Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

Jessikimbrittifer Who?

Posted on August 12, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It has come to my attention that I just might be a bit out of touch with popular culture. Or, as I prefer to think of it, that popular culture is out of touch with me.

The first clue was being with a group of young adults who didn't recognize the William Tell Overture by name. That part wasn't really so surprising—but what made me realize there just might be a culture gap was the fact that they didn't recognize it as the theme for The Lone Ranger.

My cultural frame of reference is narrow, out of the mainstream, and out of date—perhaps because so much of it is out of books. I grew up without television. Once, at a gathering where for some reason a group of people started singing the theme from "The Howdy Doody Show," I was the only one in the room who didn't know the words. As an adult, I've spent most of my life in a voluntary state of TV deprivation. I have never seen an episode of "Seinfeld," "The Simpsons," or "The Biggest Loser." Or "Dallas," for that matter.

Maybe that's why I don't recognize all the celebrities who feature, by first names only, in the headlines of tabloids and People magazines at the supermarket checkout stand. Who are all these people? Okay, even I have heard of Angelina and Brad and a few of the others. But the various interchangeable Jessicas, Jennifers, Brittanys, and Kims seem to have escaped my cable TV-less notice. The magazines who refer to them so casually seem to assume I ought to know. Even worse, they seem to assume I ought to care.

Once upon a time, in order to be known by only one name someone had to be really famous. Not to mention, quite often, dead. Like Plato, or Socrates, or Aristotle. Frequently they had a title or at least a clarifying description attached. Like Alexander, Peter, Catherine and all those other "the Greats." Or Attila the Hun. Jack the Ripper. Smokey the Bear.

Even Elvis, by the time he needed only one name, was "the King." Lassie, on the other hand, needed no descriptor.

Then came Cher, who dropped her last name about the same time she dropped Sonny. And Madonna. Oprah, of course. Elton John uses two names, but that doesn't count because they both sound like first names anyway.

But now it seems to take less and less fame to become a one-name celebrity. One quick scandal, a tell-all book, or a season or two on a cable channel, and there people are in the tabloids, first names only, as if we run into them every week at the grocery store. Which, come to think of it, I guess we do.

Maybe it's because fame comes and goes so quickly that we don't have time to learn their last names. Or maybe it just saves room in the tabloid headlines and takes fewer characters on Twitter.

Categories: Just For Fun | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Why My Plants Are Thirsty

Posted on August 5, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Warning: The following story may not be suitable for small children or those with weak stomachs. If you're eating while you read, any adverse consequence are not my fault. Remember, you have been warned.

Just before bedtime one night, I was sitting in the recliner in my office, reading. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something little and gray run across the floor and disappear under the printer stand in the corner. Trying to convince myself that I hadn't really seen a mouse, I went to bed.

When the phone rang a few minutes later and I had to go into the office to answer it, I made sure to walk as loudly as bare feet allowed, just to scare off anything small and scampering that might possibly be in there in the dark.

Two days later, needing to give a drink to the thirsty pansies out on the deck, I grabbed the watering can from under the kitchen sink. It was already full because, thrifty soul that I am, I empty half-finished water bottles into it instead of dumping them down the drain. When I watered the pansies, the water didn't seem to come out of the spout properly, but I thought it was just because I was tipping the can too far. I also caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor that I hadn't previously associated with pansies.

After the can was empty, I noticed that something gray seemed to be stuck in the spout. It took me a minute to realize what alert readers have no doubt already figured out—the gray thing was a drowned mouse. I banged the watering can on the deck railing to shake the dead little critter loose, then tried to dump it out. Instead of falling out of the rather small opening at the top of the can, it got stuck in the spout again.

I am not afraid of mice. I don't consider myself especially squeamish about critters in general, even dead ones. I am a practical, prairie-raised woman who knows how to clean a fish and pluck a chicken. But at this point I lost it. There was something about the pathetic little dead feet hanging out of the spout of the watering can that was pitiful and disgusting at the same time.

I threw the mouse, watering can and all, off the deck into the back yard.

After I recovered from my spasm of disgust, I told myself to look on the bright side. With the combination of 100-degree heat, ants, and other scavengers, I should be able to recover the watering can in a couple of weeks. And at least the mouse was gone.

That evening, just before bedtime, I walked into my office to shut down the computer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something little and gray run along the wall.

 

Epilogue: Three weeks later

The second mouse succumbed with gratifying promptness to an easy-to-set and—far more important—easy-to-empty contraption named "A Better Mousetrap." So far, I haven't spotted any more little gray critters. (At least not moving ones; dust bunnies don't count.)

But watering the house plants just doesn't work as well with the recycled juice bottle I've been using. For some reason, I haven't wanted to use the watering can. It's still out there in the yard.

Categories: Just For Fun, Wild Things | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Flat Green Tomatoes

Posted on July 29, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Despite the belief of my sister's neighbor, who is "kind of different," the United States government does not control the weather. All those jet trails that crisscross South Dakota's expansive skies really are not part of an elaborate weather-manipulating grid that is managed from a secret bunker hidden somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.

I find it reassuring that we haven't yet managed to control the weather. It's a reminder that, no matter how high-tech and sophisticated we humans may be, we and the planet we inhabit are still subject to powers greater than ourselves.

Somehow, though, this philosophical point of view wasn't much comfort on Wednesday afternoon as we stood in the doorway watching a hailstorm pulverize our garden. It poured rain (I'm sure I saw a couple of Chihuahuas and a Siamese in there somewhere) for almost half an hour, and it hailed steadily for ten to fifteen minutes.

We could have gone kayaking down our driveway or in the fast-moving miniature river that flowed around the corner of our neighbor's house and filled the gully that separates the two properties. By the time the storm was over, our yard was covered with an inch of hail. Much of the grass was still white the next morning, and on Friday morning one shady spot still held a drift of hail several inches deep.

Of course, half a dozen destroyed tomato plants and a few stripped chokecherry bushes doesn't exactly count as a major life event. We weren't watching the destruction of crops we depended on for our livelihood or even a garden we were counting on to feed a family. The minor pang of a lost garden isn't anywhere close to the heartsick discouragement of a farmer who sees hail or wind pound a year's potential income into oblivion.

Still, the storm made me wish, for just a moment, that my sister's neighbor was right. Then I had a truly terrifying thought.

Maybe he is.

Maybe the government really is controlling the weather. You have to admit it's a bit odd that just around the curve, not 100 yards north of our house, there was hardly any hail at all. A paranoid person might find the apparent targeting of our property more than a little suspicious.

Do you suppose somebody in that secret weather-control bunker knows I voted Libertarian in the last election?

Categories: Food and Drink, Just For Fun | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Jumping for Joy over Jack

Posted on July 22, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

We talk about "family trees," but even a tree is far too simple a symbol to capture the real complexity of a family. Maybe a vine would be better. Or a network of circles that overlap and link together into complex patterns.

Or a weaving, with its beginning lost in the past, its end undetermined somewhere far into the future, and its present a complicated tangle of interconnected threads. It is created from ties of blood, ties of marriage, and, above all, ties of love. They connect, overlap, blend, and sometimes clash in a complex mixture of colors and textures that create an ever-changing pattern.

And that may be a nice little bit of analogy, but actually a family is more like a sweater knit by a committee. Each person uses a different pattern, a different type and color of yarn, and different size needles, and there's always someone who shows up with a crochet hook. The finished garment might end up with seven sleeves and no neck opening–but it will be one of a kind.

All this imagery is an attempt to put into words my feelings about the arrival on July 21, 2011, of grandchild number ten: Jack Allen.

Since his father is my stepson, Jack is "my" grandson. He's also "my" grandson to his mother's parents, his father's mother, and his father's stepdad. And his father's father, whose thread in the family weaving was abruptly broken off nearly nine years ago.

Wayne will never get to hold this newest grandchild in his big, competent hands and grin at him with the smile that started in his bright blue eyes. Jack won't get to know the grandfather whose middle name he shares.

But he's there, nevertheless, just as we other grandparents are. Along with the rest of the family, we're all part of the pattern that right now comes together in this new baby.

Maybe that's a little too much heavy thinking for one little guy who isn't even a full day old yet. So, while Jack is getting to know his mom and his dad, the rest of us in the complicated connections that make up his family can wait a while.

For now, let's just keep it simple: He's here. His name is Jack. As in "Jeepers, he's cute." As in "Jump up and down with excitement," the way his father did right after his birth. As in Joy.

Welcome, Jack Allen. Your families are Jubilant about you.

Categories: Family | Leave a comment

The Freedom To Be Independent

Posted on July 15, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

"I will celebrate freedom by shooting off my fireworks at whatever time I please, anywhere I please. And I will leave the leftovers where they lay, as this is still America, the land of the free."

This was one of the "Page Too" comments in the Rapid City Journal on July 5. Just to give this person the benefit of the doubt, it's possible that the comment was intended as sarcasm.

I hope so. If not, the comment is confusing freedom and independence.

The Fourth of July isn't "Freedom Day," it's "Independence Day." It celebrates our emancipation from the mother country, our choice to make our own decisions and govern ourselves. It marks our adulthood as a nation.

Freedom to do whatever you want with no consideration for your neighbors, and to let someone else clean up your mess, is the freedom of a child. As adults, we may look back wistfully on what we see as the carefree days of childhood. No job to go to, no mortgages or money worries, no adult responsibilities, no need to worry about anyone except ourselves. That "carefree" existence has a certain level of freedom, but it certainly is not independence.

True, children are free to be irresponsible because their parents take care of their needs. Their parents also control where and how they live, what they eat, what they wear, when they go to bed, and whether they get to spend eight hours a day playing video games.

It is dangerously shortsighted to define "freedom" as the right to do whatever we want, whenever we want, and to let someone else be responsible for cleaning up the mess or paying the bills. That may feel like freedom in the short term, but it is the exact opposite of independence. Insisting on such illusory freedom is claiming the "right" to be taken care of like a child—which is a certain route to losing freedom altogether.

Being independent, on the other hand, is defined by Merriam Webster as "not subject to control by others: self-governing." Independence is the right to accept responsibility for ourselves and interact with those around us with the mutual respect of equals.

This year I spent the Fourth of July in Lincoln, Nebraska, where unrestricted fireworks were allowed. On the evenings of both July 3rd and July 4th, the whole town was lit up with amateur fireworks displays. Street corners were riotous with sparklers, bottle rockets, mortar shells, flaming hot air balloons, and the odd exploding watermelon. It was freedom, all right—noisy, dramatic, exciting, beautiful, occasionally obnoxious, and more than a little frightening.

And, of course, messy. The next morning, when I went for a walk, the streets were covered with scorch marks and littered with cardboard, fuses, and other remnants of thousands of fireworks. A few places had been cleaned up, and I saw two men busy with brooms and garbage cans. On many more street corners, though, the celebrators had obviously chosen to "leave the leftovers where they lay."

In front of one house, three little boys aged about six to ten, were out with a broom, a shovel, and a trash can. They were cleaning up their mess with considerably less enthusiasm than they must have shown for shooting off the fireworks the night before. They probably didn't think of themselves as fortunate.

Yet, whether they appreciated it or not, they were being taught an essential lesson. They were learning the difference between childish freedom and grown-up independence. It's an important distinction for each of us to practice as Americans, not just on Independence Day, but every day.

(This column was first published in the Rapid City Journal as a guest editorial on July 9, 2011.)

Categories: Living Consciously | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

Trouble at Exit 192

Posted on July 8, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

I drive across western South Dakota on I-90 often enough to notice when a gas station changes brands, a rest area gets a new hand dryer, or one of the Black Hills attractions puts up a new billboard. (When you've finished your audio book and the alphabet game is your primary source of entertainment and alertness, those billboards are important.)

Even so, it took me a minute last week to realize what was wrong at the Murdo exit.

The long green car was gone.

For as long as I can remember, Exit 192 at the edge of Murdo has been marked by a huge billboard advertising the South Dakota Auto Museum. The billboard, topped by an impossibly long green antique car, has been one of the landmarks of I-90 travel for decades. It certainly has been there as long as I've been driving across the state.

It probably was there the only time I've actually visited the Auto Museum, but unfortunately I can't remember. I was about six or seven at the time, and the only thing I remember about the trip was being unkindly teased by my older sister and even older cousin. The cars themselves apparently didn't make much of an impression.

As an adult, living in the Black Hills with family in the eastern part of the state, most of my stops at Murdo have only been quick ones on my way to somewhere else.

Last Sunday, though, I noticed the empty space along Highway 83 even before I turned off the interstate to drive into Murdo. The billboard was a splintered mess along the edge of the road, with the green car a crumpled wreck beside it. Apparently the most recent round of severe storms to sweep across the area had been too much for the elderly sign.

Driving past the wreck, I looked as closely as I could while still maintaining the dignity and respect appropriate to the recent demise of a public figure. I've wondered from time to time over the years how much, if any, of the sign had been built from a real car body. It looked as if the front end, at least, was an actual car, but I couldn't tell for sure. Inquiring minds—or this inquiring mind, anyway—would like to know.

In the meantime, I hope they rebuild the sign, and soon. I'll even promise to visit the museum if they do. Especially if the new sign includes the word "antique." Along that part of I-90, particularly heading east, the billboard game really needs that "q."

Categories: Remembering When, Travel | 1 Comment

Overdoing the 60’s

Posted on July 1, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It's a good thing that old peace medallion necklace is still in the bottom of my jewelry box somewhere. I might want it any day now.

This past week I had one of "those" birthdays. As one of my sisters delicately phrased it, "one that ends with a zero." There's nothing wrong with the zero—it's that six in front of it that's the problem.

At least it was until a couple days ago, when I was hiking with a couple of my grandkids and had a life-transforming revelation along the trail to Harney Peak. I realized I've been given a unique opportunity. I have a second chance to experience the 60's.

There's the joke about, "If you can remember the 60's, you didn't fully experience them." That would be me. I lived through that decade with modesty, sobriety, restraint, and high grades. I didn't ingest or smoke any strange substances. I went to class regularly. The only time I attended a campus protest, I wandered in by accident. I didn't burn any bras (not that anyone would have noticed) and never even ironed my hair.

Now, I get to do the 60's over again. It's the perfect opportunity to try some of the things I missed the first time.

Like drugs. Well, maybe not so much. By the time I take my daily multi-vitamin, calcium, vitamin D, fish oil, and estrogen, the last thing I'm interested in is another pill to pop. I suppose I could try smoking my new hemp Tilley hat, but after that whole skin cancer on the nose experience last year, I need the sun protection more than the high.

Peace? I'm all for it. Just give me a universal jamming device to shut down all those obnoxious television sets in waiting rooms, bass-thumping speakers that damage the eardrums of people three cars over, and cell phones being shouted into by anyone in a public place. I'd be glad to give that kind of peace a chance.

Fashion? This one is too easy. The 60's are so In right now, in a retro sort of way. Never mind that anyone old enough to remember a fashion from its first incarnation shouldn't wear it the second time around. Bellbottoms? Absolutely. So what if the bell is a little rounder and swings a little lower than it used to. Love beads? Well, maybe; are love handles close enough? Long, beautiful hair? Never mind; I don't even want to talk about it.

Sit-ins? Tell me where and when, and I'll be there. I am an expert sitter. I'm willing to sit anywhere, anytime, for hours. Just as long as I have an ebook reader, an Internet connection, and a nice comfortable chair.

Free love? Absolutely. The more the merrier. I'll bring all my friends. Maybe the grandkids, too. What? Oh, wait. I thought you said "free lunch." Never mind.

Questioning authority? Challenging the establishment? Back then, I was too busy being well-behaved to get involved with any of that hippie change-the-world idealism. Now? I've learned just how important that idealism can be—especially when it's combined with some life experience. This time through, no more little miss nice girl. I am grandma; hear me roar.

A 60's do-over. I can't wait.

But in case anyone cares, let me add just one reassuring note. I promise I will never "let it all hang out."

Categories: Just For Fun | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

Pot Problems

Posted on June 24, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

It's almost time to commit cacticide again.

Among the plants on the old library table in my kitchen are a Christmas cactus and a Thanksgiving cactus. Well, supposedly it's a Thanksgiving cactus, but this past year it bloomed around Halloween and then again at Easter, so it appears to be a bit conflicted in its religious beliefs.

Both plants are thriving, to the point of getting too big for their pots. It's time to either repot them, trim them back severely, or consider even more drastic measures.

I've gone the repotting route before, and I know where it leads. First the plant outgrows a nice middle-sized pot, then a big one, and the next thing you know it's firmly established in a container the size of a coffee table that is too heavy to move. It's having illicit pot parties in the living room and you're too intimidated to say anything.

The last time that happened with the Christmas cactus, I finally took drastic action. I clipped off eight or ten substantial cuttings, started a new plant in a medium-sized pot, and after it was well established I lugged the old plant out onto the deck.

In January. A couple of days later we had a blizzard, and there the poor thing sat, the wind making its frozen fingers scratch against the glass door as if it were pleading to be taken back in. I felt like a murderer. It reminded me of the stories about Eskimos leaving old people out on the ice to die.

Especially because that plant was so old. It had been part of my life for nearly 40 years, and part of the family for much longer. My plant was a gift from my mother when I moved into my first house. It started from cuttings from my grandmother's Christmas cactus. Hers bloomed magnificently every year and had grown into a majestic presence, its gnarled thick stalks growing out of a square wooden pot custom-made for it by my uncle. Grandma's plant, in turn, had come from one belonging to her cousin Minnie, which might well have begun with a gift of cuttings to her mother as early as about 1900.

So cutting back my Christmas cactus or restarting it isn't something to be done lightly. It has a venerable and honorable heritage. Of course, it has a promising future as well. The one I started from it for my daughter is flourishing in her living room.

If I do start a new plant and discard the older part of mine, it really wouldn't be cacticide. It's more like reincarnation.

No wonder the Thanksgiving cactus is so confused.

Categories: Family | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Not Your Grandpa’s Father’s Day

Posted on June 17, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

Fatherhood.

There was a lot of it showing at the family wedding last weekend. The father of the bride. The father of the groom. The father-to-be who is the youngest sibling in our blended family, and who many of us secretly still see as 12 years old and too young to be having children of his own. And the brothers, brothers-in-law, cousins, and friends who were fathers of the babies and all those little kids having so much fun on the dance floor.

This generation's young fathers are a joy to watch. They look just as comfortable with a baby tucked under one arm as they do with an iPad. They appear to share with their wives the "parent radar" that's always alert to what the kids are doing. They seem to take for granted that it's up to them to do a fair share of the yucky stuff like changing diapers and cleaning up messes.

Here's to all the young fathers in my family and elsewhere who aren't embarrassed to go out in public with little plastic bags of Cheerios in their pockets. Who matter-of-factly wipe sticky little fingerprints off their cell phones. Who, when they're looking after their own kids, don't call it "babysitting."

You're doing a great job, guys. Happy Father's Day.

Categories: Family | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

Life Is Happening Everywhere

Posted on June 10, 2011 by Kathleen Fox

A wedding, a baby shower (for different couples, if anyone might be wondering), a funeral, two serious illnesses, visiting grandkids (oh, and their parents, too), plus a couple of birthdays and anniversaries and at least one threatened flood.

This week has been stressful, sad, exciting, and joyful. Our families are busy with transitions, beginnings, and endings. The reality of life–much of it delightful, some of it hard–is happening all over.

And the all-important common thread running through all of it? Family, of course. Love. It's worth every second, every tear, every smile, and every hug. Especially the ones made stickier with chokecherry jelly.

 

Categories: Family | Leave a comment

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