Sharritt Christmas Letter, 2013

Dear friends and family,

We hope this letter finds you doing well.

With Grace married off and Ben gainfully employed, they have been voted off the Christmas letter island. In their absence, we are finding ourselves able to use a larger font in this empty nest Christmas letter. Plenty of margin space. The lovely Miss Beverly can read it without her reading glasses too.

R o o m y.

The stages of launching our children into the world from the beginning of the countdown somewhere around "fastens own seatbelt" led to learner's permit, planning their own trips to Oregon and Ghana, and went to full blast-off this year. Ben graduated from I.U. and landed his first teaching job at Fairview Elementary in Bloomington. Grace married Chris, and they are both headed for senior internships, and then graduate programs, location to be determined. We are concerned that the school they end up in may be a place that will require a passport to visit; say Ohio State, or Michigan, but we've accustomed ourselves to crossing the border into Bloomington, so we'll figure it out.

We've decided it's pretty spectacular to see your kids become autonomous. They do things like plan their own graduation parties complete with ping pong tournament, and clean the whole house while you're out. Things that may sound mythical if you are in the trenches with toddlers or adolescents.  Last night after Christmas Eve service we came home and Ben offered to make the brunch casserole, and Grace to make the caramel rolls. Stunned, we sat down at the card table and worked on the jigsaw puzzle with Chris. The sounds of your kids doing dishes, while you sip wine, can sound as big as a rocket engine.

The empty in empty nest is feeling less like a loss or grief, and more like "roomy". Spacious. Ample. Boundless.

Roger continues to act like a twelve year old, pedaling for miles and miles on his bike. 2013 saw him riding 4600 miles. That's from here to there and halfway back again. Three big rides comprised the milestones for his year of pedaling, feeling the wind in his hair, picking bugs out of his teeth, and dodging assassin deer; 

Ride Across Indiana, The Flat Fifty, and the Hilly Hundred. Thanks to those who supported him in the Habitat  for Humanity  ride across Indiana. Your generosity raised nearly $1500 for shingles. How do I know it was for roofing shingles? Well, you're the tops.Next year, he hopes to ride in the Race Across Indiana; 160 miles from Terre Haute to Richmond on state road 40 in one day. Here's to praying for a very strong tail wind. 

Each goal inspires others. Now the nieces and nephews are talking about riding across Iowa in 2014 with uncle Roger in RAGBRAI. The lovely Miss Beverly will drive the support vehicle carrying bananas, water, and the occasional discouraged niece or nephew who could not keep up with uncle Rog.

Bev is feeling the advantages of ample time to be the teacher she wanted to be when she was balancing career, family, and farm. She indulges in after school naps. Not wanting to give up cooking and baking for a crew, she invents combinations of people to invite for soup suppers, and tries pie of the month recipes out on her book club and gardening friends. She organized a dozen women to share a house near the Dunes National Lakeshore this fall for a prayer retreat. She has pulled out the totes of fabric she amassed in the early mom years, and is dabbling in quilting again. In preparation for Grace's wedding she invited family and friends to a pennant making party where old and new fabric bits brought by the participants were crafted into 1200 feet of colorful decoration for the reception hall. 

The year of wedding planning and parties distilled into wedding week with many moments of joy, including an impromptu run to Jimmies Dairy Bar with 7 people stuffed into Roger's car after buying 40 quarts of strawberries for wedding trifle. And while the big week was fraught with cursing the weatherman's predictions of 80% chance of heavy thunderstorms, we prepared for an outdoor wedding anyway. Once again, the weatherman didn't know rain from tears of joy. The clouds made room for sun, birdsong, and singing under the wedding tree, followed by feasting and dancing. 

Those were the exciting ventures. Most evenings are spent in our roomy nest, in contented silence while swiping away on our iPads. The extent of our conversation might be,

"You gonna ride your bike?"

"Yep."
One hour later:

"How was your ride?"

"Windy." (or "Hot.", or "Great!", or "I didn't unclip in time when I stopped to talk to Steve and I fell in the ditch.")

We love these boring stretches too: the days of getting up early, eating oatmeal, and doing what needs to be done. These times, spiced with grown-up conversations with these lovely new adult people who grace our lives add up to a great recipe for this new expansive half of life. (Bev especially enjoys texting fellow teacher Ben speculations about two hour delays and school closings.)

Let us know when you're passing through. It might be pie-of-the-month night and we'd love to sit down to a meal with you.

Merry Christmas,

Roger & Bev

Our Gift to You?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Although, I found myself slogging away, trying not to lose my mind as I lost another minute of daylight heading for the 21^st. It has been a long journey down an ever shrinking corridor this year. It was due to the extended period of cold and snowy weather that kept me off of my bike outside. Barring a major holiday push, I will barely ride 200 miles this month. Sure I have put 10 hours of gerbil time riding the stationary bike, but it is not the same. Late last week the roads were clear enough to get out. Riding at 8:30 with a full moon being captured and amplified by the snow cover, it was a beautiful night to be out there chugging away.

It’s okay. This too shall pass. Saturday, December 21 came, and we have swung around the corner of the winter of our discontent on the fantastic march towards June 21^st which ironically goes through March, that 31 day trudge through the mud. The anticipation is already starting to build. We are experiencing 4 more minutes of daylight today compared to the low water mark of Saturday. I can feel the stores of vitamin D rebounding even as I write.

I have been enjoying a few days of vacation before Christmas and the end of the year. It has been enjoyable. The children are home. We all got dressed up in our finest and went to a niece’s wedding on Saturday. Three inches of rain couldn’t dampen our spirits. The anticipation of the nuptials built over the weekend with events, card games, Christmas treats, gifts, and board games.

Several of the most recent celebrations have included a mega event for the family’s enjoyment the evening before. Kickball and entire family dodge ball were on tap for the previous get togethers. This wedding eve featured roller skating. It was fun . . . mostly. There were a few bumps and bruises; no broken bones during this outing. That is no mean feet as the aunts and uncles seem to have forgotten that they aren’t as young as they used to be. We used to bounce off of the floor and spring back up. Now we fall in slow motion, our faces contorted in the precognition of pain to come.

It is the result of evolutionary programming; this recognition that one set back could presage the end. Our ancestors, recognizing that they were not as fleet as they once were, drew back from the hunt. The comfort that while they didn’t have to be faster than the bear just faster than grandpa running from the bear, evaporated as they realized that they had become grandpa. A sore hamstring, a tweaked ankle, or a bit of nearsightedness could move you to up to entrée of the day for a bear in pursuit. In spite of the anxiousness generated from our hereditary warning system, we got out there. We held hands. We did the hokey pokey. We hoped that we didn’t look as dumb as that guy. And we teased the only person who had the good sense to recognize their limitations; the one who decided to sit this one out.

We are a family that is passing the generational torch. The aunts and uncles have moved into cautious middle age. We parents are letting children go; getting them through school; watching them get married; some having children of their own. Our parents are getting more attention. It is a shock when we find that they need to set this one out; a shock because they had always been so game to try anything. It is a bigger shock when the act of getting up on roller skates initiates the life before our eyes trailer that we had been saving for a special occasion; like driving into a retention pond.

As I sat in the reception hall taking in the beautiful bride and handsome groom, the rich texture of the décor, the anticipation of the hot fudge wedding favors, the dancing, the wonderful toasts, the gift table overflowing, I watched as pranks were schemed and carried out by aunts and uncles on nephews using Instagram as they frantically tried to figure out the new smart phone. I watched young cousins talk smack back and forth. I watched as an uncle created a tribute in limerick to the bride and groom. I watched as a son-in-law took grandma’s scooter out on the dance floor for a spin. In all of the craziness, I realized that the gifts that had been given were not in brightly wrapped paper. They were covered in the rich tapestry of life embraced, loved, and passed along. The gift of celebration passed to you.

Take care,

Roger

The Three Light Disk of Christmas?

Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The winter weather has come on pretty strong. If the wooly worm’s markings predicted an intense early winter, he is a prophet of monumental proportions and I am glad that I ran over so many on my October rides. If his markings predicted a mild early winter, he should apply to meteorological school because he is just about as successful in prediction as the weather channel.

The snow on the road has certainly curtailed my bike riding the past 3 weeks. I believe that I have overcome this problem this past week. That’s right, the studded bicycle tires that I have coveted for 2 years, have arrived and been installed on an old beater bike that I had.

Thanks to the internet, you can find anything you may or may not need to improve your lot in life. Now if I can just get Obamabike passed, others will be able to pay for this obsession . . .  I mean healthful activity in which I participate and the world benefits. The irony was not lost on me when the package containing tires with 256 steel studs for “sure grip in icy and snowy conditions” arrived with a Florida postmark.

I am prepared now. This afternoon, I shall take my surefooted steed to the highways and byways. I am super excited because not only do I receive the benefits of safe traction. Should I come across an assassin deer on my ride, I can turn him into ground venison with the repeated application of my 512 steel studs. “Honey! Look who’s coming to dinner.”

This Christmas season has brought about a big change for the lovely Miss Beverly and me. For the past 4 years, we have been transitioning nicely into the empty nest. This year the transition took two major steps forward with Ben’s graduation and subsequent teaching gig and the Kozak wedding that involved Grace. If you would like more information about these two wonderful events, read a few blogs from mid-year. You miss an installment; you miss a lot. With their two major steps towards independence, our empty nest situation has shifted into high gear.

This has been most evident during the Christmas season. The number, of traditions that a family has that surround the children, kinda sneaks up on you. Cutting the tree, decorating the tree, candy wrapping, and present wrapping; all were traditions that involved Ben and Grace. Even as they went off to school, the long semester breaks provided plenty of time to fit these traditions into the fabric of our lives, with just a few wrinkles. We were able to leave detailed instructions for them in the bottom of the cereal bowls. They would be able to read these as they got up from their long winter’s naps around noon and complete the tasks that evening after the lovely Miss Beverly and I went to bed and they had gotten their feet underneath them.

So, this is a year of new traditions, or rather further refinement of the old. It started last week. The cold temperatures and snowy Saturday, highlighted by a fantastic morning sun, catapulted the lovely Miss Beverly (a catapulted lovely Miss Beverly is a sight to behold) out of bed and into the woodlot, where she had spotted a nicely shaped 11 foot cedar tree. The old traditions were holding form nicely. I had the chain saw. Bev had the camera. Two quick cuts and a couple of lumberjack pictures later; we had a stellar eight foot tree with some extra greenery for wreath making. Then the wheels fell off. We were 600 yards from the house and had no children to drag the tree carcass back home. Thankfully, the lovely Miss Beverly has also been called the sturdy, lovely, Miss Beverly before my editor insisted that I reduce the use of commas to help the flow of these blogs. She dragged the tree to the front porch, while I made a couple of trips bringing greenery and the saw in.

With the arduous task of bringing the tree in, and getting it set up straight completed, we suddenly also realized how much we missed the kids and their tree decorating skills. “Maybe we should wait until the rest of the snow melts from the tree,” was my suggestion. I will admit I had my eye on another prize. I had intended to watch college football all day. This would have never been a problem back in the good old days. Grace and Bev would have decorated the tree sharing stories about each ornament, richly weaving many inches onto the Christmas tradition tapestry. Me? I would have had horrible flashbacks as to the rules of tree decoration from my youth. “Big ornaments on the bottom, small ornaments on the top, keep that 5 watt light bulb away from the crepe paper Jesus. You don’t want to burn down the house do you? Come on pay attention.” Soon, I would have been curled up on the floor in the fetal position with my hands over my ears trying to keep the voices out.

Bev is very gracious. Waiting later was an accepted suggestion. On Sunday the one watt cool bulbs came out and were strung on the tree. Thankfully, we lost momentum, and we both think that the tree looks pretty nice with just Christmas lights. So we have a new tradition.

On to present wrapping, we shouted after solving the tree decoration crisis. I was brought up short. I have had a cherished present wrapping tradition through the years that has been thrown into disarray with transitions of this year. I have long turned over the sacred task of wrapping presents to Grace. Okay sacred may be a bit much. But it does approach the very important. You don’t believe me? Go ahead and put a bow on the target bag and leave it under the tree. No! Present wrapping is a very important Christmas tradition. So I have asked Grace to do it all of these years. Sure, she found out what she got from me. You may think that it ruined the surprise, but it didn’t. She was just as surprised on December 10^th as she would have been on Christmas morning.

As the Santa in brown, the UPS man, started to appear the Monday after Thanksgiving, I immediately saw that things were amiss in the new world order. Grace was not available to wrap presents and I have neither the patience nor the attention to detail to wrap presents. I was faced with two choices; either practice patience and attention to do a heartfelt imitation of present wrapping or create an internet meme and convince the world that the new chic is to put a bow on the target bag and shout Merry Christmas. Both seemed like a lot of work and the success of either did not seem probable and then it dawned on me. Like the Grinch when “his heart grew three sizes that day”, I grinned as I realized that I could hire a youth of America to wrap presents for me. Thank you Jesse. You did a wonderful job. As you said, you like to wrap presents and I found out that I like to pay to have presents wrapped. It is a win-win situation.

Then it struck me, this is the way it has always been for the Sharritt’s. All through my youth, we had to wait until the morning chores were done around 10:00 before dad came in and the presents could be opened followed by sticky roll and sausage and scrambled egg brunch. My grandmother had the aluminum tree with the three color spot light disk rotating through red, green and yellow. Then she was gone and so was the tree. For several years after our marriage, Bev and I spent the early dark hours traveling between family homes watching houses wake up one by one; a few more lights coming on as we traveled further down the road. Our years of creating Christmas traditions with our children have been fantastic, and it appears made the preparations easier through the division of labor. Now once again, traditions will spin off throwing new light on our tinseled life like that three light disk slowly spinning on and on.

Take care,

Roger.

The Black Hole of Fridays?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. The 1000 piece New Yorker cover jigsaw puzzle was no match for the high visual acuity guests. Even the 1700 clue crossword puzzle found inside the newspaper among the black Friday ads, picked up at a gas station early Thanksgiving morning while on a mission to rescue Ben from the airport as he made his escape from the tempting 68 degree highs of Phoenix, fell to the collection of wordsmiths assembled for the weekend. It was close though. The action became frenetic late Saturday as it suddenly dawned on us that those four days would not last forever. Our 96 hours were starting to wane. Two turkeys, eight pies, a bushel basket of noodles, two pecks of stuffing, and 248 rolls; that was the best Thanksgiving ever; or at least the best this year.

However, all was not bliss in the Sharritt household. All of the hunters had assembled, and the Assassin deer folded back into fog of war. It was as if the tornados three weeks ago sucked them all away into another dimension. I know that they are out there somewhere. I have seen their fresh droppings scattered hither and yon. It appears that the wild raging hormones have settled down, allowing them to settle into the flora and fauna. Next year’s replacements are in the oven; a promise that winter will not last forever. Nature’s bridge arching over the bad times, these next 200 days the fawn will stay inside, nice and toasty. Next April and May, they will head outside and play assassin deer games during the lush green summer months. Black Friday was some where in the middle of it all along with the obligatory Wal-Mart fiasco.

We knew Black Friday was coming. We had been warned by the morally superior. We had been lured by the decadent. We had been shown videos of past bad behavior. Friends had shared stories of a guy who knew a guy who maced a fellow low price hunter for a $100 32 inch tv. You could see the tear of admiration well up in the storyteller’s eye as he recalled the valiant hunter’s admonition to his wife. “Here, stand in line and get that TV. Then come post bail. It is so worth it.”

I just want to say that I get it. I understand. A deep need and drive exist here. Our fallen angels have been identified and awakened every year with millions of advertising dollars. We flock and follow to the Pied Piper song. I get it.

After watching hours of football in the weeks leading up to Black Friday, it appears that there are actually three fallen angels that are summoned each year. The first is that giving angel; the one who wants to give and give; whose mantra is “it’s for the children.” This person’s payoff is that moment when the child opens the present; their eyes fly open wide, and they start hopping up and down gasping for breath in between shrieks of delight. Any reaction that does not meet this preconceived notion is seen by the giver as a failure; not of the receiver’s gratitude but of the giver’s abilities to please those around them.

The ads that I have seen targeting the givers have focused on using old home videos of children going bonkers in reaction to the new bike, the new computer game, or the new box the bike came in. There used to be old home movies from the Sharritt archives of a bouncing 5 year old Roger. I have no idea what the gift was but it sure made me happy, or I was completely strung out on breakfast pastry and Santa adrenalin.

The second fallen angel to be awakened is the hunter of falling prices. This fellow traveler carries a huge adding machine toting up the savings. I don’t get this one. My lack of intuitive understanding of the hunter’s motivation is my fault. I am too lazy or too ADHD to stalk my quarry. The idea of reading 3 dozen newspaper ads, scouring a dozen internet sites, developing a plan of attack using a spreadsheet that does the time, distance and savings calculus is daunting. The hunter loves these tasks. Their skill has been honed through multiple campaigns of Black Friday shopping. Every lost parking spot, every lost deal, every “we’re sorry no rain checks” has become a painful teacher. They are wizened hunters. I am more of a gatherer than a hunter. I am perfectly willing to walk along through the woods and stumble across something that I know my loved ones will bounce up and down in delight in recognition of my thoughtfulness and the clever gift which I purchased for them. But the hunter loves the competition; keeping track of the savings,  bagging deals, and accumulating tales of daring do to share around the water cooler on Monday morning with mere mortals who will have to pick the carcass of 5% discounts the following week.

Like Ebenezer’s final ghost, the last of the fallen angels to be summoned is the scariest for me. It is scary because as I look inside the cowl hiding its face, I see my own. My Christmas Black Friday is about saving enough money so I can buy me what I want. I am not proud of it. It is sad. You can shake your head back and forth and say tsk,  tsk, tsk. The phrase “it’s the thought that counts is lost on me. I say this because it is true for me. I was given the wish book every year. I circled and folded pages. I was good. I was disappointed. We were poor; probably poorer than I ever knew. So electric race sets, M16 with grenade launchers, and BB guns, were not under the tree. Rather these were replaced with Hot Wheels, Play Dough pumping stations and cloths. Cloths??? Cloths were one of life’s necessities not a gift. It is true. I have an ungrateful heart. To make matters worse, after not receiving what I had asked for, I would go to friend’s houses and covet the race tracks, M16 with grenade launchers, and BB guns. Today, I can tell you which garage in Madison County holds that dark green M16 with its bright red grenade.

You can imagine the pull and tug of the Black Friday ads when you have two of the fallen angels deep within your breast. If you have the desire to protect the objects of your affection from disappointment and the desire to right past “wrongs” for your own gifts, Katie bar the bank account. It is going to be a long January, paying for all of your shopping therapy.

It is a season of hope though. Over time, I have seen my fallen angels. I have learned that the holes created by experience and temperament are not fillable. I could use the entire treasury to buy things to fill it, and it would all disappear into the void; filling the hole is a fool’s errand. It helps to know that it is just a hole. Let it be. Recognize it. Recognize that the tug of the advertiser is natural but not helpful. Just let it be and kindle the embers of gratefulness. Someday, the fire may become large enough to even things out.

Take care,

Roger.

When Life Gives You Lemons

Dear blog reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. To all of my Illini and Hoosier friends who faced nature’s wrath a week and a half ago, I hope that your power is back on, the tree limbs are being cut up, and that all of the contractors you encounter are honorable. To the homeowners in Kokomo whose 2^nd story decided to detach and go on a walkabout into the middle of the road, wow, that must have been quite a ride.

A week ago last Sunday it was 60 degrees. Saturday, it was below freezing. What did these two pictures have in common? They both featured bicycle rides in winds that were above 25 mph. Last Sunday, the wind was actually above 30 miles per hours. They were straight out of the South. This made my trip South an arduous task, but I could turn north and I was on fire. It was a good reminder that I am not as good as the 30 mph with the wind at my back or as poor as the 6 mph with a stiff head wind.

It was a week of entertainment for the lovely Miss Beverly and me, her humble escort. We went to see Jim Gaffigan and Garrison Keillor at Ball State. In an aside, Ball State has some very good shows and the price is often less than going to the same show in Indianapolis. Check it out.

I rarely do reviews. It isn’t that I don’t have strong, insightful, and accurate opinions about others. I do. I just rarely go out for entertainment. Number one, Bev and I have not been in the position to afford anything other than the cheap seats. Which always made me wonder, why would I want to pay that much money to watch a show on a video monitor? Suddenly, we find ourselves in an empty nest and the nest is lined with a bit more money that had been previously earmarked for our children’s upbringing.

Gaffigan was very funny. He had a couple of very funny riffs; one about going to weddings, another about Hot Pockets. Keillor was completely different. I have been a fan for a long time. I have been to see Prairie Home Companion three times. Once, the lovely Miss Beverly and I got on a train to Minneapolis in early February to spend the weekend in a romantic bed and breakfast. It is a little known fact that global warming has been traced back to that weekend. I’m just saying. It was a romantic bed and breakfast with the lovely Miss Beverly, and it was Minneapolis in early February. While Garrison is a huge star in the public radio world, it is a case of a big fish in a little pond so the tickets have always been affordable and the seats are good.

This show was different. It was a one man show.  He came out and started singing; singing songs that the audience knew and had sang from memory at one point in their lives. After a couple of songs, we received a wonderful invite to join him. He said that adults are seldom asked to sing along. It was a beautiful moment; 1700 people of common musical heritage, singing from their Psalter; Back Home Again, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, and I Come to the Garden Alone; all a cappella.

It struck me that he was right. We are not invited to sing as adults very often. Even in the rich church tradition that I experience, the invitation does not often come. I am sometimes admonished to sing when it dawns on the leadership that Sunday morning has become a concert with the band pumped up loud; loud enough that my lips are moving but I’m not sure that any sound makes it past my lips. It was a blessing; singing in the dark; our voices mixing and covering one another’s weaknesses.

It brought to mind Mark Twain. In fact, several things from the evening brought to mind Mark Twain. Samuel Clemmons, near the end of his life, turned very bitter. He had lost his wife and three of his children. The despair and vitriol are evident and strident in his writing. The essays were not published until 1960, in a book called Letters from Earth. The letters are written by Satan to the archangels Gabrielle and Michael. One of the major points in the essays was that the author had serious doubts about Christian’s claims to be looking forward to worshiping God forever. He claimed that we get bored of singing after 20 minutes. We get tired; start looking through the bulletin; wondering how long the sermon will last because “you don’t want the roast to burn back home.” That observation has resonated inside my head; usually when I have exhausted the bulletin and after I have “rested” my eyes for the second time during the sermon.

However, the singing a cappella in that darkened room old favorites stirred something an ignited a hope that there is something inside me that could reach out and touch the forever.

After singing, he launched into a review of his life; about growing up in Minnesota with his people. He described their stoic optimism forced upon them by their lives is northern Minnesota. Through the evening, he wove the maxims preached by his people and how they intersected with the events of his life. He mentioned repeatedly how lucky he had been. As he told stories and jokes, it struck me that this is what an evening with Mark Twain must have been like. It is remarkable what Mark Twain accomplished; the time period in which he flourished. How do you become an icon without Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram. Commercial radio had not become a phenomenon. He crossed the country to perform shows in front of sold out audiences. He became one of the wealthiest men in America and certainly the wealthiest entertainer. He was the Oprah of his time.

While Twain’s themes struck a strident tone, Garrison’s theme revolved around the luck in his life. The luck of events and opportunities that presented themselves after set backs; the luck surrounding his work in radio, leaving Minnesota; the luck of meeting the one teacher who could inspire his immersion into literature. It is interesting to see the results of the ruminations of the introspective.

Life exerts its pressures and blessings on us all. It appears that we take those influences in and make of them what we can. One sees the setbacks and turns bitter. Another sees the setbacks and recognizes how they forced a good turn into luck. I hope that I see the setbacks as a test persevered through and not broken by. For that, I am thankful.

Take care,

Roger.

A free education shouldn't be cheap?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope this finds you doing well. We have done it now. The first snow fall of winter has fallen on us this past week. A frigid Canadian cold air mass has snuck across the boarder and visited an inch of the white stuff upon us. Obviously the wooly worms are exacting their revenge for my Hilly Hundred shenanigans. It will be gone shortly. We will survive this season of our lives somehow.

Speaking of seasons, the Sharritt household is in the throes of pumpkin pie season. The lovely Miss Beverly loves pumpkin pie. In fact she could eat it year round. Fortunately, she married me, and I am able to place boundaries on her pumpkin pie eating fondness. Specifically, she loves store bought pumpkin pie. This is an odd thing when you look at it logically. Bev is an excellent pie maker. It’s true and not just family bias. She entered the Indy Star’s pie contest 5 years ago and came in 3^rd in a controversial judging decision. The winner was some holiday confection. It was the middle of summer for goodness sake, and they went with the pie that would have slipped Santa Claus into a diabetic coma.

Yes, the lovely Miss Beverly is a documented expert pie maker. However, she is not a competitive pie maker. She loved the creative part; creating a wild black raspberry cream pie with a lemon crust. She enjoyed the testing and tweaking. She reveled in having 20 friends over for a tasting. She disliked the being judged.

The irony is that the lovely Miss Beverly, she of pie making expertise and artistry, loves store bought pumpkin pie. She of the light and flakey Crisco infused crust loves the 10 inch Costco cardboard crusted pumpkin pie. So every October through December, we experience the pumpkin pie season.

This week the hankering overcame the lovely Miss Beverly. I know the look in her eye. Sitting at the dinner table, she will peer longingly at the empty kitchen counter and sigh. After a few minutes, she will start to fidget. Finally, she will get up, walk to the freezer pull out the emergency tub of Cool Whip and put it into the fridge to thaw out. When she does that, I know that it is time. It is time to put on my coat, drive to the local Marsh and bring home a store bought pumpkin pie.

That is why I found myself at the store on Thursday evening having the following conversation with the checkout girl.

 The check out girl said “I can’t believe this pie is so expensive. The 8 inch pie is only two inches smaller but costs much less than the 10 inch pies.” (Note to Marsh management, please train your staff to not ridicule the customer for spending more money.)  Fearing that this youth had wasted my property tax support of her public education, I tried to help out by saying “It’s close to the same price.” Receiving a blank stare in return, I pushed on. I am an educator at heart.  “You see volume is pi r squared.” This isn’t exactly right. That is the formula for area. You would have to take that product above and multiply it by the height. However, I figure that you had to start someplace. I will introduce that concept when I buy a 10 inch pecan pie next week.

Any who. Bambi, or Barbie or Constance or Jessica or whatever her name was, looked at me in all seriousness and said “no pie are round.” Who am I kidding? I would have been proud of her if she had that much wit. I would have walked around the check out counter and given her a hug. I would have looked into her eyes and said, “very good job. Excellent job! Geometry may not be your strong suit but you have a literary wit about you. You’ll be okay.” Actually, she just stared at me blankly. Still uneducated prepared to buy $5.25 eight inch pies over the $8.00 10 inch pies for the rest of her life.

The sad part is that sometime during the past week, she or one of her cohort probably looked up at a math, science, or English teacher and whined, “Why do we have to learn that? We’ll never use it in real life.” I believe that there should be a zero tolerance policy for those words in schools. If you open your pie hole and let those words escape, you should be forced to spend the next week in a room without your “smart” phone, speaking and writing in full sentences, pondering where two trains will collide if they leave two cities, traveling toward one another, on the same track that is located 1.6 miles from your suspension room, at different speeds, carrying toxic acne producing chemicals that will form a 2 mile diameter “zit zone”, answering the question; how many phrases can you hook together with comas and semi-colons and not get a grammar ticket? How’s that for a real world application, dearie? Answer: It doesn’t matter. A 2 mile diameter “zit zone” will miss me by more than a half a mile so I stopped caring about your stupid story problem long before the actual question.

The list of things that are explained by useable knowledge that can be gleaned from a free public education is expansive; when to fill the gas tank so you aren’t doing the long trudge of shame with your $20 red gas can, why do ice cubes freeze together into a solid block when they are obviously melting, why your fritos are more expensive since the ethanol boom, or why a 8 inch pie for $5.50 is more expensive, per volume than a 10 inch pie for $8.00. In fact it is nearly half a cent per cubic inch more expensive. So you paid about 46 cents too much for your cheap 8 inch pie.

Don’t worry though. As Paul Simon predicted, the world will ensure that your “lack of education hasn’t hurt you none.” It will put pictures on the cash registers and have them count out the change for you. It will print calculated tip amounts on the bottom of your receipt. It will even put a green logo on the gas pump so that you can feel like you are doing the right thing while “driving” world food prices up.

It will even be glad to charge you a half a cent more for your pie and make you feel better in your clouded thinking. Those half cents add up during the pie season. Now if you have learned something from today’s lesson and sworn off your 8 inch pie ways, it is important to know one more thing. While your pie is just “2 inches larger”, you had better get an extra tub of cool whip just too even things out.

Take care,

Roger

A pressing memory?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am pretty good. Although the past two nights as I have finished my bike ride, I have witnessed two pair of glowing green eyes about 3 feet off the ground staring back at me from the hydrangea field. This field is about 200 yds from our front door. No those four eyes don’t belong to a pair of ghosts, or two really tall raccoons. It is a pair of assassin deer stalking me; coming ever closer, moving in for the kill. Am I worried? Nah. Just another 100 yards closer and I will walk out on my front porch early one late fall morning and I will bag me some venison. You don’t threaten a man on his own property without some serious repercussions.

You said what, Roger?, readership has reached an important milestone. This past week the 12,000 pair of eyes has perused these missives that I enjoy putting together each week. Thank you for your support. If you are a frequent reader, feel free to become a follower by clicking some line off to the right -à. I don’t know if it helps build readership, but it does give a face to people who really enjoy the blog and gives me a warm fuzzy feeling as I write.

Big doings in the Sharritt household this past gray November week. The lovely Miss Beverly has been hard at work making something for someone that involves fabric. I would share more but it is a secret. Also, it is a secret for someone who often reads the blog. So I hope that you will understand my furtiveness in this situation. Just know that someone will be very surprised and very pleased with the results of Miss Beverly’s artistic vision and handiwork. Is it you? Come now, you know that I can’t tell you that. Patience friend, please have a little patience.

On Tuesday evening, while frantically working with a nearing deadline, the lovely Miss Beverly looked at me with her lovely eyes and said, “I just want to say that I wish we would have kept that rolling iron 27 years ago.”

The incident of the rolling iron is one of the seminal events that our young married life was built upon. It was an event that showed us the stark differences in personality that would have to be compromised through in order to become one as our married life matured through the years. Thankfully, we have not often become a couple that marked victories and defeats in the marital balance sheet, taking care to keep a most careful ledger. There is no bitterness or rancor that has festered through the years of this seminal event. It has become one of the myths of our marriage.

Back when we were young and newly married, we loved to go to auctions. The thrill of the hunt was intoxicating. Stalking other people’s junk, finding their treasures, preparing to pay pennies for what was rightfully theirs, all combined for heady fun. Often times, these auctions were estate sales. Loved ones had passed and had so many accumulated knick-knacks, towels, and dish ware that the heirs could not possibly absorb it all. So after Billy Bob and Bobby Sue had pulled out the good silver, china, and quilts, the rest was piled on tables out in the yard for the neighbors and the curious to stake their claim on the remains. Every once in a while you would stumble across an auction where the heirs could not play nicely, and divide up the good stuff amicably. Each of as many as a dozen sides sure that Mom and Dad would want them to have the Mercedes, or the one carat diamond ring. Each one just as sure, prepared to state under oath that mom had said, just a week before her demise, “I want you have take the pie safe, when I’m gone.”

These auctions were a study in family dynamics. Sisters pitted against brothers, standing immovable at strategic spots in the auctioneer’s line of vision. Their arms encircled their purses. Their checkbooks grasped in white knuckled panic. Eyes danced between adversary and item. One could see brains doing the accounting of love. The careful observer could see the signs quickly, and really push the suspense to a climax by throwing a “uninterested” third party bid at a pivotal moment. This diabolical action would cause the head and heart computers working furiously at full capacity to nearly explode. You ask what we did before facebook and the internet. This is it. On Thursday, we would look for the auctions in the paper. On Saturday, we would get up and go watch some people.

The auction in question was a very low key affair; no drama. Which isn’t completely true, the lovely Miss Beverly and I brought our own. Things were progressing nicely. We had gotten a very nice green overstuffed rocking chair, and a TV. We were in solid agreement, in perfect lockstep, when the seeds of controversy were sown. It was a fairly large accumulation of stuff to be auctioned this day. Every auctioneer knows that you have to keep a certain momentum going or the crowds will lose interest and drift away. Following the laws of economics, supply will swamp demand and they will be selling wheelbarrows full of junk for a quarter.

To combat boredom and auction fatigue, they opened up two rings. Bev and I separated and I suddenly lost focus. I will admit that I love technologically complex contraptions that solve one small problem. If I were to deny it, I would be proven a liar by a simple perusal of my craigslist search list; unimog, big green egg, tandem bikes, shopsmith etc. . .

On this fine summer day, I saw the thing that would make everything right with the world. My discovery was an epiphany. The clouds were breaking up and a single shaft of sunlight shown down illuminating an automatic industrial sized steam roller iron.

This is what the Sharritt household needed. I hate ironing. Bev had never shown a desire to iron. Someday we might have jobs that required nicely pressed clothing. This was what we needed. The problem was there was no time to consult with the lovely Miss Beverly. It was the next item up for bid. To run and find her in the other auction ring, bring her over, explain the wonderful advantages to having an automatic steam roller iron, and decide on the appropriate highest bid, it would have all taken too long and they would auctioning the old golf bag with a rusty putter and driver poking out of the top.

This situation demanded swift and decisive action. I was stunned when they had trouble getting a starting bid of $50. The caller lowered expectations to $25 then $10. Still, no one started us out. Suddenly in the grips of inspiration, I blurted out “a dollar.” The dollar bid is the equivalent of saying “I will take it off your hands. Let’s get moving.” My bid was barely out of my mouth when to my shock and surprise, I heard the words “sold to number . . . 103.” I had done it. I had secured freshly pressed shirts in perpetuity. Surely, one of my children would inherit it. This would insure that my offspring would be sharp dress men that the world would go crazy over for generations to come.

I could not wait to show the lovely Miss Beverly this treasure. I must admit that I was a bit naïve. I thought that automatic meant that all you had to do was throw a shirt on top of the throat to the rollers, turn on the switch and it would pull them through pressing out the wrinkles as they passed between the massive, padded, steam-filled, rollers. Looking over my prize, figuring out how it would work, I was a bit disappointed at the lack of capacity. There was no hopper on top. With a hopper, the busy family could load it up turn on the switch and press an entire week’s worth of clothing hands free. After a bit of cogitation, I figured that twenty minutes with some cardboard, utility knife and some duct tape the capacity problems would be solved.

I was hopeful and dying to show the lovely Miss Beverly my revolutionary new find that I purchased for a dollar. This is where my naivety failed me. I was showing off the many advantages of our new automatic industrial steam iron, when Bev pointed out that you couldn’t just throw your shirts, pants, underwear, and socks on top and the wrinkles would automatically be pressed away. No you had to carefully fold your clothing and feed them through carefully or the wrinkles would be pressed into the fabric.

Carefully fold them and feed them through? Are you sure? It says automatic. Carefully fold them and feed them through? That would be like the automatic dishwasher that I have the scrap and rinse the dishes for in order for it to “wash” them. That is bogus. Bev assured me that it was bogus but true. I had spent a dollar to carefully fold and feed cloths into the “automatic” iron. This was a definite technological step backwards.

And this is where the fun began; where our different temperaments showed through. When that auctioneer said sold, I heard him say “we have entered into a covenant. You will pay me $1, and you will take this piece of crap home.” I said in my mind, “Yes, I will pay you $1 and I will take this fantastic automatic industrial sized steam roller iron and make my life better.” The lovely Miss Beverly entered into no such covenant. When the word sold flew out of the auctioneer’s mouth, she entered into an agreement to pay $1 and leave that piece of crap here if she wanted to.

You can see that the storm was coming. Two different world views were heading toward a collision course. Thankfully, life’s circumstances would force a solution. We were poor. Consequently, we were still driving an old 74 Camaro with little back seat room and no trunk room. Something would have to be left behind. We could take the chair and TV, or the TV and the iron, but not the chair and the iron. Something had to be voted off of the island. I knew that the TV and the chair would work. Bev’s logic managed to penetrate my delusions of hands free ironing. I could see the validity of her argument. I had wasted a dollar on a pipe dream. However, there was still the covenant. “You will take this piece of crap home.” After much huffing, puffing and muttering, the laws of physics proved themselves firm and unyielding. You cannot put 10.5 cubic feet of things into a 10.25 cubic foot space. It was a 45 minute drive home. So a covenant rescue trip to bring home the iron was a 90 minute fool’s errand.

So, we left it; sitting on the edge of a bean field a little worse for wear with a few scratches with the pushing and pulling of trying to have it all. It became a little story of our life together. Then in a moment of kindness and grace this week, Bev remembered it and thanked me for the memory of something I was willing to give up 27 years ago. It seems that old iron could press one more time; a memory on our hearts.

Take care,

Roger