Care More, Assume Nothing

I don’t know about you, but I can say that I don’t ever want to relive November 8th, 2016, or the days (weeks, months) following it. I felt gut-punched by the outcome of the election and by my own naivete that such a thing could happen. One surprise like that is enough for a lifetime.

People have analyzed that election over and over, trying to figure out what exactly happened. Even Trump supporters did not expect Trump to win, and maybe they didn’t want him to. In any case, we have blamed the Democrats’ choice of Hillary, the campaign strategies, and the country’s racism and sexism. In some excruciating honest moments, we have even admitted that our citizens can be mean-spirited, self-centered, manipulating, and manipulated; that our elections are controlled by big money, bigger lies, and outside influence. All of these are right to a degree.

But a fair amount of blame comes back to haunt me and a lot of people like me. We took too much for granted, and we failed to make sure our friends and neighbors knew the issues and made it to the polls. With mid-term elections only a few months away, we need to be doing our job, which is less about canvassing and handing out flyers and more about talking. We need to have civil conversations that raise people’s awareness; conversations along the street, on the bike trail, in the grocery store, and at the mailbox. We can use a few minutes at work, at church, or at the coffee shop to make sure our fellow citizens are at least informed.

All issues are worthy of study. Everyone needs to know which candidates/party support public education, who believes in equal justice, who thinks that government programs should benefit all. We have to decide just how long the planet can survive our current selfishness. We should be sure that our personal philosophies about government, leadership, ethics, and morality align with the actions, beliefs, and votes of the people we support. We must be honest with ourselves to prevent “cashing in” at the expense and safety of others. We need to take time to really contemplate the direction we want this country to take under our watch.

To that end, I am proposing that every concerned citizen spends a few minutes daily reading, listening to, and sorting out the issues. Then, go out there bravely and discuss. Of course, I definitely have opinions that I wish you would agree with and propose, but as long as we are listening to others and analyzing our thoughts we will be better people, and our country will reap the benefits. Talking, thinking, and caring might be our last chance to save our democracy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason’s Story

Because every big guy needs to know that he is the hero of untold stories

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Jason. He lived in a big white house, actually a mansion, built by the Popcorn King of Cass County. It sat on top of a rise, overlooking farm buildings and farmland that accounted for many of Jason’s childhood adventures. His little feet wandered around the farm, through the creeks, and to the farthest reaches of the woods. He loved to play, but even his games were planting the fields and feeding the cattle of his sandbox farm. By the time he was four years old he had mapped out his life plan–go to kindergarten, master the trombone, play football, attend Iowa State, and farm.

This is why no one, least of all his parents, questioned his gradual, unobtrusive move from little boy to little farmhand. By the time he was six years old, Jason could drive tractors pulling two grain wagons, scrape the bottom of the silage pit with the 656 and Westendorf loader, herd and sort cattle, and vaccinate piglets. There was more confidence in his ability as he managed to execute jobs that some of the hired men only blundered through.  For him, farmwork seemed less like a feat and more like business as usual.

As seasons passed Jason became increasingly involved in the farm operation. He counted on himself to know what was going on, what needed to be going on, and how he could align the two. Necessary times away from this work included trips to the IH implement store and not much else. Kindergarten was no fun for a kid who wanted to ride in the silage chopper or watch the beaters of the combine sweep in the soybean plants. Little League games interrupted his chores the same way they interrupted his dad’s schedule. A life of tractors and livestock was the only game plan that mattered.

This is not to say that Jason had no other interests. He was always a curious and exuberant learner. Whether it was assisting the local plumber working in the basement (which brought about the comment, “How old is this kid–four going on twenty?”) or somehow concocting some kind of lie-filled tale with his granddad, Jason questioned everything. He rewarded his elementary classmates with hugs for right answers and even for serious though incorrect attempts. He talked (a lot and loudly), he thought, he read (only nonfiction), he wrote, he drew, all as a little guy.

What remained constant, however, was his dedication to our farming operation, no matter what it involved. So, when we built the dairy barn and filled it with Holsteins when he was in second grade, Jason’s daily timeline changed drastically. He was up every day at 3:00 a.m. and headed to the barn. Whether he was actually milking, feeding the bottle calves, or distributing silage to the troughs in the pens, he was dedicated, maybe to the newness of it all, but also to the camaraderie of the task.

But he was seven, and the long days took a toll on his energy, even though we didn’t notice it. Only when a neighbor told us that the bus driver had to wake Jason up on the bus rides home did we become aware. Our knowing didn’t change his routine much because, as usual, the farmhand Jason was essential. Right or wrong, the hours he spent everywhere on the farm made it manageable, and we, the adults in the room, were too busy to make it right, or to even know what might have been right.

In any case, this little boy created the purpose for what we were doing. He worked hard, he worked long, and he worked with passion. He laid a foundation in his spirit that made him mindful of the land, respectful of animals, and stalwart about family and all that it means. Thank you, Jason, for helping us appreciate life through the eyes of a little man-boy.

 

Jed’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Jed. He lived in a big white house with a red roof. There were tall evergreens in the front yard, a white wooden fence on the side, and white rock on the double driveway. All the out-buildings on Jed’s family’s farm were red and white. It was a dairy farm, and black and white Holsteins grazed in the pastures and lolled around in pens and barns.

Jed spent a lot of time outside. He liked zigzagging through the grass to miss the gargygoyles (thistles), riding his bike up and down the paths that led to almost everywhere, and once in a while, aggravating the calves in the little shed. He liked to challenge himself to climb higher in the trees, run faster, and try out new adventures.

One morning he was walking out by the long red dairy barn. Even from the far north end, he could see that there was some kind of commotion in the pen on the south end. He started running so that he could figure it out.

When he got closer, he could see that the cows were running in circles in the big lot. Dust was flying, hooves were stomping, and the noise was thunderous. The cause finally became clear. Somehow, six stray dogs had slipped under the fence and were chasing the cows around and around. Even a kid knows that running is bad for dairy cows. This had to stop!

Jed ran back toward the house as fast as he could. When he finally found his dad, he could barely tell him what was going on because he was so out of breath. Daddy didn’t really know what he could do, but Jed had an idea. Quick as a wink, he found a feed pan and filled it with dog food. Daddy helped him open the big pole gate a little ways, and Jed set the dogfood in the space.

In a couple of minutes all six of the dogs had discovered the feast and were crowded around the pan. Daddy got a rope and tied them up. The cows moved to the other side of the pen and rested. The whole thing would have been a disaster if Jed hadn’t been out there.

Daddy squeezed Jed’s shoulder as they walked back to the house. He said, “Thank you, Jed, for saving our cows.”

 

Jafe’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was Jafe. He lived in a big yellow farmhouse on the top of a big hill. From his yard he could see rolling hills and farms for miles around.

A gravel driveway circled Jafe’s house and a rock-covered incline cut through the grass to the garage. On one side of the garaged a three-tiered flower garden attempted to survive in clay soil. This entire setup was perfect for Jafe to play with his farm toys. He spent hours pushing his tractors and wagons over the rocks, along the railroad ties, and through the dirt. He made long trips hauling loads of sand from the sandpile to create his farming grid.

One afternoon when Jafe was outside playing, he steered his little combine around the side of the garage to see a pickup and livestock trailer coming down the lane. He’d never seen the red truck before, and he didn’t know why anyone would be coming to his house. He just stayed low and watched.

The two men with the pickup proceeded to back the trailer up to the barn door. The very barn door that led to the pig pen!

Jafe ran into the house to tell his mom to call the sheriff. Obviously, these guys were up to no good. Then he went back to watch as they loaded the pigs into the trailer. Luckily, the pigs were squealing and stubborn that day so it took the men a while to get the last ones into the trailer.

After they slid the steel door shut, the men jumped into the pickup and headed out. Unfortunately for them, they confused the lane to the pond with the lane to the road. And, they had to go all the way to the pond to turn around once they started down that narrow path. Jafe got into the old station wagon with his mom and had her park it across the gate so there was no escape for the thieves.

In a couple of minutes the sheriff arrived with his siren screeching. The men were arrested.

Daddy came home, backed the trailer up to the barn, and unloaded the pigs. They were glad to be back in their pen.

Daddy walked up to Jafe, put his big hand on Jafe’s spiky hair, and said, “Thank you, Jafe, for saving our pigs.”

Jared’s Story

Because every little guy deserves to be the hero of his own story

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was Jared. He lived in a big brown house with a limestone rock front. Sometimes, usually in August, the cracks between the rocks were so crowded with grand-daddy longlegs that the house appeared to have grown hair. The other good thing about the house was that it sat at the edge of a big woods.

Jared loved to walk in the woods. All kinds of animals and birds lived there. He would follow the path behind the house, beside the cherry trees and grape vines, and end up surrounded by tall trees, scraggly shrubs (lots of them thorny wild roses), and rotting trunks and branches. He could walk for a long time out there just stuff checking out.

One spring afternoon Jared made one of his usual treks into the woods. He saw robins and cardinals, squirrels and rabbits, and the footprints of deer and raccoons. He even smushed his tennis shoe into a new mole track.

He was just walking along when he saw the big buffalo bull. Jared knew that he should not bother him so he took a wide circle around him and continued on. He hadn’t gone far when he came upon a buffalo cow with a brand new baby calf lying in the grass beside her. He knew the calf wasn’t very old because it could not stand up yet and because the mom was licking its wet back. Jared didn’t go very close, but he stood in the trees just looking at them for a long time.

All of a sudden he heard a low growling sound just a few feet away. The wolf was slinking into the clearing. It had its teeth bared and a hungry look in its eyes. It knew that the calf was helpless.

What could Jared do? He knew that he couldn’t defend the calf alone and that he didn’t have time to run all the way back to the house for help.

Then he remembered the buffalo bull. Jared took off toward the place where the bull had been. When he saw him, he made noises on the opposite side so that the bull went lumbering toward the cow.

Once the buffalo got to the grassy patch, he saw what was going on with the wolf, and the cow, and the calf. The bull knew what to do. He lowered his giant, furry head, stomped his front hoof into the dirt, and charged at the wolf. He caught it with his horns and tossed it back among the trees. The wolf ran howling to safety deep in the woods.

The buffalo bull plodded on through the grass.

But the cow knew what had happened. She knew that Jared had saved her calf. She stood back long enough for Jared to pet the soft new fur, as if to say, “Thank you, Jared, for saving my baby.”

 

On Your Feet

Sometimes we take the little everyday things of life for granted. Because they are always there, they seem unimportant. The opposite should be true. Our daily use should establish them at the top of our possessions list. One of these unappreciated necessities is socks. We all have a drawer full of them, and we seldom think about them unless we want a missing pair or a specific color. Only then do we understand the power of socks.

Our socks definitely play into our attitude for the day. Putting on a new pair in the morning signals a good day. Just knowing that your big toe isn’t going to poke through a hole or that the top isn’t going to creep down an ankle and form a lump under your instep puts an added bounce in your step. They are to be relished, especially when compared with times when socks had to make it to the end of the year, or Christmas, or whenever there were enough dollars left over to buy a pack at J.C. Penneys. Women, not just my mother and grandmothers, darned socks. For us, that meant that they inserted a darning egg into the sock and positioned it in the heel or the toe. Then, they wove course cotton thread back and forth until the hole was filled. The patches were horrible, an entirely different feeling from the soft wool or blended yarn of the rest of our foot covering. It didn’t stretch or shrink like the rest of the material so it made a little tumor-like bag. I preferred to fold the toe fabric back and deal with the lump that created on top, or to just get used to my heel sweating against the inside of my shoe. Of course, that didn’t deter Mom from her appointed duty until, one day, sock darning became a thing of the past.

In attempts to create the perfect sock, styles change constantly. As a little girl, my favorite anklets, as they were called, were white angora. They were super soft and made my feet appear to be enshrouded in a cloud. I only had a few of pairs of them, probably because they were too expensive, even for a birthday present. To go with Easter and Christmas dresses, little girls sported socks with lacy cuffs to fold down to their patent leather Mary Janes. Mostly though, my childhood socks were purchased in packages of two white pairs, accompanied by a pair each of yellow, pink, lilac, and light blue. Their tops were meshed with elastic so that they clung to my ankles whether they were folded down or pulled up. Boys, on the other hand, wore socks that were replicas of those found in the men’s department, always dark in color, sometimes with stripes or argyle designs, basically boring.

In junior high we were introduced to nylons. They were coveted–expensive (sometimes over a dollar a pair), grown-up, and sooo perishable. We wore them to church and school dances where we sat and walked carefully lest we create a runner and render our nylons useless. In high school we wore them more often, on days planned ahead with our friends, but never on P.E. days (for obvious reasons). Often we wore nylons with canvas tennis shoes that we had soaked in white shoe polish. Our flesh/ecru/taupe/tan ankles met up with pasty whiteness, and we fancied ourselves just returned from hours at the beach. A tiny part of us had to know that we were ridiculous, but mostly we believed that we were extremely stylish.

The next great sock innovation was knee-highs made of heavier opaque nylon used in tights. They were dressier than white anklets, smoother than woolen blend knee-highs with woven patterns, and far more durable than nylons. They came in red, green, black, brown, navy, really any color, and declared a private-school-girl style with our revolutionary mini skirts. Maybe the best thing about them was their practicality; only a few inches of knee and lower thigh was exposed to the negative wind chills as we hoofed our way around campus.

About this same time, panty hose came on the fashion scene. This coincided with the women’s lib movement, bra-burning, and Gloria Steinem. Panty hose were classy and comfortable, a concept heretofore unimportant. No one ever really talked about girdle- burning, though more of them went in the trash in the 1960’s than did bras. However, panty hose hit the pocketbook. In attempts to make them last longer, we employed clear nail polish to stifle runs and sprayed hair spray over our shimmering legs to make the sheer nylon tougher. Since a run in one leg could cancel out the entire pair, we quickly learned to cut the tattered leg off and unite it with a different pair that was missing the other leg, creating twice the wear with only a little extra bulk. But however much it cost, panty hose ended the days of garters and girdles. (Today’s body shapers in no way compare to a garment that took all your arm strength to wedge over your thighs and rear, and sported plastic and wire stays that changed how you sat and walked.)

Now we have graduated to a much more practical state. Sheer hosiery is rarely worn; bare legs are totally acceptable. Socks today are more decorative in color and seasonal print but donned for warmth and comfort. Style is important in an athletic sense, but even having mismatched socks is fine. Apparently, no one besides me cares. Socks really are on the bottom rung of the style ladder.

Still, socks have a place in our family folklore. My grandmother ironed socks for my grandfather. My grandfather actually wore men’s garters around his calves. One of the main speeches for our graduation practice was to demand that no Manning High School graduating senior male would show up at the official ceremony wearing white, Elvis-esque socks. With a family of six kids just having all socks come out of the dryer with a mate was a rare occasion, almost cause for celebration. And summer, of course, meant no more socks to wash and match for a few months as tennis shoes and flip flops demanded nothing.

When son Jafe was two or three years old, my sister Cindy sent him a package of tube socks. (Remember those shapeless cylinders that could be worn out evenly because there was no designated heel.) He relished his six pairs of soft new socks in various colors with two little stripes near the top. Now, he was not just an athlete like his older siblings, he was a proud owner of something unique and special. For a few weeks he played with his new socks, wore them on his hands, and used them for puppets. He took them with him to the babysitter and shared them with other kids if they were nice. In his high school psychology class he used them as his example of a meaningful childhood experience, which became a legend repeated yearly by the teacher. Those socks, still to be found in Jafe’s treasure chest, were more than apparel.

Then socks became a means of identification on the football fields where my Weems boys played. While other parents had to see jersey numbers, I could pick out my kid by seeing the stripes on his socks. It took some carefully planned shopping but was worth it in the end. Even when team socks became the mode, my sons squished the high tops down around their ankles and played bare-legged. I may never have learned the nuances of the game, but I knew every move my sons made.

As my offspring moved on to college and to life outside of my realm, I kept in touch with packages bearing letters and seasonal socks. I mailed socks around the country and imagined them actually being worn. I only gave up on this when I visited Heather one time and found so many pairs of black socks with orange jack-o-lanterns and red socks with sparkling snowflakes and bells that her little sons were wearing them year around. I, however, still feel festive when my feet are decked out for the season.

Nowadays my sock distribution is at Christmas. Nothing says “I love you” like a package of socks–wool, athletic, or dress–fit for the climate and activities of the recipient. They may not be much of a gift at the opening moment, but as I said before, new socks have the power to change your day. If I can supply the catalyst that improved someone’s grip on life, even for a moment, I want to be there, soft, warm, and snuggly, almost as good as a hug.

 

Living in My Skin

Growing up as the fourth child and third daughter, I suppose that I was constantly on the lookout for what might make me stand out, be even slightly unique. By the time I came along, Mom and Dad had already parented two little girls and were busy getting my toddler brother on the road. I spent a decent amount of my babyhood in my crib upstairs, so I am told. I’m sure this didn’t matter much to me at first, but we humans are social creatures, and eventually I looked for anything to make me special. Two physical features became my blessing and my bane.

I was the only blue-eyed Miller child. Among my brown-eyed siblings, it was something that people noticed and commented on. Adults would ask, “Where did you come from?”; a remark I relished for the attention not the insinuation which I didn’t understand. That could have been enough for me, my own claim to fame in the Miller clan. Unfortunately, the recessive b match wasn’t all that I got. I also received some weird, undiagnosed skin affliction. It was nothing life-threatening, just miserable and disgusting. My skin was a tough, wrinkly-scaly affair from the beginning.

This skin business baffled our family doctor and set him into action to figure out a cure, which he never found. Eventually, though, he decided that I did not have the proper number of pores, thus preventing natural oils and lubricants from making my epidermis soft and smooth. It was, instead, dry and rough, and sometimes cracked deeply enough to bleed. It had a red hue that made it look sore, even though it wasn’t that painful. The shame of having skin that made me look aged and reptilian was the real cross to bear. Luckily, for no explicable reason, my weird skin covered all of me except my face. I came to appreciate this more every year.

The doctor’s treatment for my skin was seasonal and based on observation. Since it improved in warm weather, he determined that sunlight made my skin better. My family made sure that I got plenty. Before I could walk I was parked in baskets or on blankets in front of windows or on the lawn so I could soak up the rays. As a toddler I spent the summer outside in just a diaper or panties. My skin did heal, though not permanently. But along the way, I tanned and burned and learned to love the feel of the sun on me. To this day, warm rays release serotonin in my blood. On the downside, which no one really thought much about until ozone depletion and melanoma, I garnered sunburn scars, freckles, and age spots. And of course, the sun was no cure; the malady reappeared again in the fall as the cold racked up its toll.

Many years later a dermatologist told me that Dr. Chain had put my childhood skin in the balance with later life scourges as he had decided that I probably wouldn’t live long enough to face skin cancer. The specialist may have known about skin conditions, but he did not understand the devotion of our family doctor to his patients nor the lack of solid research available to rural Iowans. I am convinced that I was given that advice based on dedication to my health and welfare. Dr. Chain had a small office in his home, with a waiting room, one examination room, and an equipment alcove. Reusable syringes and tubes sat next to a sterilizing unit, and the place smelled of rubbing alcohol. People showed up without appointments with no regard to office hours. No one was ever turned away regardless of disease or injury. There was no interest in ability to pay, only in the ability to heal. Dr. Chain treated me the best he knew how, expecting me to live a long and robust life.

Anyway, one of the worst elements of my skin was the other part of my treatment–constant rubdowns with lineaments and lotions. Eventually my mother decided that pure lanolin worked best. This heavy-duty animal grease became a second outer layer for me. My clothes stuck to it, and I smelled like a sheep. At bath time, which was infrequent by today’s standards, it took a real sudsing to get to my actual skin cells. In my opinion, this part of my treatment was more disgusting than just hiding my skin under long sleeves and long socks. However, Mom was devoted, and I created body-sized grease spots on the sheets every night.

Throughout grade school, people noticed my skin. My hands had creases and wrinkles where other little hands were smooth and plumpish. The skin around my ankles and wrists cracked and bled almost daily as a result of too much time in cold, damp mittens and boots. My classmates made no effort to cover their curiosity and disdain; teachers showed gentler concern. In fact, my fourth grade teacher brought lotion and applied it on my arms and legs after recess. Everything was a temporary heal but appreciated.

When junior high arrived, I became more self-conscious. I wore long sleeves and knee-high socks into the summer, showing that physical comfort is secondary to social criticism. Only growing old enough to wear nylons added some variety to my cover-up wardrobe. I sacrificed swimming at the local pool and suffered through a couple of terrible years when we were actually required to wear sleeveless, legless gym uniforms. When other girls were looking for prom dresses with spaghetti straps, I was seeking the less common long-sleeved style. Fortunately, I was in the floor-length gown era so no problem there.

In any case, my skin is still not “normal” compared to other people. I still wear long sleeves and long pants most of the year, until the summer sun has had time to work its magic. However, an upside has surfaced. When I look at my old lady hands, they don’t look so weird to me; after all, they are practically the same as my kindergarten hands were many years ago. Even though my skin hardly matters on the Richter Scale of maladies and hardships, it has made me more empathetic. It has also made me stronger. Someone saying, “Ooh, what’s wrong with your skin,” may ruin a moment but certainly not a life. My dad used to say, “Most people need to be skinned” in an attempt to verify that it’s what’s inside that counts (and also to curtail expenditures on make-up and the like). It has made me aware of how insignificant appearance should be. Passing judgment should be deeper than an analysis based on skin condition or color.

 

 

 

 

Love and Lies that Make the Magic

Hummingbird Travels

I am fascinated by hummingbirds. They only weigh about a tenth of an ounce, and that, plus their wingbeat frequency, allows them to dart, flit, and hover like an insect as well as a bird. The kind that we see in Iowa, and that I religiously feed, are ruby-throated hummers. They have a metallic sheen to their feathers with only the males boasting the ruby throat. They are not social, avoiding other birds and barely tolerating each other. They are not prolific in my backyard, but I have two or three that I believe come back year after year. I purposely plant trumpet-shaped flowers and make sure that some of them are red. I fill the feeders as soon as the first Canada geese land on the pond. Nonetheless, the number of birds doesn’t change much, though I am grateful for the few that I get to watch.

Decades ago my dad told me that hummingbirds travel to and from the South, as far as Mexico to Iowa, securely nestled under the wings of Canada geese. He was a hunter and an outdoorsman, and my dad, which specifically made him brilliant about all things. I not only believed him, I wanted to believe him. It just made so much sense that twice a year those tiny birds hitched a ride in the armpit of a goose. This symbiotic relationship saved the hummers energy and body mass on what seemed to me to be a long and next-to-impossible trip. I pictured them curled into the warm indent, strapped in for a secure ride and landing.

Only a few years ago I shared this piece of wisdom with my co-workers in the faculty lounge at school. It was immediately discredited by another teacher who is also a hunter and an outdoorsman. Of course, I was defensive. I could not be misinformed, by my dad. I immediately called the DNR wildlife specialist who told me that geese did not invite hummingbirds to climb aboard and buckle in to fly the friendly skies. Hummingbirds make the trip non-stop on their own steam, flying night and day, from one destination to the other.

And this is the stuff that my dreams are made of–magical, tender, and a good story. I’m not sorry that I believed in hummingbird hitchhikers for so many years. I’m not sorry that I told so many people, who might have taken an interest in nature based on a lie. I guess I’m not even sorry that a new myth states that I am gullible arose from this one.

 

Weems Wisdom

It gets lonely on the corner of My Way or the Highway. Don’t build your house there.

Sometimes the Mom has to say things that she doesn’t want to, and then she has to convince herself, and everyone else, that she really means it.

The Good China Syndrome

One of the most awesome inventions of my childhood days probably invaded every middle and lower class household in America. No, I’m not speaking of television, although that ranks right up there too. What I am referring to was far less aesthetic and very useful. It is, of course, Melmac dinnerware. The younger set probably will not understand the impact this had nor the symbolic statement of Alf, a 1980’s tv sitcom about an alien life form, being a native of the planet Melmac.

Nevertheless, sometime during the 1950’s, no exact dates available, my mother purchased our first set of Melmac. I am not talking frills and flowers, just basic eatware, including two place settings each of blue (really aqua), red, yellow, and green, or was it black? This replaced our previous everyday dishes that were a hodgepodge of chipped glassware donated by Gramma, Aunt Maude, Aunt Martha, and being the last leave several church potlucks. We finally had a matched set of dishes and felt very upperclass.

Now the truly remarkable thing about our new Melmac was that it didn’t break. Heretofore, we had to deal with plates that shattered when dropped and cups that had not handles. Chipped rims were a way of life, but Melmac was different. In fact, the first thing a new Melmac owner did was throw a couple of cups across the room and bat a plate or two against the table just to prove to the relatives that the good life had indeed arrived. Our green formica-topped table would now be laid with matching cups, saucers, and plates for evermore, amen.

Only a few issues remained with the original Melmac. While no one could question its endurance, its finish was not quite grainy but certainly not polished, which meant that it stained pretty easily. Coffee cups were the worst. Caffeine addicts, even Sanka drinkers, had a choice of using cups sporting a disgusting blackish-brown on the inside, or licking grit off their teeth that was deposited by scrubbing with Ajax tub cleaner. Neither was too appetizing.

However, the most important thing the Melmac did was make it possible for the good china to remain stashed in the buffet cabinet in the dining room along with the stemmed glassware and the good silver. I was probably six before I realized we had Depression glass goblets and gold-rimmed dinner plates. These were carefully brought out only when someone we hardly knew came to visit. And then, use was restricted to the adults. They ate in the dining room on a tablecloth, set with the good china, matching silverware, water glasses, and flowers. The kids ate in the kitchen, on the formica (for cleanup expediency) set with Melmac, no knives, and ketchup and mustard jars for centerpieces. Our solace was that we had more fun.

Some years later I was putting my own good china away, the morning after a dinner party the night before. My four-year-old son watched in awe. He had no idea we owned such stuff, which amazed both of us since we were sure that he had sorted through everything in our house. I began thinking how ironic it is that we save our best for those we hardly know and let the people we love most use the Melmac.

You don’t have to contemplate this very long before twinges of guilt slither up your spine. We’re not just dealing with eating utensils here. This phenomenon permeates every aspect of our lives. For example, when was the last time you threatened your kids with permanent timeout if they disturbed your nap one more time, and two minutes later calmly, even politely, answered the doorbell, only to tell a struggling college student that you aren’t interested in a “twenty-two volume set of encyclopedias complete with color illustrations written at the third grade level”?

Have I touched a nerve yet? How about this? The boss asks you for the same information that you gave him yesterday. You patiently explain that the material is surely on his desk and even help him find it, all with the serenity and loyalty of Lassie. But that evening, your spouse mentions something about tissue in the bathroom. Of course you are too busy, and he should have thought of that before, and he’s lucky you buy the cushiony soft brand so he doesn’t get a concussion when you throw it at him.

I guess the message is clear. At our house we call it “the good china syndrome,” and those words serve as a reminder when we step on our housemates’ hearts. Acquaintances, classmates, co-workers, and even friends may not be near us in twenty years, but offspring, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers…family are here for a lifetime. Home may be the only place we have to unwind, and it offers the security of knowing we can let off steam and still be loved. Just put the Melmac away and use the good china as often as you can.