I am shocked. I mumble that they look fine to me. (Why drag me into this? Do I look like a fashion designer in my neon blue-and-cranberry jacket with the clashing red sweater underneath? And why AM I taking issue with other people's clothing choices when I wear this thing all over town? Perhaps I ought to accessorize with a paper bag over my head.)

Before Cinderella asks for further expounding from me, we are all distracted again by Sister #1 bounding forth from her dressing room, in a cute little business suit that would have fit Princess Di about right--but Fergie would never have attempted it. (Fergie has brains. She looks elegant and nice. I like Fergie, in her own little way. She may be a worldly gal, but she is winning.) They all decide after much deliberation that she MUST buy the outfit because of the blouse and blazer, but the skirt should not be worn (neither should the rest of it, but yes, the skirt DEFINITELY should not be worn). If any of us had a curiosity to know the exact dimensions and shape of Sister #1's tummy, we are curious no longer. It is starkly framed in black and white checkerwork. It will be starkly framed in my mind's eye for the next decade, at least. (I have a tummy. I know that pictures are supposed to be framed -- but not tummies.) How she managed to zip or button that skirt is beyond comprehension. Yes, let's avoid wearing the skirt.

By this time, Beebee and I are wondering if we will get to try on our stuff before closing time (noon). It's 10:35 when we begin to whisper our wonderings about this. The two sisters finally exhaust all the outfits in the store that are too small for them, as well as all the commentary they can think of on how all the outfits in the store that are too small for them looked on them.
We get one of the dressing rooms. Cinderella finally gets her turn in the one next to us. She is thinnish, and I thought perhaps she might not be trying on stuff three or more sizes too small for her. However, I am mistaken, for I hear her shout loud enough so that the people in the furniture department know all about it, that she "couldn't even get it on over her ...." We didn't want to know, Cinderella!

Over 50, Still Kickin'

A Night on the Town

We went to the local Christian coffee shop last night for a bit. My husband wanted to go. I said, "Maybe we shouldn't go on a Friday. They'll have live music and it will be hard to talk." You're not going to believe this, but this was part of the attraction. He was planning on having a band handy so that when he got tired of talking (five minutes into the conversation) he wouldn't have to share the innermost recesses of his heart. It was the safety valve he had in mind! He gets nervous if he thinks I might delve into what is ticking inside. I'm just warming up, and he's ready to shut down! Isn't this lovely?

We got there, and were told the band was going to be playing in the downstairs room to the right. I suggested we go upstairs for a little peace and quiet.

"But I want to hear the band when they get going."

"Honey, trust me. We'll hear the band when they get going."

We heard the band when they got going. They just about blew the windows out. Somebody opened the front door to ease the pressure. They kept the door between the right and left halves of the downstairs closed. We could talk by mild shouting when the door was closed. However, someone opened it to go in or out every five minutes or less. We could not talk by mild shouting when the door was open. It was good for a few funny comments. We waxed witty at times.

The lead "singer" kept yelling "AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH" evilly into the mike. "AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH" was the lyrics, I guess. Imagine Darth Vader barfing into a microphone. This will give you a pretty good idea of how it sounded.

We decided to leave. We chatted briefly with the counter person on the way out. He said it was the first time they had had a "melodic" band in. We were mystified, and asked what a melodic band was. The guy explained it was another term for hard-core rock. Oh. I thought "melodic" was Lullabye, and Good Night, done by Bing Crosby or Lawrence Welk.

There were three middle-aged people downstairs in the non-band room. One of them was holding her hands over her ears with a painful expression on her face. I suspect they probably left shortly after us. There were older people on the outside of the building, peering in, with amused faces. They smiled at us and shook their heads. I peered in also, to see what Darth Vader looked like.

The band's appearance was not all that remarkable. Two guys and three girls in T-shirts and jeans. Hubby says it was one guy and four girls. I'm not sure which of us needs the eye exam. Anyway, Darth Vader looked like he was doing just what I had expected from the sounds I had heard upstairs. No, not barfing into the microphone--just yelling. No words, just "AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!" Uh-huh. Melodic. I see. Christian lyrics and all that.

We walked up and down the Avenue, and in the process ran into some former church acquaintances and had some friendly chit-chat. They had intended to go to the Christian coffee shop that evening, but didn't want to hear anything melodic, so they had settled for a different coffee shop. I barely know these people, but of course I had to embarrass my husband by telling them about Darth Vader barfing, and that melodic does not mean Bing Crosby. I think their endorphins are still in overdrive. Their sides will hurt for a week. Just remember, laughter does good like a medicine. Healthiest people in town now, they are.

Over 50, Still Kickin'

My Latest Inspiration

I have been reading Tasha Tudor's biography, Drawn from New England, and it has inspired me to write a biography of my best friend Peggy--authorized if she is enthused, and unauthorized if she isn't. She won't have a choice!

I thought the Tasha Tudor thing had a pretty good title, seeing she was an illustrator (Drawn) and from New England (lived in New England). So I've decided to go with a catchy title like that for my buddy's biography. We want the readers to know she's an artist (she's into basketry), and we want them to know she is from Wisconsin, so we'll call it, A Basket Full of Bratwurst. Isn't that good??!!!

I haven't got much material yet--just a great title--so I'll have to interview Peg (for the authorized version) or those that know her (for the unauthorized version). Better yet, why don't I just make it up as I go along? Who cares if it has any basis in reality? Hey, Hillary Clinton got away with this, and look how well her book did! Especially for the unauthorized version, we will have to find people who aren't Peg's favorite friends and can provide scoops of dirt (isn't that the way they do it for the celebs?). Maybe, true to the Drawn from New England style, we'll just stick with my own fond remembrances.

I'd better make this biography sound convincingly positive to Peg, so that she'll cooperate, because we'll need lotsa pictures--cute baby ones right up through the awkward years. (No, I'm not referring to adolescence. It's the latest stage we're in--the almost Depends generation.) We'll want to include the colorful pictures of her accomplished artwork--knit sweaters, baskets, paintings, quill boxes, silk banners, grapevine wreaths, beadwork, and any other of her past art passions that I can't recall right now. I'd just go steal the pics off her web site, but she has them all scientifically sabotaged so that they can't be swiped.

If I do an unauthorized version, I probably won't have to pay her anything from the massive profits I make. But then, she probably won't let me have the pics, and I'd have to rely on dirt. Such a hard decision! Tsk.

This biography brainstorm has just got to be a winner! I figure, with Peg's colorful, multi-faceted art career, she has at least as much going for her as Tasha Tudor. All Tasha did was create art while living like the pioneers did 100 years before her. Hey, Peg did bugs and butterflies, too! (See Chapter 9--The Lepidoptera Years.) We could add a little extra interest by having her pictured crafting an art piece in an RV with a flat tire out in the woods of Door County. It's a sure winner. Yes, I like the ring of it--A Basket Full of Bratwurst.

Over 50, Still Kickin'.

The Church Dinner

Recently we had a dinner at our church, and I was volunteered to be part of the kitchen crew. The thing I love about church dinners is that something amusing always happens. It is part of the nature of the situation. And we were not disappointed on this occasion.

My source of entertainment this time was a visiting elderly lady of peculiar appearance -- bright blue spectacles, with blue tassels and beads hanging from the bows. While she was going through the food line, she commented that she couldn't eat the salad because it had Italian dressing on it, and ohhh, she couldn't eat dressing! One of the serving ladies offered to bring her some plain lettuce, but she wouldn't have it brought--she had to march into the kitchen to get it.

A few minutes later, I happened back into the kitchen, smack dab into the middle of an extremely graphic monologue this woman was slathering all over Daisy Miller about why she couldn't eat the salad with the dressing on it. Daisy is an extremely elegant, lady-like person, and she was politely listening and nodding, with a little smile on her very frozen face. If I could have read her thoughts they probably would have gone something like this: "Do ... not ... show ... emotion. ... Look noncommittal. ... Do ... not ... look ... grossed ... out. ... Do ... not ... look ... embarrassed. ... Oohh my! What can she be thinking??!! ... Try ... to ... look ... pleasant. ... Focus ... focus ... focus ...."

It had a lot to do with having a barium test and the hospital people forgetting to prescribe an enema first...and what happened as a result. And how she has to be very picky, picky, picky about what she eats ever since -- two years later. OOHHH MY!!!

I waited until she had left the room and was out of earshot, then burst out laughing. "Some people will just tell you anything, won't they?!!" I chortled. Daisy didn't say anything. She was still trying to process -- or maybe erase her memory banks, I think. I, however, will cherish this little episode forever in my memory banks, because my humor is a little sick, and I love people's quirks.

Later on, the lady came back into the kitchen. She needed milk--2% milk--in her coffee, couldn't use creamer, you know (because of her condition), and did we have any 2%? We looked in the fridge. Ah yes, there was a gallon of milk in there.

(Now, you have to understand about the church fridge. It is a scary place. All sorts of forgotten items were in there. Half-eaten this, and half-eaten that, some from pre-Noahic days, I think. Take-out pizza--nobody dared lift the lid of the box to find out what was residing there. No one ever seems to know who put these questionable items in the fridge, why they didn't finish them up, or how many years ago they were abandoned.)

Mabel Cory expressed doubts about the milk and said we would look at the date. June 30. This was July 11. The lady insisted, "Oh, I'll just taste it, and if it's OK, I can put it in my coffee." Mabel was horrified and protested that it was too old by now. "Oh, you can't believe the dates on those jugs!!! You got to taste it to tell! It's probably fine." She proceeded to pour a cup, taste it, and smack loudly several times. Smack, smack, smack! "It's good! I'll take it!" (More laughter from yours truly after she left the kitchen. Why can't I control my funny bone? Nobody else seemed to think she was nearly as funny as I did, except my ten-year-old daughter, Beebee--only she informed me on the way home that the old lady wasn't so much funny as SCARY.)

So, that was how I spent last Friday. I am laughing still. I'll bet you're all just envious, now aren't you?

Lee Ann's web site -- Over 50, Still Kickin'