Not a Plant Lady

 

The orchid on my windowsill pushed out its sixth bud, and the plant beside it is overgrowing its container. When I see them, I could almost forget that I am not a Plant Lady. I know my children haven’t forgotten because my son asked, “Mom, when that plant on your windowsill dies, could I have the stones at the bottom of the jar?”

The plant he referred to is alive. That was more than I could confidently say about the succulent I had purchased a year ago. The succulent wasn’t in my care for many moons until its health deteriorated significantly. I kept it gently moist and bathed in sunshine, but it gradually lost its vibrant color, fading from a rich emerald to a pale lime. Worse, it wasn’t growing. I hoped its stunted growth wasn’t a sign of imminent death. Maybe it was simply a stunned response to finding itself in my hands. A plant’s version of PTSD.

While my succulent crouched pale and unresponsive on my windowsill, I received an invitation to a ladies’ gathering at a greenhouse. We would eat a catered meal together (not harvested from the greenhouse) and listen to an inspirational topic. Afterwards, the ladies would participate in a houseplant exchange. This posed a problem.

At the time, I only had two houseplants: an orchid which was blooming profusely for the third year in a row, and a succulent that I knew not whether it was dead or alive. I couldn’t part with my orchid—my one houseplant success—and I didn’t suppose I could give away a sickly succulent, even though the invitation didn’t specify that we should bring living plants. In the end, I took none and decided it was best for plants and people if I simply didn’t participate in the exchange.

But when the plant exchange began, I found myself standing next to a Plant Lady who brought not just one but two healthy houseplants. She saw my empty hands, heard my confession, and offered me a snake plant. “I wasn’t sure why I brought two plants anyway. Here. You take this one. I’ve never seen a dead snake plant, so I’m sure it will grow for you.”

“You haven’t seen a dead one?” I asked, snickering. “Come visit me in a month or two.”

But a year later, the snake plant lives on. Unlike the beautiful palm that came to me as a gorgeous fountain of six dark green fronds in a gray ceramic pot. The palm looked so pretty in my living room window. But after a month of being in my care, brown crept up one of the fronds. Ah, the old exchanging for the new, I thought. But no. Hardly had the first dead leaf fallen when another frond was edged in brown. In the coming months, I watered the palm. I withheld water. I moved it to a new window, thinking more sunshine would revive it. I took it to a new room, hoping a change of scenery would stimulate hope and life. But like the lemmings who race each other to their demise, the remaining five fronds chased each other to their death. Eventually, my son carried the palm’s carcass to the garbage heap.

If my indoor plant failures weren’t enough to convince my children that their mom is Not a Plant Lady, the tulip story sealed my reputation. Someone gave me a bag of flower bulbs as a hostess gift. I admired the picture on the packet, feeling warmed because now our flowerbeds would have spring flowers like so many other homes in beautiful Lancaster County. And not just any spring flowers but fancy ones, according to the picture on the packet. I received the bulbs during the busy days of canning season, so I stowed them in the garage where they lay forgotten until spring.

“Mom, can I plant these?”

My daughter held a mound of flower bulbs in her cupped hands. Ah. My spring flowers. Tulips, if I recalled correctly. I couldn’t remember the picture on the long-gone packaging, but I knew it had especially pleased me. Were they miniature tulips? Ones with frilly edges? I couldn’t remember. I only recalled the warmth and happiness they brought because they weren’t ordinary flowers. She planted the bulbs and I willed them to grow.

Green poked through the soil. “Oh, look!” I said, enormously pleased. “Our tulips are growing!”

Leaves shot upwards—narrow leaves for tulips, but that was consistent with my memory of these flowers having unusual qualities.

And then, “Oh, look! My tulips are budding!”

My interest changed to alarm when every single bud drooped until it was parallel to the ground. Not being a Plant Lady, I didn't know what might have caused this. Were they diseased? Planted too shallow? Did bugs chew tunnels through the bulbs? I hated to break the news to my daughter, but I thought a fair warning was in order.

“I’m afraid there is something wrong with our tulips,” I told her. “The buds aren’t supposed to bend down like that. I don’t think they’ll bloom after all.”

But they did bloom. And they were daffodils. White daffodils with yellow centers and extra petals.

I am not a Plant Lady, but maybe there’s still hope for me. My lime green succulent pushed out new growth. I have a sparse and spindly—but living—snake plant. I have an orchid that bloomed four years in succession and a gloxinia that survived my son’s dark predictions of its death. I have even kept a new-to-me Chinese money plant alive, green, and growing for several months. It’s that money plant that I have my eye on. As soon as it produces cold hard cash, I’ll know I have finally become a bona fide Plant Lady.

Balloon Countdown to the Last Day of School

You know how those last few weeks of school are, right? Excitement builds because summer is coming. I like to countdown the final ten days with ten activities so our school year ends with fireworks (well, not literally, though that would be fun). Our creative journal also reflected our countdown.

Our miniature chalkboard was worth its $1.00 at Dollar Tree. But more fun than that were the 10 balloons, each holding a slip of paper. We popped one balloon per day and did the activity listed within.

DAY 10's Balloon: Eat an ice cream bar at 9:47
Creative Notebook entry: Make a large 10 out of paper. Glue it on your page. Write 10 states/countries and capitals you memorized this year.

DAY 9's Balloon: Do your subjects in alphabetical order

Creative Notebook entry: Glue on a large 9. Write 9 people you studied about in history this year. 

DAY 8's Balloon: Watch "How Things are Made"

Creative Journal entry: Make a large 8. Write the names of 8 friends you made at co-op.

DAY 7's Balloon: Estimate how many items are in the container. Closest guess wins a prize. (I also offered a 2nd and 3rd prize, which was perfect, considering I only have 3 children.)

Creative Journal entry: Glue on a large 7. Using colored pencils, write 7 fun things we did or places we went this school year. 

DAY 6's Balloon: Lollipop Treat!

Creative Journal entry: Make a 6 with Roman numerals. Write six things that distracted you out of our classroom window.

DAY 5's Balloon: Write on your desk day. (After I covered it with a long roll of paper.) They used the paper for math computations, spelling words, a few notes and doodles. 

Creative Journal entry: Draw a clock and set it to 5:00. Write 5 formulas you learned in math.

DAY 4's Balloon:  National Apple Pie Day! Go to McDonald's and get a hot apple pie. 

Creative Journal entry: Draw a 4 using unusual objects to form your number. Write 4 of your favorite subjects.

DAY 3's Balloon: Drink chocolate milk at 10:42

Creative Journal entry: Make a giant 3 and add fireworks. Write 3 occupations that might interest you when you are an adult.

DAY 2's Balloon: Color Tag! Play tag with your friends, using squeeze bottles full of colored cornstarch like that which is used in Color Runs. 

Creative Journal entry: Make a large and colorful 2. Write 2 things you might like to do this summer.

 

LAST DAY OF SCHOOL! Break our 180-link paper chain and open your Last Day of School present. 

Creative Journal entry: Write the words finished, done, and the end in several languages. 

The ideas you just saw were for our 2021-2022 year. With a baby in our house this year, I was low on time and inspiration, so I reviewed that list and mimicked those ideas. Instead of National Apple Pie Day, it was National Orange Juice Day, so we drank orange juice while watching how it is made commercially. Our highlight wasn't a Color Run but a Mexican Party, complete with fish tacos, a pinata, and friends. 

Fish tacos, chips & salsa, pineapple, and soft drinks in 
glass bottles. 

And with that, school is out for another year! 

Waiting on Spring

March 2021. 

Earth stood calm and unresisting while winter spit sleet against her breast. Snow fell on snow, piling deep and cold. Ponds in her pastures solidified. Trees towered barren and brown. Against this onslaught, Earth offered no rebuttal. Winter’s denial couldn’t negate the truth that fueled her steady calm; she was pregnant with pulsating life, and the hope of spring.

The sun was on her side, fending off winter, melting snow, and preparing her nurseries. Then, when she could no longer restrain the life throbbing within, her children were born. Passersby stopped to admire her firstborn crocuses and to photograph floral siblings blooming on the dogwood tree. Earth dandled magnolias on her knees and smiled broadly at the tulips playing at her feet. They were her offspring, all of them richly colored and exceptionally beautiful.

Spring had come.

Like the earth, I waited. I was pregnant with hope, yes, but I lacked Earth’s certainty that my winter would end. And then our basement stank like wet dog—we had no dog—and on another day, Walmart’s produce department smelled fermented and sickening. My confidence rose. That metallic taste in my mouth? Hope lay thick upon hope.

But the days until I could take a test stretched out like months and the week like a year. I passed the time by pairing middle names with the girl’s name we already had chosen. I researched baby carriers, disliking the bulky knot on the famed Boba wrap and chatting with a Konny representative on whether their sash stays in place without constant adjustments. I fingered tiny onesies at the store and considered fun ways I could announce our pregnancy to my family.

I multitasked all week. That is, I dreamed wildly about birth and babies while carrying out mundane responsibilities. Each evening, I collapsed onto the recliner, unusually but happily tired. This kind of tiredness could only mean one thing.

My hands shook when I opened the pregnancy test package. By now I felt so pregnant that I supposed I could spit on the test and get a positive reading. Taking the test was mere formality.

I followed package instructions, then laid the test aside without even looking at the window where the confirmation would appear. It would be best, I decided, to wait to look until both lines were bold and bright. I washed my hands and combed back my hair. I picked around at facial blemishes—something I had plenty of, considering the way my complexion had deteriorated in the last week. I scrutinized my teeth, wondering if they were yellowing with age. I even groomed my eyebrows. But I didn’t look at the tantalizing test. I would wait all three minutes. No, four, just to be safe.

When the parallel lines had ample time to go from baby pink to screaming scarlet to booming brown, I turned and looked, barely breathing. The results were in. A single line in screaming scarlet.

The test was negative.

Barren branches of the sycamore waved to me from outside the bathroom window and tapped a sympathetic staccato on the metal porch roof. A nest clung tenaciously to its branches. It too was empty. Empty and cold.

Spring had not sprung for everyone. Maybe next month it would be here. A gauze of hope laid itself thinly across the raw earth of my heart.

Spring always comes.

Or does it?

April 2023. 

Spring has come. 

Celebrating Day 100

One of my favorite days to celebrate in our homeschool is nearly upon us--the 100th day of school. You might recognize some of the ideas listed below because they were posted here, hidden halfway down our list of Fun February Days. Others were used more recently.

Ways to Celebrate Day 100:

• Make a 100-link paper chain. (We kept the chain up for the rest of the year, adding five links every Friday. In the end, we had a 180-link chain. Very impressive.)
• Sit by the window and count 100 vehicles. In your creative journal, draw the 100th car that goes by. (One benefit of living along a busy road is that this took less than 10 minutes.)
• Write a 100-word story in your creative journal using as many words as possible that equal 100--century, dollar, centimeter, Ben Franklin ($100 bill).
• Choose an encyclopedia and write the entry words on page 100.
• Have our Traditional Day 100 Lunch of soft pretzels

• Build something using 100 LEGOs
• Put together 100-piece puzzles
• Draw a picture using 100 as the base

• Learn about America 100 years ago. Who was President? What did a new car cost? What was the price of gasoline? Record your answers in your creative journal.
• Run a 100-yard dash. (We did ours in snow and winter gear and broke no world record.)
• Estimate how long 100 inches is, then measure to see how accurately you estimated
• Write a special candy bar letter to your students. 
  
  
  
  
  

Finally, here is a link to 50 Ideas to Celebrate the 100th Day of School which is where I gleaned some of the ideas I used. One idea I love but haven't used is to visit a 100-year-old person and have them share memories of their childhood. 

What have you done to celebrate Day 100? Leave your ideas in the comments--especially if you don't mind me borrowing them. 

Celebrating Half Day

As a homeschooling mom, I try to keep my children from being eaten alive by monotonous school days. I certainly don't always succeed; many of our days look startlingly alike. But one way I fight boredom is by celebrating milestones. Tomorrow is Day 90 for us, or Half Day since we log 180 days per school year. In my opinion, the easiest way to honor Half Day is at lunch. Cut everything in half, serve half cups of juice, or have a half dozen grapes per person. My children are unaware that Half Day is upon us, so I'll surprise them tomorrow with Half Day Lunch, serving it on paper plates that have been cut in half, of course.

If you want more ideas on how to celebrate this milestone, here are, well, half of the ideas. The other half are the ones you come up with yourself. Just don't cut things in half like recess or rewards. 

1. Take a half mile walk
2. Use a half an hour segment of your day to play an educational game. Consider playing Memory, since you need to find the other half of each pair. 
3. Do half a dozen exercises
4. Skip half of the review questions in Arithmetic. (Provided they understand the concept and don't need the practice.)
5. Draw half of an object in your creative journal or cut an item in half and tape it in your creative journal. My twist on this will be to have my children glue or tape the other half of the object in their sibling's journal. 
6. Write half of a short story (like, two paragraphs long) and give it to someone else to write the second half. 

I updated this post to show you the lunch 
I made for my children. 

The Night I Took a Dead Horse to a Christmas Party

The ladies at our church gather once a month for an evening of inspiration. This being the final meeting of the year, we deviated from our more formal meeting pattern and gathered for food, fellowship, and games. The invitation said, "We would love if you could bring some of your favorite festive snacks for the evening, or anything you feel inspired to make!" 

Favorite festive snack. I couldn't think of a favorite, so I paged through an appetizer cookbook and stumbled onto an entire section of baked cheeses. Immediately, I remembered a heavenly baked Brie I made about ten years ago. I no longer had the recipe, but I knew it had been wrapped in crescent roll dough and eaten with crackers. The women helping small children go through the food line had tasted samples and had carried bites of Brie to their husbands so they too could have some before it was all gone. It was an amazing treat. Recalling it now, I decided that same Golden Baked Brie encased in crescent roll dough and served with crackers would be a fitting contribution to a festive buffet. 

But when I went to buy the ingredients, the only Brie Glenwood Foods carried that day was goat cheese. Being concerned that goat cheese might be stronger than I wanted, I searched the shelves and saw a round of Camembert cheese. I knew nothing of Camembert, except that it was the right size and shape. So standing beside the refrigerated cheese case, I did a quick Google search for "Can I substitute Camembert for Brie." 

The first thing I read was published by The Cheese Empire and printed in bold: "Brie and Camembert can be substituted for one another..." And, "They can be changed as required within recipes, baking on their own, or enjoying on a simple cheese board." The Spruce Eats said, "They can be interchangeable and are sometimes confused." On a list of The 5 Best Substitutes for Brie Cheese, Camembert was listed as number one. Perfect. 

Yes, foodies, I hear your groans. I bought Camembert with the good faith that I could replicate the unforgettable appetizer I baked ten years ago. Indeed, this too would be unforgettable but for an entirely different reason. 

I spread the round of cheese with jam, topped it with fresh raspberries, and wrapped it in crescent roll dough. Before I finished wrapping the dough, I broke an edge off the cheese and smelled it. It was strong. Pungent. Powerful enough that I hesitated, wondering if I should risk taking this to a party. But, really. Even though the Camembert packed a powerful punch, other cheeses I love can have a strong smell too. Grated Parmesan, for example, doesn't smell pleasant to me if I put my nose to the can, but it is delicious in a recipe. Thus quieted, I baked the Camembert. It came out of the oven golden brown and smelling wonderfully. Crescent roll dough can deceive you like that. 

That evening, I nestled my platter among festive cookie trays, tiny tartlets, tortilla rollups, cheesecake, snowman-shaped cheeseball, fancy party mixes, nuts, and all manner of delightful eats. It was a beautiful and impressive spread.

My back was turned to the food tables when someone cut into the Camembert. I knew immediately what had happened because an overpowering, sweaty-armpits-in-mid-July smell wafted over to me. Inwardly, I froze. If I had been smart, I would have slunk to the table, picked up the dead horse, and put it outside where it belonged. But I didn't. I suppose I hoped it would taste better than it smelled. Crescent roll dough, you know. 

Much later, I went to the food tables and searched for diabetic-friendly snacks, thanks to the gestational diabetes I was diagnosed with a month ago. I sadly passed up warm cinnamon rolls and darling tartlets and selected meat and cheeses. I took some cheeseball which I supposed wouldn't spike my finicky sugar levels if I ate it with only a couple of crackers. And then I came to it. Lying shoulder to shoulder with a platter of raspberry white chocolate scones was my odiferous dead horse. I needed to taste it, carbs or no. Perhaps the raspberries and crescent roll dough had worked their wonders on the cheese and would give this a better flavor profile than indicated by the smell.

I lifted a bite to my lips and knew immediately no miracle had occurred. No ingredient I can think of could possibly mask the strength of warm Camembert. I nearly ejected the bite--involuntarily, at that. The powerful flavor increased the longer I chewed. My second and final bite was worse. The scent lingered on my fingers and clung to my plate. This was no relative of the baked dish I lovingly recalled from ten years ago. This putrid dish belonged behind the barn to deter rodents from entering the granary, or beneath hoods of cars to prank your frenemies. Whatever it's many uses may be, a ladies' festive Christmas buffet is not one of them. 

At the end of the evening, I quietly picked up my reeking platter and slipped out the back door of the kitchen instead of carrying it through the crowd. I drove with the precision of a limousine driver to ensure that the cheese wouldn't slip off the platter and onto the carpet of the van. If that tragedy had occurred, I supposed the smell would permeate the carpet and render the vehicle unusable for the next decade. 

John met me at the door when I got home. Upon seeing him, I pinched my nose and held out the platter. "Smell it." 

He took a single whiff and looked at me sympathetically. I scooped molten Camembert onto a buttery cracker and fed it to him. John has an incredibly high tolerance for foods of all kinds. Rarely does he ever dislike something he eats. But this single bite maxed his tolerance. 

He chewed, and his face looked like mine had felt when I first popped the bite into my mouth. He swallowed courageously, then turned to the sink for gulps of water. He reached for a banana, for something, for anything that would help wash away the taste. 

"Is Camembert related to Limburger?" John asked. 

Limburger is notorious for being a strong, prank-worthy cheese. Another quick Google search brought up a list of The 10 Stinkiest Cheeses in the World. Limburger was ranked as #7. Camembert effortlessly beat that record by coming in at #2. 

Turns out I had asked Google the wrong question in the grocery store aisle. Asking "Does Camembert stink" gave this understated response from Whole Foods Market: "If you ever have trouble telling Camembert apart from its bloomy-rinded cousin Brie, one sniff should settle things. Camembert is distinguished by an aroma that's hard to miss: one part cabbage and one part barnyard, all wrapped up in that iconic wooden box." 

To any church friends reading this, particularly to the ones who braved a bite of Baked Camembert at the ladies' meeting, I offer my sympathies and apologies. I'd also like you to know that you can safely invite me to future parties. I might make a Raspberry Cream Cheese Braid from a tried-and-true recipe. Or maybe a hot dip to serve with tortilla chips. One thing I do know, I will not bring a crescent roll encrusted dead horse to your party. You have my word on that. 

710 Gulf Gulf

Someone recently asked, "How often does John take you flying?" 

With a few calculations, my answer surprised even John and me. "Once every seven years."

Our record wouldn't even look that good if our date plans this summer hadn't fallen through. To redeem the date, John gave me a ride in the plane he uses as a flight instructor. The plane is owned by the flight school. 

Tail number 710GG or 710 Gulf Gulf 
when talking to the tower

John gave me the pilot's seat and sat beside me like I was his student, offering me the opportunity to do some flying. I declined, but maybe I should have surprised him with a loop or a lazy eight or something impressive. 

Supposedly the plane has cool avionics. I wouldn't know.

I'm not sure who had the most fun. I loved seeing John in that part of his world, and he was grinning when he said, "It's fun to show off my skills sometimes." (Apparently his students don't cheer for him when he touches down without a bump?) 

No flight plans are scheduled in my immediate future, but I'm loving the memory of flying with John in 710 Gulf Gulf.