May Money Review

So after the debacle of April, our May grocery and household spending settled down.

A lot.

A whole lot.

How much? We spent $128.09 on groceries (food) and $16.56 on household items, most of which was laundry detergent (a special at CVS; with our Bonus Bucks, we bought enough detergent for dirt cheap to see us into 2020 easily). Grand total? $144.65.

That brings our monthly average for 2019 down to $168.63. Now we're talking!

Our eating out costs, which I track but do not set a bar for, came to $75.88. $44.00 of that was two delicious meals in Mansfield during the last concert weekend for the Mansfield Symphony. I had to go to dress rehearsal (to help with transporting instruments/vehicles), so instead of just one meal over that weekend, we had two. We ate at a new diner downtown the first night and liked it so much we went back the next night for an even better meal.

I saved our grocery receipts from May and may peruse them later (not tonight—I'm under a tight deadline on too many fronts) but my guess is the overwhelming bulk of food purchases were fresh items such as milk, orange juice, fruit, carrots, and lettuce. Just a hunch.

Speaking of lettuce, the lettuce seeds are up in our good enough garden. They need to be thinned, but again, tight deadlines!

June's grocery bills are likely to be equally rock bottom, not because we are so stunningly frugal (although, admittedly, we are), but because we will be on the road for a chunk of the month: a conference here, a conference there, and a trip to the Emerald City (i.e., Mayo Clinic). I expect our eating out costs to rise precipitously as a result.

I will note, however, looking to that bottom line, we are starting the road trip to the first conference with a packed lunch. Because, let's face it: every little bit helps!

My 2019 Good Enough Garden

Back in 2016, I wrote about the Good Housekeeping monthly feature of pulling off a project (usually a home improvement or decorating project) in the "Good Housekeeping" way (expensive) or the "Good Enough" way (cheap and more than passable). I applied that theory to our 2016 garden, realizing "good enough" was more than adequate. I referred to that concept again in 2017 when I put in our garden for the summer. (Last year I appeared to be so busy tracking books that I did not even mention the garden until well into the summer, but trust me, it was a good enough one too.)

That concept—the good enough garden—is still in full force and effect around here. And given that yesterday and today we just put in our good enough garden, now is as good a time as any to write about it.

The good enough garden actually got started in March this year, not because I did anything so earthy

The free planter boxes

as start plants inside (that went by the wayside some years ago) but because I scored four (4!) FREE box planters and one nicely sized round one from the Facebook Delaware Marketplace. Okay, by "got started," I mean I thought about the garden. Good enough, no?

In early May I weeded the garden bed, including cutting back the sage, which wintered over again (again!). Last weekend, we borrowed our neighbor's small electric tiller and Warren tilled the bed so I could start planting.

No compost, no extras. Like I said, good enough.

With the exception of a few (i.e., two) seed packets I had already bought, I bought my plants yesterday from one of our local farm enterprises, Miller's Country Gardens, and a few more seed packets both there and then this morning at another area nursery. I had already purchased two bags, 1.5 cubic feet each, of soil for "Vegetables and Herbs" (remember that). And between the planting spree last night and the seeding spree this morning (each taking a bit longer and a bit more out of me than I thought they should), I was done by, oh, maybe about 11:30 a.m.

Note: I got done that early because my dear husband looked at me troweling up the dirt in the on-their-side cement blocks and, when he couldn't get me to stop, insisted on stepping in to help. He has seen me through several weeks of baffling and frustrating muscle issues (myeloma? age?) and troweled while I filled the holes with soil (that same soil mentioned above).  Thank you, dear Warren.

Lettuce-to-be

So what does this year's good enough garden hold?

Tomatoes, of course. Eight plants: three Early Girl, three 4th of July, one Oh Happy Day (how could I resist a name like that?), and two cherries. Yes, I know that makes nine: the single container of cherry tomatoes actually held two as I discovered when I went to plant it. All but one are caged; the runtier of the two cherries is free because I only have eight cages.

And there are sweet peppers: three California wonders, three Orange Hungarians (they had a cute name, but I didn't write it in my gardening notes), and one Romanian.

In the planter boxes went lots of the soil and then lettuces, something I have never tried growing before: Emerald Jewel, "Select Salad Bowl" (i.e., mixed). Spicy Mesclun, and Black Seeded Simpson (another great name). Because we are just on the cusp of June and salad is not a summer crop, I held back plenty of seed for a fall round of lettuces, assuming I get any at all.

I sowed basil (lots) and rosemary (some) in the large open area. The rosemary is a trial this year; the basil is a given. (We just finished the very last container of 2018 homemade pesto.)  Sunflowers and leftover marigolds went near the back of the garden, by the garage outside wall.

In the cement blocks surrounding two sides of the garden went marigold seeds, two per "pot." Yeah, yeah, I know the soil said "For Vegetables and Herbs," but I have learned (and Hope Jahren in her beautiful memoir Lab Girl confirms this) that seeds know what to do and I have no doubt there will be a fine crop of marigolds (petites) by mid-July.

Those dark spots are the soil with the marigold seeds

The thyme went into the other aforementioned free planter:

And the sage? The sage is in full and beautiful bloom:

There are lots of advantages to a good enough garden, starting with labor. And cost. This year's outlay was $42.25, with 63% of the overall cost being in the bedding plants (that thyme was the priciest, but it is a perennial and I will bring it inside this year). Not bad at all—I can eat $42.00 worth of tomatoes in no time flat.

As I finish writing this on Saturday afternoon, the day has turned windy and gray clouds are filling the sky. Maybe it'll rain. Rain makes my garden grow.

So that's the 2019 good enough garden. According to my garden notes, I planted a week earlier last year and ate my first tomato on June 30. Let's see what this year's good enough garden brings. 

The Passover/Easter Collision 2019

The year, Passover, the eight-day Festival of Freedom, began Friday, April 19, which also happened to be the Christian holiday known as Good Friday.

Well, that is a little awkward. Historically, the whole Holy Week/Easter weekend has been used as a justification for pogroms and violence against Jews and Jewish communities, and the two holidays coinciding courtesy of the lunar calendar made me wary. I don't think it coincidental that the white terrorist opened fire at Chabad of Poway Synagogue on the last day of Passover. Even before the Poway shooting, for the first time since converting decades ago, I am fearful living in my country as a Jew. All the same, I openly wear a small Star of David daily, because I'm not going to hide and, if someone wants to take me out, I might as well give them a target.

But what happened to me personally this year had nothing to do with terrorism or anti-Semitism or anything evil. It had to do with absolute goofiness, good Christian intentions, and a whole lot of laughter.

A couple of salient points:

1. Observant Jews eat no leavened foods (chametz) for the eight days of Passover. They rid their house of chametz prior to Passover and often have special sets of dishes and tableware kept just for Passover to prevent contaminating (in the spiritual sense) their meals during the holiday.

2. My husband Warren has had a long-standing professional engagement to play the Easter services at Maple Grove Methodist Church in Columbus and 2019 was no exception. I always go along; the morning consists of a rehearsal, the first Easter service, a congregational brunch in the fellowship hall, and the second service, which pretty much mirrors the first.

3. I don't keep kosher (follow the prescribed dietary laws of Judaism). I never have. I eat pork (thus my stocking up on hams when they went on sale pre-Easter at Aldi). I eat shellfish less often, because it is so expensive, but I love it.

4. This year, I thought I would try to observe the laws against eating chametz. Hence, my sticker shock when I bought matzohs just before Passover. [Yet another note: this is Delaware County. Not a huge or even noticeable Jewish population. The matzohs available in the grocery stores? Not kosher for Passover, which is a whole other issue, but I bought them anyway.]

5. We eat oatmeal for breakfast almost every single morning, except on Sundays or when we are traveling. We keep dry cereal in the house, but rarely eat it except when trying to get to a very early appointment (like my 7:00 a.m. oncology appointments in Columbus). So a very conservative estimation is that Warren and I each eat over 280 bowls of oatmeal annually.

Okay, cue Easter morning. At Service #1, several new members joined the congregation and, in some cases, the Methodist Church. Some were by transfer, some were by affirmation of faith, and one, a middle-aged woman, was by baptism. She was (wait for it) Jewish and Pastor Patricia (who was installed last summer and who I really like) mentioned that the new convert had said she'd been to mikvahs (ritual Jewish pool) and wondered "did that count?"

"Of course that mikvah counts," said the pastor. "But so does this baptism." And she proceeded to baptize the new member, then concluded the new member service.

All well and good. But then the pastor and the assistant minister went back to the baptismal stand, poured more baptism water into two bowls, prayed, and proceeded to go throughout the sanctuary, up and down the aisles, flicking water on the congregation and calling out, gently and lovingly, "Remember your baptism. Remember your baptism."

Well, hell, what's a Jew to do? I sit in the very front pew near Warren and his timpani. Those timpani make a formidable barrier to walking by and I figured Pastor Patricia would not thread her way past them, but by golly, she did. And I got watered.

I was stunned.

After the first service, as Warren and I went down to eat, he asked me if I were okay.  Sure I was. I just wasn't expecting that. Why?

"Well, you looked alarmed when she headed towards you."

Well, maybe not alarmed, but just not expecting it.

At the brunch, I picked my way through the line. Yes to the eggs/ham/potatoes casseroles and the fruit salad, no to the wonderful sweet rolls and doughnuts and cakes and breads. Okay, I'm rolling.

At the second service, looking at the bulletin, I saw that for the 11:00 service, there was no new member event, but a "reaffirming your baptism" event. And by golly, Pastor Patricia and the assistant minister prayed over the water and proceeded to walk through the sanctuary again, flicking water on one and all and calling out "Remember your baptism. Remember your baptism." This time, Pastor Patricia got me but good, even though she had already sprinkled me once earlier and even though the timpani were still in the way.

"Remember your baptism. Remember your baptism."  Flick, flick. Water drops sprinkled my bulletin. And me.

[An aside: Even though Warren was just a foot away from me, he did not get sprinkled either time. I suspect the pastor was respecting his musical instruments and did not want to get water on the timpani and there was no way to sprinkle him without getting the timpani wet.]

[A further aside: Warren was raised as a Christian Scientist. He was not baptized with a water ceremony, because that is contrary to the teachings of that faith. I was raised Lutheran and was baptized with water as an infant. When I converted to Judaism, I went to a mikvah as part of the conversion ritual. I got sprinkled on Easter, he didn't. Go figure.]

On the way home, I said to Warren, "Two baptisms in one day. During Passover yet. What next?"

What next was even more ludicrous. Sometime in the afternoon, maybe after watching the Lion King Passover by the group Six13 for about the thousandth time, I found myself thinking of chametz (doesn't everyone?). I knew there were five grains: wheat, rye, barley, spelt (look it up, I had to) and...and...

I Googled it. Wheat, rye, barley, spelt, and...oats.

Oats.

As in oatmeal. As in every morning for breakfast.

I found Warren on his computer, working on a grant. "Hey, you know how Jews don't eat certain grains during Passover?"

Warren acknowledged he didn't totally get it, but yes, he was aware and that's why I was avoiding bread this week, right?

"Well, guess what they are? Wheat, rye, barley, spelt, and...OATS!"

Warren looked at me and burst into laughter. I looked at him and burst into laughter.

So there we were.

Passover 2019.  That was one for the books.

Boys' Week

The past week has been full of boys.

Boys as in "long ago boys." Boys as in "they are all grown men now." Boys as in "they were at various times a huge part of my life and my world."

Boy #1 was Jacob.

Boy #2 was Sam.

Boy #3 was Danny.

Boy #4 was Ben.

[Note: They are numbered in order of chronological appearance, not in any priority.]

Let's start with #1, Jacob. Our Symphony just last week closed out its 40th Season with a truly stunning concert. How stunning? Two world premieres for compositions, one world premiere of an orchestral version of a composition, one world premiere film by a (truly) world renown photographer, and the professional orchestral debut of a pianist performing George Gershwin's "Concerto in F" (which is no walk in the repertoire park).

The pianist making his professional debut? A DMA student at the University of Cincinnati's College-Conservatory of Music, an amazingly gifted performer. Here is a link to a snippet of his rehearsal with the orchestra (You do not need a Facebook account to open it):   https://www.facebook.com/centralohiosymphony/videos/2154174351363365/?t=0  The pianist bringing the concert to a halt at the end of the first movement because of the storm of applause, and then receiving a shouting, cheering standing ovation that lasted several minutes? The pianist walking into our after-concert reception (in honor of all the artists and our 40th season) to wild acclaim? That one?

It was Jacob. Jacob who I have known since he was 4, Jacob who I coached (along with my son Ben and several other brilliant, gifted students) for five years in Odyssey of the Mind and Destination Imagination, Jacob who at one point as a young adult in his 20s walked away from piano totally. That Jacob.

We hugged repeatedly Saturday night at the party, both of us over the moon and not a little dumbstruck that, after so many twists and turns for each of us, here we were celebrating an event that at more than one point in our respective pasts neither of us were ever sure we would ever see, Jacob for personal reasons and me for health reasons.

That Jacob. That boy.

Sam was #2 last week. Sam my youngest son, Sam my son who became a welder, Sam my son who sometimes is just a blur. Sam popped up out of the blue in my mailbox. Oh, not because he wrote me a letter. Oh, no, no, no. My sons (plural) do not write letters, a clear failing on the part of their mother. Instead, he popped up because the grandmother of one of his childhood friends, Clayton, has been winnowing out the decades (decades) of accumulated papers, clipping, and photos in her home, and whenever she comes across ones with either of my children (Ben was in her preschool, so pictures of him surface from time to time too), she mails them to me.

I suspected what was in the envelope before I opened it and I was not disappointed. There was Sam, maybe 5, maybe 6—all grin and skinny. One photo was taken on a school bus, the other at one of Clayton's birthdays. And suddenly we are back 23, 24 years and my youngest boy is just that: a little boy.

I mailed the photos on to Sam, who is almost 29 and long grown. With them I included a letter from mom, commenting on this or that, nothing too weighty. I plan on being out in the Pacific Northwest later this summer, and we will talk and laugh together then, that boy all grown up.

Then there was Danny, Boy #3. Danny was Ben's first best friend when we moved to Ohio. He lived across and slightly down the alley and they became friends when the weather warmed up (we had moved into the house in January) and the kids were finally outside. Danny spent hours and hours in our house, playing with Ben, fighting with Ben, tormenting Sam (when Sam was a baby and unable to tell on him), causing havoc, causing joy, causing all kinds of things. Ben tolerated a lot from Danny over the years, but they were genuinely close. All the same, there were limits even to Ben's patience.  I was at the kitchen window looking outside the day Ben finally punched Danny in the face, after years of being pinched, punched, kicked, and laughed at.  I admit it, I cheered (and so did Bethany, our next door neighbor, who came running into our house to make sure I'd seen it). Danny and Ben drifted apart as they got older: Danny was a year ahead in school, his family stayed in the neighborhood but moved farther down the block, and there was a painful rupture between the adults, but over time we (we meaning his father Ted and I) reestablished a connection, so I often knew of Danny even if I didn't see him. And not unlike the other boys in this post, Danny had his own twists and turns as he moved from childhood and teen to adult.

Ted just retired from OWU after 30+ years of teaching in the sociology department. There was a packed reception for Ted and another sociology retiree; Warren and I dropped in briefly to say congratulations. I saw Ted's daughter Allie and son-in-law Joe right away, but not Danny. "Around the corner," said Joe.

I headed in that direction and saw Danny talking to two of his dad's colleagues. I stayed back, watching him laugh and interact as an adult. Then he looked up and saw me. His eyes grew big and he excused himself from the conversation.

Oh my gosh. Danny, Danny, Danny. A long hug: is it really you? We laughed, we talked quickly and excitedly. Danny said, tears in his eyes, that when he thinks back to his childhood, it is our house and time spent at our house that he remembers most vividly, not his childhood home. I told him I still have the dining room table that he deliberately and methodically defaced with fork tines over the course of several months. Danny turned bright red. "I'm sorry. I was really awful." "Yeah, you were sometimes."

We only talked for a couple of minutes, maybe three, maybe five. He asked about Ben and asked me to tell Ben hello. Then it was time for both of us to turn to something else—the guests in his case, leaving in mine. Another long hug, kissing one another on the cheek. "I love you," we said, simultaneously.

When I got home from the reception, I texted Ben about seeing Danny and all the memories. Warren was taking apart a marimba he had to transport the next day and was surprised to see me crying when he looked up (the marimba was in our living room—isn't everyone's?). He was concerned: was I okay?

Yes, yes, I was okay. I was just caught in a long look back over 28 years, over my sons' childhoods, over the old neighborhood, over the delight of seeing Danny not only grown to man's estate but looking and sounding grounded and healthy and positive. "I miss my sons," I said, and burst into tears.

And that brings us to Boy #4, who popped up this morning, not directly like Jacob and Danny, but through another medium, this one Facebook. A Facebook friend posted this meme:

I immediately sent it to Ben's page, with this tag: I read your very first book to you (Are You My Mother?) when you were less than 48 hours old. I believe we sailed past the 1825 mark long before your 5th birthday. Hell, we may have hit it by your 2nd birthday. Thinking of you with lots of love and memories. 

And that is true. 1825 books? Piece of cake. Ben was the child I read to all the time. All. The. Time. Don't get me wrong, I read to Sam too, but as soon as Sam gained mobility, he chose chasing after his big brother to sitting still and being read to. But Ben? Daily. Daily. And it was something we kept up until he was in almost in high school—not because he couldn't read, not because he didn't devour thousands of books under his own power, but because reading connected us in some deep, inherent way that we both needed. Books were our safest harbor in a house filled with turmoil and conflict. Books kept us alive and I will always, always feel that way.

But that was then. That Ben is as long gone as that 5 year old Sam, as that Jacob playing Sam's small cello while on his back (I have photo proof), as that Danny who left his permanent mark on the table. (Danny just bought a house in Las Vegas, where he has lived for several years. I told Warren over lunch that I am strongly tempted to box up the table and send it to him as a housewarming present.) That was then and this is now.

All those memories. All that love.

All those boys.