Can you imagine how fun that might be?

Nothing but clucking sounds?

I recently came to appreciate the way that Pig Latin flows so smoothly out of my mouth. I was teaching it to an eight-year-old who, although eager to learn so she could stymy her schoolmates, had a hard time grasping the subtle nuances of the challenging tongue.

As we walked about the house, Abbie laughed and giggled as I conversed in the language of my childhood.

I named an object. She repeated the word. Ink-say. Ork-fay. At-cay.  Indow-way.

Then we advanced to words beginning with a double consonant. Ess-dray. Air-chay. Ool-stay. Oor-flay.

At that point, the child became so befuddled, I postponed the lesson on words that begin with a vowel. There are limits as to how quickly one might become immersed in a language, and Abbie was over her head.

Despite her lack of spontaneity, I’m not giving up on the girl. In fact, once she advances to complete sentences and finally forges on to full fluency in Pig Latin, I’ll teach her the obscure and endangered idiom that my daughter and I call Dee.

My mom used to say, “It didn’t grow legs and walk away,” whenever my siblings or I lost a toy or a trinket.

But if they didn’t grow legs and walk away, how else would my keys end up in the dog dish? Or in the cookie jar? Or in the laundry basket?

Yeah, I tend to misplace important items such as house keys, my eyeglasses, and my wallet. I’m a lost cause, I’ll admit. Yet I’m also one of those maddingly organized people who has a place for everything and everything in its place.

If I was a mariner, all would be shipshape. If I was a captain, I’d run a tight ship.

Our house is clutter-free. The clothes in our closets are hangered. Shorts, panties, tee shirts, and sweaters are stowed in their drawers. In the kitchen, cupboards are tidily arranged. The pantry is stocked. The spices are alphabetically arranged. In the bathroom, towels and sheets and extra blankets are deftly stowed in the linen closet.

So when H2 misplaces something, I warn him to look in the exact spot where I said it would be, “because if I have to get out of this chair to find it for you, I’m gonna be really mad.”

When I misplace something, however, it’s H2 who always finds it. He might fuss and fume a bit in the process, but the dear fellow never gets mad.

*****

To read another short essay about things I have lost, click here:

bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/07/18/born-loser/

BUT YOU EAT KUMQUATS SKIN AND ALL!

And they’re a perfect mix of sweet and tangy that leaves your mouth feeling clean and fresh.

Yum!

I’m addicted.

To make up for all of those fruitless years, I’ve eaten hundreds of kumquats since then.

They pair so beautifully with the blueberries that I froze last summer.

*****

For years I sought out a recipe for scones that matched one my Grandma Grace baked. This grandmother who loved pretty things despite being very poor came to the United States from Scotland in her later teens.

I finally found the taste I remembered just last spring.

CREAM SCONES

2 cups flour

3 tablespoons sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup currants (or craisins)

1-1/3 cups heavy whipping cream

Preheat oven to 400. Place the oven rack in the middle position. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (or lightly grease the sheet).

In a medium bowl, mix together the dry ingredients. Stir in the dried fruit. Pour in the cream. Stir until a soft dough is formed.

Scrape the dough onto a lightly floured counter and knead a few times. Form into a ball. With a rolling pin, roll into a circle that is 1 inch thick. With your fingers, smooth out the edges. Cut into 8 wedges with a sharp knife. Arrange the wedges in a circle on the baking sheet with a 1/2 inch gap between each wedge.

Bake for 7 minutes. Reduce heat to 350. Bake another 15 minutes.

Serve warm with butter.

(Leave out the dried fruit and these make a perfect base for strawberry shortcake.)

*****

If you’d like to read my essay about the Grandma who loved pretty things, please click on an appropriate photo link on the right sidebar at the tip of this page to purchase Belly Button Blues in e-book (only $4.99) or paperback.

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Well, going green gal that I am, I decided to use up that boxful of little yarn balls.

A few days ago, I knit a little headband modeled after those my dear old Gram used to make me when I was a little girl. I loved those little “half hats”.

I wish I still had one of the lovely woolen sweaters Gram gave us girls for special occasions like the first day of school and such. She taught me to knit, so I often made sweaters for my hubbie and kids. The only bad thing was that they always came out way too  B  I  G.  The little tykes eventually grew into theirs, but Hapless Hubbie never did. We called the one I made him “The Bigfoot Sweater”. In time, he passed it on to my workmate Darrell who has closer ties to Bigfoot.

*****

I thought up this second knitting project because I wanted something to keep my wrists warm. Store-bought sweater sleeves are never long enough to suit me, but I didn’t have a big enough ball of yarn to knit a whole sweater. So I’ve named these little sweater extenders “monkey arms”.

When H2 took this photo, I called him a lousy photographer because he made my hands look old.

“Your hands are old,” he told me. “I can’t help that.”

So I took another shot that doesn’t show off my recently-turned-60 hands.

I’ll admit that I didn’t want to model that little half hat pictured above because H2 is such a lousy photographer that he made my face look old. So I took another photo that doesn’t show off my recently-turned-60 mug.

I am so lucky to have a hubbie who is such a good sport. Because he’s 8 months my junior, H2 looks younger than me besides.

*****

Knitting Pattern for Monkey Arms as requested by Susan:

With size 10-1/2 needles, CO 28 sts

1. *k3, yo, skp* k3
2. *p4, k1* p3
3. *k3, k2 tog, yo* k3
4. p3 *k1, p4*

Rep these 4 rows 5 times through. Next work in k2, p2 ribbing until 10 more rows have been completed. BO loosely. Sew the side seam.

The lace pattern (rows 1-4) also makes a nice scarf. If you want to make the lace part wider or narrower, it is a multiple of 5 plus 3. (ie: 5 x 4 = 20 + 3 = 23 sts for a narrower scarf)

Whew!

I survived 2012.

Yeah, I’ll admit I had my concerns when, last year at this same time, alarmists warned us about Teotwawki—TheEndOfTheWorldAsWeKnowIt.

And what about the uncharted and unseen planet called Nibiru that would strike the earth or nearly miss it?

Or the last day on the Mayan calendar?

Or the reversal of the earth’s polarity that would flip it over?

Or the solar storms that would destroy civilization by disrupting power grids?

Or out-of-control asteroids?

Yikes!

Well, none of those things happened.

And so, hurricanes, tornados, tsunamis, earthquakes, and wildfires notwithstanding, 2013 should be a better year.

My daughters had outfitted me in stylish ski duds so I wouldn’t embarrass them by arriving on the ski slopes in Goodwill gear. But even though state-of-the-art skis were strapped to my feet, it still took two years of painstaking practice before I could glide down an intermediate run without humiliating myself. Within another season, I advanced to the exhilaration of skiing off the groomed runs and into the trees in search of deep powder.

But I still couldn’t keep up with my kids.

Tired of being taunted in spite of my noteworthy progress, I hit the slopes on a weekday while they were off at school. It would be a magnificent day on the mountain with other intermediate, middle-aged skiers.

Or so I thought.

To my chagrin, the girls from a local ski team had been excused from school to practice for an upcoming competition. As I negotiated a challenging slope, a dozen giggling girls whizzed straight down the mountain before me. I felt graceless and inept as I skidded to a stop and watched them take a jump. It was disheartening, I’ll admit, to witness nary a mishap involving flying poles, somersaults, face-plants, or runaway skis. When I bravely took the jump myself, I hit the hard-packed snow in a tangled heap.

I scooted behind the girls in the lift line when I reached the bottom of the run. Their cheeks were pink. Their faces glowed. They looked wholesomely exquisite in their form-fitting jackets and nylon pants. The budding Olympians recklessly wiggled as the lift raised us up the mountain. I soon became a witness to what they hoped to accomplish. Passing a regal fir, the girls tossed their bras into its snow-covered boughs in a blatant display of liberation. My chair came abreast of branches adorned with a dozen uplifting undergarments in a rainbow of vibrant, youthful colors.

Because I had been a quiet and studious adolescent, I couldn’t help but admire the girls’ free-spirited spunk. My own school days had been squandered writing term papers, studying for algebra tests, and memorizing significant dates in mankind’s history while courageous older classmates had dared to burn their bras at feminist rallies. Such young women had been designated as role models for little “sisters” like me who still sported undershirts.

My imaginings of adolescent defiance, however, had been promptly and effectively squelched. My exacting parents had no tolerance for insurgents. They frowned upon sit-ins, rock festivals, flower power, yoga, free love, vegetarianism, and other odd uprisings.

I still recall that period of missed opportunities with much regret.

Emboldened and inspired by my young mentors, I dismounted the lift and sailed down the slope with courage and abandon. A shortcut through closely-spaced trees enabled me to beat the girls to the bottom. They joined the line moments after I plopped onto the lift.

As we ascended the ridge, bright sunshine dispersed the low clouds which had obscured the mountaintops. Grasping my ski poles firmly between my knees so as not to drop them, I shucked off my coat, slipped my arms out of my pullover, and, as unobtrusively as I could manage, shimmied out of my bra. The forty dollar scrap of silk and black lace arced gracefully through the air. It landed on a lofty branch amongst the others.

The rebellious act gave me a feeling of complete emancipation. I dismounted the chair, skied beyond the intermediate runs, and incautiously plunged over the precipice onto my first double-diamond slope.

*****

In the winters to follow, I purchased season’s passes and became quite the adventuresome skier. Although always reluctant, H2 warily followed my tracks. Some skiers like speed; others like to explore the untrailed forested expanses within the ski area’s bounds. The latter would be me. I like obstacles and the challenge of not knowing what lies ahead. Or at least I did until a debilitating ski accident at the end of the season in 2009 kept me off the slopes for several years. Now I’m content to navigate the easier slopes with my snowboarding grandguys. Well……….not completely content, I suppose. I still feel a yearning for those glory days.

*****

If you enjoy my essays, please check out my book, Belly Button Blues, available in e-book (only $4.99) or paperback, by clicking on a link on the sidebar at the top of this page. My blogging buddies who’ve purchased it so far have given me wonderful feedback.

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]]> http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/double-diamond/feed/ 8 bellybuttonblues ski http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/just-say-no-to-negative/ http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/just-say-no-to-negative/#comments Sun, 30 Dec 2012 00:34:01 +0000 Teresa Cleveland Wendel http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/?p=3271 ]]> I told Alicia if I ever get cancer I won’t accept any “negative speak” from anyone anymore.

Alicia said, “You don’t have to get cancer, Mom. Why don’t you quit accepting negative speak starting today?”

My daughter is so wise and wonderful. She saves her old ma lots of money by acting as her personal shrink.

Sweet Alicia, all dressed up for a costume tea party

*****

I can’t confirm if it’s true or not, but somebody told me that Wenatchee has the record for snowfall this year in the continental United States.

I plant “snowflowers” along the back fence every summer for the winter enjoyment of the juncos, sparrows, and finches who visit our backyard.

I especially love the quail who scratch at the cracked wheat and corn like a flock of chickens. I’ve counted close to 50 at one feeding as we sit at the breakfast or dinner table.

And this is our cozy little 50′s bungalow.

]]> http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/just-say-no-to-negative/feed/ 15 bellybuttonblues Alicia snowflowers quail snow http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/29/the-polar-bear-plunge/ http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/2012/12/29/the-polar-bear-plunge/#comments Sat, 29 Dec 2012 01:34:54 +0000 Teresa Cleveland Wendel http://bellybuttonblues.wordpress.com/?p=3242 ]]>

After we took the Polar Bear Plunge into the frigid waters of Lake Wenatchee on a snowy New Year’s day, H2 said, “What worries me most about you, Teresa, is what you’ll come up with next. Sky diving? Bungee jumping? Hell’s Canyon in a kayak?”

*****

It’s funny how the body reacts to extreme cold. Yes, it was shocking when we dove off the dock. We didn’t start shivering uncontrollably, however, until about 30 minutes later.

*****

We took that Plunge several years ago. After that, we decided that one Polar Bear Plunge in a lifetime is probably enough.

But then again, maybe not…

*****

This is post #250.

It’s been fun writing these little blurbs and vignettes. If you enjoy what I have to say, you’ll no doubt like my collection of essays, Belly Button Blues–Reflections. It’s available in e-book (only $4.99) or paperback by clicking on a link on the right sidebar at the top of the page. 

Thanks for supporting indie writers and booksellers.

It’s their mom and dad’s wedding anniversary, so Grandguys #1 and #4 are spending the night with us tonight.

Before our last sleepover, I sewed flannel pajamas for all of the boys. I could have bought them for half the price, but the kids seemed impressed that their grandma could make PJs.

“You don’t ever have to wash these,” #4 told his mom after he’d worn his homemade flannels for a week.

She gave him a questioning look.

“I don’t wipe my boogers on these ones,” he said.

And someone had a mind to.

For three days now, I’ve been half-heartedly trying to fix it. Finally, at wit’s end, I was ready to delete my blog and start over elsewhere–like Tumblr, Blogger, or Timbuktoo. Non-techie that I am, I was loathe to do that. But I came that close.

I am no longer the naive and trusting blogger of bygone months. I’m downright jaded these days, in fact.