It’s not all that unusual for him to call. He’s never been obsessed with the phone, but since getting an iPad, he does FaceTime me now and then. So I was excited when my 6 year old grandson Graham called. He asked for my address. “I need it for a school project we’re working on grandma. Something I will mail to you,” was all he would say. Hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about? Not my birthday and Mother’s Day was still weeks away.

My son Adam and grandson, Graham. This picture-there are no words…

Several days later a letter arrived. Seems Graham’s 1st grade class was reading a book titled, Flat Stanley. (And you think some of my blog post titles are strange). Poor Stanley got smashed by a bulletin board. Yes Flat Stanley, life is tough. He wanted to go on a trip, so his family folded him up (ouch) and mailed him to California. (As if being smashed, folded and mailed wasn’t harsh enough. Sorry, California Carol)

 

Graham and his winning catch. Supper…

 

Well Graham mailed me his Flat Stanley. My instructions were to do some interesting things with Flat Stanley, then write Graham about our week long adventure. Sigh. Accompanying pictures were welcomed, (not more than 5, however) along with postcards and brochures. Oh boy.

 

Making a snake out of rice crispy treats, 2015…

 

 

Along with the letter and pictures, I was to fold up poor Flat Stanley and mail him back to Graham at school. Naturally, Graham would share Flat Stanley’s week stay at grandma’s house with the rest of his class. I was reluctant to give Flat Stanley the grim news. There wasn’t a lot going on during my week while he was visiting. And the stuff I had planned hardly resembled a vacation. But I was stuck with him through thick and thin.

 

–

Sarah, Graham & Adam, 2015…

 

Flat Stanley and I had some close calls during his week stay here. A couple of the incidents did not make Graham’s letter. Grandpa took him outside to watch a friend of ours take down a big tree. I reminded grandpa to be careful with Flat Stanley and keep a close eye on him. Flat Stanley managed to have a huge branch land on him, pinning him in mud and a couple inches of snow. When grandpa brought him back in the house, I swear he was even flatter, and his backside was muddy. I gently washed him, got out my seldom used blow dryer, clothes pinned FS and Great Scott, now he was wrinkly and not at all flat. So I plopped him on the ironing board which brought on some whining. He promptly stopped when he noticed me plugging in the iron.

 

Graham making Annual Christmas slush, 2015…

 

I take full responsibility for losing (almost permanently) Flat Stanley the very next day. We were having great fun baking cookies. Still mysterious how he managed to fly off the counter and land in the oven! Luckily he screamed so loud as I was closing the door which saved his hiney from being scorched. His hair was a couple shades darker, but I don’t think Graham ever noticed. I was a wreck trying to keep Flat Stanley in one piece for a week. We made it and here were the experiences I could share with Graham.

 

 

 

Dear Graham,

This is your friend, Flat Stanley reporting on my week at your grandma’s house. It was an unusual week. Your grandma called it a working vacation. I didn’t know what that meant. I do now. I would have liked it better if she would have left off the working part. But I did learn lots of new things. And I liked helping your grandparents. They’re kinda old and need help.

 

It took grandma a couple minutes to spot me here…

 

Some of our plans had to be changed because of the weather. Grandpa wanted me to help put up a new front yard light and plant grass seed where they had taken down a big tree. But it rained or snowed everyday. Grandma said that always used to happen to her too when your daddy was in school and had spring break. Not such great weather for playing or doing outdoor projects. Your grandma was writing something called a blog and let me type some words. That was fun. She was writing a story about your cousin Peyton.

 

You should have seen how fast I could type, Graham…

 

When I got up in the morning, after we had breakfast we drove to a restaurant in Mexicantown. That’s in Detroit. There were lots of different restaurants, but grandpa knew exactly where the best one was. It sure smelled good. And I got my own glass of pop with a straw. Please don’t tell your mom. I didn’t know if I would like tacos, tostadas, or burritos so grandma shared her lunch with me. I loved the food, Graham. We’ll have to ask mom and dad to take us to a Mexican restaurant in town. But I don’t think the food will taste as good as Mexicantown.

 

Ha, I’m standing right in the middle of 2 flags, United States and Canada…

 

Not very far away from the restaurant was a business your grandparents wanted to visit. It was called Disenos Ornamental Iron. Isn’t that a big word? I thought so too. Grandpa and grandma want to buy new railings for their front porch. Like the ones at your house. So this pretty lady brought out a big book with lots of different designs to choose from. I was bored, so I climbed up and down all the different railings in the hallway. That was fun, but grandma thought I might fall and get hurt. All week she said, “be careful Flat Stanley. I don’t want to send you back to Graham if you’re hurt.” Does she say that to you too? She was worried about me. That made me feel safe and good. But it bugged me too. She worries a lot.

 

This was the fence I liked the best…

 

 

The next day grandma took me to work with her. Since you haven’t been there yet, I’ll tell you about it. It’s a daycare, pre-school and regular school all together. Grandma works in the baby room (she called them infants) but they’re really just babies. I got to try out all their toys and play equipment. A funny tilted seat which she strapped me in so I wouldn’t fall out.

 

Yawn, a little flat guy could fall asleep in here…

 

A 3 legged wooden toy which had little toys hanging from it. Grandma said it helps babies when they grab the toys. But my arms were too short. A little slide that’s a foam cushion. That was fun. There were gates and doors to keep the babies safe in their room, but since I’m small and flat, I slid under the door and snuck into the hallway. I climbed up a great big display that said, Welcome Spring and found some pretty pussy willows to climb. That’s where grandma spotted me and carried me back to the baby room. It was very noisy in there sometimes. Babies cry a lot. They want to be held all the time. Your grandma likes the babies very much. Even when they cry.

 

I tried so hard to wiggle the toys, but I’m just too flat…

 

 

On my last night, we went to a birthday party at Peyton’s house. She turned 12 today. She got lots of presents. We sang Happy Birthday and had cake. It was the most fun this week. I love cake. I thanked grandma and grandpa for taking good care of me. And I liked doing new things with them. But I am awfully glad to come back home to you.

 

Boy was this cake good…

 

 

Your friend,

Flat Stanley…

 

I’ve never tried to deceive you. Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town is my personal view of my life stories. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. I’m into details about my stories. Dates, locations, surroundings, people involved. Feelings. I think I’ve succeeded in being honest. Brutally at times. Always used names of those involved. Except for the 4 dubious bosses I encountered while Parish Visitor. Ministers, all.

 

Looks innocent enough, right?

This story is different. Can’t really say I’m trying to protect anyone because the folks involved have passed away. They have several children and though I’m not in contact with them since I moved, I don’t want to cause any pain or embarrassment. Or to the couple involved, who really were lovely. So there won’t be any pictures in this story.

To anyone who has read more than a few blog posts know I have loved the elderly since I was a little girl. Starting with my neighbor ladies in Rock Valley, to the residents of Valley Manor where my Mom worked for years. Elderly strangers start conversations with me wherever I am. Hubs has called me ‘The Old People Whisperer’ since Cesar Millan started taming yippee-yappy-snarly-snappy pooches on TV.

It was the most rewarding job (calling) I’ve ever had. The folks on my list actually thought they were getting some benefit from my visit. The majority of the time, it was me who was reaping the rewards of that simple stop to see them. Visiting older folks always made me feel better and blessed. The tough part, moving past their declining health and deaths. Just reconcile myself and start processing a death when I’d have to do it all over again. With an aging congregation, this was a monthly occurrence. That was so hard.

I had a method when I visited. Usually picked a section of town so I’d be in one area for the day. Certain days I might drive south about 20 miles, working my way north towards home. Some sections of the city were large enough there might be several couples in their own homes within a 5 mile radius. Or an assisted living or nursing facility where several members now called home. So I didn’t end up driving around aimlessly, instead of visiting.

This was a normal visiting kind of work day for me. Usually didn’t do much visiting in the morning. Older folks just don’t move at the same speed in the mornings like the rest of the world. Often they don’t sleep very well in general, but usually a bit better towards morning. No alarms waking them up for work anymore, so many sleep until 9 or later. For others, getting their engines going had a lot to do with medication. When they took their morning meds, it might take a couple hours before they kicked in. I can’t tell you how many times one of them would observe, “you know Denise, if church started at 2 pm, we could attend most Sundays.” The exception here was nursing homes. Residents are up pretty early, had breakfast, were cleaned up, and dressed for the day by mid-morning. Normally, they don’t get a lot of visitors in the morning, so it was a great time for me to visit. Since nursing home residents tend to have fewer visits, it was counterproductive to show up if they already had company. If a resident’s daughter showed up at 2 pm every Wednesday, guess what? Their mom or dad would be spit shined and ready. I preferred to visit at the more quirky times to see how they looked at 10 in the morning or 5:30 pm. How could I be an advocate unless I got to observe those who no longer had a voice at various times? Sorry, I digress.

It was a beautiful, hot summer day. Nearing the end of my visits for the day when I stopped at this couple’s house. They had been on my list for years and I had seen them at least 50 times. Both in their 90’s, reed thin and slowing down, him a bit more physically, her more confused. One, a member of our church, the spouse was not. But I very much enjoyed visiting both of them. They might get out some old pictures. Talk about their vacation when they hiked through some National Park 40 years ago.

I thought I had taken enough classes and seminars to deal with just about everything involving visiting the elderly. Courses on caregiving, burnout, dementia, sundowners, side affects of geriatric medications, over medication issues, abuse of the elderly from caregivers, palliative care, hospice care. And on and on. But this day I was thrown for a loop and shaken up more than when I was alone with Bob the day he passed away, (Story called Ann & Bob, May, 2015) or the day I found Mildred dead (post called Mildred & Charlie, October, 2014).

After I parked my car in their driveway, I used the side door of the garage. The door to the house was unlocked. I knocked, turned the knob, yelled pretty loud, “hey, it’s Denise, Parish Visitor!” Walking through the kitchen, I could see (let’s just call them Jake and Iris) Jake vigorously and furiously fanning something. What was he doing, swatting bugs or killing a mouse? He was not yet aware I was speaking to him and I was getting concerned for his health and safety. Jake was standing by the edge of the kitchen table, and the countertop and stove were blocking my view. I kept talking and walking. Stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what was underneath the table. Sucked in my breath and sprinted to the other side of the table. With his two hands clasped together, Jake was holding a box full of Kleenex. Swinging it over his head, swooping it downward with all the force of a 6’4″ 140 pound, 95 year old could muster. Repeatedly. Smack dab on the top of Iris’s head. Who was on all fours on the floor. She didn’t cower, or try to protect herself. And said not a word. I tried to shield her, and got smacked a couple of times before he realized he was now swearing and hitting the wrong person. I wouldn’t put my hand on the bible but I’m pretty sure I started with, “stop it. Stop it. Jake, what the hell are you doing?” (Not exactly the right phrasing for a Christian Parish Visitor. Sorry God.) Jake wasn’t really aware of anything yet besides swinging that dang Kleenex box on the top of Iris’s head. Who now sported several red welts I could see through her thin hair. “Stop hitting her,” I screamed! “She won’t listen to a G-damn thing I say,” he screamed, just as loud. I grabbed the box out of his hands and was surprised by his visible rage. “Jake, if you don’t stop hitting her, I’m going to call the police! Sit down. Sit down right now!”

His anger finally subsided and he plopped down in a chair, deflated. I slid back a chair from the table, helped Iris up, got a cold compress for the top of her head, who had still said nothing. At less than 5 feet, maybe 90 pounds soaking wet, I suddenly feared for Iris’s safety in her home for the last 50 plus years. What should I do? Logical thing was to call someone. Cops, family, my boss (ugh)? Nope, boss was out of town. Hmm, that’s 2 out of 3 serious incidents as Parish Visitor where boss was on vacation. What are the odds? Pretty good since all 4 got several weeks a year. Guess I’m still a little bitter. I really need to move past these unhealthy feelings for that group. Maybe next year. Probably should have called the police, but I was reluctant. Then I remembered one of Jake and Iris’s kids came over daily to cook supper, which was about an hour away. I calmly (really, I was anything but calm) talked to both of them. Both of them acted like nothing had happened. Dementia, denial, unaware?

I went home for a few minutes. Sobbed telling John the details. Drove back to their house and was relieved when I saw another car in the driveway. Went in through the garage, knocked on the door and walked in. One of their daughter’s, whom I had met several times was standing by the stove cooking. Jake and Iris were watching a small portable TV by the kitchen table, and seemed not to notice me. I asked the daughter if I could speak to her for a minute in the garage? As gently as I could, explained what I had walked in on a couple of hours prior. She seemed genuinely surprised but it was kind of hard to believe she’d never witnessed anything like that from her dad before. I showed her the crumpled Kleenex box and the red welts on top of mom’s head. Told her I feared for her safety. Daughter was most cooperative and said she would call her sibs, and hold a family meeting very soon. Promised mom and dad would not be left alone until a solution was found. Took my email address to keep me updated. I was still very shaken up. Though I never mentioned calling the authorities, she knew I would follow this through until the situation was remedied.

I’ve second guessed myself on issues dealing with our kids, neighbors, Hubs, my parents, and being a stay at home mom. Before I walked in their house for that routine visit, I had never second guessed myself on anything about my job of Parish Visiting. While it was happening, I was unsure of anything besides stopping it. Made me feel weird because I didn’t know exactly what was the right thing to do. I hate to say I was suspicious of Jake and Iris’s family, but it felt immediately odd that between 4 children, spouses, many grandchildren and great-grandchildren in and out of their house, the person who stops once a month for an hour was the first and only witness to Jake’s dangerous behavior. Was the family in denial too?

I got an email within 48 hours that the search was on to find a place for mom. Within a week, Iris was living in a assisted living facility. Jake was still at home, receiving care from family members. But Jake was not my main concern. Iris got acclimated in her new surroundings, with lots of family visiting and her room chucked full of items from home. Jake moved to the same facility months later. But a couple of hallways away. Jake or Iris were wheeled to the each other’s room for frequent visits. And the facility was made aware of his mental issues so they were never alone. Jake and Iris lived contentedly for many months. Iris occasionally mentioned she was homesick for Jake. Which flooded me with feelings of guilt for separating them at the end of their long married lives. Though I don’t believe Iris realized it was my visit which put in motion their life changing locations. But her safety, and my job as an outside advocate maintained I did the right thing. Maybe not enough. None of the family seemed bitter towards me if we happened to be visiting at the same time. I think they appreciated I didn’t immediately call the police and could spare their family. Pretty sure if an incident came up again though, my first instinct, call the police would be the one I would choose.

Jake and Iris passed away within days of each other. United once again. This time, with their Lord and Savior for eternity…

 

 

 

In many ways, I have a love-hate relationship with the Internet and my smart-ass phone. I don’t try to understand it. My mind just doesn’t work that way. It’s much too complicated. I think it’s magic. Real clouds that store my stuff. I’ve looked up in the sky, but as of today have yet to easily spot Neese’s safe, impenetrable cloud. Shouldn’t my cloud hover over my head? Staying close in case quick retrieval is ever needed?

 

iPhone may be smarter than me, but lacks sarcasm…

One of the most disturbing aspects of all this magical gobbledygook happened about 5 years ago. Still remains, firmly entrenched and causes a frown every time it resurfaces. I had been shopping in Grand Haven, which is about 15 miles south of North Muskegon. I was on my way home, driving on 31. Late afternoon, 4-lane highway was not busy. I was following a slow moving school bus. It was loaded with students, all who appeared headless from my angle. I moved into the passing lane. (this lane is used for passing, then I moved back into the right lane. Don’t even get me started with # 1 on my very long pet peeve list).

 

Lori as cheerleader mascot, basketball season, 1959-60…

 

I glanced sideways a couple of times as I scooted past. Brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Dumb I know, but it still bothers me. No students (pretty sure they were of high school age) were talking to each other that I could see. Not one. All of their heads were either hanging down, which is why I couldn’t see any as I was following them. Or their heads were bobbing up and down. Lost in a world of their own music. In a bus filled with the biggest, fastest talkers, no one was talking out loud. To each other. They were probably texting each other, but not any I glanced at for those few seconds were talking or joking with each other. I found that very troubling. Still do.

 

Rock Valley school and bus in the 50’s & 60’s…

 

Living a couple blocks away I never rode the bus back and forth to school. But I did to special events. Mostly away games for basketball or football. We had so much fun on our pep bus. We’d be hoarse by the time we got back to Rock Valley. Laughing, teasing, flirting, singing. I wanted those little bus zombies to experience what I did 50 years ago. The fellowship, goofiness, camaraderie. Do you understand this love-hate thing I got going on?

 

Getting ready for a pep bus adventure, 1967…

 

I discovered something huge this week. Monumental. The impact of a hidden piece of my past I didn’t even realize I had. Or was missing. It all started when I got a friend request. OMG. Could it really be her? It’s not like I ever forgot her. She was a big part of my life for 5 years. From 1955 to 1960. In kid time, that’s about 20 years. My family moved from the west edge of Rock Valley (sparse population) to the center of town. Near the business district, close to school and smack dab in the middle of a large neighborhood, filled with families. In my one block, backside and front, there were at least a dozen kids who were my age. The Beumer’s, Van Ort’s, Buckley’s, Miller’s, Klein’s, Hamann’s.

 

Neese, Cindy and the Schmidt dog, Skippy, 1957…

 

And the Wayne and Helen Schmidt family in the corner house. They had a daughter named Lori. We were pretty much inseparable. She was a couple years younger than me, but that never mattered. She was sweet, adorable, and cute as a bug. She had 2 older brothers named Gary and Rodney. Rounding out the family was a new baby sister named Cindy. I didn’t remember Cindy’s name until Lori mentioned it from a picture I sent her. I’ll admit, it shook me up. I had to go back and find the story I wrote several months ago. I’ve always remembered my 2 favorite dolly’s names, but didn’t recall if I used their names when I wrote the story. Yes, indeedy, there it was. I called the story, ‘Charmed.’ Mostly about finally unpacking and rediscovering all my old childhood toys after our move to Jackson last fall.

 

Lori, Rodney and Skippy about 1956…

 

In this particular story, I talked about my favorite baby doll. How much I loved and spoiled her. Rubbing her with real baby lotion. Can you imagine how long that took? Buying real baby clothes at Ben Franklin’s. Changing her diaper after feeding her water from her own baby bottle. Swaddling her like a newborn. She slept next to me every night, along with my menagerie of stuffed animals. But my baby doll always got top billing. Walking her up and down the sidewalk of 15th street in a doll stroller. Covered with a handmade quilt made by my neighbor, Bessie Jacobs. Who loved me a lot.

 

Quilt made by Bessie about 60 yrs ago…

 

Playing with Lori in my fabulous backyard playhouse. Swinging on my handmade swing set, both built by Dad. Playing house. Walking our dollies or sometimes her baby sister up and down the sidewalk. It all came flooding back. Not only because Lori somehow (magic?) managed to find and send me a friend request. I don’t even go by my maiden name of Gerritson on Facebook. But because of a name. My baby doll’s name is Lori Jean. Named 60 years ago after my little bestie, Lori Jean Schmidt. Which was not that surprising. I loved Lori Jean Schmidt as much as I loved my favorite doll.

 

Lori Jean when we became neighbors and besties, 1956…

 

The part that really surprised me was in a different part in the ‘Charmed’ story. My walking doll, who refused to walk beside me. So I decided to play hairdresser and cut her hair. Much to my Mom’s dismay. She’s always been one of my favorite dolls, although not cuddly like my baby doll. I didn’t remember why I named her until Lori mentioned her sister’s name. I named my walking doll after Lori’s little sister, Cindy. I was completely baby crazy about all things Cindy after we moved to 15th street. Holy smokes, I’ve been impacted by the Schmidt family my whole life.

My walking doll Cindy. Named after baby Cindy Schmidt in 1957…

 

There is magic in the world. Ok, Internet, I’ll give you that one. No doubt. How is it possible for me to keep discovering so many people from my past? I’m a retired, deaf loner who lives in her own small world. There is no way I would be in contact with at least 60 or more of my Facebook friends without this Internet magic. Too many married names and moves by all of us. I’m in awe and sometimes very afraid of what’s possible with the Internet. Definitely not smitten with all aspects, but the world is very different than when I was a child. I’m forever grateful I was a kid who grew up in the ’50’s and 60’s.

 

Still my favorite doll, Lori Jean…

 

I tried to watch a you tube video yesterday. The star was a little boy, not yet 3. Gyrating, lip-syncing this hip-hop song. I was very close to a smile, but after a few seconds I thought, he should not know the words to this song, let alone have it memorized along with the dance moves. Failed to see anything cute about it and turned it off. Why are we in such a hurry to have our kids grow up? I can tell you from this mom’s perspective, my three kid’s childhood flew by way too fast. Now there’s proms with limos after preschool graduation, ears are pierced at age 2, and kids wear grown up clothing. Adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. And time just goes faster and faster. Just for a few days, I long for 1957. My brother Larry is still very much alive. I would thank God for each day and appreciate the time Larry had left on this earth with me so much more. I would again be a happy, carefree, little girl. Living in a town I love, with parents who did their best. Playing with my favorite baby doll and my best friend. Both named Lori Jean…

 

Lori Jean Schmidt. My first best friend, 1958…

 

 

 

 

This story started a couple weeks ago. Our 25 year old granddaughter Ariana called and asked if we would host a family picnic? She’s in a serious relationship with this neat guy named Josh. (I know, what are the odds of having 2 Josh’s in a rather small family?) Ari and her Josh will be making me a very young, hip great-grandma around New Year’s, 2017. Josh’s mom and Ari’s mom, our daughter Shannon, have never met. Ari and Josh thought the perfect place might be our house for an informal meal of, “getting to know you, getting to know all about you!”

 

Josh & Ari, happy in 2016…

I thought this was a splendid idea. Only gonna be about 10 of us. We had to find a date that suited everyone which proved to be the 4th of July. So me and my ever present stash of swiped notepads from every hotel I’ve ever stayed in started making lists. Chores around the house that needed to be done. This was complicated by 10,000 pounds of river rock that had been delivered in the middle of our new driveway last Saturday. John put edging in the front of the house while I was in Italy, but wanted me to choose what kind of stone to use. I did most of the shoveling of rock into the wheel barrow. John dumped and smoothed it out. My arms were shaky, and my legs felt like jello for days, but it’s done. Newly edged rock has nary a shrub, perennial, bonsai, dune grass, or ornamental tree as of yet. But still looks pretty darn good. At least now the driveway can be used for parking and my Jeep is back in the garage. Crossed one item off my list.

Being married forever, it wasn’t necessary to assign tasks. We just know which one of us are doing what. I’m the duster, window washer, mopper, and in charge of most of the food. Hubs is the yard man, vacuum dude, and has a (small) say in the menu. Ah, the menu.

 

We’re usually on the same page. Sometimes tho, we’re not even reading the same book…

 

Some kind of meat (undecided) on the grill, and baked beans, John’s department. Potato salad, veggie slaw, fruit salad, and stuffed Rice Krispie Treats are up to me. I thought perhaps boneless pork chops or ribs. John decided on smoked pork butt for pulled pork. And there lies the rub.

I waited until Friday to get groceries, which is late in the week for me. John wanted to buy the pork butt on Saturday so he wouldn’t have to freeze it. As I was reading the newspaper this morning, John was rattling off spices required for his pork rub. Which needed to go on the butt ASAP when he got home. Giving the pork all the time needed to marinate or whatever before heading to the smoker early Monday morning. Since he has this bizarre affliction and is not able to spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge, I decided to help out while he was on the hunt and gather task of finding the perfect hunk of hog. I envisioned my 2 shelves which hold all my spices, all over the counter. Yet John wouldn’t be able to find the half dozen he needed.

 

I was just trying to help…

 

With recipe in hand, I got out garlic powder, paprika, onion powder, sea salt, coarse pepper, cayenne pepper and sugar. Please note, I listed sugar last. It’s vitally important to the story. Sigh. Besides these ingredients, measuring spoons, a spoon to stir, a 16 oz. anchor hocking glass bowl with lid. Which had a sticker on the lid written in sharpie pen stating, PORK RUB. Yeah, I did that for him. Measured out the 1/4 C. Sugar, leaving it in the measuring cup, but placed it in the anchor hocking bowl. Why, oh why, didn’t I just mix up the batch myself? I’ll be asking the exact same question for the rest of my life.

 

All the spices needed for the rub down…

 

John waltzes in the house, giddy with anticipation. Hauls out the pork butt which is the approximate size of Rhode Island. Did I mention it’s a party of 10 on Monday? When I can tear his eyes away from that big hunk-o-hog, he notices all the appropriate spices, bowl, spoons waiting patiently on the counter. “You got everything out for me? Thanks!” Naturally I didn’t think any more explanation was needed. Our 6 year old grandson, Graham could have had it done in minutes, had he been able to read grandpa’s writing. I walked in not one minute later and Hubs is already furiously stirring spices. IN ANOTHER BOWL. “Um, why are you using a different bowl? Did you see the bowl with the measuring cup and sugar in it already,” I asked incredulously? Still stirring with feeling he says, “the recipe calls for the sugar as the last ingredient. I needed another bowl to put all the other stuff in first!” Just kill me now. Are you fricking kidding me? Apparently not. The counter now looks like Michigan’s sandy shoreline, smattered with spices of all colors. Smells good though.

 

Hubs gets a little crazy with his measuring…

 

John unwraps the butt and proceeds to fastidiously pat rub everywhere. I sigh, turn around and walk away. After finishing his task at hand, he shows me the plastic container (containers now number 3 to make a one-cup-bowl-of-rub) holding the leftover. “Where should I store this?” I bite the inside of my cheek (hard) and answer, “why didn’t you use the glass bowl and lid I had on the counter for you?” He comes back with, “it doesn’t have to be stored in glass, does it?” Shaking my head I answer testily, “Well, the plastic container will smell like pork rub through eternity, and I had a big old sticker on the lid stating, pork rub.”

 

He’s always been a messy cook…

 

Hubs stashed the spices everywhere but the right shelf (extra credit for his attempt though). In his eyes, a job well done. Next trip to the kitchen I notice a puddle of spices in the sink, along with the original bowl, lid, and his second mixing bowl. The counter where the Rhode Island butt got spanked with spicy rub was pretty clean. The floor underneath this rubbing ceremony now sported 2 T. (yes folks, that’s tablespoons) of pork rub on my gel mat rug. No doubt it would be edible and tasty.

 

Bare feet feel especially good walking on these spices…

 

A bit later Hubs announced, “I’m getting hamburger out of the freezer. I’m hungry for chile.” I hear the microwave, cupboard doors banging open and closed. He has not yet asked where the beans, petite diced tomatoes, or V-8 juice are, so I assume he’s getting stuff ready to make tomorrow. Then I hear a fry pan. “Hon, are you making chile tonight? It’s 7:45.” His comeback, “there’s nothing to eat and I’m hungry.” I mentally start (thrashing the snot out of him) going through our fridge. “There’s a big leftover pork chop, beef jerky, and those barbecued little smokies you like. Or make a grilled cheese, Denver or a salad,” I said, now bleeding from a nasty bite wound in my other cheek.

 

I think this looks self-explanatory…

 

So here’s the deal. Our house is small. Our kitchen is small. I need to keep them tidy. If there is an errant spoon, grape tomato, bag of chips, or grain of salt setting out, the whole kitchen looks messy. John barbecued these little smokies in a small crockpot 3 days ago. After eating some, he unplugged it, leaving the crockpot on the counter, grabbed the insert with remaining smokies and stuck it in the fridge. Three days later, the crockpot skeleton still lingers, decaying on the counter. While doing dishes, I grabbed the insert out of the fridge, dumped the leftovers in ANOTHER ANCHOR HOCKING BOWL WITH A LID. Washed the crockpot insert and lid and returned them to their natural habitat (the pantry closet shelf). When what to my wondering eyes should appear? The little black crockpot nestled in the crook of John’s arm. On its way back to my kitchen counter. “Why are you getting the crockpot out?” I ventured, hoping I said it without too much venom. He looks at me as though I’ve grown a third eye. “To heat up the little smokies,” he says happily. For real? Yup. You can not make up crap like this…

This is the result of John putting wet tea bags in the garbage…