Tick Tock – A very special clock

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Grandfather has moved in with us.  The grandfather clock, that is.  I grew up with this clock, its slow audible tick and faithful dinging on the hour.  It inhabited the space in our front hallway and its tone was easily distinguishable from the other chiming clocks in the house – and we had a few.  Friends sleeping over were constantly awoken by the myriad bells going off on the quarter, half and full hour while family members easily slept through them all.

Sunday was the day for winding clocks.  Dad would make his rounds, getting out the unique key for each clock and methodically turning it until it was fully wound.  The grandfather clock kept impeccable time until his death.  After that, the clock just wasn’t the same.  They say a clock doesn’t run the same when someone else winds it.  This one was no exception.  No one else had Dad’s touch.

Even as a youngster, I was aware that this clock had a special history.  There were vague stories about its original lead weights being melted down for bullets during the Revolutionary War.  I was never sure if it was fact or just a good story.  But it was indeed born out by a history of the clock, written by my great uncle, and recently unearthed by a distant cousin.  He also related how the “new” canister weights, filled with sand and scrap iron were unable to travel a long enough distance to run the clock for a full 7 days.  So Uncle Henry cut holes in the base of the clock to allow them to travel right down to the floor.  I’m sure that the Antiques Roadshow folks would shudder at his ingenuity, but he reports that he achieved his desired result and the clock then ran for a full week.

The clock was believed to have been purchased by Uncle Henry’s mother around 1872, and therefore was not considered a family heirloom.  But by this time I can’t help but consider it anything else.  It’s simple lines and lack of ornateness add to its appeal and are a testament to its ancient lineage.

On its travels from Mom’s house to mine, I had a local clockmaker take out the works and get the clock running again.  He did a fine job, and once more it is ticking, chiming on the hour and keeping good time.  It stands out as the only antique in a very modern house, but I rather like it that way.  And time will tell if it adapts to my own winding technique.

It’s a Shoe-In

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The UPS guy just deposited the package on our doorstep – my new running shoes are here!  And with that, I leave behind my conservative self and enter the age of brilliance.  Not brain power, footwear.  I don’t know when or where this trend started.  I admit to running my old shoes well past the recommended number of miles, erstwhile ignorant of new offerings on the market.  I did see the occasional runner in blinding foot colors, but passed it off as weird.  Then my daughter replaced her running shoes and found that ordinary color-trimmed white was no longer an option, and came home with deep purple.  She admitted to feeling a big funny when her feet came into view and shocked her with the color.  But she compensated by coordinating with a purple top.

Next my son, Erik, updated his footwear.  “Come see my new running shoes, Mom” he said.  I was unprepared for his unveiling – he bought those goofy looking rubbery foot booties (my terminology), complete with individual toes.  In his terms, they look a bit like skeleton feet, and was disappointed they didn’t have the more colorful version.  But he swears by them, particularly for trail running.  No matter, I don’t do trail running.

When I finally broke down and anted up the price for my own new shoes, I admit that my favorite model still came in white with aqua trim.  It would have been the easy way out.  But something about those colors enticed me.  Why not?  Shocking pink with black trim.  It’s so not me.  Or is it?  Too late to back out now.  I hope they don’t clash too much with my other running gear.

Playing Favorites

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We have always had a favorite restaurant. A place where we were regulars, could go on a whim, and know we’d be well taken care of and have a good experience. It’s not something we set out to find, it just happened. Over time, we discovered that we consistently chose that particular restaurant when we wanted to relax, spend some time together and have a meal out. In fact, as I look back, we also fell into predictable patterns when it came to ordering as well – we each had our favorites that we ordered consistently.

Our first home was near Trenton, New Jersey. We commuted to work together, and at our exit on the way home was a place called the Yardville Hotel. It was in Yardville, but it hadn’t been a hotel for years. But it was a comfortable, small restaurant that served good Italian food. My favorite was the meatball sub sandwich and I could count on Rich to order a pizza. Including our side salads and requisite half liter of wine, our bill was under $20 including tip. Rich even went there the night after our first baby was born, and baby Karen made her debut just ten days later. She spent many a dinner hour there in her stroller snoozing by our table.

During our child rearing years in the Twin Cities, Marcello’s Pizza became our regular haunt. We all loved the pizza and it was our favorite Friday night place. Suckers for the kids, and Dad the Monster chasing the kids down the deserted hallway of the mall after dinner were part of the ritual.

Since then, D’Amico and Sons has been our hang-out. We know the staff well, enjoy being able to eat outside in the summer months, and like the ambiance. We’re comfortable there and have mulled over issues as well as celebrated good news there. It has a varied menu, although once again we usually stick to our favorites – pepperoni pizza for Rich and the basic Neapolitan for me. Side salads and wine are still requirements, but the bill is higher these days.

Now that we’ve moved to Duluth, we are in need of a new regular spot. There are many good restaurants that we like, but so far none fits the bill for an old standby. Perhaps we’re trying too hard. We’ve gone out several times thinking “this is going to be it” but always leave still searching. We should know better. A favorite isn’t selected, it happens. Until then, we’ll enjoy sampling the local offerings.

Halloween Costumes Revisited

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When we moved out of our family home of 26 years, we had a lot of paraphernalia to sort through and toss.  My voluminous collection of sewing patterns definitely needed pruning.  I had a good laugh at some of the styles I knew I would never revisit.  But some patterns are timeless.  Costumes included.

With Halloween approaching, and my daughter Karen’s desire to dress her kids as Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, I was eager to help.  For Pooh, I was relieved to find that I had indeed saved the costume pattern that I used years ago to fashion a bunny costume for Karen.  What better place to start for Pooh’s costume?  She was three at the time, and her son is nearly two and a half.  It was great fun to pull it out and recreate the suit for a second generation.  With different fabric the bunny became Pooh bear.  And the price on that pattern?  Just $1.75. They don’t make them like that any more!

Piglet was a joint effort.  Karen sought out the pink leggings and shirt, while I adapted a red onesie for Piglet’s body.  All that we lacked was the head and ears.  In step the internet.  With a quick search I was able to find a free downloadable pattern for an adorable cap.  Unfortunately, when finished it turned out to be too small.  No problem, using SnagIt (one of my favorite software tools), I was able to save the pattern as an image, expand it and reprint the larger size.  The second attempt was a perfect fit!  Ears for both Pooh and Piglet were one part sewing experience and two parts imagination.

We had great fun trailing Pooh and Piglet around their neighborhood on Halloween.  No tricks – just seeing them in their costumes was a treat.

Oh, sew much fun!

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I love to sew.  It’s so rewarding to create clothing or household items from scratch.  I have my mom to thank for teaching me her extensive skills, and my faithful Elna sewing machine that was my college graduation present and has served me well ever since.  When the kids were little, I added a serger and went to town creating sweatsuits, t-shirts, pajamas and Zubaz (remember those?) for just pennies.  As work became more demanding and our income rose, my sewing took a holiday while I focused on family time.  But retirement has given me the opportunity to resume, and grandchildren are the perfect excuse to dust off those sewing machines.

My first foray into this renewed sewing venture was pajamas.  Each year for Christmas I would make matching pajamas for our three children.  You’d be surprised at how old they were by the time that tradition was set aside!  This time I started with slipper-jammies.  You know, the soft fluffy kind that have feet and zip

up from one ankle to the neck.  And I’ve  now doubled the ante – one set with Christmas designs to wear leading up to Christmas (and beyond since their mom is as practical as I am) and another in a winter motif to find under the tree.  We’ll see if that keeps up as the number of grandchildren grows…

Next I need to fire up the serger again.  I’m sure I will need to re-educate myself on how to thread it and the intricacies of how to do the different stitches.  I have vivid memories of how tricky it is to get all four spools threaded properly and get good stitches going.  I’ll need patience, I know.  I was amazed, though, at the dearth of knit fabrics and ribbing available in the stores now.  Did women give up their sergers?  I used to have volumes of bolts to choose from, with all sorts of patterns and colors.  Whatever happened to sweatshirt material, or interlock?

Sewing in general seems on the downswing.  I will admit with some regret that I did not foster my daughter’s sewing skills to the same degree.  Fabric stores have closed by the dozens, particularly those that were dedicated to sewing alone.  How well I remember going down to Minneapolis from Duluth just to shop at Amluxen’s downtown.  They had at least two floors full of fabrics, and I always saved my money to buy my favorite fabric there – Pendleton wool.  There was no finer wool or more beautiful plaids.  But then again, we dressed differently in those days, and had more use for those formal fabrics.

I’ve never been big on following trends, so I’ll hang in there and keep sewing as long as I can find fabric.  And it’s time to get going on those PJs that go under the tree.

Morning Muffins

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I was tired of looking at the two boxes of Raisin Bran that were languishing on the shelf.  I bought them for my son, but he does not appear to be as fond of the cereal as he claimed.  So I dug out an old recipe for refrigerator muffins.  I got it from a co-worker in my very first real job, and that was more than a few years ago.  But I remembered it as being a good one.  The beauty is that it uses a whole box of Raisin Bran cereal and a full quart of buttermilk.  So no leftovers of odd ingredients.  And the batter lasts six weeks in the refrigerator.

I whipped up the recipe, baked a few muffins and stashed the remainder of the batter in the fridge.  Those first muffins were not what I remembered – the bran flakes had not had time to fully soak into the batter and I could discern individual flakes in a white batter.  The next set I baked a few days later, however, were perfect.  Dark brown inside with a hearty flavor.  Good lesson – they improve with time.  The best part was being able to pop a few into the oven early in the morning and Voila! fresh warm muffins.  It worked especially well when we had overnight company.  I could spoil her with home made muffins right out of the oven without the distraction of mixing them up while she was there.  And for several weeks afterwards, I had muffins at will.  I even got that same son to bake up a batch for himself to take to work in his lunches.  Turns out he likes the cereal better in muffins.

If one refrigerator muffin recipe is good, there must be more, right?  Sure enough, a search on the internet turned up numerous variations.  The one that caught my eye was for pumpkin muffins, of course.  It is still a bran muffin, which in my opinion is a good thing – they’re my favorite.  But the addition of pumpkin and fall spices like cinnamon, cloves and allspice make for a tasty muffin.  This one makes a smaller batch, and only lasts two weeks in the refrigerator.  And now I have leftover canned pumpkin and buttermilk.  Maybe that calls for a second batch.  This recipe is from Pillsbury.

Here are versions of the recipes you can print or save:

Raisin Bran Muffins and Refrigerator Pumpkin Bran Muffins

Happy muffin mornings!

Fickle Fall Weather Workouts

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It’s in-between season.  I feel like my workouts are a patchwork of activities.  Some days it still warms up enough to go for a long bike ride.  Given the right layers, I can stretch “warm enough” quite a ways.  The difficult part is having the patience to wait until later in the day when the sun has done its work. I’m within 100 miles of hitting 4,000 miles of cycling for the year, and I’m determined to get there.  Not bad for my first year of cycling.

Running is always a good staple.  I’m used to running year round.  I’m putting more miles on my running shoes these days, trying to get back that old endurance back.  I hate to admit it, but these days I consider I’ve had a good run when I maintain 9 minute miles.  Sad when I remember what I used to do, but I remind myself to accept aging gracefully.

If it’s really ugly, I hit the pool.  I have resumed my Y membership after putting it on hold for the summer, hoping to rebuild some upper body strength.  Those first few sessions in the pool were killers – why did I think it was okay to stop swimming for 6 months?  The payoff is in the locker room, though.  My faithful early morning buddies are there, and it’s great to see them again.  My friend Louise is my inspiration – 20 years older than me, and she works out every single day.

And what’s all this for?  Why cross-country ski season, of course!  Our registrations went in for the big races long ago – City of Lakes, Mora and the Birkie beckon, snow willing.  February is not all that far away, and I’m anxious to get out on my skis.  Not much I can do about it until the snow falls, though.  I’m not about to break my neck attempting roller skis.

We have vacation time coming up Thanksgiving week.  If we hear of snow within driving distance, it’s likely we’ll go find it.  If not, we’re talking about heading a bit further south and substituting a cycling trip.  After all, we can be as fickle as the weather.

The Peanut Butter Dog

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Spot is a Bassamation.  She’s a stray that wandered onto the Texas farm of my brother’s fiance shortly before they were married, while they were preparing the grounds for their outdoor chuck-wagon wedding reception.  Try as they might to find her owner, she was still around when their wedding day came, so they tied a bandana around her neck and she mingled with the guests.  Our kids were enamored with the gentle dog but it was my husband, Rich, who surprised us all.  After years of resisting the kids’ persistent pleas for a dog, Rich looked at me and said “I could live with Spot.  Should I go tell the kids?”

Not too surprisingly, we were the hit of the reception – the family that was rescuing the black and white dog.  But getting her home to Minnesota was something else again.  Turns out that various shots and a health certificate were required – fortunately my niece volunteered at a vet’s office who obliged by seeing us on a weekend.  And then there were the flight restrictions.  Our airline didn’t take dogs.  Period.  And all the others would not fly dogs in the heat of the summer.  The idea of renting a car to drive her home was not appealing, but was slowly becoming our only option.  In step my mom and sisters and a wonderful breeder.  While out on a drive in the country, Mom and the others passed a breeder’s sign that said “We ship our dogs anywhere.”  Anywhere?  Not being shy, they trotted up the drive and relayed our predicament. Given her love of dogs, the breeder immediately offered to assist in our rescue of this stray.  Once we identified a flight that a) left before 7am, b) was heading north, c) was non-stop, and d) the temperature had not yet reached 70 degrees, Spot was winging her way to her new home.

At the time, the vet estimated she was 3-5 years old.  She has spent over 11 years as a beloved member of the family.  And although it was the kids who pleaded for a dog, it’s Rich that Spot adopted.  The two are inseparable.  They say that strays are devoted to the person who rescued them, and somehow Spot knows it was Rich.  She’s slowing down these days – at age 15 or so, she’s entitled.  And I finally found a way to worm my way into her heart.  Peanut butter.  The arthritis in her bones is evident in her stiffness and the way she moans.  The vet recommended a homeopathic tablet to help ease her pain, and it’s working.  The trick to getting her to take it three times a day is peanut butter.  I administer the doses, so she now follows me around the house looking at me with her big eyes and a look that says “more peanut butter now?”  I still may not be her favorite, but I’ll take it.

Fall at the Cabin

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If it’s MEA weekend, that means a trip to the cabin, right?  Never mind that we no longer have kids in school, and want to take advantage of the teachers’ convention days off.  It is still a fall ritual.

Knowing this was coming, we debated whether to leave the water system running after our previous visit.  I don’t know if it was laziness or foresight that led us to take the risk.  After all, one can’t argue the niceties of running water.  Watching the temperatures dip to 14 degrees some nights Up North, I admit to being a bit nervous about our decision.  But all was well upon our arrival, and we did appreciate the convenience.

Late October is not the most attractive time of year at the cabin.  Fall leaves are down, grass is beginning to turn brown, skies can be gray.  But it also has its compensations.  As our son Erik said, there is good reason to keep a fire burning in the fireplace, and yet it’s not freezing cold when you step outside.  On one of our requisite hikes, our feet swished through the fallen leaves, or trampled the quieter blanket of pine needles, depending on the nature of the surrounding trees.  The lack of leaves provided greater views, exposing the environs that are usually hidden.  We saw stark evidence of the July storms that blew down vast numbers of trees in the area, and the frequency with which they were snapped mid-way down their trunk.  That left the tree tops either skirting the ground, dangling in mid-air or caught in between by other trees.  A prime example was situated right on the edge of the trail.  A huge tree was snapped in two and its top half rested on two other trees, one of which was right next to the trail.  It’s branches were trimmed to allow us to pass, but bright red plastic tape adorned the branches and announced “Killer Tree” all along its length.  We understood its meaning – its perch was precarious and the tree could easily topple unexpectedly.  We’d just never seen it so spelled out so literally!  I only wish I’d taken a picture.

Our next  discovery was beaver territory.  We came upon an opening that was littered with trees chewed by beavers.  Some had toppled, and were further gnawed along the trunk while accessible on the ground.  Others were poised to fall, their trunks thinned to a narrow stalk.  What was so unique was how recent the activity was – the exposed wood was creamy white and the wood chips were fresh and moist.  We could see the teeth marks, and discovered that we could pull apart tree layers in the supple chips.  It wasn’t hard to spot the nearby beaver mound in the lake, and we retreated down the trail hoping to witness their activity, but the beavers declined to oblige.

At the conclusion of the weekend, it truly was time to winterize the cabin.  No point in pressing our luck further.  It was opportune to have Erik there, so Rich could show him the ropes.  Plunging into the chilly lake water to remove the water intake, laying the hoses out in the yard, and disconnecting the few pipes under the cabin.  It’s time to pass on the knowledge.  After all, we intend to keep coming for MEA weekend for years to come.