Month: January 2019

On Having Sons

As I was starting this post, Dan says I should rename it to “Happy Days”.

Bryan, about 7, with his much desired Millenium Falcon

He’s right! We enjoyed those days, and we’re still savoring the days with grown children (3 sons and 1 daughter). If you happen to not have kids of your own, I hope you can get to know and cherish the nieces and nephews, friends’ and neighbors’ kids in your life.

Several months ago, Leigh and I were out walking somewhere, and I must have commented a few times on how cute the little boys were that we were seeing. She said something like, “Mom, you must really appreciate that age of boys.”

Brandon at 4. He was 4 in 1980; I drew this sketch from a photo.

She’s right! Here’s something I wrote on 9-20-2010:

Whenever I see a 4 year old little boy, I recall how that was my favorite era of our son’s lives.

Sometimes, these 4 year olds are wearing Star Wars T-shirts, 30 years after the movie came out. Then I REALLY get nostalgic and feel connected to that little boy.

So, when we arrived home one night from a trip, and I saw “The Star Wars Christmas” album (a gift long ago from Tony and Liz) on the dryer, I knew that one of our sons had been there.

Most likely, it was Conor, because his apartment was all packed up for his move to Colorado the next day, and we had invited him to sleep at the house. He might have visited Bryan and Amy, who had borrowed the album because our grandsons Sam and Gus love Star Wars. Now, it was being returned to us.

Having Conor spend his last night in Omaha, before moving, in our family home was a good thing. We just weren’t able to be there, due to pre-planned travel.

Still, knowing that he slept there before his 10 hour drive the next day, was comforting to this mother of that one time little four year old boy.

Conor, 4, and Leigh, 2. As you can see, everything Conor does she wants to do also.



Shirley

On the Energy of a Cookie

A Chocolate Chip Cookie (the only kind there is, according to my brother, Tony).

It’s winter, I live in a condo, and I no longer shovel snow. I used to like shoveling snow, especially if no one had walked on it, tamping it down. It was exhilarating exercise in the fresh air, and useful. Sometimes, I kept going and did the older-than-me neighbor’s walks. In that case, the neighbor would open her door and yell out her thanks and say that I didn’t have to do that. I always said “It’s no bother, and now I can eat more cookies.”

That goes along with my life’s motto: “Work hard, play hard, and eat hearty”. This especially applies to cookies. I grew up eating cookies baked by Mom and both grandmas. Never did I think about how unhealthy they might be.

I only think of their welcoming comfort and deliciousness. Some examples of this in action are:

Baking a small batch, 4 to 6 cookies, from frozen little balls of dough, on a toaster oven tray. The toaster oven is gone, but the tray survives. This is great when hunger strikes or visitors stop by.

Trips home from college (and after married life) always led straightaway to the small chest freezer in the kitchen where Mom stored her cookies. I preferred them frozen at the time.

My sister- in -law, Peg, baked fresh cookies when we visited her, and Dan’s mother, Betty, in Cedar Falls, IA. It was a short visit in the afternoon made memorable.

My friend and neighbor, Nita, graciously shared her chocolate chip cookie recipe over coffee in her kitchen. I scribbled it down on a piece of paper from my purse that also told me how to send away for a free Star Wars figure.

Midwest Express flights (out of business long ago) always had hot cookies.

“Grandma Thelen” charcoal drawing by Shirley Neary, 1990

When our 4th child was born in 1983, my Grandma Philomena Boes Thelen from Breda, IA, came to visit. She brought along a coffee can (and it was a can, made out of aluminum or tin) filled with cookies. She wrote down the recipe for me, and personalized it with a hint on the back of the card, which makes me smile. It is our favorite cookie. A few times, I have gifted newborns’ families with these, in a recycled coffee container, just for fun and the memories.

Well used, and priceless, in Grandma’s handwriting.

Here is something I wrote on July 23, 2010:

There is a whole lot of energy in a freshly baked cookie, such as the power of the raw ingredients: the grains in the flour and oatmeal, the egg, and the butter.

There is the human energy to mix it up by hand into a batter, and electrical energy to bake it.

Then, the steam inside escapes while it is cooling, which is really noticeable if you try to cover or package the cookies too soon. The lid becomes covered with escaped steam.

And lastly, the caloric energy that is transferred back to the human who eats the cookie and also uses energy in chewing, digesting, moving, working, playing, and possibly baking more cookies!

Shirley

On Getting a Manicure

These days, my nails are bare. They’re clean, filed and moisturized with a dab of olive oil, funneled into a teeny bottle that Amy N. gifted the Neary girls with one New Year’s Eve, filled with almond oil, at the time. It was inside a noisemaker, so fun!

As a teenager in the 1960’s, nail colors of frosted pinks, whites, and tans from Yardley of London were my choice. So hot!

Polished and manicured nails are beautiful! My sister in law Linda T. comes to mind as one who deserves the highest compliments on wearing nail polish art.

And, my friend, Carm, maintains her long nails through a full time job, intense gardening, quilting and cooking. She makes it look easy!

Even my granddaughter, Clara, is comfortable with manicures. I once went to a salon with her, where she confidently said to the technician, “Just a color change, please.” She was about 12 years old. I had never heard such a sentence before!

But, alas, it is not for me. When I tried to use the clear polish a few times, it seemed that I could smell it through the funeral Mass in a crowded pew, or during a dinner out. Instead of making me happy to have shiny nails, it only made me feel sorry for those who sat by me.

In the middle 1990’s, I became a passionate quilter and gardener.

Here’s a lighthearted, (and somewhat frustrating), description of what happened at one of my first professional nail treatments:

Nov. 2—Nov.3, 1999

Nov. 2, 10 AM, redeemed gift certificate from Leigh and Amy.

Wonderful filing, oiling, creaming, cuticle trimming, basecoating, color, and topcoating.

“Should last 5 days”, says Theresa, the manicurist.

On my way home, I stop at Kinko’s to make copies, Cub Foods for a few things, and the fabric store for black cross stitch cloth.

I look down. A rippled smudge on my thumbnail!

I go to Mulhall’s for compost, and drug store to drop off a prescription.

At home, I ask Conor to unload compost, bring in garbage cans, and haul towels to laundry room. I’m afraid to use my hands!

I go to bathroom, button my jeans, look down, and there’s a chip on another fingernail.

5 hours in and 2 nails damaged.

Nov. 3, 10 AM, 24 hours after manicure.

I’m leery of washing my face, hands, hair, or doing any type of cleaning!

I’m also leery of sewing by hand. I’m working on my red/blue hand pieced pineapple block. The needle just scraped against a fingernail and took color with it.

I started to empty compost on garden, carefully, and started to prepare pots for winter. Nope, can’t do that! Too dangerous for my beautiful nails!

I wanted them to last through tonight’s Executive dinner and maybe even our upcoming trip to New Orleans, Nov. 6 – 10. Impossible!

Shirley

It was a pretty good day.

This little transcription of events are completely true. I was writing a letter to my husband, Dan, who was away for a long time (a week or 2) on business in Japan. I really wanted him to know how our days at home (12115 Farnam St.) were going. I think I also wanted to document them for myself, because I had a feeling that in the future when days had calmed, and children (and the dog) were gone, I might not recall the details of how we actually lived.

He’s never read this letter that I know of. It’s been in my drawer all of these years. No particular reason. I think I wrote it as a kind of recreation, a fun thing to do.

So, I’m sharing it here.

Wednesday, November 20, 1991

Dear Dan,

Today, Conor was in tears, begging for rollerblades. Kind of sad, really.

It was a pretty good day! Right now, it is 12:30 AM. I am awake and in bliss having spent 2 hours on creative clothing design for Barbie dolls. As you know, I have a little business making doll clothes, as Mom did before me. The touch of the furs, silks, velvets and wools is so wonderful I could be up all night. Common sense prevails and I tuck myself in. Then, I’m nervously hearing noises and think that somehow our house is vulnerable. Dan’s car at the airport could get broken into and the registration would give our address and the garage door opener would be in his car——-oh this is silly, I say to myself. I get out of bed to double check locks around the house, especially the deadbolt on the garage door.

It was a pretty good day.

Up at 6:30, morning routine until 8:00.

Go to Nieman’s to pick up car pool.

Girls are running late.

Katie gets in car, “Oh wait!” (Forgot her glasses), then says Conor, “So did I!”

So home to get them we did fly.

Now, in a traffic lane, awaiting our turn, 8:07, 3 minutes to burn.

But what do we see, kids going inside, Oh no! Can our car clock be slow?

It was a pretty good day. I had only 5 loads of laundry (Conor had to borrow Brandon’s undies because he couldn’t find any and had tried boxer shorts under his uniform pants and decided it wasn’t going to work. Luckily, Brandon had done his wash the evening before).

Today, my washing is done between trips to St. Robert’s School and the Vet and UNO and shopping with Leigh for Kelly’s birthday present and cooking supper in 1/2 hour (tomato soup, polish dogs, mac n cheese) and taking Conor to Scouts and returning the movie, “Robin Hood” to Blockbuster, even though there was begging to let it remain in our house a few hours longer.

It was a pretty good day. The tire on my car didn’t need air, the car didn’t need gas or oil. It just faithfully, securely got me where I was going. And Conor didn’t cry or pout about not getting rollerblades.

I did fall asleep for 2 short naps at Joslyn during my art history lecture but actually felt so refreshed afterward that I enjoyed the modern architecture segment.

I found a parking spot reasonably close to my 12:00 class and my expensive paper ($2.75/sheet) drawing fell on the street only once. Mr. Hill was encouraging while I worked on my oil pastel. He compared it to a successful artist’s work, “but his didn’t get muddy.” and “You can’t always have winners”. But I know I can sometimes, so I keep on drawing, and casually conversing about life with my classmates and teacher.

A centrillion thoughts go through my mind—-wrap those presents for S.O.S. Christmas sharing by Friday, get a hair appt.,Dan, how are you, so far away? What’s this, we’re out of milk? I want to sew (maybe on Thursday), buy some scotch tape (for the wrapping), demanding kids, darling kids, and don’t slam that family room door again!

It was a pretty good day, a perfect day, really, a Wednesday, a weekday crammed full of stuff to do for me, for you (plural). Fifty degrees, fresh air, and sunshine. Conor and Jon R. and Brandon are shooting baskets as I return at 5:30. Leigh’s bike is parked in Brad’s driveway across the street. I love this life. Wish you were here.

Shirley