Ripplemaker

I’ve spent a lot of time with dead people recently. Or at least reading about them.

Over Thanksgiving, my grandpa handed off to me 20 years worth of work. He’s slowly but surely pulled together a 250 to 300-page, 1st-person account (genealogy) of our family, dating back to the early 1800s. I’m honored that he would like me to edit the piece, and already I have had a blast reading stories about my great-great grandparents!

Today, I find myself digging through a book called A Centenary History searching for stories and dates for a piece I’m writing at work about the university’s archives. The book chronicles the “Baptist pioneers who made history by serving humbly and without thought of recognition” between the years 1852 and 1952. It's so old that its dusty pages are making me sneeze!

But I have to tell you, reading the stories of so many people from so many generations ago can make one feel small. I am just one little-biddy person who happens to be alive in the year 2009. Will I be just a name in a book someday? One of many?

Over snickerdoodles and coffee a couple weeks ago, I had the privilege of interviewing a 90-year-old woman—a spitfire—named Nancy. In her home, we chatted and she shared what it was like to be the wife of a university president for some 20 years. Towards the end of our conversation, she assured me that she doesn’t intend to die anytime soon, yet she knows she’s near death, considering her life in its entirety. And now near death, she can see so much more clearly that every decision we make has a ripple effect. We are all ripplemakers, she said. She reminded me that I’m—you’re—much more than a name in a book on a dusty shelf.

Her words: “God has put you on this earth for a very brief, but specific period of life. It’s just a little space in eternity. But it’s during this time that you make big decisions and they affect those around you...and they affect your eternity…”

Beer me

I have a new favorite person. I don’t really know him, but his name is Eric Blomquist.

He is a brewer at Summit Brewery in St. Paul and has concocted a special, limited-time-only batch of ale brewed with me: heather, the flower/herb.

I tried it last night, and it’s wonderful. I’d highly recommend purchasing at select locations while there is still some available.

Not sure about me in your beer?
"It’s on the sweet side...but the level of bittering balances it nicely, keeping it from becoming cloying..."
Here’s a review.

Dad, don’t buy. I’m getting you some!

Beans and legumes

So, I ran into Barnes & Noble today over lunch and was skimming the cookbooks. Suddenly a woman--a short, bird-like older woman with a very pointy nose--came so close to me that her purse was touching my arm. She too was perusing the cookbooks, but, in my opinion, a little too closely. I slowly took a step to the left. She slowly took a step to the left as well. I took a step back. She took a step back.

Then, she asked: "Have you seen any books on beans and legumes?"

Ok. now within seconds I was wondering:
1. Is she talking to me?
2. Does she think I work at Barnes & Noble?
3. And does she want a book on beans AND legumes? Or
4. A book on beans and then a book on legumes?
5. And who calls them legumes, anyways?

I responded. "Uh, no. No. Haven’t seen any. But then again, I haven’t been looking."

"Such a shame," she continued. "They used to be all the rage, and now when I want it they’ve all but disappeared! Isn’t that how it always happens?"

Me wondering again:
1. Books on beans and legumes were all the rage at one point in time?
2. They’ve disappeared?
3. Or beans and legumes themselves used to be all the rage, but people’s tastes have changed?
4. Who calls them legumes, anyways?

At this point, I was trying not to crack too big of a smile and just nodded. "Yes, that is how it always happens with beans and legumes."

Tough skin

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about armor, tough skin, calluses.

You see, my magazine’s most recent issue just hit, which means the complaints are on their way. It doesn’t really matter what role (or lack thereof) I played in gathering a quote, doing an interview, or writing the piece. I am the editor, and thus the recipient of feedback. And to be fair, I know I receive more compliments than others who worked on the publication because, again, I’m the editor.

With time though, I’ve toughened my skin. Complaints are no longer personal. I’m better at letting things that I can’t control (like inserting a comma post-printing) go. And comments like this one, for example, make me chuckle now:

"Any correspondence from your organization elicits a negative, visceral reaction from me and I don't care to feel this way in my own home. Please stop IMMEDIATELY. Do not call, do not ever send anything, don't even respond to this email. Just STOP."

I induced a visceral reaction. Beautiful.

But recently I’ve also realized that I’ve toughened my skin in other areas—namely my singleness. Singletons have to, at least a little bit, to survive! Dating is not easy. First, there’s the fear that he just will not think you’re attractive enough. And then, let’s say, you get lucky and you actually find him attractive and he’s clearly digging you...then hold on. Just you wait. Something will fall, because it always does. It always has. I mean, we’re single! Something has always gone wrong! Either he stops liking you, you stop liking him, he hurts your feelings, he never calls back, he freaks, he stands you up, he moves away, he doesn’t understand, he needs anger management, he turns out to be psycho! (Yes, I speak from experience.) Perhaps he even says you’ve elicited a visceral feeling in him! Something goes awry. And I can assure you that misreading intents and desires is much more painful than misspelling a name. So, don’t you worry. I have grown tough (read: cynical). Me and one of my single friends don’t believe he’ll actually call. We don’t believe we’ll actually fall for someone. We think the chances of something lasting longer than a coffee date, let alone three coffee dates, is slim to none. We’re not stupid. Fall for something once, twice, but three times? C’mon! We’re smart girls. Sure, we’ll date, but we won’t believe. We must protect ourselves.

So, when someone does call, when he does show up, when he does understand...how’s a single girl to respond? How do you not fear a misspelling and wait for the complaining emails to fly?

Well, as I said, we’re smart girls. So first, we make sure he calls, shows up, understands not just once, but twice, three, four times. Heck, let’s go for five! And then you pray—hard—that he will be able to put the period at the end of your run-on, callused sentence, even though you think it’s too late.

Orange deliciousness

I love the color orange.
I love pumpkin.
I love mushrooms.
I love November.

So, here is my new favorite food: pumpkin mushroom soup, which pretty much HAS to be made in the month of November in order to enjoy it fully. And it’s orange, of course.

PUMPKIN MUSHROOM SOUP
1/2 lb. mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup chopped onion
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp flour
1 Tbsp curry
3 cups chicken broth
salt/pepper
1 Tbsp honey
dash of nutmeg
1 can pumpkin (1 lb.)
1 cup evaporated milk

Saute the onions and mushrooms in butter in large pot. Add curry and flour. Stir. Add broth gradually. Add everything but milk; cook for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add milk, heat until boiling. Serve topped with sour cream.

In my spot

Driving home from work last night, I saw four long spotlights shining into the air in the far distance. You know, the circling moving ones that make me think of Batman’s Gotham City. I haven’t seen these in awhile, and I wondered if that fact had anything to do with the economy and people not spending money on Gotham lights? Or if perhaps people are just more green. There are more effective, smarter means of promotion that use way less energy/electricity?

I then pondered what they’d be for and where they were coming from, and as I continued driving toward them, I realized that they were in the general vicinity that I was heading. A few more miles, and I thought, huh, they actually must be fairly close to my house. A few more miles, ok, they’re actually coming from somewhere right off my exit. Interesting. Perhaps in the Wal-Mart parking lot? Maybe the nearby liquor store. I turned into the parking lot for my gym and headed to my normal parking spot: the first one, next to the curb, a few rows down from the gym door. And there...in my parking spot...was the truck containing the spotlights. IN MY SPOT.

I looked around, checked my rearview mirror. Uh. Really?

Turns out it was my gym’s birthday. Inside were tables of appetizers, little sandwiches and lots of wine. I was sweating it out on the treadmill while three feet away people were inhaling cheese and merlot.

But the lights-in-my-spot thing. I have to say...it’s indicative of my week. I’ve looked around my shoulders on multiple occasions wondering if other people were seeing this? Is this for real? And yes. It is. There are some crazy bright, shining people sharing my spot in life.

Before and after

Today is November 9, 2009.

For many it’s the difference between before and after.

Like B.C. or A.D., it becomes a marker. Before or after a loved one died. Before or after he proposed (yay, Paul!). Before or after cancer. Before or after something was said. And what the day means, then, is change. Drastic change. What’s ahead suddenly looks so different than it did yesterday. Life, as you know it, changes.

I can feel my anxiety rising at the thought of it, but God’s words whisper through my ears, calming me...

“Surely I am with you always...” (Matthew 28:20). Before and after.