Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?

Since I was born in 1968 I am just a few years too young to be considered a Baby Boomer. Demographers have referred to my generation as Baby Busters (because of the plummeting birthrate between 1961 and 1981), Generation 13 (because we are considered reactive, nomadic, and somewhat mercenary), and Generation X (because demographers have an utter lack of creativity in naming groups and they view us somewhat suspiciously). We far exceed the education levels of our predecessors and yet ours heads of household have less individual earning power than their fathers did at the same age, thus demonstrating a massive shift in historical trends. We came of age after Vietnam and grew up during times of relative peace for our nation. However, our memories of historical events begin with things like Watergate, include the recession of the 70's and the shift away from nuclear families to huge growth in single parent families and a generation of latchkey kids who were instructed to hide inside the house until a parent got home. Our coming of age occurred during the unchecked greed of the 80s. We recall the Iran-Contra affair and raising our own young children during times when the US President was getting blow jobs in the Oval Office and his incompetent successor was massively expanding the powers of the Executive Branch while stomping around the Middle East for no good reason. Then the demographers label us a bunch of cynics and slap a few derogatory names on us. Pfft.

I beg to differ and I suggest an alternate title on this 40th anniversary of the show my generation grew up with, the Sesame Street Generation. All you Boomers can go ahead and laugh at us if you want but I think it highlights something more positive and hopeful. It's a show that broke the mold in the way it respected kids for who they were and didn't talk down to them. It gave them credit for being able know the difference between right and wrong (Yes, we understood that Cookie Monster had terrible table manners and that a diet entirely of cookies was not a good idea. We also understood that he was a made up character [How many of us know living breathing creatures covered in blue fur and with eyes that spin? Seriously now, folks.] and made up characters get to break the minor rules kids dream of breaking and still be ok. That's one of the beauties of imagination. I respectfully suggest that today's producers of the show aren't giving kids enough respect by turning Cookie Monster into a vegetarian. Ok, this parenthetical has taken on a life of its own now...). It celebrated imagination. It showed us the fun in playing with language too and let us laugh at mistakes. We knew mistakes weren't the end of the world.

Sesame Street presented a multicultural neighborhood where everyone got along and people looked out for each other. It showed us different personalities finding a way to have enduring friendships. It showed country kids the fun in the city. It showed city kids the fun in the country. It treated our sadness gently when Mr. Hooper died and showed us it was ok to cry but that there is still happiness to be found. (Ok, let me also ask my peers who among you felt a little gut punch when Jim Henson left this world at too young an age?) It also celebrated silliness and was just plain fun. And who didn't love seeing the famous people goofing around with muppets who sometimes got the better of them.

It gave us an example of something to aspire to in terms of unity and community. Laughing and singing together, learning new ways from each other, and giving each other support in sadness are great ways to build community if you ask me. We certainly preferred enjoying the show a second time around by sitting down to share it and a few giggles with our own kids rather than having to process certain news events with them. So demographers might prefer to highlight our more negative traits and influences but I'd rather hang on to the more positive influences and the things we once hoped for which now seem more commonplace.

Happy Birthday, Sesame Street!

Eat up!

According to this post at Slashfood.com today is National Scrapple Day. I am willing to bet few of you have so much as the slightest inkling as to what scrapple is. No cheating by Googling or checking out the links first!

Let's back up a bit. Many of you know I used to do Trini Tuesday posts featuring information about the culture, history, and foods of Trinidad or sharing some of my experiences of living there. After about a year and a half of that weekly feature I switched to my home culture and started doing Pennsylvania German Tuesday posts.

Well, scrapple falls very firmly (or should I say splats rather disgustingly) into the Pennsylvania German category. It's a food. Though I have shared recipes of sumptuous delectables I grew up eating and though I observe certain culinary traditions with great gusto this is not one I would ever choose to celebrate. Why, you ask? Let's just take a little looksee at the ingredient list shall we? According to an article found here it is:

"cornmeal mush made with the meat and broth of pork, seasoned with onions, spices and herbs and shaped into loaves for slicing and frying."

image from http://home.comcast.net/~jomercer/Dutch%20Blitzkrieg/db%20pics/faq/scrapple.jpg

Heck, that sounds vaguely similar to sausage and really not too bad at all. But wait! There's more! True enough the old adage tells you if you enjoy sausage don't watch it being made. Scrapple is even worse. First off, it starts by boiling a pig's head. Secondly the "meat" used in scrapple is the stuff not even good enough for sausage. It includes skin, tongues, hearts, brains, livers or as many a Pennsylvania German likes to say, "everything but the oink." After all that offal is boiled with the head to make a broth the meat is removed and cornmeal along with the seasonings and possibly buckwheat is boiled into the broth and the finely minced meat is added back in. Once it's all glopped up it is formed into loaves and left to set up. And you thought spam was a horrid thing!

Theoretically scrapple could be eaten "raw" because it's all been cooked in the process required to make the loaves. That would be terribly unlike the Pennsylvania Germans though. Full preparation includes slicing the loaf and frying the individual slices until they are golden and crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. It is generally considered a breakfast food and would be an option alongside bacon or sausage to complement eggs, fried potatoes or perhaps mixed in with all of that together. If it's eaten in slices it might be slathered with ketchup or maple syrup. Occasionally folks may even make a scrapple sandwich. Though why they'd want to is far beyond my comprehension.


I have to admit Mr. Lime, Diana, and Isaac are all fans of this dish which Calypso and I find especially vile. If the lovers of loaved hog offal in this house wish to celebrate National Scrapple Day they will have to do so by their own efforts. Calypso and I will instead be observing an alternate holiday, which Slashfood.com also lists for today, Cook Something Bold & Pungent Day. Bring on the curried venison!

Friday 55ish & Da Count-The Moon

FRIDAY 55ish

Yes, it's a little more than 55 words long. You'll live. Apologies to the photographer, I don't recall where I found this picture a long time ago. The words are my own though.

He follows his far away mistress, the moon.
Her soft light gives hope in the night.
Ever his
Yet never to be reached.

She reaches for her falling star lover
His bright glory drops wishes in the dark.
Ever hers
Yet never to be grasped.

Beheld together by lovers below
The mistress moon
And king of stars
Ever roam
Yet never meet.

DA COUNT

The poem is one I wrote and posted back in the early days of the blog. I kicked around a few other ideas for a 55 this week but work has been kicking my butt and no new ideas were seeming to work out. This week I've enjoyed a few moments each night pondering the moon. The first full moon night I watched a silvery circle hover in a milky pink sky. It was kind of strange to see the way the eastern sky was pinker than the western sky. The whole effect put me in a very different mood than before I noticed it all. It was soothing. The next night it was already quite dark before I got outside and the moon took my breath away. Each night I've looked for it and breathed deeply when I found it. It's been a week of pressure from more than one direction. This week I'm counting the moon and the relaxing moments in its light.

Slice of Lime-One Morning

One morning.

All I ask for is one single morning in the week when I don't have to get up early.
I want one morning a week when an alarm clock is not necessary and I won't be jangled into consciousness by the less than dulcet tones of Ozzy Osborne on his @#$%^#$ Crazy Train or by the alarm on my phone.

I want one morning a week when I can pull the covers around my head and snore blissfully until the sun is well up in the sky and I awake slowly with a stretch and a genuinely refreshed sigh.

I might even continue to lay in bed for a while after my eyes open and slowly muse about the day ahead as I prepare mentally for it.

You may say early mornings would not be so bothersome if I went to bed earlier.

Trust me, I am 41 years old. I know my own rhythms. Even when I do go to bed earlier and early morning is not any easier, particularly when the rest of the house is awake and making noise as I try to fall asleep.

During the school week the day starts about 5:15 am.

(Yes, the farmers may feel free to laugh at me.)

Now that I work on Saturdays I get up early then too.

Although for many years we have gone to the late morning service at our church on Sundays, Mr. Lime has recently made the ever so thoughtful unilateral decree that we shall now go to the EARLY service on Sunday mornings.

Seven days a week I have to get up early.

I am less than thrilled by this arrangement.

Call me a whiny baby if you want.

Thursday is my day off.

I've tried to claim it as a chance to sleep in since I don't have to drive the carpool that morning or go in to work.

It does not work well when Ozzy is screaming at me,

or Mr. Lime is screaming at the kids,

or banging on the bathroom door,

or the kids are tromping through my room to get at my bathroom,

or asking what is around to pack for lunch.

Yes, I am a whiny baby.

I am a grouch.

I am sleep deprived.

I am going back to bed, dammit.

Weekend to Remember

It was November and Grampop had left the world six weeks earlier. Three weeks after he died I turned 13. He was the man who took me on hikes in the deep woods. He made up Indian names for each one of us, taught us about the animals, told us the local history and legends. He taught me how to fish, shoot a gun, use a bow and arrow, and row a boat. In spite of those more boyish pursuits I was always his "Princess." He was the only one who could call me that because I knew he didn't mean the ball gown and glass slipper type but the buckskin and moccasin type (even though he made sure I had a steady supply of white patent leather go-go boots as I was growing up). He showed me the fun in sitting to watch the deer and bears come forage for food. He showed me how to get a chipmunk to eat from my hand. I watched him feed wild song birds from his hands. He's the only person I ever knew who could manage that. He also had his own repertoire of silly songs he'd sing on the long drive up and back. I was missing him terribly that weekend.

This fun took place in the musty old trailer (and environs) he and Nana had in the mountains for weekend escapes. It wasn't much to look at but that place was a haven for me. Right next door was a somewhat newer trailer my great aunt and uncle owned for similar purposes. Nana and I were making our first escape since Grampop had left us. She told me I was welcome to invite a friend for the first time. I think she may have figured we'd both feel kind of lost with out Grampop and maybe need the distraction.

I asked Patti to come along. I had only known her since we both moved up to 7th grade in September. The girl who had been my best friend since 2nd grade had dropped me rather abruptly once we moved up to the Junior High School. Thirteen is such an awkward age to begin with. I was devastated when Grampop died and stinging from my friend's rejection. Patti seemed as unsure as I felt but she also seemed genuinely nice and we got along well. I was glad when her mom said she could come along to "the mountains."

Nana pretty much trusted us to wander around the whole wide woods by ourselves because I knew where I was going. I took Patti on all our old trails. She couldn't believe how deep into the woods we were allowed to go. I pulled out the BB gun and set up the tin cans (Nana said no to the .22 that weekend). Patti thought we were like Annie Oakley knocking them down. I showed her how to get the chipmunks to take a peanut out of her hand. She decided she'd rather watch them eat from my hand in case they wanted to nip her fingers.

Then I asked Nana if we could go to the lake and take the row boat out. I had never been allowed to take the row boat without an adult before. Nana shocked me by saying we could go by ourselves. I didn't wait around for her to change her mind. I grabbed Patti by the arm and all but dragged her as we practically ran the mile to the lake. I plopped a life vest around her neck and tied her into it before having her plunk down in the boat as I shoved it out into the water as fast as I could. I got us about halfway out to the little island in the middle of the lake before I noticed the slightly terrified look on Patti's face. I asked her if she was alright. She nodded kind of tentatively but wasn't very convincing. I asked again before she confessed that she was a little frightened because she didn't know how to swim and her mother never let her anywhere near water. I asked her if she wanted to go back because I felt bad for never really asking if she wanted to go in the first place. She thought about it for a minute and asked about the safety of the situation. I read her the safety rating on the life vest, showed her how shallow the water actually was by poking one of the oars down to the mud and still having part of it above water, and made her promise not to stand up in the boat except when and where I told her to. She asked excitedly, "Can we go over to that island and look around?" When I told her that was part of the plan all the time she grinned broadly in great anticipation. We had a ball and after checking out the island she asked me to teach her how to row the boat. She couldn't get over being able to get us from the island back to shore by herself.

We went to bed that night gabbing about all the day's adventures and how she felt so liberated by being able to do so much exploring. As we relaxed I started sharing my broken heart over my grandfather's death other friend's rejection. Patti listened and provided true comfort which left my soul feeling freer. She shared wisdom and truth with me in a clear way no adult had been able or willing to do. She learned from me how to feel stronger and more confident in the physical world. I learned from her how to begin finding comfort and strength in a spiritual world. A lifetime later in the slanting golden light of early November, when I see the trees with only a few brown leaves clinging tenaciously to branches, when I see the early frost on dried stalks of wildflowers and corn, and when I hear the chill wind whisper of impending winter I remember how after one death came a new awareness of life and hope in living it.

I'm Late! I'm Late!

Ok, so it's several hours later than I normally post and I have to go to work soon and don't have time to wax humorous or philosophical (but if I had time to wax I'd probably wax my upper lip instead). Today let's play fill in the blank, ok?


I love ________________ as much as the next person, but__________________.


Be serious. Be silly. Be sublime.

I Thought Those Clouds Seemed Vaguely Familiar

As I was driving along to do my carpool duties I noticed how lovely the weather was. I love a clear blue sky on an autumn day. Few things are lovelier. As I admired the beautiful weather I noticed the clouds had an unusual formation.

I kept trying to figure out how best to describe them and their texture. Nothing quite seemed to sum it up clearly and accurately. It was like the conundrum Billy Crystal's character faces in Throw Mama from the Train when he keeps trying to describe the mood of a humid southern night. "The night was wet? The night was moist? The night was damp?" Nothing quite fits until the surly old lady spits out, "The night was sultry!" The perfect word choice nearly dope slaps him when he realizes that's exactly what he meant.

The clouds were rippled. The clouds were bumpy. The clouds were pitted.

The teenagers poured out of the school and headed to the van. On the way home I heard the conversation turn to the unique cloud formations and heard Barbie state with a bit of repugnance, "They look like fat lady cottage cheese thighs."

Not quite as succinct as, "The night was sultry!" but I nearly veered off the road when the aptness of the description hit me. The damned clouds reminded me of my own thighs and butt!

Thus I shall title this photo...

Cloudy with a Chance of Cellulite