Expectations

Husband and I were driving through some mixed-income housing yesterday and pondering how to get our tenants down in another city to take care of the yard.  So how does the government take care of this housing?  It looked pretty nice.  There were businesses on the ground floor, and condos above.  Central play areas, bus stops and a nearby school made it attractive.  But then it was rather new and there was probably a gardener.

A lot of what we plant at our rental in the way of landscaping dies in the summer due to lack of water.  The front yard was knee-high in dandelions and weeds, the back had turned into dirt and a few hardy conifers. 

With presidential race huffing along to the finish line, candidate Mitt Romney made a statement that 47% of America expects the government to help them out.  Husband and I continued on our drive, talking about these expectations, as well as our expectations of tenants’ desire for a pretty place to live, and their expectations of what they could do. They seemed worlds apart. 

Just yesterday in the mail I got a newsletter from a school for Native Americans that I donate to from time to time, St Labre in Montana.  I’ve watched them grow for the past 15 years, and was quite impressed with the accomplishments of recent students.  It doesn’t seem that long ago that every newsletter I got was pleading for help to overcome poverty and alcoholism.  Those problems still exist, to be sure, but the news coming from the school now is about eye-popping successes. 

There are probably lots of reasons for this, but to me what really stands out was a letter to the school’s director years ago.  It decried the constant plea for money and was disenchanted that nothing ever seemed to get better.  The writer of the letter said he felt like he was flinging his money down a hole.

St. Labre listened.  They began featuring the successes of the students.  Not long after the letter, we heard about 3 high school girls who designed a project for making houses out of hay bales that won a contest and got them a trip to Washington, DC.  I started reading in the school’s newsletter about their high school graduates and the colleges they attended. They featured a young alumnus who became a nurse and returned to serve the area, students who won art contests, and spotlighting successful students and their dreams.

Expectations rose.  College entrance exam scores became impressive enough that Ivy Leagues were interested.  This year, the entire high school graduating class headed off to college.  Every single one. High school alumni are attending MIT, Harvard, Stanford, Mount St. Mary’s and Dartmouth, as well as state universities and a prestigious pharmacy school in Minnesota.  For the last six years, three St. Labre alumni have completed degrees at Dartmouth, which is a 100% graduation rate from one of the most prestigious colleges in the nation, including young Velma, who lost both her parents in separate car accidents in the span of fourteen months during her college years.

In spite of a forest fire this summer that nearly burned St. Labre down, local poverty and other challenges, why is this school able to turn out such successful young men and women?  The newsletter, The Morning Star, says: “Teachers expect the very best from their students and students expect the same from the teachers.” They also credit their donors from believing in the students and faculty.

Expectations.

Our daughter, the teacher, has had a lot of success in expecting her students to succeed.  She teaches at a school near the low income housing we were driving through, and many of her students come from a challenging background.  She believes they deserve every chance to succeed and that they CAN.  Her school’s test scores were second in the district recently, nearly opposite on the scale of income.

These times seem so full of expectation for our family.  One daughter is expecting twins, one is waiting to head off to Army Officer Candidate School and begin her career.  I hope that the alchemy of expectation will infuse them with success.  With belief in infinite possibilities, what might they accomplish?

Go, baby, go!

Making a Steampunk Gun

There aren't a lot of ray guns from the 19th century for sale at Fred Meyer's.  But to complete the wacky costume I'm wearing to a steampunk convention, I needed one.

So it was off to Fred Meyer's anyway.  I bought a cap gun, spray paint, and super glue.  I also visited the camping section and bought a green plastic salt and pepper shaker.

I raided my husband's plumbing drawer in the shop and found a flexible chrome tube that is used behind toilets to the water supply.  Or used to be, I think they are plastic now.  In the kitchen, I found some pie crust weights (little balls), and a tiny funnel, and in the bathroom, I found some bristly toothpicks I don't like.

Thus armed with the requisite ray gun supplies, off to the workshop!  I painted the body of the gun copper, and the barrel silver.  I attached the flexible chrome tube to the side.  The salt and pepper shaker was wrapped in green wire and the toothpicks painted silver and inserted in the holes.

The pie crust weights and funnel were painted silver and glued to the end of the gun.

Husband cut a piece of crown moulding I painted and used for a gun hammer,  The caps from the gun came in cylinders held in a piece of circular plastic.  This little object was painted silver and glued to both ends of the toilet tube.

When all was dry, I had a great little ray gun.

Zombies, BEWARE!

Making Steampunk Jewelry

Steamcon Seattle is this weekend!  What to wear?  Gotta have some steampunk jewelry, that's for sure.  So off to Michael's I flew when my daughter told me they have a new line of jewelry making supplies called Industrial Chic.  I was hoping they'd have the jewelry pre-made and I could snag some with my 40% off coupon.  But since they only had little baggies of jewelry making supplies, I decided it was time to put on my Madame Fastastic wizardry hat and see if it would infuse me with creative genius.

Not likely, the hat said.  Rather a grumpy ol' thing, like the sorting hat in Harry Potter.  I took it off, threw it on the floor, stomped on it and put it back on.  O-KAY, it hollered, I'll help a leetle.  Go get some super glue.

Obediently I listened and this is what we came up with.

See that jewel on the side of the bracelet in the third photo?  My daughter immediately told me it was a time machine crystal and knew if I wore the bracelet, it would engage the time machine.  I stared at her with my mouth open.

Who knew this stuff was inherited?

Fall Harvest Party

Yummy treats for an autumn party!  Kristin decided to have a harvest party, so we found some great recipes.  Little apple pie bites probably took the most time. Melt butter, add tart apples, cinnamon and a 4 Tbsp. of sugar.

We bought a lot of Chinese spoons, then put a bite of Granny Smith apple in each, drizzled with caramel, chocolate, and crushed pretzels.  Yummy!  It is like eating a sweet sea salt caramel with a bite of sour spritz to finish it off.

Our favorite pumpkin chocolate chip muffins made their mandatory appearance too.  See my blog of Nov 10, 2011 for the recipe.

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There were also a chili bar.  We fried chicken and had bowls for dipping the little drumsticks and wings, including a maple mustard dip, a smoky cranberry sauce, and a barbeque ranch dip.  There was pasta with tomatoes, parmesian and pesto, and plenty of dipping vegetables.  I have an overload of cucumbers and carrots from the garden this year, yay for help in eating them up!

The "recipes" for the dipping sauces are really easy.  For the first two, just mix in a bowl:

Maple Mustard Dipping Sauce:

1/2 cup coarse mustard

1/2 cup maple syrup

2 Tbsp. melted butter

Smoky Cranberry Dipping Sauce:

1 can jellied cranberry sauce

1/2 cup hickory smoke barbecue sauce

1/3 cup chopped onion

Ranch Barbeque Sauce:

This one you have to simmer for 20 minutes.

18 0z. bottle barbecue sauce

1 0z. package ranch dressing mix

1/4 cup honey

1/2 teaspoon dry mustard 

                               

 

Happy Autumn!

                   
                     

Superheroes and the Girl With the Glasses

I was told as a child that I was myopic.  The optician said he thought myopic girls were alluring because their unfocused eyes looked mystical.  Those were the days when opticians could say such drivel and no one thought to question it.  So basically I was nearsighted, which was understandable to my mother who swore I became so from reading by flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping.  I did NOT read by flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping. I read by a light which was kept on in my closet. It was meant to keep our clothes drier in a muggy climate.  Didn’t do much to keep our clothes from mildewing, but it worked great as a reading lamp.  Well, maybe not great, exactly, but I finished many a book with it.

I did my best to hide this affliction.  What cowboy wears glasses?  What superhero?  This was in the days before Harry Potter.  Clark Kent ripped off his glasses before becoming Superman. The Lone Ranger certainly did not wear glasses as he rode Silver into adventure.

I became adept at memorizing what was on the chalkboard while sharpening my pencils at the front of the classroom.  My supremely sharp pencils quickly wore down to nubs.  I took to asking kindly David Urban, who sat next to me, what was on the board.  He’d patiently read it, not understanding my horror of wearing spectacles.  Filmstrips were a nightmare, as Mrs. Spotts, the fifth grade teacher, would randomly pick us to read the captions.  Usually I could weasel my chair up to the front of the room.  Wouldn’t you know, one day I was sneaking a peak at the book in my desk and Mrs. Spotts called on me to read the caption.  I had to walk up to the front of the room to see it, and she wasn’t buying my excuse that David Urban or John Holcomb were blocking my view.  The kids laughed when I had to stand about 3 feet from it to read it.  Mrs. Spotts promptly send me to have my eyes checked.  Busted.

The moment I walked out of the optician’s office with my new glasses (NOT pink, thank you) I immediately tripped over a curb.  Reason is, I was staring at a billboard and marveling at what eagle eyes I now had.  My mom laughed.

I had to learn to put my Superhero dreams away in the eyeglasses case, take out my dorky glasses, and focus on my schoolwork.

I’m still trying to focus on things.  Hard to do, I find.  Yesterday a friend and I met with a professional grant writer to learn more grant writing.  I was overflowing with ideas for money making schemes.  It took a lot of effort to smash them back into the box.  Couldn’t resist letting a few out.  Ideas are cheap.  I can think of any number of ideas we could try.

But implementation is the costly commodity.  The challenge does not come in thinking up what to do, it comes in making it happen.  The money from the grants is only going to be realized when the distractions are cleared away, we shine our efforts on a single-minded task, and develop a core grant writing scheme. 

Superheroes are numerous, lined up to launch themselves forth to zoom around in capes or on white horses.  However, girls with glasses might just be the ones to focus on the task and get it done.  Ta-da!

The #1 Age-Defying Exercise

One of the biggest hindrances to life-prolonging exercise is to have a sore back.  Isn't this true?  I sure don't feel exercising when my back is so sore I can barely turn over in bed.

So the first thing is to get rid of the sore back, and here's a sweet little trick to make a lot of back trouble magically disappear--The Toothbrush Stretch.  It's an absolute miracle!

As we age, our muscles contract, not the least of which is our hamstrings.  Haven't we all seen elderly people hunched over and walking with knees bent?  It's because their hamstrings have tightened up.  It pulls your hips under and is a leading cause of back troubles.

The Toothbrush Stretch started when we bought an electric toothbrush awhile back.  It has a timer on it that vibrates every 30 seconds.  After two minutes, it vibrates four times and lets you know you are done.  Two minutes is a long boring time to stand gazing in the mirror realizing how much hair you've lost, or how that tummy could really be slimmer.

 No time is lost, therefore, in doing The Toothbrush Stretch.  The goal is to put your foot up on the counter and lean over each thigh for one minute on each leg.

You might have to start by putting your leg up on the edge of the tub.  If your bathroom only has a shower stall, pull out a low drawer and put your foot up on that.  With your leg straight, lean over towards your toes on that side, as much as you can.  Don't do it too hard.  Do it one minute.  If you have an electric toothbrush,   pay attention to when it vibrates and it will indicate one minute.  Repeat with the other leg.  Gradually work up to where you can put your leg on the counter and lean over it.

It's a miracle.  Your back will feel better and you will feel years younger!

Creating a Musical Nursery

So with twins on the way, you can imagine Daughter and Son-in-law have been busy choosing nursery themes, picking out colors, assembling the crib.

Back in my mom’s day, the baby might have slept in the parents’ room for awhile, in anything from a bassinet to a dresser drawer.  After the baby came, and one knew what sex it was, the nursery could be painted the appropriate pastel pink or blue.  Those who simply could not wait might pick pastel yellow or green.  The color must be pastel though.  Soothing.  Why is pink considered for girls and blue for boys?  Why are some colors considered neutral?  I can’t answer that, and don’t get me started on inanimate things having a gender.  In my spare time these days I’m trying to learn German.  Der Hund, die Katze, das Buch. Ach du lieber.

Pink hasn’t always been for girls.  Blue was not always for boys.  In the 1800’s, quite the opposite was true.  Blue was serene, like the ethereal sky, and thus for the gentler sex. Red (thus pink) was considered warlike and meaty, so pink was for baby boys.  Why it changed we don’t know.  Baby boomer girls like me usually grew up in pink rooms, like it or not.  Which I didn’t.  Sunshiny yellow, please.  Please?  Oh, all right.  Just wait ’til I get my first dorm room.

Those were the days of all white sheets.  When brightly colored sheets first came out, there was serious concern among parents that we teenagers might be kept awake all night from the bright colors.  I kid you not.

When I was having babies, I wanted BRIGHT.  I had emerald green and banana yellow walls for one of my kids.  Yuck.  If you ever wondered before, my darling daughters, let me assure you that your mother was nutso.   But it was the era of Rainbow Brite, so maybe I wasn’t the only one decorating with bright colors.  If I had Pinterest back then, I could have seen what others were doing. 

I will admit the applique quilts I made for their walls were adorable.  One was a bright jack-in-the-box, the other was a hot air balloon with rainbow colors.  I haven’t gotten the courage to take the thing out of the box in the linen closet and ask Daughter and Son-in-law if they want it.  Probably not.

Of course, the colors now are more subdued.  On Pinterest, I’m seeing a lot of turquoise.  So Daughter and Son-in-law decided to paint the babies’ room gray.  GRAY!  Clunk.  Will you hand me my jaw back please?  Thank you.  Okay, I will admit it is a warm gray.  There is both a sparkling white chair rail and crown moulding.  They are using lots of red and green. Their theme is rock and roll music.  They have their favorite bands’ brightly colored posters framed and hung.  They are painting a mural of the music to their favorite song on the wall.  It’s the song that they danced their first dance to at their wedding.  Not that they are mushy or anything.  Not much.  They look at the music they are so carefully painting and smile at each other.   They hold hands and look into the crib and know that pretty soon, pretty soon their little bungalow burst into the music of new life. 

When that happens, I don’t think anyone will be looking at the color on the wall.