Extra: a December 2007 update

Hi all,

Looks like I won't be posting columns here from this point on, but I still plan on blogging away. Have you ever known a writer who could keep their pen (or computer) quiet for long? Me either.

Anyhoo, there's plenty going on in Kewanee. Deep down somewhere in my soul, I'll always be a Sheffield kid because my early childhood was formed there. It's Kewanee, though, where I've lived the longest.

Friends and family live here, I'm used to the insect population (we keep a wary eye on one another), and we've come to that place in our lives where our attention has shifted from a narrow focus on our children to focusing on hubby's mom. Millions of us are at that time in our life, so we know we're in good company.

Since it's less than a week from Christmas, I wanted to say to everyone who reads this, have a super blessed Christmas and an even better New Year. 2008. Wow, where did the time go?

Column: Watching the Today Show is no cure for cabin fever

By Margi Washburn

It's not yet winter, according to the calendar, but I'm sick of it already. What is it about December 1st the last two years? Last year we were whumped with ten inches of snow, which was too much of a surprise for Sarah the pup. We can laugh about that now, but it wasn't a bit funny then. And this year, the lousy ice, sleet and wind kept the TV 6 weatherman from his own book signing. There's some irony for you.

I like to run all over the place in December. It's fun to check out the sales, mingle with the crowds, get some bargains, and generally get from one place to another without risking life and limb. After all, most of us are stuck inside our workplaces and homes during the sometimes frigid and snow-packed months of January and February. March isn't much of a picnic either, come to think of it.

Now I'm stuck in the house a month early, and it's making me batty. The dog isn't used to having hubby and me both home for such extended periods of time and it's thrown her off somehow. She thinks it's play time from around 7 in the morning until we find some way to get the heck out of Dodge before she drives us completely around the bend. We may live in a big house, but sometimes it isn't nearly big enough.

I'm not the kind of person who can simply sit and do nothing, nor can I do just one thing at a time. One can listen to only so many hours of Christmas music while playing computer games, and daytime television is completely out of the question.

There's always the anticipation that the postman might deliver interesting mail, but bills are what we usually get. Checking one's email every half hour isn't as much fun as it used to be, and surfing the Internet doesn't float my boat, either, unless I need to find something.

I love to work puzzles, so that accounts for maybe half an hour of my day. I cut out the Jumble and the Word Find because I love the challenge, and hopefully the effort will keep my mind sharp. I missed a few of those puzzles over the last week because Sarah was apparently jealous of the time I spent on them. Shortly after I placed them next to the recliner, she sauntered over, grabbed them, stood in the doorway until we saw her, then she sucked in the small pieces of paper and ran. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, she had chewed and swallowed the puzzles.

Just for fun one day I forced myself to watch far more of the Today Show than usual. First, there was depressing news. Then, there was a segment complete with talking heads about how too many of us are depressed. After that, there were dire statistics on our general fattiness as a nation, followed by a snippet complete with candid photos of Jennifer Love Hewitt and her alleged cellulite problem. That led into a piece about how, as a nation, we're far too fixated on our weight. This segued perfectly into a brief news flash that it is far better to be fat and fit, than thin and lazy. To top things off, the marathon news program ended with calorie -laden holiday foods prepared on camera, with the show's hosts and guests stuffing their faces and smacking their lips. I think I heard my brain screaming for someone to please turn off the boob tube.

I know we're not the only ones suffering from cabin fever so early in the season. The other night someone called to invite us over for coffee, and when I heard the giggle in her voice I asked what was so funny. "Oh," she said, "it's just that when I went to call you, I tried dialing you with the remote control." I didn't tell her that I've done the same thing; I just laughed along with her.

Let's hope we get a break in the weather soon. It's fun bumping into friends and acquaintances around town, meeting for coffee, or just driving around looking at Christmas decorations. While you're out, though, you might want to stock up on some things. I heard on the Today Show that we're in for a long winter.

Extra: we miss our family Christmases

The column below is a thinly-veiled prayer that we will someday soon find out that our oldest son is alive and well - somewhere. We haven't heard from him since mid-2003, and that was in the form of a letter. The last time we saw him was in December of 2002.

None of us suspects foul play. We only want to know he is all right.

Major family changes have happened since we last saw our son. His grandpa fell ill and died after a few years of excruciating pain from post-heurpetic neuralgia (I don't know if that was spelled correctly.) He got a case of the shingles in August of 2001, and his was one of those rare instances that turns into what he had. The entire family had a miserable few years along with dad as we watched him go from a fiercely independent and hard-working proud man to someone who needed help just to get out of bed. It took a toll on mom most of all, as we all tried everything we could think of to help the both of them.

We've lost a cousin to a drunk driver - he was hit while walking home in the wee hours of an early November morning.

Hubby has retired, his mom has had a mini-stroke and a mild heart attack. Two nights ago, she tripped on the carpet and fell, tried to forget about it and went to bed only to wake up and realize she couldn't put any weight on her left foot. Now she's in a soft cast and has to be waited on because she can't do much for herself.

It's nearly Christmas, and we ache for our son to call home. His younger brother is here, and we know he misses him, too. How could he not?

We're thankful for our children; both sons have made us proud, have worried us, and have enriched our lives far more than we ever thought possible. We pray they both know how much we love them - we always have and we always will.

Column: Our thoughts and our hearts come home at Christmas

By Margi Washburn

Hubby’s dad had a saying that I love to repeat. As he and my mom-in-law readied for a trip, whether in town or a few miles away, dad would say, “Well, let’s get goin’ so we can get back home.” I know just how he felt.

Home. What does that mean to you?

Tonight we’re watching the Celtic Woman group sing Christmas songs. As stunningly beautiful and talented as these women are, I found myself closely watching the audience reaction to the music.

Many mouthed the lyrics, some stared wide-eyed, and still others sat quietly crying.

It occurred to me that though there were different reactions, there may have been one reason: I believe our hearts turn toward home during special occasions, whether it’s a birthday, or holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My thoughts are varied depending upon the song. The Little Drummer Boy reminds me of school Christmas programs. Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman are songs we loved to sing around the piano when we threw Christmas night parties at our house.

O, Holy Night, O, Come All Ye Faithful and Silent Night are especially suited for church, as are Away in a Manger and The First Noel.

Hubby and I watched the program, both of us lost in thought just like the audience members. I knew they were revisiting years past and reliving their favorite Christmas memories. No doubt some of those memories included family members and friends no longer here to celebrate with them, but that didn’t stop the visions in their hearts and heads. That would explain the glistening eyes and tear-stained faces.

Our Christmas memories from our time in Tucson are not often in my thoughts. There was the time it snowed on Christmas Day and the neighborhood went wild. It made me so heartsick for family back home I would have grabbed hubby and the boys and left everything just to see the rest of the family for that one day.

There was one other memorable occasion. A couple of things happened during our last Christmas in the desert. In anticipation that we would sell our home quickly in order to move back to Illinois, I sold many things, including our Christmas tree and all the decorations. As the season approached and we had not sold the place, I got a bit depressed and my co-workers noticed.
One friend had just finished her ceramic class, and a week before Christmas she approached me, a bit shyly, and told me she wanted our family to have a tree. She explained that it would be different, and if I wouldn’t mind, she would like us to use it, then give it back. She handed me a large, green tissue-wrapped bundle. When we unwrapped it later at home, we found a snow white ceramic tree with dozens of tiny colored lights. I cried on the spot.

When I told my friend Lucy about the tree, she let out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad someone gave you something. I was about to suggest you find a tumbleweed and throw some cheap lights on it.” I miss Lucy.

At the end of the Celtic Woman special, audience members sprang to their feet in a standing ovation. Something tells me they were thanking the musicians for taking them back home for a little while.

You know, Christmas parties are fun, shopping, too, but there comes a time when my thoughts begin wandering and somewhere inside I begin to ache to go home.

Home is where I’m most comfortable, where I can dress like I want, check out what’s in the fridge, raid my chocolate stash, read a book, play Solitaire on the computer, snuggle under a blanket in the recliner or simply sit at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate and remember Christmases past, when everyone I love was home.

That reminds me. There is one song I haven’t yet mentioned, and that’s because no matter where I am when it begins to play, the words stop me in my tracks every time.

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is more than a song for some of us. It’s more like a prayer, and somehow that seems perfect, especially now.

Column: The bargain of the season includes an unexpected trip

By Margi Washburn

I never thought I’d see the day.

The day was last Friday, and as one of the two people who live here, I was responsible for setting the alarm so someone could join the hundreds of hardy souls waiting before 6 a.m. for one store’s doors to open.

To be fair, I did promise to go along but due to severe lack of sleep and a wonderfully busy Thanksgiving, I was just too chicken to stick my nose out the door. Too dark, too cold, far too early.

This store opened at 6, so naturally I woke at 6:01. Hubby threw back the covers, and the two of us half-racing downstairs woke Sarah the pup and now the whole house was bustling.

I felt awful about waking up late because I know what it’s like to want a certain something, whether it’s a gadget, an appliance or whatever I’ve had my eye on but couldn’t afford. This time, it was something hubby had been wanting for over 20 years. He wanted a ShopVac.

This was the perfect buy, in his humble opinion. He talked about it often from the moment he saw the ad. It was big enough, powerful enough and it had attachments. He would clean the basement, the attic and everything in-between. This would replace the one I gave away many years ago, and the one that he bought recently at an auction for $20 that nearly blew up within five minutes of using it. That one ended up in the city landfill.

It was hard waiting to find out if all of the rushing around would pay off. Did he get there on time? Did he get discouraged at the number of cars in the parking lot, the long lines, the crush of the crowds?

Well, yeah, all of that happened. He came home with the prize and that’s when the day got really interesting.

Once all of the gizmos were connected, it was time to plug the vac in and watch Sarah go bonkers. As soon as the roar commenced, the dog attached herself to me. If the offensive noise drifted off to other parts of the house, Sarah kept a wary out for the return of the new monster.

One place that needed a good vacuuming was the stairway in our foyer. While hubby moved some furniture and found an outlet, I got ready to work on the computer in the adjoining room. It never occurred to me to check and see if the dog had gone quietly berserk (she had), but it didn’t take long for me to find out.

I turned from the printer to the desk chair, saw a mound of brown fur, overcorrected, toppled the chair and landed on my face. I hadn’t felt this much pain since the time Sarah pulled me through the living room and I broke my pinkie finger.

I’m not sure if it was the sound of the fall, or if hubby’s peripheral vision caught sight of his wife sprawled face-down with the dog on her back, but he abandoned his early-morning bargain and ran to see if I was all right.

Once I managed to turn myself over and check for broken bones, the next step was to ask the dog to stop licking my face. I could hear the vacuum running all by itself in the foyer, which meant that hubby was breaking rule number one out of 23: do not leave appliance when plugged in.

The pain from the fall was pretty intense Friday and most of Saturday. The leg is much better now, with only a giant bruise around a swollen knee. In all of the excitement, I almost forgot to be thankful about that.

Column: Sunny Saturday gives Black Friday a run for its money

By Margi Washburn

I love bazaars. They’re uplifting, colorful, the aromas make my mouth water, and there are smiling faces almost everywhere.

Today is supposedly the busiest shopping day of the year. Black Friday, they call it, but I prefer what I call Sunny Saturday. Most holiday bazaars fall on a Saturday, after all, and it makes for a great opportunity to find unique Christmas gifts.

In our family, we eagerly look forward to dragging ourselves out from under warm covers, splashing cold water on our faces, ramming a comb through tangled hair and donning layers of clothing so we can stuff ourselves into our car, park a mile away from our destination, and hoof it to the front door with our breath puffing out in front leading the way.

Just kidding. We really do look forward to these times together. It’s just that last Saturday, someone who shall remain nameless, kind of slept in and didn’t fully open their sleepy eyeballs until the driver honked the horn in the driveway beneath the bedroom window.

At first, the driver, who was the most recently invited, thought that this was some kind of dirty trick. She used her cell phone to call the third person in this trio to ask if she was ready to go. I, of course, had been up since before 5 a.m. and had been ready for nearly an hour and a half. The bazaar had started at 7, and it was now 7:20.

I suggested the driver come get me, then we’d go back and pick up Mrs. Sleepy. We did, and we apparently didn’t miss too much at our first stop. We walked out with delectable goodies, some gifts for the littlest ones, and a much-coveted cookbook with Kewaneean Dorothy Atwell’s recipes.

The next bazaar didn’t begin until 9, so we went off to have breakfast. After plenty of coffee, we discussed high finance, as in: “How much cash do you have? Do they take checks? I don’t want to write a check for every little thing.” The one who had the most cash in her purse generously doled out some to the other two. And we were off.

We circled the site a couple of times, then the driver dropped us at the front door and went off to find a place to park. She asked us to wait inside the front door for her so we could synchronize our meeting times. We promised we would, then both of us promptly went in search of the restrooms. I made it back in time to tattle on the other one for running off.

I knew we’d be inside this glorious place for well over an hour. The three of us met and caught up with folks we hadn’t seen in too long a time. We hugged, laughed, talked and shopped. We took the time to check out each vendor and we were deeply impressed by the hard work they obviously put into their craft.

Eventually the three of us ended up at one of the tables where we sat to collect our thoughts and decided whether we’d seen everything yet. I had a ball watching people shop and talk, enjoying themselves and the atmosphere of a holiday bazaar.

We eventually went our separate ways. Hubby and I went to an auction, and on our stroll up West Central Boulevard, we came across a trio of sassy squirrels. I got some great photos before we headed home.

We found out later over coffee in our homes, the bakers outdid themselves again. I can only imagine how much their families and friends look forward to a visit from these folks. And it isn’t just their cookies, pies, cakes and breads that impressed me; these people are good-hearted and friendly, and it shows.

There may be one or two bazaars left before Christmas, and we’ll probably go to them simply because the memories of the time we spend together is the perfect gift.

Still, I may run into a few of you this morning because it’s awfully hard to pass up a good sale, and those times can make for good memories too.

Column: It was the tightwad versus the big baby

By Margi Washburn

(Sunset over Veterans Park in Kewanee - if only the camera could have captured its true beauty.)

I’m a tad past middle age and I still haven’t learned that one shouldn’t assume anything.
For instance, I assumed that if any of our appliances went on the fritz, we would do quite a bit of grumbling to each other, lament our predicament in front of family and friends so they would show deep concern, and then we’d cancel eating out for the next six months and go out and buy what we desperately needed.
Will I never learn?
You know, of course, that we went through the refrigerator meltdown a few weeks back. The auction we attended and all upcoming such events showed nary a fridge. And so began the shopping.
I’ll tell you one thing. I was under the impression that guys don’t like to shop. They know what they want, they grab their car keys, drive to the store, stomp in, buy what they need and head straight for home. No stopping for breakfast or even coffee because they’re on a mission.
Well, let’s clear something up. That’s the biggest misconception out there. Hubby price-compared until I wanted to smack him upside the head.
We got tips from well-meaning friends, and we checked those out, too. One memorable Sunday, we were headed to Galesburg to check out Sears because the night before they had a terrific sale on appliances. Guess what? The very next day, the sale was off. I could feel my eyes stinging.
After wandering around for a few minutes, we found a willing clerk who cleverly explained that we were lucky we’d missed the latest sale because the appliances were actually cheaper now than they were the day before. I wondered if the two of us had the word stupid written on our foreheads.
But then the world got a whole lot brighter. “How desperate are you? Can you wait one more week?” My smile froze, yet my head was nodding because she looked like she was bursting to tell us a big secret.
“Next Sunday night we’re having a friends and family sale from 6 to 9.” She pointed to the refrigerator we wanted. “This model will be 30 percent off. Well, actually 27 percent because of the way we figure it.” She stopped talking and waited for us to process the good news.
I was thinking that I would take the figures back to Kewanee, show local businesses this great deal and we’d get our fridge right away. We could haul it ourselves and save money.
Hubby, on the other hand, was thinking that this was it. We’d wait, and continue using the dorm refrigerator that was taking up valuable counter space.
I opened my mouth first. “OK,” I said, “what about delivery?” After punching in our zip code, we got more good news: it would cost another $65 and we’d have to wait until the following Friday to get delivery. My mind was made up.
And so was hubby’s. He thought that was a fine idea, and off we went with the promise to return in a week.
I couldn’t talk over the lump in my throat, and instead of sympathizing, I was roundly criticized for not having any patience. No argument there, but I was tired of being without a major appliance.
The next two days I called around and tried to find someone to match the price, but no one could. Notice I didn’t use the word “would”; the price we got was simply too good.
I asked good friends what they thought. They were quick to sympathize and tell me that hubby was wrong, that we should just slap down the money and get our fridge here. But someone refused to budge, and that led to a few slamming doors whenever I’d leave the house muttering that someone was a “fat-headed tightwad.” Little did I know that he had a nickname for me.
I’m sure you ladies can remember how tears used to move your hubby to change his mind and give you your way. That doesn’t work forever. And when I finally admitted what I was calling him outside of earshot, he told me that he was calling me a big baby. Imagine that.
Sunday did indeed come, and he went over to pay for the fridge. He took the truck and brought that gorgeous appliance home himself because he said he felt it was his turn to compromise. If I could wait that long for the best bargain, he said, then he could take care of the rest.
I’ll spare you the Laurel and Hardy routine that ensued Sunday night when I tried to help hubby haul in our newest appliance. He managed to get the thing inside and hooked up in spite of my help, and the next morning I poured a cup of coffee, sat at the table and turned to stare and smile at the shiny, new refrigerator.
Oh, and by the way, I noticed that two of the auctions this week each have a refrigerator for sale. Like they say, timing is everything.

Extra: an observation, or two or three

I guess I'm kind of tired. Physically, yes, but also mentally because things have been so blasted tough financially lately.
We're not only watching our own checkbook take a beating, but we're keeping tabs on hubby's mom, too. Dad went on ahead of us almost four years ago, and mom's income went down - a lot. But her expenses kept chugging along, and she's added more prescriptions due to a mini-stroke and a mild heart attack (probably brought on by the stress of having so much less income.) Sigh.
She worries too much about being unable to buy Christmas presents for her family. No matter how much we reassure her that we're all in the same sinking boat, she's of a generation that took great pride in taking care of themselves and everyone else, if need be.
We're hurting too, and can't help much. Winter's around the corner, along with high heating bills, colds, flu, pneumonia (mom gets her share of those during the winter, thanks mostly to her grandkids visiting while they're sick). Mom's like many of us: too much month left at the end of the money - and it's not at all funny.
I'm thankful that mom has a dear friend she met at church. He takes very good care of her, though she refuses his money, but he brings her to his house for supper almost every night. They watch movies, listen to "their kind" of music, and reminisce about the Olden Days.
Right now, though, I'm half-listening to the news. They're talking about the sinking stock market, a family with no health insurance, and a multitude of other horrendous news that is enough to make a person want to crawl inside a hole, pull the cover over yourself and never come out.
This, too, isn't a very uplifting message. That means it's time to slow down, get quiet and tune back into our prayer life. To reach out into the future we cannot see and pull out promises that our life will, indeed, get better.
See you later, dear reader.

Column: "Fat people gotta go. They're contagious"

(Denny Crane, attorney, on Boston Legal)

By Margi Washburn

There used to be what some of us girls call a “foo-foo” restaurant downtown on the corner of Tremont and Third. Posies and Pies had a proprietor named Pat, and served some of the best pie I’ve ever eaten.

I popped in about twice a week and usually ordered a burnt hamburger with extra pickles, fries, a diet Coke and a piece of pie. Whenever Pat got my order, she’d yell out, “I know who’s here!” I loved that place.

One day I was sitting there, my food freshly delivered, when a quartet of slim, well-dressed men and women arrived. As they passed my table, the two women glanced at my lunch and made a face. I know that face.

Basically it says that the person ordering that kind of meal is destroying their body and probably deserves to look lumpy and out of shape. I could’ve predicted the four of them would order small salads with their dressing on the side, and that’s what they did.

I’ve always cared a little too much what others think, and that day was no different. I could feel their eyes upon me and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere else. Then things took an interesting turn.

That was back in the day, as they say, when smokers were welcome to light up just about anywhere, and that is exactly what at least one of these folks did. The smoke glided up and over and made its way to my table.

Now I’m not knocking smokers; in fact, I second-hand smoke almost two packs a day myself. I’m just saying, why don’t folks who criticize big people take a good, long look at their own life and lifestyle before passing judgment on others?

I guess what got this whole thing started was when I heard some (ahem) well-meaning folks point out that certain elected officials and some city employees were, well, fat. They didn’t couch their comments in politically-correct terms, and they insisted that their observations were influenced by the latest reports on obesity. No one came to the defense of these people, and my own face turned red on their behalf.

I put that episode out of my mind, and wouldn’t you know it, something happened over the weekend to bring it back to mind. We were in Davenport and I was meandering through a mega-store’s electronics department. I love technology, and my eyesight isn’t all that great, and I carry a big purse. Add it up: big woman, big purse and putting my face a little too close to the merchandise and pretty soon you realize you’re being followed around by a nervous young clerk who thinks you’re going to run off with the store’s goodies. He may as well have announced over the public address system: “Fat woman with big purse in aisle 3!” He seemed much more relaxed when I walked away and no alarms went off.

I’ve walked into upscale clothing stores with slim family members and friends, and while the clerks are polite, I’ve noticed that they steer me toward a chair to wait while they attend to the others.

Then, there’s the on-going fictionalized case of the employee fired by William Shatner’s Denny Crane character on Boston Legal. The reason? She’s fat, says Denny, and he claims he has the gene that will do the same to him if he doesn’t get rid of the woman. He told his best friend Alan that fat people have to go, that they’re contagious. Then he asks Alan to defend him in the upcoming court case. This I have to see.

I’ll be tuned in next Tuesday night at 9 p.m. because I have to find out if there is a defense for treating overweight people with disrespect. Who knows? Maybe all of the perfect people out there in the world who have no bad habits or room for improvement can teach us folks a thing or two.

Or, perhaps we can finally get through to some of them and they’ll understand that we are so much more than our appearance. It’s just that our faults are a bit more visible than theirs.

Column: To freeze or not to freeze, that is the question

I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. Hubby and I don’t have week after week full of trials and tribulations. This is where I should add that it just seems that way.

Not long ago, fellow columnist Diane went through the Refrigerator Blues and now it’s our turn. You know how it is when you reach in and notice that the can of soda isn’t quite as cold as it used to be. But I have to admit, we had some warning.

It started several weeks ago when I noticed puddles of water on the kitchen floor. My cynical mind focused on Sarah the pup, who, it turns out, is as innocent as the day is long. Besides, the puddle did appear to be plain old water.

We didn’t connect the occasional problem with our fridge because the two were physically far apart from one another. Yes, we know that water runs downhill, but who figures they have hills in their kitchen?

A couple of weeks ago we noticed more water and problems with the ice cubes. We’d put in a bag of ice, and within a day or two it would harden into a giant chunk that needed to be chipped. Apparently it was melting, leaking out onto the floor, puddling under the kitchen table, then the freezer would miraculously begin working again.

Well, we’re into serious business now. It seemed like a good idea to pull out the ol’ side-by-side and peer into its innards. No can do, because there’s a metal plate that covers the whole thing. We settled for using my rarely-used vacuum cleaner on any openings, pushed the fridge back and waited for the healing to begin.

Nuts. That didn’t work, as we found out the next morning as we slid through the welcoming puddle on our way to the coffee pot. Time for a more drastic measure.

I dug out the owner’s manual from deep inside the bowels of an old filing cabinet and found out the fridge is past its tenth birthday. Oh, and the warranty ran out seven years ago.

So, out came the air compressor with its handy-dandy attachment for blowing dust out of refrigerator coils at the speed of light. Of course we couldn’t see light, each other or much of anything else when hubby got done because of the severe indoor smog. We had years-old dust and gunk in our hair, on the cupboards, in the dog dishes and up our noses.

Surely after all of that effort and sacrifice we could count on a revitalized fridge. Once again, we were sadly mistaken.

Then, the weather forecaster helped us out. The temps were to dip, so that made our front porch a temporary shelter for milk, leftover meatloaf, and even pop if we’d had any left. Apparently, in our frustration over the possibility of having to purchase a major appliance, we’d been hitting the soda pretty hard and now we were out. If we bought more, we had no ice to put in it, so it’s a good thing it was time for bed.

Hubby hauled the milk onto the porch, and since the bottom part of both the fridge and the freezer were decently cold, we moved other foods south. We left a glass of water inside the freezer on the middle shelf, and another on the bottom.

We skirted the small puddle the next morning and opened the freezer. The water in the middle was cold, but still water, and the glass on the bottom was frozen. Interesting.

It was Sunday, and we found an auction that listed just about everything you can imagine, but no fridge. We knew we should wait and see what the repair technician would tell us on Monday, and we knew that would cost $50, yet there was a possibility it wouldn’t cost all that much to fix what we already owned. We’re the impatient types, so off we went to the auction, and true to their word, there was no fridge. We headed home to eat up leftovers and worry what the next day would bring.

Guess what? Monday morning brought good news. The fridge seemed to be recouping its losses, and we were thrilled. Still, we kept the borrowed dorm fridge – just in case. And I canceled the service call, since the future looked rosy.

Tuesday morning there was still no puddle, but now the middle glass of ice was floating in a bit of water.

I’m not positive, but I think our refrigerator is of the female persuasion. She keeps changing her mind, and messing with ours. Now I wonder if I should change mine and call the repairman.
Maybe I won’t need to worry about it. In a week or so, I can roll the whole shebang onto the front porch and use the free frigid air we’re supposed to get.

Cool.

Time for chocolate, chili, homemade bread and 50,000 words

By Margi Washburn

Well, boys and girls, it's that time of year again. Time to buy bags of chocolate candy, haul out the baking pans and large cooking pots, and begin the outline for your novel. Don't tell me you forgot?

First, the candy. Last year hubby reminded me to get several bags of what he likes to call the "good candy." We may only get a dozen trick-or-treaters every year, but someone wants to make sure they get the good stuff. He can't eat candy, so that leaves a big ol' bowlful for me, and while that should make me ecstatic, it doesn't. This time, I'm bringing the stuff to work and letting others share the goodies.

Last year, the two of us were in the dentist's office on Halloween night. Sarah the pup had head-butted hubby a few nights before and knocked a tooth loose. By the time we got home from the dentist, hubby had one less tooth and the dog had wrapped a blanket around her head, neck and one paw and was probably a heartbeat away from joining our other furry friends in doggy heaven. We rescued her, and she was fine but her master wasn't. I fixed soft foods, gave hubby a pain pill and off he went to bed for the night. We missed every single trick-or-treater and I had six bucks' worth of candy all to myself.

Second, this is the season for homemade bread, chili, vegetable soup and other comfort foods. I bought some hot chocolate mix with marshmallows a while back, so I'm ready for some serious cool weather. I've tried to make the healthy type of chili with turkey meat, but hubby turns up his nose at the appearance of pale meat floating among the beans and onions. That leaves fresh-baked bread, and I have a lot of family members who love seeing me show up at their house with a loaf of the stuff. They tell me it's usually gone in less than two days.

Finally, it's time once again for you writers out there to sharpen your pencils. Beginning at one minute after midnight on November 1st, we'll be joining tens of thousands of other budding novelists in our quest to reach 50,000 words by November 30. Scared? Feeling completely inadequate as a novelist? Well, join the club; we all get the jitters at the mere thought, but trust me, it can be done.

We've got young people right here in Kewanee who are making plans to put their dreams on paper. Some have formed a group, have a glimmer of an idea, and know where and when they'll meet. This is a fantastic development; we have kids who not only love to read, but they're excited about writing a book of their own.

Those of us who are readying ourselves for National Novel Writing Month have registered at their website: http://www.nanowrimo.org and there is a link there especially for young writers. There you will find three different age-relevant sets of worksheets to download and print out to help you along. It's OK for grownups to do this; we can all use the help. A word of caution: each of the three sets is at least 50 pages long, so make sure you have plenty of ink in your printer.

This time around, most of us will create our own little worlds inside our own homes, but some will find their way to local eateries just to have a change of scenery. Others will write in bookstores, the library and, if weather permits, outdoors. If any other story-inspiring locations arise, I'll let you all know.

So, stock up on candy, make a pot of hearty soup, and come up with a winning story idea. After all, it isn't all that long until we enter the season of miracles, so let's get a head start.

It's nice to know people are willing to point out your mistakes

By Margi Washburn


Sometimes it really hits home. You know, like when you’re on the receiving end of some well-deserved criticism that makes you want to crawl into a hole and pull the cover over the top.

My mom used to say, “what goes around, comes around.” Others call it Karma, and we’ve all heard that we reap what we sow. I wish someone had pounded that truth home to me years ago. Of course, I wish I’d started writing years ago, too, but that’s beside the point.

It used to tickle me pink to catch someone in a mistake. The more often they made the same mistake, the more I’d wonder how anyone could be so stupid. And it seemed important to share that juicy information with friends and family.

Now that I’m older and a tad wiser, at least at the moment, I see how judgmental that was. Plus, I got blasted in spades the other day and it made me stop and ask what I’d done to deserve such a cruddy 24 hours.

The morning started with hubby wanting to know why his unmentionables were now pink. I’d just bought a couple of maroon and navy blue face towels to go with the bathroom that he’s remodeling, but those were waiting to be washed separately. Seems, though, I forgot about a new long-sleeved maroon shirt someone had thrown in the laundry basket.

Within minutes, the phone rang and someone most of us are familiar with at one time or another put a different kind of damper on the morning. I shrugged it off and headed for work.

Before long it was time to head to bible study. I figured there was time for a good cup of coffee, so I headed to a favorite spot and maneuvered our car into the drive-thru lane. Weird things were happening with the speaker system, but that was nothing new. I wasn’t told to pay at the first window, yet habit forced me to stop there anyway.

It seems that I turned invisible at about that time because the young lady simply ignored me as if I wasn’t there. She pressed buttons on her machine, never looked at me once and I could see cars lining up behind me. Perhaps it was time to move forward.

Then again, perhaps I was wrong. I figured that out when I heard, “Heeeeey!” Now I was stuck halfway between windows one and two with an angry employee now giving me her full attention and a tongue-lashing.

I tried yelling back that I didn’t know what to do because she wasn’t paying attention to me, and I couldn’t back up unless I wanted to cause a wreck. I pulled up to the second window, only to be told that it would be a few minutes because, this young lady told me in a stern voice, I hadn’t paid where I was supposed to. I tapped my watch and said I was going to be late, and besides, the first woman ignored me. The window was firmly shut and I waited, just like a good little customer who had done a stupid, stupid thing.

I wasn’t feeling like someone who was on their way to bible study, but I had my coffee. It wasn’t prepared like I’d asked and paid for but there was no way I was going to complain.

Things went reasonably well until that night when I went to cover an event for the paper. On my way down Third Street, I saw a maniacal driver coming so fast down a side street to my right that I knew it was going to be close. This didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Pick-up Truck because he blew the stop sign and flung himself into the same parking lot I was headed. I couldn’t wait to see what he looked like.

Turned out this was someone who may have been running late for a board meeting. I walked through the doors shortly after he did and checked the guy out just as he was sitting down. I shook off my anger and found my way to my assignment.

In less than 20 minutes, in the midst of a conversation with a friend, I was made aware that I had made a faux pas in an article I’d done about someone several months ago. I was assured repeatedly that it was no big deal, but it was a huge deal to me. I was mortified, and things were about to get worse because someone overheard most of the conversation. A strong opinion was expressed, and I had it coming, but it still hurt like the dickens and nearly ruined the rest of the evening.

Later that night hubby and I drove over to his mom’s house and I drowned my sorrows in hot coffee and chocolate cookies. We had some laughs, and talked for hours. By the time we went home, everything from pink underwear to snarly clerks and a well-deserved comeuppance had all but faded from memory.

Still, I think I’ll watch my mouth and heed those old sayings. It couldn’t hurt, right?

Shopping trip turns into a lesson about priorities, sort of

By Margi Washburn

Usually I can describe a shopping trip with the girls from when I get The Phone Call, until we pull into our respective driveways, but this trip was different.

You know how it is. In each of our lives, there are big moments that change the landscape of our memories. Often those occasions are happy, like when we met our spouse for the first time, or our wedding, first home, first child. Memories up to that point become a bit faded or out of context because of a life-changing event.

So, I’m using that excuse to explain why I don’t remember what happened before one of our little group ended up on the floor of the restaurant after eating a loaded baked potato and a piece of pie. Plus, she kept nibbling on her sister’s lemon square, but maybe that had nothing to do with it.

A couple of hours before the floor incident, we’d gone our separate ways in the mall. I perused the bookstore, found a Dairy Queen next to an Orange Julius (now there’s a hard choice to make), and too soon it was time to meet for a snack at a restaurant inside the mall.

One of us was on a special diet, so the choice was fish and veggies. The rest of us chose the baked potato and dessert, along with coffee.

We had conversation, some laughs, and good food. It was mid-afternoon, and our part of the restaurant had about two dozen diners enjoying themselves. Then things changed.

I remember looking over and seeing her hand rubbing the side of her head. Eyes closed, she murmured something about feeling light-headed and she felt her heart beating too fast. It was kind of hard to hear her because of the noise level of the conversations around us, plus her voice was barely a whisper.

We asked if she’d like to leave, or have us get help, but she only wanted to be put on the floor so she could rest. We were in a very nice place, but the floor? What woman wants her hair to touch a floor where hundreds of shoes have been?

One would have to feel pretty awful to do such a thing, so after placing her carefully on the floor, we waved our arms to get attention. Soon, mall security was on the scene and they alerted the paramedics. Before long, our four-person shopping party was joined by about half a dozen men in uniform. It didn’t escape our notice that not only were these guys terrific at their job, they were cute, too.

While one of us was whisked away to a nearby hospital, the rest of us gathered our purchases and got ready to follow the ambulance. It took off ahead of us while we paid the restaurant bill and headed for the car. Since it was our driver that had gone on ahead with the cute guys in uniform, the new driver led us through a department store on the way to the car. That’s when things got fun.

We had to stop and pick up purchases that had been left there for pick-up on our way home. We found out that the original driver had some things at the checkout desk, but she hadn’t paid for them. None of us volunteered to do that for her, so off we went to find out how things were going.

The hospital was easy to find and the three of us were allowed inside the emergency room. Someone was looking quite a bit better, and before long she wanted to know if we’d picked up her purchases at the store. We admitted we hadn’t, she told us that was all right, and then we all had a nice, long wait for tests results to come back.

During this time, one of us made the phone calls home to let everyone know what was happening. It was our good luck that a couple of friends from Kewanee were nearby, so they offered to take me home, and as soon as the doctors released the patient, the rest would come back to town. Sounded good to me.

However, my two new car mates are the adventurous kind. They like to find a new way home every time they travel. We barreled along back roads through cornfields and around farms and for a very long time I didn’t know where I was. Thing is, the two in the front seat were having a conversation straight out of a Stephen King novel, and they were so matter-of-fact about the subject matter that it started to freak me out. One of them must have sensed something, because the wife turned around and asked if I was OK and I told her of course I was. What was I going to say?

The patient turned out to be fine; in fact, they stopped and had a sandwich on the way home. When they called from the restaurant to tell me the good news, I could hear laughter in the background. It was kind of late when the call came, so I just had to ask one question.

“Tell me you guys didn’t go all the way back and pick up her clothes,” I said.

The silence coming through the phone line said it all.

Television doctors and attorneys are too good to be true

By Margi Washburn


Those of us who grew up watching TV doctors may have come to believe, or at least hope for the experience of having a Dr. Welby care about our well-being. I know Robert Young played that part, and I also remember Medical Center and Ben Casey, with their respective actors. There’s a problem, though, if we expect real life to mirror TV life.

When we walk into our doctors’ offices we are more likely to see no less than three signs, though each are worded a bit differently, that inform us that payment is due at the time of service. Now take note: time of service does not necessarily mean that you will find yourself in the second waiting room at the time you were told, or that you will even see the doctor.

Yet you’d better have that insurance card and your co-payment before you leave. For your convenience, there are also a plethora of credit cards that will be accepted, and their bright, colorful logos are plastered everywhere so you won’t miss them. Credit cards and I have a very, very bad history so whenever I see those happy little symbols, I want to run screaming into traffic. Of course that would mean a doctor visit, and I don’t want to do that either.

Lawyer dramas tend to instill the same kinds of expectations. Just like we hope our doctors will chase us down and make sure we take our meds, we want our lawyers to believe everything we (or our loved ones) say, and we want the best defense our pitiful amount of money can buy. Golly, even those clients on TV who have no money get some astonishing and free defense attorneys. Those of us in the real world who need a good lawyer often find ourselves going nearly blind perusing the phone book and wondering if we’ll ever land a Ben Matlock or Perry Mason.

I think my life reflects a comedy sitcom. We watch Everybody Loves Raymond reruns, and I can’t tell you how many times that show hit some buttons. There’s the rivalry between brothers, the misunderstandings between in-laws, especially with Raymond’s wife and his mother. Hubby and I watch favorite episodes every week.

Whether you watched Seinfeld or not, I’d bet your paycheck that you’ve had a Seinfeld moment. There’s the friend who mooches, relationship issues, trying and failing to meet up with friends at the movies, matchmaking, waiting to be seated at a restaurant, lousy jobs and bosses, weird co-workers. There are dozens of moments like these that our family identifies with, and we’re not ashamed to admit it.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we shouldn’t identify too closely with any television character because we then expect we can identify with them all. Missing a friend at a movie isn’t funny, matchmaking can get you into trouble, waiting to be seated in a restaurant can make you cranky, and lousy jobs can bring a whole lot of stress that none of us need.

In my real life, I know quite a few excellent and compassionate doctors and nurses. If you’ve had a bad experience waiting for the doctor, join the club. We’ve all been there, but I’ve found that most of the time, the wait was worth it. The frustration went away and took my headache with it once my questions were answered and the prescription was written.

Life is going to give us all sorts of surprises, whether we want them or not. If we keep our heads in the real world, our friends and families will help us cope with those unexpected moments like no one else can. Not even Dr. Welby or Perry Mason.

Extra: still summer in Kewanee

(Afternoon sunlight through the trees in Veterans Park in Kewanee, Illinois. A beautiful, special place.)

Yeah, I know. There are probably lots of people wondering where fall is, and I used to have fits when hot ol' summer lasted until just past Halloween. I mean, who wants to dress up in a costume and sweat while running around the neighborhood hauling in a mother-lode of candy? Been there, done that.

But when one hits their 50s and starts gently strolling down the other side of The Hill, and they live in Illinois (motto: if you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes), then one learns to appreciate all of the days and nights we can run around without jackets, boots, hats and gloves. We like the lower power bills - you know, that glorious, all-too-brief time of year when the air conditioner runs less and less, and the furnace doesn't run at all (unless you're in your 80s like a certain mom-in-law.)

Hubby's getting a lot of outdoor home repairs and remodeling done now. The paint dries faster, that sort of thing, but we are coming into that time of year when the sun disappears sooner and it gets a little too dark to use power tools. And don't forget, this year we don't turn the clocks back until (I think) the first Sunday in November instead of the last Sunday in October. I hope that particular experiment was only good for one year. I can't stand Daylight Savings Time - and making it longer really frosted my cookies.

We're off to spend an evening visiting with hubby's mom - cookies, coffee and conversation around the kitchen table. It doesn't get much better than that.

Column: Every birthday is worth a week-long celebration

(I'm not ready for the ol' rocking chair just yet. In fact, I'm giving it away (hopefully) to someone who really needs it.)

By Margi Washburn

It takes seven days to celebrate my birthday. Most everyone who knows me understands that, and I’m guessing the delight I have for the occasion has a lot to do with mom, sis and Grandma Daisy. We made a big deal out of birthdays, even during lean times, and I never want to lose that feeling toward turning another year older.

On Monday, I sent off a book proposal to a New York agent. It takes me far too long to send out things like that, and no doubt it’s because I’m afraid the whole package will come flying back to my mailbox at warp speed with a standard rejection letter in it. It’s not back yet, so I’m hoping for the best.

Tuesday was the United Way kickoff campaign. It started with a piping hot delicious breakfast that I thought about for a long time after it was over. What started off as a feature assignment turned into an eye-opening experience of how many folks are helped by the 19 agencies that make up this organization.

Wednesday was a day for tears. I belong to a group called Henry County Freecycle. We give away nice things we no longer need to those who could use them, and that keeps a lot of stuff out of our homes and out of the landfills. I had an easy chair that I hadn’t used in over a year. A man expressed interest in it, and he emailed a note saying that he would come over later that day to pick it up. Hubby lugged the chair downstairs and helped the man load it into his truck.

Less than an hour later, I opened my email to find a photo of a very happy young boy, shoes kicked off to the side, sitting in his new chair. He was giving the camera a thumbs-up, a grin spread from ear to ear. This was one happy little guy, and so I cried.

Before I got off the computer, I heard a knock at the door. It was the little boy who lives down the street, along with his dad. I saw a plastic sack. “Can I pick some peaches, please?” he asked. I knelt down, told him he sure could, then looked at his dad. “I try and have him ask every year,” he said, and of course I remembered the two of them from previous Septembers. I closed the door, went inside and cried – again.

On Thursday, Sarah the pup got sick. Once again, this being a morning newspaper, I’ll refrain from giving the details, but suffice it to say that I had to cook a bland diet for the dog for three days.

Friday morning I found myself at the tennis court with hubby and two friends. The two guys played against us girls, and even under those conditions, hubby plunked his partner in the head with a ball. That alone was worth the price of admission, as they say.

This was also the day that Sarah’s appetite came back with a vengeance. She was only allowed two bland meals per day, for three days. No treats, no table scraps, no exception. We tried to find things to do away from home to avoid being shadowed from room to room to room.

On Saturday, the dog was hungrier than ever. I started giving her little bites of carrot and some plain bread. We decided she could start on real food the following morning; she did and she was fine.

Sunday was my day to do whatever I wanted. We went out of town, and the first thing I did when we got to Moline was to walk into IHop and legitimately order off of the senior menu. That was such a blast for me, though everyone I tell seems to think I may be a little touched in the head.

I visited a few favorite stores, got a screaming good deal at a favorite grocery store and we headed home. That night we had delicious cake, ice cream, coffee and lots of laughs around the kitchen table.

We never know how many birthdays we’ll be blessed with, so I plan to celebrate every single one of them. I hope you will, too.

Column: Creating memories over coffee, toast and conversation in the morning

(This is a bench in Veterans Park, just across the street from home. It's where hubby and Sarah the pup sit and watch people and other doggies walk by.)

Most of us have favorite things, like movies, books, ice cream, candy bars, soda, chips, seasons, relatives.

My favorite movie, at the moment, is Fargo. I can’t pass a wood chipper without thinking about that weird guy using it. I’m not going to describe what he was doing because this is a morning newspaper, and you might be having a bite of toast right now.


I love butter pecan ice cream, diet Coke, Lays potato chips, dark chocolate Milky Way candy bars and fall. Some of my relatives read this column, so I won’t say here who’s my favorite and who isn’t.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my favorite time of day. When I worked full-time, I couldn’t wait until the day was over and I was pulling back the covers to go to sleep. There were too many bills to juggle, work-related headaches and not nearly enough time to just relax and stop the worry-o-meter. Sweet sleep was the answer. Thing is, when I worked eight hours a day I would at least sleep through the night. Of course maybe the problem now is old age, because it seems I’m awfully busy for someone who doesn’t punch the time clock.

More than a few years ago, my favorite time of day was Saturday morning. The kids and I would watch Looney Tunes cartoons and even if we’d seen Bugs versus Daffy or Yosemite Sam a hundred times, we’d sit and laugh and watch them again.

There were a few years when my favorite time of day was Sunday morning. That was when we attended the Evangelical Covenant Church on Williams Street. It took us a while, but we eventually got involved with various committees, choir and such, and even taught Sunday school. Sunday mornings like that started the whole week off on the right foot. Then our church closed, and my favorite time of day was gone.

For the past several years, the month of November lends itself to another favorite time of day: the night. That’s when thousands of people the world over stock up on munchies and their favorite drinks and hole up for a month while they write the Great American Novel. There’s something about nighttime for me when it comes to writing fiction, so I’m looking forward to that.

My favorite time of day now is every morning I can sit at the table and talk with my hubby over a pot of coffee. We’ve never been able to do that throughout our married life because he worked all of the time. Sure, there was the time he was laid off for a few months, but he always found a way to support his family.

Today we watch the morning news together, sip coffee, eat cereal and toast and figure out what we’ll do that day. Maybe it’s because we’ve crossed that invisible time-line in our lives, but we both seem much more aware that moments and mornings like these are probably the most precious times we share. I don’t know if I ever want to try out another favorite time of day because this one seems to be the best of them all.

Come November, if, as they say, the Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll have two favorite times of day. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Extra: just a bit about myself

(The bench at left is one of several where hubby sits while Sarah the pup nibbles on small tree branches. They take a walk in this park two or three times a day, which pleases Sarah no end.)

Officially, I'm a baby boomer, born in 1952 to a mom who left her husband when I was a mere three weeks old. Life could only go uphill from there, right? You know better than that, but you should also know that life is beautiful, something to be cherished, remembered and talked about.

I've always loved to read. When I was in first and second grade, I'd carry home so many books that mom warned me I was going to go blind from reading too much. I responded by reading even more. It seemed to me that the more I read before losing my sight, the better off I'd be.

My sight is still around, mom isn't, but her influence is strongly felt by my younger sister and me. Sis turns 50 this year, and although we live an hour apart, we're much closer as friends than we ever were as kids. As for immediate family, I have a hubby who retired this year and who is "fixing up the house", two sons and two grandsons. Extended family includes pretty much the same group as yours, fiercely loyal at times, and completely frustrating most of the time.

We've had our share of pets - dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs and hamsters. At one time, we had four dogs and four cats. Now, it's just two older people and Sarah Jane, the yellow lab-mix. She's 18 months old and weighs 83 pounds. So far, she's knocked out one of hubby's teeth and she took me on a romp through the house until I had to let go of her collar so I could fall face-first in a doorway. I now have a broken pinkie finger as a souvenir.

When I sit down to write a column for you to read, I look for common ground, hoping you identify with an experience or a memory of mine. Most of us have significant others, in-laws, friends, siblings, co-workers and probably a few folks who don't like us one bit. All good fodder for a column, which brings me to the title of mine.

"Murder, She Wrote" was a long-running mystery show, that starred Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher, mystery writer and amateur old-lady, busybody sleuth. Hubby is fond of the busybody title, and the kids used to call her something else, but I loved the whole idea. Stephen King is from Maine, and this show's locale was Cabot Cove, Maine so I was hooked. In fact, I was so enamored with both King and the show that a former supervisor wrote a piece about my writings, calling it, "Horror, she wrote." Cute. Still, I couldn't be happier with this column's title.

Cute? Maybe, maybe not, but it's me, and I hope you enjoy what I've written. It's my hope that we all connect on some level, as if we've known each for years and we get together for a cup of coffee once a week.

Column: Standing guard at the kitchen window with girlie weapons

(There's the nearly useless flyswatter and my favorite brand of wasp killer. I used them both and I'm not a bit sorry about it.)

At around three o’clock Sunday morning, hubby was startled awake by silence. I know, but stay with me.

Summertime means the air conditioner and the fan run all night. Too often I wake in the middle of the night to find that someone fell asleep and forgot to turn off the TV, so if the electricity happens to quit during that time, the sudden quiet would be noticeable.

Thing is, hubby felt the need to inform me. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered as he nudged me.

I found a small flashlight with weakening batteries and handed it over. I think I hit him in the head with it first, but it was an accident.

We made our way over the doggy gate at the top of the stairs, then down to find a bigger flashlight with even weaker batteries. Hubby peaked out the window at our neighbor’s house and pronounced it dark as well. That led to my comment that perhaps it was dark over there because it was after 3 a.m. This seemed like a good time to stick one’s head out the front door to see it the lights were off all over.

The police department and the new Black Hawk center both had lights, but we assume they also have backup power. Everything else was black.

A quick call told us the whole town was out due to maintenance. We both moaned and groaned about how hard it would be to get to sleep without our fan and air conditioner, then we were out until about 7.

Still, if you’re uncomfortable sleeping, you won’t be well rested. We went about our usual Sunday morning routine which is basically nothing. At least that’s what I was doing, sitting in my comfy chair in the living room when I heard a loud bang from the kitchen.

Well, there he was on a ladder making a gigantic hole where the window used to be. This was going to be a Sunday to remember.

If any of you are afraid of hornets, wasps, bees and don’t much like the idea of birds flying around inside your home, you’ll understand how I felt. This window is on the south side of the house, and in less than two hours, the sun would be planted in a most appealing spot for stinging insects.

About this time of year, those little guys start to lose their food supply and they get a tad cranky. What joy for them to find a huge opening into a kitchen full of food, and the only thing between them and lunch was a wild-eyed woman holding wasp spray and a fly swatter that had seen much better days.

Hubby must have measured that opening ten times, and I understand that it’s best to be as sure as you can be before hauling out a window and carrying it up a shaky ladder and shoving it in a hole. However, that three foot by four foot space was a nightmare to guard with girlie weapons. I can only pray the neighbors to the south of us weren’t watching, because I’m sure I looked like an idiot.

We decided I would lift the window from the inside and push it through. I had to hold onto it while hubby put in the first couple of screws, and there were some dicey moments when my sweaty hands almost lost it. In spite of me, we have a nifty window that opens and lets in fresh air.

If that was all that happened Sunday, it would be enough. Instead, my modem went toes up and I was on hold for 30 minutes before being told someone would actually come out that night and fix the problem. I was so afraid I’d missed out on important email, I packed up the laptop, drove within the speed limit to McDonald’s, jumped online and found out that no one sent me a thing. By then I had a headache, and all I wanted to do was go back home.

The technician came out as promised, hooked up the new modem and I was good to go. By then, the day that started at three in the morning was about to wind up. We slept through the night with no more problems. I even smiled as I thought of how happy I was we’d made it through the previous day in spite of its quirks.

This morning, the toilet handle broke.

Column: When grocery shopping and home improvement collide

By Margi Washburn

Most times when I’m grocery shopping, I’ll eye what I bought, and see if I might be able to manage getting everything into the house with one trip. It’s often worth some discomfort to avoid that second trip, but it can make for a hazardous journey from the car to the kitchen.

To get to the kitchen with two arms full of bags, I sometimes focus only on avoiding a fall, or not stepping into a hole that Sarah dug fresh that morning. It’s one thing to drive into that hole, and quite another to drop into it without warning.

I’ll also try to avoid asking hubby for help bringing in the groceries. If he’s busy, I get an eye-roll. If he’s not busy, I get an eye-roll. It’s best to make one haul and be done with it.

Turns out he was busy the other day when I lurched up the front steps to let myself into the porch. I was focused on having the key to the inside front door ready, hence I didn’t notice the ladder with hubby on the top of it until I smacked it with the door.

So many thoughts buzzed around inside my head as I took in the situation. First, neither of us was going to fall, so that was good. Second, I wondered if I’d hit the milk against the eggs when I fell back a step, pulling the door with me.

“Sorry,” I said, as I stepped inside, more carefully this time.

“I didn’t fall,” he said, pointing out the obvious. This time I gave the eye-roll.

It didn’t occur to me until I opened the inside door that Sarah was on the other side listening to us. It took all of me and every grocery bag to push her back inside so she wouldn’t bolt out the door and knock over the ladder. There was also a mysterious cord hanging down, and that would’ve been pulled outside, too.

Trips to the store can take the energy right out of a person. You have to haul the stuff into the house, put it away, then look down at the dog who’s wondering why you forgot once again to get her treats. I found a cracker, gave it to her and after she gulped it, she decided it was time for a potty break.

We have a heck of a time getting the dog’s leash on her unless she’s in a confined space, like the front porch. I may have mentioned that someone was on a ladder out there, improving our home, so there was no asking him to take the dog out. One eye-roll a day is plenty.

I chased Sarah around the foyer, got her collar attached, and that’s when hubby came through the front door and went straight through to the back room. I wasn’t about to navigate around the ladder, so I led Sarah toward the back door.

Before I got the door knob turned, I heard a voice on the other side. “Board!” he said, and that’s about when I banged into a long, white board laying across the workbench.

I bit back what I wanted to say, grabbed the leash closer to the dog’s collar and squeezed past the chest freezer to get to the outside door. I figured the rest of the way would be easy enough, until I turned the corner and tried to lead Sarah down the final three steps. Butted up against the bottom stair were two tables, making it nearly impossible to step off the deck.

I’m fairly certain I said something disrespectful at that point, and with no one to see me, I rolled my eyes all over the place while Sarah found the spot she was looking for. We came back inside, a bit wiser this time, and I finished putting away the rest of the groceries.

It’s easy to gripe about hot weather, grocery shopping, home improvement messes and dogs who never grow up. But it’s much more fun to find the humor in it all, laugh a little and hold back on the eye-rolls.

Column: Sometimes irony is funny, and sometimes it's just ironic

(Sarah enjoys a relaxing evening in her favorite recliner)

By Margi Washburn


The store on the south side of town many of us still refer to as The Book Emporium had it right.

There were books, of course, including new releases, paperbacks and used. The lottery was available there, and I’m not sure if that was a good or bad thing, but it was popular. Folks could get greeting cards, ornaments and other knick-knacks. I’m convinced, though, that the most popular attraction was the wide variety of magazines.

Along with weekly news magazines, one could find subject matter of all kinds. Titles pertaining to astronomy, dogs, cats, crafts, TV, celebrities, hunting and dozens more filled the display alongside an entire wall.

My favorites were the writing magazines. Writer’s Digest and The Writer were always available, and they were positioned where I could reach them. The reasons I bought a new edition every month were many, but the main one was that I wanted to learn how to write better.

Friends and family had their own special interests. An uncle always checked out the latest news about car races, hunting and guns. Hubby loved the astronomy section, and our youngest perused the music magazines.

Those days are gone, but our craving for special reading materials is still alive and well. The local library carries quite a few magazines, but they can’t afford what we became used to.

It’s funny, but if you’re a published writer or a budding one, I don’t think you’ll find what you need around here. And here’s one time I hope I get corrected about something; if I’m mistaken, call or write and let me know where I can find my two favorite writing magazines for sale in Kewanee.

Know what else is funny? I’ve stopped in at several Waldenbooks stores and stood staring at their magazine selection. My eyesight leaves a lot to be desired, but I could not find a single writing magazine in their racks. Occasionally a clerk will ask if they can help me find something, and here’s how that goes:

Me: “Do you have any writing magazines?”
Clerk: “Right here.” This is when they point to the motorcycle and car section.
Me: “No, writing, not riding.” And this is where I pretend to write something on the palm of my hand, which leads the clerk to shake their head and walk away.

See how funny that was? Here you have an entire bookstore that is soundly based on people writing what they’re selling, and they have no magazines to inspire and teach us.

Oh, here’s another funny example of irony. I once worked in a library, and their hours were a tad odd. There were many ideal hours that the place could be used to hold writing seminars, critique groups, that sort of thing. I decided to approach one of my bosses and ask if I could set something up. Her answer left me dumbfounded.

I was told that the library could not be used for a writer group of any kind, but she was certain that a building down the block would be fine. She pointed out that the $10 per-use fee could be collected from any participating writers. Isn’t that special?

As the door clicked shut behind her, I picked my chin up off the front counter and sat down. Thousands of books lined the walls all around me, written by men and women from all walks of life, writers who poured their hearts out onto pages that our grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren read. If writers were not allowed to meet in a library, of all places, then where?

I did end up renting a building, and I paid the fee, but we only met once. It was too discouraging to continue and impossible to explain to everyone why we weren’t in the obvious location.

So here I am, in my mid-50s, and I want to continue learning. We should all aim to improve our minds, keep our skills sharp and up-to-date. I happen to gravitate toward writing, but I’ll bet there are a whole lot of folks reading these words who would love to see the selection we used to have in that nifty little store on the south side. Until something changes, I guess we can always fill out that handy subscription card, but it won’t be the same.

Sarah says howdy to her teacher and buds

Margi Washburn

Let me say upfront that I have the deepest respect and trust in our doggy obedience class instructor. Peg Roginski is much more than that; she’s a dear friend and wise in many ways. That said, when she told our class that our pooches would get used to coming every Tuesday night I had serious doubts.

After all, we were only looking at a five-week course. Sarah the pup is one smart cookie, and yes, she knows the word cookie now, but I didn’t believe she’d miss class.

That first night, Sarah and I went and left hubby home. I never thought to ask if he’d like to come, but when we arrived and there were guys holding the leashes, I hoped the next week would be different.

Sarah found her soul mate in another lab, this one a purebred by the name of Kaya. There was also Daisy the Great Pyrenees, and Bonnie, a cute little fuzzy dog that obviously adored her master.

Daisy was a hoot. She’s getting close to three years old, and that first night she pretty much sat on her rump and stared at Peg and her owners. Her response to initial commands seemed to be, “Who, me?” She was content to watch everyone else, and it was so warm I couldn’t blame her.

Bonnie wanted to stare at her master, and she’s a smart one, too, eager to please and full of pep.

Then there was Kaya and Sarah. The two of them were so excited, Peg pointed to the floor to show everyone how their paws were sweating. Kaya’s owner decided then that they would walk her to class every Tuesday to get her calmed down a bit. For them it was about a mile, for us it would’ve been about four. We’d have to figure out something else.

That first class was all about sitting. Sarah was good at that because we’d taught her, but that was pretty much it. I’m afraid she may have appeared smarter than she was, and I was right.

Hubby came along for the next class, and with a long walk around the park beforehand, we were hoping she’d be a bit calmer. I noticed that Kaya seemed a bit more composed, but guess who was still full of stuff?

To top it off, that night’s lesson was on “sit”, then “down”. Sarah was so far beyond excited, that Peg had to come over and try it herself, because the dog’s behind wouldn’t stay on the floor while the rest of her went forward.

“This is going to take a while,” said Peg, as she sat down to work with Sarah. This pleased the dog so much that from that moment on, Peg was a really special buddy. And, Sarah learned how to go down just like her teacher wanted.

We brought along the proper treats, tasty goodies that wouldn’t upset Sarah’s stomach, but she was always looking to see if someone else had something better. She found Kaya’s stash in the windowsill one night and knocked them onto the floor. I know she found out that Daisy was getting lunchmeat from her master, so when the chance presented itself and Daisy missed a piece, Sarah cleaned it up for her.

All of us appreciated the “stay” command, and most everyone understood and obeyed the “leave it” command, except Sarah still has a problem with that one. We like to call her a Labrador “evader” because she never really retrieves anything; she keeps stuff and tries to eat it.

That last class came too soon. Peg had nothing but wonderful things to say to us, and she gave all of her students a special gift to take home.

I felt the need to apologize for Sarah not being quite as quick a learner as the rest of the class, but Peg told us that Sarah had come a “really, really long way.” Hmmm.

We tried to keep up with what we’d learned, and I know we’ve let things slide a bit. But you know what? The craziest thing happened during the first couple of weeks following that last class.

Hubby and I got ready to go out the next Tuesday night, and instead of running up the foyer steps to watch us leave the driveway, Sarah threw herself at the front door and let out a mangled moan. She sat at the door and refused to budge.

I think we both got it at the same time, yet neither of us could believe it. Sarah wanted to jump into the backseat, toodle on down to class and romp with her buds.

It’s high time to admit it, I guess. When Peg said her students were going to miss class on Tuesday nights, she knew exactly what she was talking about. Just ask the doggy who misses her favorite teacher.

On second thought, please don't grow up

By Margi Washburn

I just saw a news story about a tiny Iraqi baby whose mother and uncle were killed a few weeks ago. The little girl was left outside in the garbage, and the temperature was over 110 degrees. She was being well taken care of by American medical personnel, along with our military men and women.

As I looked into her bright wide eyes, all I could think of was how thankful we all must be that she doesn't know about the tragedies that have surrounded her life so far. And I know it's too much to hope that she won't someday learn to hate those who deprived her of her loved ones.

A couple of days ago I read a comment in a newspaper that sent chills up my spine. Someone had called to leave their thoughts, and usually I don't pay much attention to those who make anonymous gripes, but this caught my eye. This parent was admitting that they were teaching their son to hate America, simply because of something that was happening at their job. Just like that, we have another child growing up hating because their parent taught them to do so.

It would seem that most folks aren't that blatant about teaching their children to hate. Instead, kids learn by observing the behavior and conversations inside their homes, or wherever they happen to have contact with the adults in their lives.

For instance, a friend shared that while they were chatting over coffee at a relative's house, his brother-in-law made an ethnic joke. It was doubly bad because it was two races in one joke, and everyone but my friend and his wife howled with laughter. The wife looked uncomfortable because it was her family that made the joke, something they've done for years, and she knew her husband was awfully close to losing his cool.

The men and women sitting around the table that day all had kids of their own, and one of the parents who had taught the adults there was also enjoying the joke. Worse, one of the children was sitting there too, a grandson learning from the adults that it's OK to laugh at someone just because their skin is dark. Good lesson, and if all goes as they plan, this little guy can pass it on to his friends and his own kids someday.

I know my friend needed to vent; he and his wife may not have what it takes to stand up to her family and tell them that enough is enough. I was thinking about it later though, and smacking myself for not telling him to tell his brother-in-law to grow up already. Then it hit me.
Why should he do that? The guy is grown; in fact, he's almost 50 years old.

I have no easy answers for this never-ending cycle of prejudice, but a part of me insists on seeing hope for each new life, that somehow this little boy or girl will learn at the knees of moms, dads, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents that hatred based on nothing more than skin color is simply not acceptable.

There are far worse problems today than a family sitting around a table and laughing at other races. I know that, yet it makes you wonder if that isn't how some criminals get started, by believing that they're better than some folks, so why shouldn't they be robbed, beaten or worse?

A week or so ago I saw two boys around eight or nine years old pushing each other around. They looked like brothers, and they were gearing up for a showdown. Both were holding sodas and when the taller of the two got close enough, he spit in the other's can. The younger returned the favor, then the cussing started. It seemed as natural to the both of them as breathing. My head was spinning with scenarios inside these boys' home.

It seems only fair to mention that kids don't learn every bad behavior from their family and friends. Let's give credit to television, movies, music and peer pressure too.

This struggle between right and wrong is an old, old one and one person can only do so much in their tiniest of corner of the world. But we should never give up trying, and that is why I saw the hope in that baby Iraqi girl's eyes. Maybe she'll be influenced by the people who see her for what she is, a miracle of life that came from an almost hopeless beginning.

And the next time my friend is sitting at the table when the jokes begin, he won't simply sit there and let it happen, and he won't ask them to grow up. I think he knows better than that now, and I wish him the best when he and his wife have the courage to take a stand. Let's hope they do it soon.