She's a Beauty 
- posted by Laurie @ 6:34 PM |

 
So Much for My Saturday "To Do" List
It's been a lazy Saturday here at Prairie Tide. I started the day with a bowl of cereal and a book. With the evening light fading form the window, I'm still in my pajamas and still reading the same book.

Today's book is Frontier Illinois by James E. Davis. It's a book about the days when Illinois was considered "Out West." I've barely made a dent in this hefty tome, so I'll share interesting insights as we go along.

Frontier Illinois caught my attention from the first page. Davis begins his book by telling the story of Sarah Aiken, a 15-year-old who's family moved near Peoria, Illinois in 1833. Right away, I related with the teen. It was her father's idea to move here. She'd have rather stayed back East with her friends and family. In those dark days before Instant Messenger, she kept in touch with her old friends by writing lots of letters home, and her letters give fresh insight into what life was like as an early settler in the state.

When she arrives in her new home, she calls it "that far distant country." This sound very familiar. When I first moved here, it seemed as if we'd just settled on the far side of the moon from the West Coast. After spending some time with the locals, Sarah wishes she fit in better. "O, for one friend," she laments. Here's another place where my life intersects with Sarah's. It felt like everyone in town already had enough friends when I came along. Then, after living in the area for a few years, she writes, "O, this is a delightful country. Nothing would induce me to return to New York to remain." Illinois has a way of growing on a person.

So the book has managed to suck up an entire day, and I'm still not finished with it. Davis writes like an academic, but he's focusing on the lives of the everyday folk, which keeps things interesting. Sure, I probably should read up on Lincoln and some of the other noteworthy types, but it's the day-to-day survival in this place that keeps me turning pages.

Shhhh, don't tell Randy, but there is just one more piece of the Hot Fudge Sunday Cake left in the fridge. Come to find out, the cake is just as good warmed up in the microwave as it is hot out of the oven. I think I'll just tip-toe down to the kitchen and help myself to a bite.

Mmmmmmmmm.

- posted by Laurie @ 7:11 PM |

 
Back to our regularly-scheduled program analyzing the midwestern lifestyle...
The local history reading blitz continues. Escape Betwixt Two Suns: A True Tale of the Underground Railroad in Illinois by Carol Pirtle gave some fascinating insight into Illinois life before the Civil War. Illinois is the land of Lincoln, and I always assumed because Illinois is a "Northern" state, it opposed slavery. While the state was officially a "free" state, it did turn a blind eye to slaveowners who moved here before Illinois gained statehood. Pirtle explains that when Illinois was trying to become a state, it was losing settlers to Missouri where slavery was allowed. Enforcement of the no-slavery laws was lax to encourage slave-owners to choose Illinois instead of Missouri. In Illinois, slaves were considered "indentured servants," and a 21-year timelimit was set on length of service, so perhaps the state's founders viewed this as a "kinder, gentler" form of slavery.

So the story told in Escape Betwixt Two Suns is not a flattering one for Illinois. The book is about a slave named Susan Richardson who escaped from an abusive owner who lived in southern Illinois. She fled with her children to the home of a neighbor who was a well-known abolitionist. The neighbor helped Susan Richardson and her children travel as far as Galesburg--that hotbed of abolitionist--but she was subsequently captured and thrown in jail.

Once in jail, the story gets pretty complex. Andrew Border, her owner, sues for the return of Susan and her children. while Galesburg was the home of a number of abolitionists, not everyone in the community felt the same about slavery. In particular, the county sheriff and the judge were sympathetic to Border's claims for property rights. While Susan Richardson was eventually freed because Border kept her in servitude beyond the legal length of time, her children were not so lucky. The judge ruled that her children were to return with Border to fulfill their indentured servitude, and Susan never saw them again.

The interesting thing about reading local history books is that I've realized that the my assumptions about the past can be totally wrong. Illinois wasn't such a shining example before the Civil War. Even in a part of the state where anti-slavery sentiments ran high, the Knox County judge weighed property rights as more important than personal freedom. Today abolitionists are viewed as heros, but at the time they were considered lawbreakers. The family of the abolitionist who helped Susan Richardson escape was ashamed of his actions for years to come.

The question is, now that I have a different view of Illinois, how should that change the way I view my role in this community? In honesty, I'm don't thing I would have been as brave as Susan Richardson and the abolitionists who helped her along the way. Today there are plenty of important issues I could stand up for, but I tend to avoid conflict. If I needed to act in the name of justice, could I do it? It's something I need to think about...

- posted by Laurie @ 4:30 PM |

 
The Nude Olympians
In ancient Greece, the Olympic athletes competed in the nude. Today, with the Olympics being held in the celestial city of Athens, Greece, athlete are returning to this fine tradition. As I've been watching the Olympic broadcast the last couple of days, it occurs to me that the athletes are showing a lot of skin these days.

Case in point: women's beach volleyball. Sure, you could play this sport in shorts and a T-shirt, but that just won't be as riveting as two girls jumping around in the sand wearing bikinis.

Then there is the women's triathlon. It just doesn't seem like riding a bike in a swimsuit is such a great idea, but these athletes didn't seem to mind. Men athletes are enjoying the freedom too. Lycra abounds in wrestling and gymnastics, along with the track and field events. I predict more sports will join the act. We'll see tennis players, soccer teams, and entire baseball leagues setting aside their bulky uniforms in favor of flesh-clinging slinglets.

Some may say this is a revival of an old and noble ancient tradition. Others may say it has evolved out of practicality. The form-fitting lycra does not constrain movement or cause wind resistance. Or, perhaps, it's just for show. What is a sport, after all, if not entertainment?

As I composed this entry, I felt pretty witty and original. But apparently, I'm not the only one who's witnessed this trend. NPR recently did a radio story called "A Case for the Naked Olympics."
- posted by Laurie @ 7:52 PM |

 
With company over last night, I made my grandma's famous Hot Fudge Sunday Cake and served it with ice cream. For a klutz in the kitchen, I must say my cake was right near amazing. It's one of those dishes that looks a mess but tastes divine. We have leftovers in the fridge, but I have a feeling it won't be near so good as it did coming piping hot out of the oven.

Now that the company is gone and the kitchen is near cleaned up again (except for the sticky spots on the floor), I'm pulling out an favorite book to read again. It's Long Way from Chicago by Richard Peck. The book portrays downstate Illoinois during the 1930's. Now I don't want to hear complaints that this is a kids book. I've passed this book along to any number of adults, and they've all been doubled over, laughing in stitches, after reading just the first few pages.

The story is about Joey and his sister Mary Alice who spend a week each summer visiting their Grandma Dowdel in Smalltown, Illinois. The woman is a a sight to behold, six-feet tall and shaped like a pickle barrel. Everyone in town is afraid of her, and she likes it that way. Perhaps the townfolk are scared of her because she shot off a shotgun in her own living room. Perhaps it's the way she hoodwinked the banker, or the way she blackmailed the men over a pot of soup.

She's the kind of old soul that rattles around in your brain for days after you put down the book. Grandma Dowdel is at once familiar. Her stick-to-the-ribs cooking, her old-fashioned hats, and her county-fair-winning pies sound suspiciously like the grandma who inspired my weekend baking experiment. On the other hand, Grandma Dowdel's conniving hijinks are shocking--even to a modern gal like me.

Reading this book fired up my curiousity about Richard Peck and his motivation for creating such a formidable woman. Here are some of his notes on the book:

Yet writing is the quest for roots, and I draw on my earliest memories of visiting my grandmother in a little town cut by the tracks of the Wabash Railroad. It was, in fact, Cerro Gordo, Illinois. I use that town in my stories, though I never name it, wanting readers to think of small towns they know.

The house in the stories is certainly my grandma's, with the snowball bushes crowding the bay window and the fly strip heavy with corpses hanging down over the oilcloth kitchen table, and the path back to the privy.

I even borrow my grandmother's physical presence. My grandmother was six feet tall with a fine crown of thick white hair, and she wore aprons the size of Alaska. But she wasn't Grandma Dowdel. When you're a writer, you can give yourself the grandma you wished you had.

Perhaps she's popular with readers because she isn't an old lady at all. Maybe she's a teenager in disguise. After all, she believes the rules are for other people. She always wants her own way. And her best friend and worst enemy is the same person [Mrs. Wilcox]. Sounds like adolescence to me, and even more like puberty.

- posted by Laurie @ 2:50 PM |

 
With company over last night, I made my grandma's famous Hot Fudge Sunday Cake and served it with ice cream. For a klutz in the kitchen, I must say my cake was right near amazing. It's one of those dishes that looks a mess but tastes divine. We have leftovers in the fridge, but I have a feeling it won't be near so good as it did coming piping hot out of the oven.

Now that the company is gone and the kitchen is near cleaned up again (except for the sticky spots on the floor), I'm pulling out an favorite book to read again. It's Long Way from Chicago by Richard Peck. The book portrays downstate Illoinois during the 1930's. Now I don't want to hear complaints that this is a kids book. I've passed this book along to any number of adults, and they've all been doubled over, laughing in stitches, after reading just the first few pages.

The story is about Joey and his sister Mary Alice who spend a week each summer visiting their Grandma Dowdel in Smalltown, Illinois. The woman is a a sight to behold, six-feet tall and shaped like a pickle barrel. Everyone in town is afraid of her, and she likes it that way. Perhaps the townfolk are scared of her because she shot off a shotgun in her own living room. Perhaps it's the way she hoodwinked the banker, or the way she blackmailed the men over a pot of soup.

She's the kind of old soul that rattles around in your brain for days after you put down the book. Grandma Dowdel is at once familiar. Her stick-to-the-ribs cooking, her old-fashioned hats, and her county-fair-winning pies sound suspiciously like the grandma who inspired my weekend baking experiment. On the other hand, Grandma Dowdel's conniving hijinks are shocking--even to a modern gal like me.

Reading this book fired up my curiousity about Richard Peck and his motivation for creating such a formidable woman. Here are some of his notes on the book:

Yet writing is the quest for roots, and I draw on my earliest memories of visiting my grandmother in a little town cut by the tracks of the Wabash Railroad. It was, in fact, Cerro Gordo, Illinois. I use that town in my stories, though I never name it, wanting readers to think of small towns they know.

The house in the stories is certainly my grandma's, with the snowball bushes crowding the bay window and the fly strip heavy with corpses hanging down over the oilcloth kitchen table, and the path back to the privy.

I even borrow my grandmother's physical presence. My grandmother was six feet tall with a fine crown of thick white hair, and she wore aprons the size of Alaska. But she wasn't Grandma Dowdel. When you're a writer, you can give yourself the grandma you wished you had.

Perhaps she's popular with readers because she isn't an old lady at all. Maybe she's a teenager in disguise. After all, she believes the rules are for other people. She always wants her own way. And her best friend and worst enemy is the same person [Mrs. Wilcox]. Sounds like adolescence to me, and even more like puberty.

- posted by Laurie @ 2:49 PM |

 
The Famous and Original Bar Smasher
Peoria used to be a good-times town. Located on the Illinois River, the city hosted large numbers of sailors and bargemen on their way from Chicago to St. Louis or New Orleans looking for wine, women, and song. And with the twin assets of large grain supplies and river transport, Peoria became one of the largest whisky manufacturers in the country before Prohibition.

One day while walking through downtown Peoria, my eye caught a plaque posted on the side of a old brick storefront. The sign said that Carry Nation, the famous tolerance activist, had burst into a bar that was located on this spot back during the turn of the last century. I imagined Carry using her famous ax to smashing the bar to smithereens.

My curiosity about Nation lead me to the Kansas State Historical Society's online exhibit about the crusader. Come to find out, Carry lived with an alcoholic husband before her reign of activism. Her protests against taverns and bars began peacefully after her husband died in small-town Kansas, but she soon discovered "smashing" success by tearing the places to pieces. Her national fame grew, and she branched out to other states. She garnered supporters and enemies along the way and spent some time in jail between attacks. For ten years, Carry smashed bars and spoke on the lecture circuit about her staunch beliefs.

She wrote an autobiography called The Use and Life of Carry A. Nation. I find this to be a strange title--like Nation is trying to convince herself that her campaign was worth it. According to her autobiography, she did indeed visit a Peoria saloon, but unfortunately she left the place intact.

I went to Pete Weis' place, one of the most expensive dance halls I was ever in. I spoke for the hundreds of poor, drugged and depraved men and women. There was a large picture or rather statuary of naked women among trees which I said must be smashed, Mr. Weis treated me very kindly and said: "I will have that boarded up," and so next day he did.

Drat! I rather liked the image of her bashing her way through Peoria pubs and taverns. Taking the bartender's word sounds much to tame and polite for Carry. Smash, I say! Smash!

Nation's parting comments about Peoria are not so flattering: "I never saw so many ragged children or dirty streets, as in Peoria." Things have cleaned up a bit from the riverboat days, but it is interesting to note that the downtown area where Nation visited is still home to a large collection of bars and stripclubs. The more things change...



- posted by Laurie @ 8:05 PM |

 
Illinois HIstory Book Club
One difference between living in Illinois and living on the West Coast is what a prominent role Civil War history plays in the local community identify. Since I've lived in the Peoria, I've heard rumors about the town being on the Underground Railroad, but just a word here and there, and it's a topic I've wanted to explore more in depth.

Two books about the Underground Railroad found their way home with me from the library this week. The first was The Underground Railroad in Illinois, by Glennette Tilley Turner. Turner's book is written in a question-and-answer style, and she touches on the stories of dozens of freedom seekers and abolitionists. The end effect is a sort of overview of the pre-Civil War era in Illinois without delving into the drama of the personal stories involved.

What the book lacks in storytelling ability, it makes up in detail. Come to find out, Galesburg, a town just up the road from Peoria, was a hotbed for Abolitionist activity, and the Illinois River that runs through Peoria was a path that many escaping slaves took on their way to Canada from slave states just as Missouri and Tennessee. A Peoria abolitionist named Mary Brown Davis formed a Female Anti-Slavery Society in Peoria in 1843, and she was among the founders of the Illinois Female Anti-Slavery Society in 1844. Despite opposition from town members and her own church congregation, she continued writing and speaking against slavery until the Civil War.

Another thing I learned from the book is that the Underground Railroad was more of a loose network than an established path to Canada. Once a "passenger" arrived at a "station," they assessed what was the safest way to continue on to the next stop. So, If word was that slave hunters were on the river, the freedom seeker would head along another route.

The second book that followed me home from the library was Hidden in Plain View: A Secret Story of Quilts and the Underground Railroad. The book drew my eye with it's color photographs of 19th century quilts. I've seen some beautiful African American quilts with great improvisational style, vivid color, and flowing forms, and I've read Alice Walkers "Everyday Use," but it hadn't occurred to me that quilt making could have played a role in the search for freedom. According to this book, quilts with certain patterns and color schemes hung over window sills to "air" could have singled save houses along the way to Canada. Quilts could also have signaled when it was time for slaves to pack up and prepare to leave, and they may have been used as a sort of map.

The book is based primarily on oral histories because there are very few quilts made by slaves that have withstood the years and the lye soap. The examples from the book were mostly made in the period immediately following the Civil War. The book did point out that more slave-made quilts could be discovered because old quilts were often used as the batting for new quilts. It's fascinating to view a domestic art that is often viewed as mere "women's work" as a vital lifeline to freedom.

P.S. I just read last night's blog entry and realized I cursed. My! I must have been in a mood last night!
- posted by Laurie @ 8:23 PM |

 
Tidy Bowl
Tonight was housecleaning night here at the home of Prairie Tide. My style of housecleaning involves several cleaning products that come out of baby-wipe dispensers. It's a disposable way to clean. Pull out a cleaning cloth, wipe a bit, and toss. One of these days, I'll get around to writing a book about my housecleaning techniques. I've already got a title picked out: Half-Ass Housecleaning.

Now that I've cleaned two toilets in one evening, I'm feeling a tad crabby. I like a clean bathroom as much as anyone, I just feel entitled to be grumpy afterwards. Excuse me while I go hurumph for a while.

- posted by Laurie @ 6:52 PM |

 

Interview with a Mother

Anna is the newest mother in our family. Anna is the sixth sister in the lineup, and she is eleven years younger than me. These days, Anna is living in Hood River, Oregon, but she'll be moving to a farm in Missouri in the next month or so. This is good news for Aunt Laurie, because I'll be able to visit more.

Baby Juddah is seven months old now. I got to see him when he was a newborn, but I haven't seen him since he was all wrinkly and teeny. These days, everyone says he is super cute and looks just like his dad, Jon. Anna says the resemblance is striking. "He looks just like pictures of Jon at that age. He's Jon's clone."

Because I'm 33, and because I've been a little timid about becoming a mother myself, I'm infinitely curious about what it is like to have a baby. In our interview, Anna gives me the inside scoop (or should we say poop?) on motherhood.

What's the biggest surprise about becoming a mother?

Everyone says "I slept like a baby last night." But babies don't actually sleep that well. They are up a lot during the night. They toss and turn, and you need to check in on them. That was surprising.

Let's see. It was a big surprise how much you love the little guy. You don't even know him that well, but you totally love 'em. Oh yeah, and finding out I was pregnant. That was REALLY a surprise.

Have things changed as Juddah has gotten older?

Things have gotten much easier now that he's a little older. He sleeps better, and he's sleeping on more of a routine. He eats on more of a routine, too. He's easier to calm down now because I've gotten to know him better, so I know what he likes. He likes laying on his back better than being on his stomach, so I can set him down the way he's the most comfortable. Things are so much better now. Everyone loves newborns, but I'm glad he's getting older.

Do you get used to the noise of a baby crying?

You get used to it. You can tune it out, but mostly you want it to stop, so you find ways to sooth the kid. That first little newborn cry is so heart wrenching, but now it's like, Eeh, he's crying. Oh well.

I've heard people say if you respond to a baby's cries too quickly you'll spoil the kid. Do you believe this?

I don't think you can really spoil a baby that is under one year old. A newborn just needs to know that you are there for them and love them.

What's the most frustrating part of being a mother?

Sometimes babies want to cry for no reason. They just want to cry, and you just have to let them. That, and Juddah has a radar. I call in the Mommie Radar. When I sit down to eat or take a nap, it's like he knows. He thinks, "Hey, I'll just wake up now and get Mom to pay attention to me."

The other thing that is frustrating is going on outings. It's difficult to just get up and go. You can't be spontaneous. and even now, I forget to take things we end up needing. It's like, Oh no! I've gone through two diapers already and now I'm out. Yikes!

And you know, I can't do a whole project all the way through. I can only sew or clean for a short time, and then I have to pay attention to Juddah. It can be crazy-making.

What do you like best about being a mom.

I love how much Juddah loves me. He loves me the best, heh heh heh. I love the way he likes to play, and he is always so excited to see new places and new people. Whenever we go into a new building, he squeals he's so happy to see the bright shapes. He likes riding on elevators. It's neat seeing how Juddah grows and does new things every day. He's working really hard to roll over and look around at the world. I like holding him and giving him baths. And it's fun to have a little family. You always have a friend to take with you everywhere.

Does having a baby change things with your husband?

In some ways it is better. You both have a common goal you are working on. At first it made it harder, Mom doesn't want to go out and do things, but Dad wants to get out and get back to a normal life. After Juddah was born, I was tired and wanting to stay home all the time. All of the sudden, you are on baby's time. Before you can go to the store, you have to feed the baby and change his diapers, so a simple trip to the store takes an hour. Nothing is fast any more. This took some getting used to for both of us.

Tell me some adorable stories about Juddah.

The other night Juddah was sleeping. He was so cute, we just couldn't help it. We had to kiss and hug and tickle him all over. Sometimes he wakes really easy, but this time he stayed asleep. Thank goodness!

One time I was changing Juddah, and all of the sudden he projectile pooped straight up in the air. It got on my face and in my hair. It even got on the couch. Ah, there are so many poop stories...

The other day, I was babysitting Heather's kids [Editor's note: Heather is another sister, and she has three little ones named Abby, Peter, and Michelle.] I was changing Juddah, and Abby, the oldest, she was watching me with this inquisitive look on her face. Then she says, "When Mom changes Peter's diaper, he has thing in the middle, too. Well, Peter's is A LOT bigger than Juddah's."

Abby's the oldest, and you know how bossy the oldest ones are.

I don't remember you being bossy when we were younger. I remember thinking you were so cool. You would take us swimming at your friend's house. You'd dance all crazy. And when you were babysitting, we'd ask if we could go play at the neighbors, or--you know--go play in the street. You'd always say, "Go for it!" So cool.

Ahh...Juddah's getting loud. I better go...


Thanks to Anna for taking time from her family to help with the production of this 'blog. Hey kid sister, thanks for calling me "cool." Really? I was cool, huh?

- posted by Laurie @ 9:03 PM |

 
If Only I Could Find the Can Opener...
Finally! A kitchen that will teach me how to cook!

- posted by Laurie @ 10:08 AM |

 
Random Reasons Why Randy Rocks
Randy has curly hair. Really curly hair that is turning mostly grey. Adorable. The second time Randy and I met for a bicycle ride with a club we both belonged to, he asked me if I thought he should dye his hair to cover the few grey hairs that had snuck into his curls back then. Without a pause, I said, No way! Randy says that's when he knew I had a thing for him.

Randy does the laundry with such regularity, even after four years of marriage I'm still in awe. Say we did the laundry over the weekend and everything is folded and put away. By Tuesday, there's a fair size pile of dirty clothes in the hamper, but I'm still reveling in the fact we got the laundry done over the weekend. Heck, if I've still got clean underwear, I don't feel a big need for firing up the washing machine. Not Randy. By 7:00 PM on Tuesday night, he's put away a stack of freshly laundered towels and T-shirts.

Some nights, I'm inspired to jump up after dinner and do the dishes, but there are other days where I'm content to let them mellow. This is when Randy springs into action. Randy will even do the dishes on Friday night, a time when any dishwasher deserves the night off. He also does the dishes by hand with lemon-scented soap. I find this very sexy.

The other day, the knob on the bathroom sink broke. The faucet still worked, it just looked a little dog-eared. On his way home from work, Randy stopped by Menard's and bought a replacement knob. By the time I got home for the evening, the bathroom had a shiny new fixture in place. Magic!

On our anniversary, Randy met me for lunch at my work. Randy is an alumni of the community college where I'm employed, and we shared a bowl of soup and salad from the same cafeteria he visited as an student. (I love the pictures of Randy from this age. He had this 70's mop of unruly hair curling and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. He could have been cast member of Freaks and Geeks.) After lunch we took a walk past the recently completed Technology Center and student apartment complex on campus. I blathered on and on about work details--who's getting promoted, who quit in a storm of passion--and Randy was fascinated by all of it. He even said I wasn't boring him.

Randy is very detail-oriented, and his handwriting is so small and orderly, it looks like it's been typed. I call it Engineer's Script. Randy remembers to pay the bills on time. He can balance the checkbook, a feat I've never actually accomplished. He reminds me when I need to return library books and videos. Thank god one of us is detail-oriented, or I would never be able to find my car keys.

Even with an engineer's orderly mind, Randy appreciate's art and literature. When he was in college, he painted a series of landscapes that make our home into a museum. His paintings are meticulously detailed, of course. He's also a serious reader, and he is now plowing through all the Patrick O'Brian Master and Commander books.

We enjoy the same guilty pleasures, like the TV shows Monk and The Dead Zone, sci/fi movies, all the Harry Potter books, and everything remotely connected to the Lord of the Rings.

Just now, Randy brought in the last piece of rhubarb pie and gave me a bite. Life with Randy is like that. He remembers to share the dessert.

- posted by Laurie @ 10:45 AM |

 
That Back To School Vibe is in the Air
At the community college where I work, we marked the start of the semester with several nights of New Student Orientations this week. With all the speeches by college dignitaries, the "get to know you" ice breakers, the workshops and wrap-up sessions, I have a sense that New Student Orientation is a sort of initiation ceremony. We've lost the ceremony and the ritual, but it is still a way of saying, yes, this is a crossroads, this is a new step, this is the door you need to walk through--and you can do it.

Some ivy-league colleges welcome the freshmen to the fold with the time-honored Campus Processional. Professors, dressed in their archaic dress, parade across campus carrying campus pennants. The scared freshmen follow along, not certain that they aren't be led into a pagan blood-letting ceremony. Instead, they are herded into the center of the campus quad where the university president greets the freshmen with a rousing speech. I like this kind of ceremony. Makes you feel part of a chain of tradition that leads back into the deep depths of history. Wish we had that kind of legacy at the college where I work. It's just my college was founded in 1968, so our roots do not go so deep.

Instead, we served chocolate chip cookies and lemonade during the Question and Answer session (which is really a lip-puckering combination, let me tell you). Most of our freshman sat through this session in a zoned, bored kinda way. You could tell that they are dying to plug in their I-pods, but their parents were forcing them to follow along. "Yeah, it's just a community college. What's the big deal?"

Sigh. Just a community college. This is the excuse every community college instructor hears a million times. We can tell a group of 18-year-olds all about the free tutoring and the Career Center, the importance of going to class on time, the need to ask for help before the last drop date of the semester. At a community college, it's difficult to make this stuff resonate. The students know we're an open enrollment school. With a pulse and an application, they can be admitted. It's just what happens after they're admitted that is up to them. Whether they finish the degree, transfer to Big U, or start that cutting-edge career. I don't think our New Student Orientation impresses our students with the gravity of the moment. We're not communicating the tide-changing, earthquack-starting potential of the next two years.

What we need is a little more pomp and circumstance. I think I'll bring this idea up with the orientation planning committee at our upcoming meeting. Next year, let's nix the perky theme, the color-coordinated handouts, and the matching T-shirts. Instead, let's add some ceremony to the mix. A Campus Processional--that's the ticket.


- posted by Laurie @ 5:04 PM |

 
What in the Word?
I start each day with a bowl of high-fiber cereal, low-fat yogurt, and The Word of the Day from Merriam-Webster, the dictionary publisher. Each morning, there in my e-mail IN box, is a new word, plus a bit about the word's origin. The goal here is to improve my vocabulary, but mostly I enjoy reading the word histories. My, what twisted journeys some words take to make it into our language.

Just earlier this week, the Word of the Day was "tawdry." Now, tawdry is a lovely word in its own right. Thanks to Merriam-Webster, I know more about how this word came to be, and I like it even better than before.

Tawdry's rather tawdry past is described this way:

In the 7th century, Etheldreda, the queen of Northumbria, renounced her husband and her royal position for the veil of a nun. She was renowned for her saintliness and is traditionally said to have died of a swelling in her throat, which she took as a judgment upon her fondness for wearing necklaces in her youth. Her shrine became a principal site of pilgrimage in England. An annual fair was held in her honor on October 17th, and her name became simplified to St. Audrey. At these fairs various kinds of cheap knickknacks were sold, along with a type of necklace called "St. Audrey's lace," which by the 17th century had become altered to "tawdry lace." Eventually, "tawdry" came to be used to describe anything cheap and gaudy that might be found at these fairs or anywhere else.

St. Audrey, fall festivals, lace necklaces. This is without a doubt the most interesting word history I've run into. The word it self has a scandalous sort of feel. Tawdry--it sounds naughty just to say it out loud. Come to find out, the word memorializes a saint noted for her neck and commemorated by cheap lace necklaces. What's not to love? In an era where aged T-shirts and pre-ripped jeans are all the rage, I have a feeling tawdry is going to make a big come back. Just to help the word along, I'm going to start dropping tawdry into all sorts of unexpected places, like while I'm in staff meetings or during water cooler chit-chat with my coworkers. I'll say things like, "what a great hair cut you've got there. Very tawdry!" And "Look at those darling tawdry shoes. Where can I get some!"

Tawdry will become the new cool.

- posted by Laurie @ 9:44 PM |

 
Four More Years, Four More Years!

Ain't We Darling?

Four years ago today, when Randy met me at the front of the church for our wedding, he smiled the broadest smile and a few tears gathered in his eyes. He looked proud and thrilled and a little scared, all at the same time. The thought of seeing him smiling at me across a room full of our favorite people still makes my heart quicken.

For the wedding, I wore into the pretty white dress my mother made. All six of my sisters wore yellow sun dresses Mom designed, as well. Randy wore his best suit and a new tie. Three of my youngest sisters accompanied me down the aisle while three other sisters accompanied us with Pachebel's Canon on cello and violin.

After a brief wedding at a local church, the reception bash was held at my parent's house. All the party fixin's were made by my sisters. Mom and Wendy worked mightily the months before the reception to get the flower gardens behind my parents house blooming. Dad built two lovely arbors for the garden. While my brother-in-law Rick fired up the barbeque, my niece Hannah and her dad Nathan sang song after song for the guests. Pictures were taken by Randy's oldest friend.

It was a beautiful day, and the best part was that we shared it with the people who are the most important to us, our friends and family. With a wonderful beginning like that, it's no suprprise it's been a wonderful marriage.

- posted by Laurie @ 7:20 AM |

 



- posted by Laurie @ 3:27 PM |

 
Fire Update
The kitchen capers continue...

Last night, my tomatillo and poblano chicken bake turned out quite tasty. The sauce had a little more kick than my usual fair, which kept things interesting.

And the best part--leftovers galore! The fridge is stocked with two salads, homemade salsa, rhubarb pie, and healthy snacks. It is a beautiful sight to see all those plastic food storage containers stacked neatly in the fridge. Sigh.

I just might make it to Thursday without cooking another thing.

- posted by Laurie @ 7:06 AM |

 
Fire in the Kitchen
"So what you making for dinner tonight?" The other day, a coworker asked me this question on our way to the parking lot. My answer was, "What? Cook on a weeknight? You've got to be crazy." My coworker looked at me in amazement and asked how it was possible for me not to cook during the week. It is possible, I explained, if you have a system.

Sunday: Cook a decent meal. A casserole, a pan of enchiladas, maybe a crockpot meal. Something hearty that will provide lots leftovers, because you're not cooking again for the rest of the week! Since you'll be following a recipe, and since you really have no idea what you're doing, this dinner will provide spills, chills, and piles of dirty dishes to clean up afterwards. Note: The final product may be edible.

Monday: Let's hear a mighty "Huzzah!" for leftovers!

Tuesday: More leftovers. Still tasty, even though you've eaten the same thing three nights running.

Wednesday: If you're lucky, you'll squeeze one more meal out of that pan of lasagna.

Thursday. Pickings are slim by Thursday. The cupboards are bare, and the refrigerator echos dimly when you open it. What to do in this dire situation? Grab a box of breakfast cereal. That's right, Cheerios to the rescue!

Friday. Since you've already resorted to fine cereal dining for one night of the week, and since falling back on this option twice a week is too pathetic even for Laurie, Friday nights are best spent at a local classy dinner, like Peoria's own Avanti's Ristorante.

Saturday. With any luck, good friends will take pitty on you and invite you over for dinner. Preferably something home-cooked, with a side salad and a serving of vegetables. Any takers out there?

This system has worked well for the entire four years of my marriage. Since Randy was a confirmed bachelor before we met, getting a home cooked meal at least once a week was a major improvement, so he's never complained. It's just after a while the Lean Cuisine diet starts to loose it's glamor. I began to think, "Is this all there is?" as I punched in two minutes, medium-low on the microwave. It was then that I realized, I wanted to learn how to cook.

Now I can follow a recipe like the best of 'em, it's keeping it up all week long that wears me down. Sure, whipping up a nice meal once a week is almost enjoyable. A bit of a distraction, really, on a quiet day around the house. But on a weekday, when I'm cranky and in the mood for lounging on the couch, the last thing I want to do is look for culinary inspiration in a cookbook. My problem is keeping the fire, carrying the enthusiasm night after night.

To spark the motivation, and to force me back into the kitchen, this year I subscribed to a a local small farm. It's kinda like getting a magazine, only instead of a slick packet of ads and glitzy pictures, I get a box of locally grown veggies. Back in the spring, the box was packed full with cool-weather vegetables like cabbage. Cabbage? And not one head of cabbage, mind you. One week I received three types of cabbage and two heads of lettuce. That week, my cooking skills were sorely tested, and we ate more salad and cole slaw than I thought humanly possible.

But now that we are in the peak of summer, getting the box is like Christmas all over again. And a healthy Christmas, without all the baked goods and chocolate treats. This weeks box included:


Friday night, in a cooking frenzy, I whipped up a rhubarb pie, a tomato and fresh mozzarella salad, and cooked beets. Before now, I never realized where the phrase "beet red" came from. The juice from the beets were such a dark red color, I thought I'd slipped with the knife and sliced my hand.

The kitchen fiesta continued on Saturday. I made a black bean and fresh corn salad, and then a black bean and fresh corn salsa. It only occurred to me afterwards that these two dishes contained almost exactly the same ingredient. The only difference was that the salsa has a bit of a Tex-Mex kick to it. Hummmm... salads and salsas aren't all that much different. Who knew?

Tonight, we still have more veggies to cook up, and if I don't get cracking, things might start getting funky in the fridge. Our menu includes mashed squash, a polenta bake, and if I've got time I'm boiling up the soybeans for a late-night snack. Cooking three nights in a row. That may be a record for me.

- posted by Laurie @ 5:13 PM |

 
50 Things about Laurie
1. I'm the oldest of seven sisters. Hummm, the oldest. I think that explains a few things...
2. Modesto, California, is where I spent my formative years. Modesto is the boyhood town of George Lucas, and scenes from American Graffiti were filmed at my high school.
3. In 1st grade, I won a class poetry contest for the little ditty I wrote about bunnies. Thus began my illustrious writing career.
4. My youngest sister, Erin, is seventeen years younger than me. We are still sometimes mistaken for being mother and daughter.
5. In 4th grade, I began playing the violin. That same year, our long-time next door neighbors moved to Florida.
6. I love a good cup of mint tea.
7. When it comes to cooking, everything I make is an experiment. You know how it goes with scientific discovery. Sometimes you discover the chemical formula for Radon. Sometimes you blow up the lab.
8. For better than 28 years in my life, I had the same haircut. It was a charming little number known as a "bob." Sometimes I wore it with bangs, sometimes I wore it with a headband, and sometimes I pulled the whole mess up into a ponytail.
9. Four years ago, I sheered most my hair off and now wear it boys' style. No more curling irons. No more hot rollers. No more frizzy mess.
10. My next-to-youngest, Anna, lives in Missouri. She's the mother of the adorable baby Juddah.
11. In 6th grade, I wowed the kids in my class by reading Jane Eyre in just one week.
12. On Sunday mornings, don't you just love to sit a cup of Tension Tamer tea curled up on the couch with a good read?
13. In 7th grade, I was known as the "school librarian's pet" because I was one of the few kids to touch the dusty books in the "classics" section.
14. Sarah, my sister who is third-from-the-end, works for a river running outfit in Washington State. I'm so jealous!
15. Between my junior and senior year of high school, I spent two months as an exchange student in Japan. I wore a uniform to school, rode the Shinkansin, and learned to love sushi.
16. I've made four concerted efforts to learn Japanese. I still have my language flashcards, and one of these days they may just do the trick.
17. Other languages I've given up learning: German, Spanish, and American Sign Language. Do we see a trend here?
18. Wendy, my third-oldest sister, has four adorable kids. Hannah, Sidney, Emily, and Jonathan are as cute as buttons.
19. My freshman year in high school, I switched from violin to cello, much to the relief of my violin teacher.
20. Somehow, cello made a lot more sense to me. I actually practiced from time to time, and became a somewhat decent high school orchestra member.
21. My freshman year in high school, the Thomas Downey High School orchestra took a grand tour of Iceland, where we played for a few church congregations and a retirement home.
22. My favorite memory of Iceland is watching the fuzzy baby sheep trotting across the rocky Iceland fields.
23. While I was in Iceland, I bought several hand knit Icelandic-style sweaters. The sweaters must be thermal nuclear powered, best worn while skiing or hiking in sub-zero temperatures.
24. I still have two of the Icelandic sweaters and pull them out on chill-ish Illinois evenings. Perhaps these sweaters inspired my later fascination with hand knitting.
25. The Thomas Downey orchestra also played aboard the Azure Seas cruise ship on a two-day trip from San Diego to Ensenada, Mexico, where we stunned the audience with our rendition of Pacabel's Canon.
26. My favorite memory from the cruise: falling to sleep to the gentle rocking of the boat.
27. My senior year in high school, just after graduation, the Thomas Downey orchestra made one more grand tour, this time to Hawaii where we played in an outdoor amphitheater, much to the annoyance of the tourists trying to get tans on the beach.
28. My favorite memory from the Hawaii trip is sneaking out of our hotel after midnight for more beach time.
29. I attended college at Brigham Young University, a darn fine private school. And a bargain, too.
30. In college, I was an English major. I planned to enter a career where they would pay me for reading books all day.
31. For two years, I lived on campus at BYU in Felt Hall, a dorm for women.
32. Last year, I visited my old dorm, and it still retains its 1950's practical glamour.
33. Most days, I begin the morning with a bowl of high-fiber cereal. Mmmmm, fiber.
34. My middle sister, Mary, just moved to Washington, DC. She's pregnant and expecting a baby girl.
35. My favorite thrill about going to college was walking around campus, wearing my walkman, and listening to Paul Simon tapes. All the McBride girls are Paul Simon fans.
36. As a part of a class I took in college, I went on a three-week trip to Bolivia in South America. There, the class helped a small village build a school, a well, and a green house.
37. My favorite memory of Bolivia is riding atop a bus as it wound its way down a narrow river valley road into a dense cloud forest.
38. My second-favorite memory of Bolivia is walking the cobblestone streets of La Paz and bargaining with a merchant for an alpaca sweater.
39. My least-favorite memory of Bolivia is meeting the guy who I later married…and divorced.
40. What was my first marriage like? Imagine Rebel Without a Cause combined with Slacker combined with Dazed and Confused.
41. After getting divorced, I found myself in Seattle, Washington, working for the Seattle Public Library. The best part about working for the library-the books!
42. In Seattle, I discovered this great little sandwich shop in the Pike's Place Market where you can get a bowl of soup and salad and a window seat with a view of the Puget Sound. Then, for the next half hour, the sight of ferries sliding in and out of port, the view of the Cascade Mountains, the green hills of West Seattle, there's all yours for under $5.
43. My sister Heather-she's the next oldest-she just had her third baby, a little girl she named Michelle.
44. After getting divorced, I took a bunch of classes. I think it was a part of this whole "self renewal, self discovery" phase that follows most divorces.
45. First, I took a knitting class. Then a creative writing class, then a year-long seminar on human resources management. I finished up this school-going streak by earning a masters degree in public administration from Seattle University.
46. The self-improvement phase also involved a vegetarian diet, a membership at the local YMCA, many aerobic classes, and another shot at learning Japanese.
47. During a ride with a Seattle bicycle club, I met a cute biker named Randy. He looked great in a pair of bicycle shorts.
48. Three years later, Randy and I took our honeymoon to Banff, Canada.
49. While on our honeymoon, we read the first two Harry Potter books together. Isn't that romantic? During the four years of our marriage, we've read the entire Harry Potter saga together.
50. These days, I work at Illinois Central College, a fine community college. When I'm not on the job, I like to pretend to be a freelance writer.

- posted by Laurie @ 2:00 PM |

 
Tour Around the Blog Factory
NPR is doing a series on Creative Spaces. You know the scoop, an artist shows the journalist around his rustic woodland studio. The artist rambles on and on about his collection of antique fishing poles, casting flies, fishing vests with a couple dozen pockets, that sort of thing.

As a spin on the "creative spaces" idea, let's take a tour around the space where Prairie Tide gets plowed up. The space: a spare bedroom in a circa 1968 suburban paradise. The house's name is That 70's House, in honor of the home's lovely decorative touches that reflect it's noble birthright. The split-entry foyer, the kitsch chandelier, dark Mediterranean-style kitchen, the shag carpet. It's got some kinda style.

The writing room is the spare bedroom on the front corner of the house. Out one window, there's a view down the street of the other cool 70's monoliths on the block. This is my daydream window. Nothing suits me better than to sit and stare out the window. Once, I spotted an owl take flight from a neighbor's maple tree. On winter days when there is some sunshine, I can catch sight of the occasional red-tail hawk circling above the warmth rising off the street.

The window is conveniently located just above my mega L-shaped desk. This desk is a god-send. Earlier this year, my computer perched on a small student desk, a desk built before the advent of computers. Writing on that doll-sized desk was like trying to change clothes in the back seat of a Volkswagen Bug. Lots of banged-up elbows and bruised shins.

Then I spotted an ad in the newspaper pitching a computer desk for just $99. The first few people through the door would also receive a bookshelf-thing to put on top of the desk. The tiny student desk was promptly demoted to the family room where it now houses the checkbook, stamps, and credit-card receipts, and serves as a bill-paying station. Once the new desk was delivered, all I had to do was wait for the creativity to begin...

Silly me, I thought the new desk would be delivered as a finished unit, ready for me to set up the computer. The delivery guys dropped a long thing box that was so heavy, I feared it might implode into a dark hole. It dawned on me then that if I wanted the bargain corner desk, I'd have to assemble it myself. I didn't really come with instructions for assembly, just a diagram with lots of arrows. After much cursing, gashing of teeth, and help from Randy on the hard parts, the desk took it's place of glory.

Paper piles. Other than the over-sized desk, that's pretty much the main decorative element in this creative space. I've got two plastic crates jammed full of old bills and bank statements. The closet is stuffed to the brim with all the notes and research papers I wrote in grad school (just can't make myself through them out yet). There are stack about the floor and all across the top of the desk. Stacks of papers that I want to read, stacks I have read and want to write about, and stacks of paper that I've written about but now I don't know what else to do with them.

Also, there are books. The collection of nice-looking books are on the lovely oak bookshelf in the living room that Randy and his dad built for me. Here in the writing space, the bookshelves are mismatched but functional. They're lined with a fine collection of much-loved but snarled up sic-Fe paperbacks that looked a little too ratty for the living room. What's more, I have shelves and shelves of out-dated textbooks (hey, they might come in handy one day). Most attractive of all is the books I have arranged around the walls, propped up so I can see the book covers. These are the books I was supposed to read this summer. There are some computer manuals that make me sleepy just glancing at the titles, a few more textbooks (always wanted to take a philosophy class, never got around to it, but I've got the textbook should I feel the urge), and a whole bunch of paperbacks I picked up at a used book sale last fall. The book sale is coming up again in a month or so. If I don't dust these off and crack open the covers, it's back to the book sale they go.

Here's the best thing in my writing space: propped up by the computer is a black-and-white photo of baby Juddah, the newest nephew in the family. In the photo, Juddah is just a few days old. He's sleeping, and he is all wrinkly and has teeny fingernails. Everyone who sees the photo says the same thing: Awhhhhh!

So is this a creative space? Judging by the output on Prairie Tide, I better get me a collection of fishing rods.

- posted by Laurie @ 5:36 PM |

 
Plains and Prairies

Victoria. He cleared his throat. He started again. Victoria. Raymond and me was wanting to ask you a question, if you don't mind. If we could. Before you started back to your studies there.
Yes? she asked. What did you want to ask?
We just wondered...what you thought of the market?
The girl looked at him. What? she said.
On the radio, he said. The man said today how soybeans was down a point. But that live cattle was holding steady.
And we wondered, Raymond said, what you thought of it. Buy or sell, would you say.

Plainsong, by Kent Haruff, takes place in Eastern Colorado in the bare stretches of Holt County. As a kid growing up in California, I always considered Colorado part of the West. Now that I live in Illinois, it occurs to me that the flat, eastern part of the state has as much in common with the Heartland as it does with the downhill skiing resorts in the mountainous side of the state.

It's the two McPheron brothers that are my favorites in this story. There's something familiar about their silent ways. In fact, I'd say the portrait of the McPheron brothers could be a close description of some of my Midwestern in-laws. The bachelor brothers, both in their sixties, still live in the old farmhouse they were raised in. Their days are made up of herding cattle, raising calves, tending horses, stringing barbwire, and listening to the daily farm report on the radio, until a local school teacher convinces them to take in a pregnant teenager.

All the sudden, there is a young woman living in the house, and they're afraid to say a word to her. Victoria lives with the brothers for weeks before they crack open the door of conversation with talk about pork bellies and soy futures. During the weeks leading up to the delivery, they misunderstand her moodiness, her tendency to sleep in until noon on weekends, the way she brushes her hair for hours. Just when they start to get used to having a woman around the place, she disappears...

I picked up this book at a used book sale because I liked the title. Inside the cover, I see that the word plainsong means "the unison vocal music used in the Christian church from the earliest times." It seems an apt metaphor for this gentle story. Plainsong is filled with characters that are unbending and resilient, just like the prairie landscape where they live. Ken Haruff has written other books about the good people of Holt County, and I'd like to read them all.

- posted by Laurie @ 8:10 PM |

 
Children of the Corn



Today, we participated in a time-honored Midwestern tradition. It was a pilgrimage, really. All summer, I've been on the search, looking high and low, for that uniquely midwestern summer staple. A sweet, farm-fresh ear of corn. I've picked up a few ears at the local Shnucks, sampled ears at family barbecue, stopped at roadside stands, and visited the local soul food cafe on the hunt for a tasty, wholesome, soul-satisfying bite of corn on the cob. But so far this year, it was all for not.

Until today. August 1 is the date of the annual Minier Corn Daze, a small town festival that features sweet summer corn on the cob--and they serve it for free.

According to The Pantagraph, "Corn Daze festival workers will cook and serve between 5,000 and 6,000 ears of free sweet corn during the festival at Minier Park on Aug. 1." Free corn, served in a small park right next to an actual corn field. Could the corn on the cob be any sweeter? Could it be any more farm-fresh? Could it be served saturated in any more butter? I think not.

Minier Corn Daze had more to offer than just corn. Our fine festival food menu included:

• Corn dogs (of course)
• Funnel cake
• Lemon shake-ups

Nothing like country cooking! The fair also featured some festival fixings I'd never exeprienced before. The most enticing was a dish called the Walking Taco. Apparently, to make this portable entree, the chef begins with a hand-selected bag of corn chips. The bag is carefully sliced open, and a dollop of spicy chili is nestled onto the chips. To top off the Walking Taco, lettuce, cheese, onions, and cheese are stuffed into the bag. Thus you have a messy--but portable--Corn Daze treat.

After the feast, we explored the festival booths. The fair seemed to be doing brisk trade in scented candles, rag rugs, beanie babies, wind chimes, and used books. One gentleman was selling air guns made out of PVC pipe. He'd load in a mini-marshmellow, aim, and fire off a round towards his sleeping dog, who promptly woke up and ate the ammunition. The guy said, "The only reason that I shoot at the dog is because my kids aren't here." For three dollars, I really wanted one. I could imagine waking up Randy each morning with a mini-mellow to the forehead. What a way to start the day! But Randy, the voice of reason, lead me away from the fair booths towards the car show before I lost all fiscal control.

I've never been much of a car buff. My car is small, cute, and paid for--that's enough for me. But I know something about getting complete wrapped up in a hobby. Obsession is a thing I can understand, and it appeared a trait I share with the car owners. The cars at the show were amazing. Leather interiors color-coordinated with the custom, flame paint job. Chrome polished bright enough to blind passers-by. Engines so clean, the name "engine" just doens't seem adequate. I can imagine the owner of each one of those babies lavishing their cars with pampered specially-formulated car washes, weekly hand waxes, and money, money, money. One owner of an orange Mustang positioned mirrors all around the edge of his car so we could see the chrome detailing underneath the vehicle. Now that's obsession.

Here it is, the end of the day. The Minier Corn Daze is behind us for another year, but I can't get this song out of my head. I keep hearing it over and over and over again. You know what song I'm talking about. Ready, everyone, all together now:

There's a bright golden haze on the meadow
There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,
The corn is as high as an elephant's eye,
An' it looks like it's climbin' clear up to the sky.

Oh, what a beautiful mornin',
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I got a beautiful feelin'
Ev'rything's goin' my way.

- posted by Laurie @ 6:19 PM |

 

Car Show Coolness

- posted by Laurie @ 6:19 PM |