The End of Canning

I finished my season of canning today, with tomatoes. It was a good way to finish. A giant box of tomatoes yielded ten quart-size jars. I'm happy.

I'm putting down some notes here so next year when I do this again, and yes, I am going to do it again, I won't have to remember what worked and what didn't.

Setting up with everything near the stove worked great. It is a VERY messy activity so I went through too many paper towels. Jars sanitizing in the big canner, water boiling to blanch tomatoes and lids and bands in small saucepan.

From the hot water to a cold water bath makes easier peeling, although there is a fine line between easy peeling and stewed tomatoes.

And . . . done. Felt as though I was putting too much in each jar, but now, I'm happy with how full they look.

Very Sad News. My Friend Micki.

I got an email today letting me know a very, very dear friend had passed away. My heart is so heavy. Her name was Marilyn "Micki" Beckman, and she was one of my very first friends here in Monument.

When we opened our gallery, Micki applied for a job with us. We hired her immediately, and soon she became my mentor, compatriot, and confidant. Not long after I met Micki, my mother died. I needed to fly to California immediately, so I called Micki's house. Her husband, Rod, answered and said she was playing mahjong, but he'd let her know. Not more than twenty minutes later, she walked in the front door of the gallery. Rod had gone to get her, and she came straight to me, offering her condolences and her love.

Micki and Rod celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary shortly thereafter. They had a big shindig at the Falcon Club at USAFA, and they invited us. It was wonderful to meet their friends and family. We felt so honored to be included.

When Micki decided to retire (she was in her seventies), Doug and I took her and Rod out for dinner. They told us that night that she had worked for someone else for years, and they'd never done anything so nice for her. All Doug and I could think was that she was a person who should have nice things done for her all the time.

We ran into the two of them in Costco a few weeks ago. Prior to that we hadn't seen them since our 2014 Christmas party. We were on our way to see Doug's cardiologist, and after a few minutes of conversation, Rod and Doug realized they shared the same doctor. He asked us to say hello for him. It was Dr. Sherry who told us how hard a time Micki had been having. She was in a wheelchair in Costco, and Rod said she'd had a stroke. She said, "I feel better than I look." We learned from Doug's doctor that she had been in a rehab facility, and he hoped she was back home.

She told Doug and me how good we looked, and shook her finger at Doug, telling him to keep it up. When we said goodbye, I leaned down to hug her. "I love you so much," she whispered and held on tight. Those were the last words we said to each other. I feel blessed that I can remember her words, and find comfort that she knew how much I loved her too.

Micki helped me at a time I really needed her. She was a true and dear friend, with a kind heart and generous spirit. I will miss her so.

They've Watched Me Grow Up

Frank said those words to me last night as we walked from the roped-off seating area in front of the stage over to the door that would lead us backstage at the OAR concert. On our way we chatted with one of Red Rock's security guys, who has also watched Frank grow up. We talked about it a little. Eric, who is the front-of-the-stage security supervisor asked about all the concerts Frank has been to at the venue, what his favorites have been. They talked about Twenty One Pilots a few weeks ago, and Dirty Heads, who played the night before the first day of school.

Frank was talking about OAR when he first spoke those words. We had just come from the meet and greet, which is always quick, but the guys are so gracious. Last night was no different. Having done the meet and greet as many times as we have, we've started thinking ahead of time whether there is something specific we want to say to the band. 

I remember one year telling them that Frank was thinking about going to Ohio State. I've also talked about Frank being a musician. This year I didn't talk about Frank. I had something more specific I wanted to say. When I shook Richard On's hand, I stopped for a minute, and took the time to tell him how much I admire him as a guitar player. On several of their recordings, particularly the live recordings, I stop talking and turn the volume way up when he is playing certain riffs. I didn't get that specific with what I told him, but just having that moment to recognize a guy who is typically one of the most quiet, was just that . . . a moment.

Frank isn't that talkative of a kid, he's kind of like his dad that way. So when he talks, I listen, intently. Earlier, as we waited in the meet and greet line, he talked about his future, and how music will play a role in that future. He dreamt out loud about how we'd look back at the days when we waited in line to go backstage, and how one day, he'd just be backstage. And he'd make sure I was too, along with his father and brother. It was another moment.

I've written before about the influence this band has had on my son. When Frank's band was still together, they'd talked about how they'd treat their fans. He'd reference OAR in those pie-in-the-sky conversations. Not just them, other bands too, but he's learned so much from OAR's professionalism, fan appreciation, and sincerity.

We had the great opportunity to sit on the side of the stage last night. We weren't really sure what to expect from seeing the show from that vantage point, but as it was happening, it was amazing. It was a dream. I had so much fun. At the very end of the show, Jerry came over to where we stood for the second time that night. He shook hands and hugged those of us sitting in that area. He shook Frank's hand last. He looked Frank in the eye and said, "Did you have a good time?" Frank smiled and said he did. And Jerry smiled too.

It's important to this band that their fans have a good time. They appreciate their fanbase, they appreciate the people who have watched them grow up, from a high school band, a college band, and now a band that sells out venues like Red Rocks.

Just as fans have watched OAR grow up, the band has watched Frank grow up. So much more is in store for them . . . all of them. Life is a grand and adventurous journey of figuring out who you are while living the best life you can, and having the most fun you can along the way. That never ends, regardless of age or stage of life. 

Okra and Saratoga Pickles

In the last two days I canned smoky, spicy okra and Saratoga pickles. The pickles are similar to bread and butter, but with some other spices added. 

With the okra, I forgot to add a garlic clove to each jar. I noticed once the jars were processing, so way too late. I'm a little bummed about that. And instead of adding red pepper flakes, I added a tablespoon-plus of sriracha. Since I won't be tasting the okra, Doug will have to tell me if it (along with the brussel sprouts) are spicy enough. 

Three pecks of pickling cucumbers (about fifty pickles) yielded only four pints of pickles. I would've liked to make twice that amount. I suppose my grandmother's recipe that called for twenty-five cucumbers, was for full-size cucumbers rather than pickling. Although twice as many small should've yielded about the same amount of jars.

Thinking I had twice as many cucumbers, I made one-and-a-half batches of the syrup. I only needed about half what I made. I do think this batch of canning looks better in terms of how full the jars are. 

Yesterday at the farmers' market, there was a woman selling canned items. Most of what she was selling didn't look quite right. There was too much liquid in the jars versus "stuff." She was also selling jam. I tasted the blackberry jam, which tasted far too much like sugar, and nowhere near enough fruit. I wonder how much she actually sells. I may or may not try jam this year. Probably not, but if I do, I'll read up on how to reduce the sugar significantly. Perhaps by adding pineapple juice rather than sugar, which is often suggested.

I'm canning tomatoes later this week. My plan is to can some whole, and some crushed, maybe with the garlic since I have three heads of garlic sitting in my kitchen.

I've found canning to be pretty easy. The most important things are being organized, and getting everything on the cooktop to boil quickly on the front end. Before I set anything up, I get the jars into the canning pot, and the lids and bands into a sauce pan. Then I start to prep whatever is being canned. 

With the pickles, they had to sit overnight in pickling salt, so they were already prepped. Given that, the canning process went really fast. Once the jars were sterilized, I waited less than five minutes for the syrup to boil. In the meantime I had thoroughly rinsed the pickles, and spun them in the salad spinner, to get the moisture out. The recipe says to press it out, which I did after spinning them, but it didn't feel as though there was much moisture left. 

Organization and timing are the main things I want to remember for next year. Also, when I can the tomatoes, I'll take a photo of my setup, so I remember it for next year too. In less than two hours I was finished with the entire process, including washing, drying and putting everything away. A significant difference from the day-long beet canning.

Beckett's Burgeoning

The other thing that happened yesterday was Beckett’s first football game. Beck has explored a number of sports: soccer, swimming, basketball, and lacrosse, all with mixed outcomes. He’s a big kid, who had the same struggles with not quite fitting into his body that many kids have at his age. If his coaches had one common complaint about him, it would likely be that he didn’t try as hard as they’d like him to. He’s done better with basketball than any of the other sports, but it never reached passion-status.

When he came to me this summer and said he wanted to attend football camp, I was skeptical. That fact that I asked him if he was sure probably won’t earn me any parent-of-the-year awards. Frank never played football, and up until Beck asked to go to camp, it wasn’t something we encouraged. With good reason. Doug’s brother played football in high school, and broke his neck. That he told the coach he was injured, and the coach sent him back in, and yet you wouldn’t know today by looking at him that he’d ever experienced such an injury is by the grace of God.

When Doug and I discussed Beck attending the camp, we both predicted it would be a short-lived experiment. Once he got hit, or tackled, Beck would likely want to quit. That didn’t happen. He got hit, but he certainly didn’t want to quit. His only visible injury was a swollen hand due to a jammed finger, and he went to grandma for help with that, rather than bringing it to my attention.

We weren’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the game yesterday afternoon. We couldn’t remember what his game jersey number was, we knew it was sixty-something. We looked on the sidelines for sixty-something jerseys, and didn’t see Beck. We looked at the field, and sure enough, there he was. When he was still in the game at the end of the first quarter, we were surprised. At the end of the first half, we predicted he wouldn’t be sent in for the second half. It wasn’t because he didn’t play well, it was more that there were forty-plus other kids on the sidelines. The middle school has a no-cut policy so every one of the fifty-five boys who tried out, made the team. Eighth grade has sixty.

Beck played the second half too. All of it. He plays both offense and defense, so he was in the entire game. The score remained tied until the last second (literally), when the opposition scored. Heartbreaking, but part of the game. He walked from the field to the school building with us, excited about the game, and the experience. He said his stomach hurt “a little” from one of the hits he took, but otherwise, he was fine. I asked him later how he liked football in general, and whether he thought he’d like to continue playing. His answer was an emphatic yes.

Two days ago Beck walked into the bedroom with an envelope and said, “This is going to make you really happy.” I opened the envelope and read that he was accepted into student council. The letter went on to say that many more students had applied than could be accepted, the competition was fierce, but he’d made the cut. He is thrilled.

I may have written about this in an earlier post, but after his first oral presentation of the year, his language arts teacher told him they needed him on the speech team.

Beck is the kid who always talked too much, hurried through his assignments, acted out when he was forced to do something he didn’t want to do, or couldn’t do things he wanted to do. He took things way too personally, responded in an overly emotional way, and was a “challenge” in general to his teachers. Until last year. When I went in for his first parent-teacher conference, the three teachers on his sixth-grade team talked up the good stuff about Beck. And there’s a lot of it.

His sixth grade year was his best ever. His language arts teacher encouraged him to join their equivalent of student council, and his peers voted him vice president. His grades were good, his missing assignments were few, and he walked with his head held higher.

After his sixth-grade continuation ceremony, the school’s principal asked me to stop in and see his fifth grade teacher before we left. When I did, she told me with tears in her eyes how proud she was of him, how much he’d matured, and what a great kid he is.  By the end of our conversation, she waved her hand in front of her face, and apologized that she was crying so hard. 

I give a lot of credit to his sixth-grade team of teachers for emphasizing the positive with Beck, and giving him the opportunity to shine. When I ran into the district’s superintendent and vice superintendent at back-to-school night, they asked how Beck was doing. “He’s great,” I told them. “And that is as much to the credit of Carrie Locke, Jeanette Cole, and Peter Wise, as it is to Beck himself.” I went on to say that the three of them changed Beck’s perception of himself, and that if they didn’t already know it, Aileen Finnegan had put together the strongest team of sixth grade teachers there could be.

I ran into Carrie at the grocery store before the beginning of the school year. “Be sure Beckett joins student council,” she told me. She also said she’d complete his recommendation form if I sent it to her. As it turned out, he needed two recommendations, so I also asked Jeanette if she would be willing. 

After he showed us the letter the other night, I sent an email to the two of them, and to Peter, telling them he made it, and thanking them for their support. I reiterated my appreciation for the impact they had in his life. I received emails back thanking me for letting them know how well he’s doing and asking that I tell him how proud they are of him. They also asked me to keep telling them, that they didn't get to hear enough how "their kids" did after they left them for middle school. They are great teachers, and better human beings.

I have said time and time again that last year was “Beck’s year,” but maybe his “years” are just beginning. One of the most exciting things we get to experience as parents is how our kids turn out: what their personalities morph into, what their interests and passions are, the choices they make in friends, and classes, and their future. When you have two or more kids, the other exciting thing to watch is how different one sibling is from another. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for both our boys. There was a meme on facebook the other day that said, “A mother’s job is to teach her children to not need her anymore. The hardest part of that job is accepting success.” Not just mothers, but fathers too. It is so our life right now.

Generally Late to the Party

When it comes to technology, I'm either way ahead, or really, really behind. Today I discovered I'm so behind, I've almost missed the boat. And truthfully, I don't know that this necessarily relates to technology.

I spent the morning setting a few things up for Charlotte in her study. One of the things I did was type up an instruction list for accessing things on her tv. The impetus for the exercise was showing her how to use the DVD player, so she can do yoga (and that is another post entirely . . . my amazing eighty-seven-year-old mother-in-law). 

Charlotte has three main options. She can watch Xfinity cable tv, use her DVD player (and she has countless DVDs to watch), or access a plethora of options on Apple tv. While reminding her of the Apple tv options, it occurred to me that while the Sony in the master bedroom is not connected to a DVD player or Apple tv, it does have wifi. Lightbulb: on.

Once she was set up, our to-do list free of further to-dos, I came into the bedroom to explore the options available on the Sony. I logged on to Netflix, and then Amazon Prime Video (or whatever it's called now), and their app menu. 

And . . . I have now arrived at the party.

I'm not a big tv watcher, that is probably evident. When Doug popped his head in to see what I was doing, I explained that we could watch seasons of shows we like or are interested in on Netflix and/or Amazon-whatever. Yes, he nodded his head, he knew that. Oh, I said out loud.

Not sure if this is a blessing or a curse, but what I do know is we will likely not have to wonder what to watch when we feel like watching tv . . . for five years or so. 

Laboring on Labor Day

I don't really have to labor today, except when it comes to organizing the next week. My current project is helping Beck better prioritize his time. He has boy scouts on Tuesday, his first football game on Wednesday, which means he has to get the bulk of his weekly school projects (all due Wednesday or Thursday), done today. 

He is a world-class procrastinator, but then, who isn't? The only time it becomes an issue is when he's down to the eleventh hour and asks to stay up late because he has so much to do. And then I get frustrated with him for not planning better. In order to crush the vicious circle, I am helping him plan better. If he gets it in seventh grade, it should stick through high school and college . . . at least the fundamentals.

But the reality of what he's doing today actually annoys the crap out of me. I really don't like that he has to spend weekend time on school projects. The truth is that I abhor having to remember to go on the school team website and check. The projects for the next week are loaded on the website on Friday. Many of them are due Monday. I'm fairly certain they're assigned prior to Friday, it's just that I can't find them on the website . . . so I don't know when they're scheduled.

This means every weekend has to become a homework argument. I want to put a stop to it now. I think I've got most of it on iCalendar, so he is reminded that he cannot play PS4 or watch tv on the nights he has homework. But regardless, it's an argument.

Beck and I argue. Almost all the time. I can't remember if Frank and I argued this much when he was Beck's age. Probably. At least I hope so. Because Frank and I don't argue very much now. I spend more time suggesting he consider a different approach, because the approach he took didn't work. Teaching, not arguing. When Beck and I are in the midst of wanting to pull each other's hair out, I long for the time that I can make suggestions rather than arguing with him. I confess I have a lingering fear that time will never come. And if it doesn't, I hope I can find my way to easier communication with him, even if it never gets to the communication methodologies that work with Frank.

Parenting is laboring. I suppose it all begins with birth labor. And it never really ends.