Being a Witch

The Wizard of Oz is a beautiful movie. Remember seeing the Land of Oz for the first time... with all that glorious Techi-color? Remember hearing the giggles of the munchkins? Do you remember the first time you saw it-- the giddiness of it?


Image Credit: Sam Howzit via Flickr

Were you afraid of the witch? Did you think she was terrible? Did you think she was mean and evil?

I was the witch.

Being an only child, with only books and my imagination as playmates, I played oddly. I pretended to be the witch. I collected flower pots and bowls and crushed up polk berries into magical potions. I lived in the great castle and had flying monkeys. I rode a toy mop, because my mother wouldn't let me ride the broom. (P rides the same mop today... I think it's a horse now.)

I don't know why I wasn't Dorothy-- although I envied her crisp, blue gingham and auburn hair. I don't know why I wasn't Glenda, the Good Witch arriving in a soft pink bubble, probably smelling ever so faintly of strawberries and champagne. It never occurred to me to be the Wizard, the Scarecrow, or the Tin Man.

But now, I think about being the witch. I believe, even in my child-like mind, I recognized that she was misunderstood. After all, Dorothy's house did kill her sister, and when she arrived at the funeral it was more of block party.

The woman I want to be has a lot of the witch about her:
1) Her house was old and mysterious, and full of interesting things... it looked like her.
2) She was not going to stop until she had her hands on those ruby slippers.
3) She made dramatic entrances and left in clouds of smoke.
4) She was green, but really quite comfortable in her skin.
5) She chose poppies. (No heroin reference here-- just that poppies are cool.)
6) In the end, neatly dissolving away, her last words were "What a world, what a world."

She's got some redeeming qualities, that witch.

This is part of our 31 Days of Fall series from October 2013.

What My Grandparents Taught Me About Food

 

 

I am my Grindiddy's girl. He was my biggest fan, my hero, and my best teacher. I love him more than words can say, and I miss him still. At his funeral, one of our family's best loved ministers quoted him as saying, "I believe if you could find a way to fry water, it'd taste better." He LOVED fried foods... mostly vegetables. My Granmother, who is an amazing example of hospitality and selflessly caring for her family, cooked for him... a lot.

From the time I was little-bitty, I remember them having a huge garden-- we're talking acres here. Had there not been such variety-- cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, squash, okra, lettuce, cabbage, onions, potatoes, blueberries, gooseberries, apples, peaches, plums, pears, kiwi, grapes, cherries, blackberries, peppers, turnips, rutabagas, watermelon, cantaloupe, strawberries, raspberries, beets, collard greens, lima beans, green beans, black-eyed peas, sweet peas, peanuts, carrots, sweet potatoes, figs, muscadines, & scuppernongs-- it would probably qualify as a truck farm. Oh, and he also had honey bees.

 

He fed people. He and I would climb into a tiny, blue Isuzu pickup truck with greasy vinyl seats that smelled of diesel fuel and deliver produce to the community. We'd never go but one or two places at a time-- taking a big paper bag or two to each stop. We never spoke. We didn't have to. We couldn't have over the hum of the engine anyway.

"Laaaw! Look at them pretty to-maters," widows would declare. I got to hear fabulous stories. One tiny, shrunken woman with drawn hands who was still driving a maroon Corolla into headstones in the cemetery told me of the time she hid from her husband behind the door because she had tried to dye her hair red, and it came out green. One sweet lady educated me on the fact that wearing long sleeves and pants when you garden, even in the summer, helps to keep you cool. Others didn't talk much, ever. But they loved to see my Grindiddy coming with his grocery deliveries.

 

When people visited, and they often did, Grindiddy wanted to feed them. "You want something to eat?" should have been posted over the door. No one ever went into my grandparents' home without being offered something to eat or drink. And they fed  them huge meals. Four or five vegetables, including sliced tomato, sometimes chicken or pork chops, and always, ALWAYS cornbread. Granmother cooked it in an iron skillet and would turn it out onto a dinner plate. It sat Grindiddy's left hand.

 

Every family member had their favorite. When Aunt Tammy was home from Texas we had fried potatoes. My cousin Kristin ate rutabaga. Aunt Louise wanted black-eyed peas and cornbread, with homemade pepper sauce. Grindiddy used to mash the peas into the cornbread for her when they were children. I remember seeing him do it one time at a big family dinner. I was young, but I knew even then that something special was happening right there in the dining room.

 

Now my favorite was breakfast... homemade biscuits, scrambled eggs, & bacon. I'd climb up into a kitchen chair and "help" roll out biscuit dough and cut with a round tin cookie cutter. Of course, I was more of a hindrance than a helper, but I never recall a time I wasn't allowed to help with making the biscuits. When I met my husband, we discovered we both love the taste of raw biscuit dough. He excitedly told his mom that I must be The One, because I, too, ate the sour, soft stuff.  She wisely advised, "That's great son... but you can't build a relationship on biscuit dough."

Image credit: "Peach Fried Pies" by Ralph Daily via Flickr

Food is celebrated throughout the world, and it holds a special place in our souls, because it's really about people and about love.

 

Here's what my grandparents taught me about food:

1) Food tastes better when you work for it.

2) Cornbread goes with everything.

3) Everyone has a favorite. Love them through their favorite.

4) Feed others.

5) Never send away a visitor hungry or thirsty.

6) Eat at the table.

7) You're never too old to take care of your baby sister.

8) Let the little ones help.

9) You can never have too much variety. Just because you've never grown eggplant before, doesn't mean you shouldn't plant it this year.

10) You may not can build a relationship on biscuit dough, but it's a good start at least.

 

Who taught you about food? What are the lessons you learned in the kitchen or in the garden?

Shared with Simply Helping Him.,  The Better Mom, Modest Mondays, Grace Laced Mondays, Titus 2uesday, A Wise Woman Builds He Home, Walking Redeemed, Whimsical Wednesdays & lowercase letters,
 

Newborn Worries: Body

Yes, you know you'll worry. You see that your mom and grandmother worry. Others will tell you that you'll worry. But you won't fully experience this wonderful worry until your child arrives.

The minute you hear his sweet cries for the first time the worry starts. This is gut-wrenching love. This is beautiful worry.

Poop- this is something you'll read in every parenting blog, every static site devoted to babies, every book, every forum. You will experience lots of poop. It will not bother you. Breastfed baby poop has been described as smelling like yogurt or buttermilk. What will really worry you about poop is when your tiny tot stops pooping. Parker didn't poop for like 4 days. Of course, being the Google goddess, I learned this must be because he was dehydrated. My RN mother-in-law assured me continuously that he wasn't dehydrated. This is when I learned about Karo syrup in his bottle.

Genitals- If you have a girl, you'll have better luck with this (assuming you are female yourself). However, if you have a boy, you'll be totally confused by your son's penis for the first 3 months, at least. It took about 3 weeks before I was completely convinced that Parker's circumcision would eventually heal. After this, a weird cheesy, fibrous matter started forming under his foreskin. Didn't seem to bother him, but it certainly bothered me. Then my pediatrician chided me for NOT pulling his foreskin back to keep it from growing back! Growing back?! Is this really an issue?

By the way, your husband/boyfriend will be no help with this. Just because he has one, doesn't mean he remembers anything about it at this size.

Belly button/umbilical stump- I was terrified that the child was going to develop an adominal infection. I kept an eagle eye on his tummy for any trace of red marks. Chris caught me sniffing Parker's belly at least six times a day. I worried he would go to kindergarten with an umbilical stump. Then it fell off and he bled. And I cried. It doesn't matter what amount of blood comes out of your child-- at that stage, its always a big deal.

Breastfeeding- I attempted this... It was not enjoyable. I did not feel bonded with Parker during feedings. It was not magical or calming, or any of happy/joy words that the Boobie Police use. It was hard, and caused me to dread meeting the needs of my child. Not good for me or him. (If you breastfeed, I'm impressed and awed. I do wish it had been a better experience for us.) Parker did not associate breastfeeding with food. He was a large child, and we supplemented from Day 1; so he was not a fan. He was hysterically hungry, and screamed at me for letting him starve. It was devastating. It did not last long. Then the guilt of not being able to breastfeed set up house, and stayed for a few weeks.

 

 

Update: P is now 10 months old, and the above issues have been resolved... or at least accepted.

Starting, or it's always been words

When I was a little girl, I had Sesame Street sheets. My mom would tuck me in, and "fly" the top sheet over me. This was, of course, for the purpose of straightening the tangled sheet from my tossing and turning the previous night. (Making the bed did not become a priority for me until later.)  But I believed this was simply something mommies & little girls did at bedtime- a sleepy time ritual. The only part of this sheet set that remains is this pillow case:

Notice the alphabet?  I didn't...  At least until last week when getting ready to pack for our upcoming move. I remembered Bert & Ernie, Big Bird, the smell, the feel, everything about those sheets. These sheets have been a vivid memory of my childhood since I realized one is supposed to have childhood memories. How did I just notice the gigantic letters? Where did the letters go?

That started me thinking-- what happens to the things we used to love as children? Most of my Sesame Street sheets are gone. But more than that, the letters were missing from my recollections. The things Rachel loved as a child- drawing trees, writing stories, acting in my own one-woman-shows in the woods behind my house- these things seem to disappear as I entered adulthood. I traded this precious, free-flowing part of the person I am for the strictly organized, college educated, analytical self I've become. I let the grownup me bully my inner child. I let my left brain kick the tail of my right brain, resulting in a self-esteem crisis for poor Righty.

It seems to me that each person is given an organic, natural desire to be creative, and that our society is set up to squash this. We spend so much time training and exercising our left brains, that our right brains become decayed and desperate for exercise. For me that exercise has generally been words. I'm no beautiful, poetic writer--possibly because I haven't allowed myself to attempt to be for so long. I spent years writing papers and reports-- things meant to record and inform-- not to express or inspire.

I'm on an expedition to live a more abundant life, to live authentically.

I'll take those lost letters off my Sesame Street sheets and begin putting them back together to find my words.