Teeter & the bees

Friends are like flowers. Some are lilies, some are sunflowers and some are more like roses. While some flowers are thorny, others are just sweet. J.D. and I are lucky to have great friends in Teeter and Brian. We just wish they lived a little closer to us. To see them we have to drive about three hours. It’s worth the drive though.

Teeter and Brian have five kids ranging in age from 13 to 19 and they run a large milling operation in Northern California. I marvel at their ability to run a large family, a labor intensive business, take care of all their friends, plus home-school their kids. Like us, they like to entertain, and when they do, it’s always a great party. I was so excited that we were able to drive up to their place for St. Pat’s weekend. I knew we could kick back and take it easy because we were staying the night. It felt good to get away. The kids were in ‘fun mode’ and J.D. was excited to get away from working for a few days of relaxation.

Before we cracked open the first bottle of wine and appetizers, Teeter suggested that she and I take a walk around the orchards. It was a great idea given the long drive, the gorgeous day and the fact that I had never seen the mill or the orchards although I’ve heard about them for several years. As we drove out to the orchards with the dogs tailgating in the back of the truck, we talked about family and friends. That morning their family had all gone to a funeral of an old friend and we talked about him. This topic led us onto talking about other people who were close to us who had died in the last year that we missed. I reminisced about my Aunt Carol and she talked about a girlfriend she loved that passed away last summer, a woman who was like a sister to her. Every time Teeter talks about this woman, she laughs, so I know they were close friends and shared a lot of good times. As we talked, our discussion turned to the deeper topics of our fears. I related to Teeter an absolutely bizarre dream I had just had, and she told me that she was deathly afraid of bees. I asked her why and she told me a story of being attacked by a swarm of bees while out walking with her good friend. As she described in minute detail every moment of the bee attack, she said the only thing that bothered her was that her good buddy did nothing to help her when it happened. She just stood there. As we laughed (I, a little more nervously…thinking that I’ve never been stung by a bee, so I have no idea how it feels to have a bunch of them trying to sting you at once nor what I would do if I saw someone else being attacked)…she went on to talk about how bees target a person, leave a scent and attack all at once.

“Huh?” I said, “I’ve never heard of that before…” I tried to imagine how awful that must have been…and we arrived at the orchards. Hmm….well I couldn’t see a bee for miles, so I was excited to get the lay of the property, see the orchards, the pond and enjoy the views of Springtime in a walnut orchard.

As we exited the truck, the dogs took off running in familiar territory and I followed Teeter down the dirt road into the area of the orchards. Blooms only come from trees that are pollinated and of course, you need bees for that and as we got closer, Teeter pointed out the hives and mentioned that one of their foreman warned that the bees might be angry in the evening because they had just been moved in the morning. She redirected me around the area where the hives were “just in case” and we walked away from them. The dogs chased a chipmunk or a squirrel and were ahead of us when we noticed “Beebee” (Yep, the dog’s name was Beebe) running in circles, whining and biting herself…”Oh no!” Teeter shouted….”it’s the bees!” As she ran to help her dog, the bees started to swarm Teeter! As Teeter ran around screaming that the bees were all over her…she cried out for help. I could hear them in her hair and as I ran my hands through her hair, I demanded that she take off her shirt…”Take off your shirt now!” I repeated it…I could hear the bees but couldn’t see them. “Get them off me!” she cried. As she took off her shirt and we swatted them away, we ran across the field with the dogs and the bees behind us. DejaVu set in as we contemplated in amazement finishing a conversation about history that repeated itself within seconds of discussing it.

A single dying bee lagged behind her ear the entire time we walked back to the truck and as I flicked it off from behind her ear, I saw stings all over her neck and arm. She was clearly marked. I’d never seen anything like that in my life. Hugging her, she reassured me as having passed the friend test. For some reason they didn’t sting me once. I concluded it must be partly due to the combination of my Irish luck and my English blood because they clearly love the sweet people. Teeter is sweet…one of the sweetest people in the world. I know it and the bees do too.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Are you smarter than a 5th grader?

Yeah, OK...so we watched the premier of “Are you smarter than a 5^th grader”, the new FOX show, hosted by Jeff Foxworthy The new format features bright, articulate animated young geniuses, purportedly real life 5^th graders, although I am more apt to believe they are Cal Tech midgets. In the three night premiere, all of the 5^th graders answered every question correctly. Amazing…simply amazing; or maybe not.

Our family waited around after American Idol to watch this latest spin off from Fox, primarily out of curiosity more than anything else. After all, we live with a Fox40 meteorologist who also happens to be a 5^th grade teacher. Armchair producing results in brilliant observations in this family.

The show launches with 40 year old Seth, a UCLA History graduate, who, when posed with the first grade Social Studies question, “In what month do we observe Columbus Day?”, crumbled under the pressure of it and resorted to taking one of his 3 cheats. Yeah, let’s just say old Seth got off to a bad start. I was horrified. So was my 10 year old. Most pre-school kids know that one; at least the Italian ones.

For the most part, the questions were set up for the first through fifth grade student, but somehow the adult college graduate contestants struggled with simple answers to mind bending questions such as “How many e’s are in the phrase “pledge of allegiance?” Yeah, Larry, the Worcester University Graduate, answered incorrectly, but luckily his “5^th grader” bailed him out. Larry went off the episode failing to calculate the number of teaspoons in 5 tablespoons. Worcester University assumes most of their students know the answer to that by the time they get there; however somewhere in Massachusetts sat a retired third grade teacher very disappointed in Lawrence’s performance.

It really became too much for computer consultant, Lakisha, when faced with the really hard question “How many decades are in two millennia?” She decided to opt out. Good thing. Her answer would have been 20. That puts her only into the second century…about 1800 years short. She also had a very difficult time determining whether the Canadian border was longer than the Mexican one. Yikes.

Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse for the grown-ups, along comes Susan, the real estate agent who indicated quite confidently that only “three states bordered the Pacific Ocean, Washington, Oregon, California and Mex…wait…not Mexico!” She forgot about Hawaii and Alaska…but hey, who’s counting? 5^th grader Spencer bailed her out and we’re left wondering if she knows anything at all about real estate, let alone geography.

Are the fifth graders smart? You bet. Are the adults a little dim? Well, that’s debatable. J.D. thinks they freeze when the camera’s rolling which can sometimes happen to people, like Jan Brady. I wax a little more skeptical. Surely they test potential contestants, take all the airheads and their wrong answers and formulate a show around them.

Perhaps the worst part of the show for me was when the UCLA, Worcester, and Oregon State graduates “flunked off” by officially declaring as they stare into the television camera, “I am not smarter than a 5^th grader!” I’m thinking that if you are smarter than a 5^th grader, then you probably can’t be in the show. Poor Lucy.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

We were Seinfeld

J.D. and I just returned from a mini college reunion this last weekend in San Francisco. The weather was fantastic. Our buddies from college are like a tapestry of the best characters in a sitcom that preceded a very famous one, you know the one that starts with a “S”. I hearken back to the days in the dorm, the weeks living off Serramonte Boulevard in Daly City and on Funston Avenue near Golden Gate Park and finally graduation. Little did we know that we were an all-star cast in a comedy about nothing, yet about everything. We still star in this comedy. How did that happen?

When you major in Broadcast Communication Arts with a bunch of people it’s just funny, no matter where you are, whether in school or out, you’re always “on the air”. Our sitcom has been running for the last 22 years – one of the longest running sitcoms in history. You are probably wondering “what the heck is she talking about?”

We were all bound together in a little society of students that ran the news operation of the college television station back in the early 80’s. It was broadcast on cable channel 35 in San Francisco to about 4 subscribers, including our teacher who watched us on the air and then ripped us apart afterwards for our clichés, bad grammar and very long news packages. (I think I broke a record for the longest “short” in news35 history – a mini series on Pier 39). Anyway but I digress. We were so serious about our future careers in television that we took trips to Tahoe when it snowed just to get video tape (yeah right – we went because our friend’s family had a cabin up there). Dispersed in our attempts at serious journalism, we cooked, we drank and we made tapes. Those tapes turned into mini series primarily because when you major in broadcasting, your friends are comprised of writers, producers, directors, floor managers, talent (ah yes, we all wanted to be the talent) and people who generally loved to watch themselves doing nothing at all. Does that sound like a famous sitcom you know?

Anyway, this last Presidents weekend, after a long hiatus, we ventured back to the City and congregated at a lovely little house in Pacifica with an ocean view and had a lovely steak dinner with the old gang. The conversation always light and friendly and the camera rolling always…we had ourselves a lovely little trip down memory lane. In the “better late than never category’ it was nice to finally hand over videotapes to our buddy whose wedding was 13 years ago. He is a famous morning drive radio personality in San Francisco and yet he neglected to videotape his own wedding. Since we never go anywhere with these people without a video camera, the whole day (along with our insightful commentary) is now preserved in four hours of videotape that for some reason we held onto all these years and were now able to deliver to him and his wife. I hope they enjoy reliving their wedding day all over again.

Our tapes of each other go from college to vacations to weddings to projects and back. Our lives and friendship is chronicled in VHS and BETA format and sometimes these are edited with sound and music. Some parts are funnier than others and probably most of it would be boring unless you knew us; nah…you’d probably laugh. In our group we had our Elaine, our George, our Kramer and Newman. Yes, we had them all.

Our college class was special. We enjoyed being with each other, we enjoyed supporting each other’s careers and watching some rise high than others from local news and production to the networks. Our best man is now a network cable news anchor. One of the nicest compliments I can pay to our old friends is that they are really down to earth people. We all met in a little cubby hole on the campus of San Francisco State University in a classroom with a fantastic professor who taught us the essentials of good writing and editing, while at the same time encouraging us to be ourselves and follow our dreams. It was at this Professor’s home at Christmas time in 1985 that J.D. and I met for the first time and the rest is history.

In our heads we’re still those youngsters, a little grayer, a little older, more mature; our reunions a little more contained. We hold mortgages, second & third careers, marriages and families now, but when we’re together we’re still those kids, because in a twist of irony only we understand, we were Seinfeld before Seinfeld was Seinfeld and our series is still “on the air.”

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

The mini monsters

Published February 8, 2007

"The mini monsters are a team of three spies who are no bigger than my little pinky finger. The first monster’s name is Go-Go. He is funny and smart. He knows that 2 X 2 is 4. He goes to school and says “it’s so much fun!”

The other monster’s name is Jo-Jo. He is always sad but he loves being a spy. The only problem is that he sometimes cries in the middle of an investigation, which makes people wonder if he’s right in his head. He has been a spy since he was ten years old. When you are only about 2 ½ inches tall, it’s hard to tell if you are 10 years old or one hundred.

The third monster’s name is Ko-Ko. Ko-Ko likes to watch TV all the time and he is weird when it comes to command of the remote control. The remote is five times as big as Ko-Ko, but he doesn’t notice it at all. Ko-Ko’s strength cannot be matched. He is the mini monster who does all the heavy lifting in the team. Ko-Ko likes art too. He draws and paints the big people, especially the ones who are always into trouble when they think no one else is looking….and so begins the adventures of the mini monsters…..”

My daughter’s fourth grade essay starts out interesting and after reading it, I see potential for a cartoon series or a Pixar movie release, but then again…Monsters Inc. was already done. Oh well, at least I was able to share it with you.

We were at my parents for Dad’s birthday last weekend. The grandkids were unusually occupied for a gathering at my parents. They simply weren’t around. I opened the door to the garage and heard voices coming from the upstairs room my Dad built when I was a kid. It’s been a place where my father cuts hair and carves wood, but in the olden days it was an official neighborhood clubhouse with furniture, a small kitchen and cubby holes to put stuff in. For admission to the clubhouse you had to fulfill a set of requirements. Since I was the oldest sibling, it meant that my friends were all “in” and my sisters were officially “out” of the club. We made signs that declared who was in and who was out. These were posted carefully on the walls for all to see. We had secret passwords for entrance and secret meetings, much in the genre of “My Gang.” If there were any mean teenagers in the neighborhood and there were a few; they were officially declared to be “out” of the clubhouse. You can still see evidence on the wallpaper in the clubhouse of our time there.

And so history and imagination took over once again, 35 years later. As I listened to the thuds of the feet upstairs in the old clubhouse, I knew that some things just capture the imagination of a child in ways adults can hardly remember. Except this time it was the younger kids (the mini monsters) who had commandeered the clubhouse. In a twist of irony and revenge, the children of my younger siblings and my youngest daughter reclaimed their birth right, complete with home made signs that declared who was “in” and who was “out”. Their first official act after making their home made signs was to clean up the place and make a little couch out the cushions that were in storage in the cubby spaces. If you were a teenager in this family, it was clear you were not welcome. Well, some things never change.

The imagination of a child is untainted in their ability to believe or see things that adults lost long ago and far away. In thinking about what it is that attracts kids to cubby holes and upstairs rooms where their imagination and creativity unwinds, I am comforted by the fact that some things might just be generational, and that eventually the mini monsters will prevail.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

A day of activism in San Francisco

We left early Saturday morning to participate in the 3^rd annual West Coast Walk for Life. My oldest daughter participated the first year and enjoyed her inaugural attempt at political activism. As a child of the 60’s, I tried to explain to my child of the 90’s that she might encounter some opposition to her activism, but if she truly believed in her cause then she would derive a great amount of satisfaction from having stood up for her beliefs. The only advice we could give her for the first year was to be peaceful, even when those protesting against her confronted her. While it may not be politically correct to admit it; as a family we’ve always tried to support the notion that from the moment of conception to natural death, a person’s life is a sacred gift, even in crisis, disability and suffering, that each person has inherent value and that like all rights, the fundamental right to life is the foundation for all others. We respect those who disagree with us.

This year our family was able to venture to the event. This West Coast Walk is considered the bookend March to the Washington DC event which is held annually every January. Like all Washington marches, the March for Life draws more people every year from all over the country. I wasn’t too surprise when I met a nurse and her husband who had flown in from the Virgin Islands to participate because they felt the weather here would be much better than the usual freezing weather conditions that the Washington marchers endure. She looked to be about my mother’s age and we talked about nursing students who enter the profession in the middle of their lives. She is someone I would love to stay in touch with as a mentor. I hope we become fast friends.

The day was unusually gorgeous for a winter day in San Francisco. The sun greeted us at the start of the walk and seemed to hang around to warm the 35,000 or so walkers as they made the five mile trek from Justin Herman Plaza to the Marina. It was an upbeat occasion that started off with many dynamic speakers, including speakers representing Democrats for Life, the Black Genocide, the Orthodox and Catholic churches, the Lutherans for Life and nurses for Life. There were also two exceptional speakers who represented a group called “Silent No More”, a group of post abortive women. These women were incredible speakers who talked of their own experiences and each delivered a powerful message of hope to the thousands of people assembled. There was a very moving presentation in the middle honoring a Napa couple who had delivered their two anacephalic children despite pressures to terminate them before birth. The Gianna Molla award was presented to them honoring them for their faith, dignity and courage in the face of a terrible trial of losing two children to anacephaly. While the walkers waited to make their trek along the embarcadero and marina, friendships formed, people connected and old friends found each other while they walked with their groups, their signs and their families.

I would encourage families to adopt a cause and embrace it together, no matter what your political beliefs may be. Like other Walks we’ve participated in for the Arthritis Foundation, Diabetes and Breast Cancer, this particular day in San Francisco was a special occasion, one that will remain with us as an important day in which we all stood up together as a family and walked for Life.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at http://www.familyfare.blogspot.com/

Must have really been something...

It was like a huge hang over. I gathered up the Christmas tree plates, Christmas cards and Christmas lights and started the pack up. It hurt, like a tired achy hurt. It came so fast and now it’s gone. “Bummer”, I thought as I dragged the manger scene off the lawn into the garage where J.D. will take them on their final lap up to the attic, “the Kings just got here and now Christmas is over”. I wonder what the 1000 mile journey home was like 2000 years ago when the real kings came to worship the newborn King. Must have really been something…

We had a few “go backs” that needed to be returned to the stores because of sizing issues, but for the most part, everything fit, and everyone was happy. I could hardly stomach the thought that what was now on sale for 70 percent was essentially 70% marked up in the first place. I never remember 70% sales when I was kid. Some items were supposedly marked down 75%. Really. Even the shoppers looked hung over. To imagine the 'Super Sale' people lined up outside the store doors before the pre-dawn hours with their pup tents and sleeping bags…must have really been something…

Now that the kids are plugged into their iPods (it’s never been so quiet in our car I swear) and now that the December/January birthdays have passed me by, it’s back to school for everyone (including me). This semester it’s Anatomy and Physiology. I ordered my school books early and discovered that we will be dissecting a cat. As the mother of three children and a few animals, this ought to really be something. As a person who gets attached to things, I will be naming my cat something dignified and respectful since it has given it’s life for science. Suggestions are welcome. Last month was incredibly busy with my teenager and I both studying for final exams. I’d like to formally acknowledge that had it not been for St. Joseph of Cupertino, I would not have made it through my final in Sociology. He’s the Saint from Italy who made his priesthood being tested on the only preposition he knew. Let’s just say he wasn’t the best student in the world, but he was a great saint. Can you imagine not knowing seven years of theology and going before your examiners who questioned you on the only piece of scripture you ever memorized? Must have really been something..

My favorite soldier in Tikrit is home for a few weeks and nearly missed a roadside bomb two days before his leave began. As his family welcomed him home at Sacramento International Monday night, I’m sure they grabbed him hard and fast and were all sleeping a little easier that night knowing he was stateside. I can see Michael coming down the escalator in his Army dress. Must have really been something…

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

MoMaher tears and stretchy pants

My mother and father in law came by early to celebrate Christmas last weekend. In true Italian style, we abandoned ourselves to drinking wine and eating Mama Anna's pizza and antipasto. My MoMaher cried her eyes out seven times, which is lucky I guess because she was so chock full of love recalling the events of the past year; the visits to and from Italy, the times spent here with the Italian cousins in October, I guess it's OK to be a maudlin at Christmas. She does that a lot. I call it the MoMaher kind of cry.

I was a little maudlin too. Not the bad kind of maudlin but the good type, because it's this time of year where J.D. and I reflect on the past year and see where the joys and sorrows have taken us. It's always a journey and in it, we usually bear the marks of the year in different ways. Sometimes, we're a little more fit, sometimes we're a little more plump. This year, we're a little more lean, but not much because I made peppermint bark and fudge for Christmas and the prime rib was really good! However, there was those six months of walking that helped a lot. The good times can best be categorized as the good jeans months and the bad can be left to stretchy pants.

What really got to me this Christmas was seeing Dad walk into my house with his walker and short leg braces. He walked all the way from the car into my house and just to see him vertical.....it was a thing of beauty...it was a gift for Christmas. Then when he lifted his arms from the walker like a little kid letting go for the first time :"look ma, no hands!" Well, it doesn't get any better than that. When he toasted mom and all the family for seeing him through his health crisis last year...we all had a MoMaher moment. He's a different person now, as we all are. We've learned to appreciate each other on such a deeper level.

J.D. & I have two married friends who've been married as long as we have. He's a teacher and she's an artist. They are two of the most wonderful people, giving in every way imaginable, who have suffered the heartbreak of never being able to have children. Their hearts have longed so much for a child and after several years of waiting, the adoption route seemed to be drying up for them. On St. Nicholas Day, their son was born and delivered into their arms just a few days before Christmas. In that respect, the world seemed to finally smile on them and of course, they are over the moon with joy...that really made me cry this Christmas...not the bad of kind of cry, but the MoMaher kind of cry...

When my Aunt Carol died this last year, there was a part of her that left me forever, but her spirit seemed to arrive this Christmas in a package from her sister, my Aunt Mary and my favorite cousin, Jeanne. It was a Christmas care package of love with little gifts that had big meanings. They brought a few MoMaher tears to my eyes because I realized Aunt Carol bonded us all closer together as a family.

As for 2007, that's up to God. He will be there, despite the joys and the sorrows; and this time next year we look back at the year with the same wonder and awe at what has changed about us and those we love. My sister is getting married...that'll be cause for MoMaher kind of tears. We will bear the marks of the year because things happen; it's inevitable. There will be more changes and more MoMaher kind of tears on the horizon. It's OK though. I have my family with me and stetchy pants.

O Holy Night!

December 14, 2006

Christmas…In the early dawn after Christ’s Birth the three chief shepherds came from their hill to the Cave of the Nativity with their presents, which they had gathered beforehand (could it have been the brightness in the sky that led them to this place?) What about the star. It was a sign, greater than they had seen in the sky on any other night. They were accustomed to watching their flocks by night. Their vision was never so clear. This night was like no other. It was a sacred night.

These presents were little animals not unlike tiny roe deer. If they were kids, those in that country look very different from ours here at home. They had long necks, very clear beautiful eyes, and were very swift and graceful. The shepherds also had strings of dead birds hanging over their shoulders and they carried live birds under their arms. When they knocked shyly at the door at the cave (whatever that was made of, a rock, stone or board) St. Joseph came towards them with a friendly greeting. They told him what the angel had announced to them that night, and how they were come to worship the Child of the Promise and to present their poor gifts to him. Joseph took their gifts with humble gratitude, and made them take the animals into the little chamber (the entrance of which is by the southern door of the cave). Then he accompanied them into the cave itself and led the three shepherds up to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was sitting on the coverlet on the ground by the Crib, holding the Infant Jesus before her on her lap. The shepherds, holding their staffs in their hands, threw themselves humbly on their knees before Jesus, weeping for joy. They had remained a long time speechless with happiness and then began to sing the angel’s hymn of praise which they had heard in the night, and as they prayed and sang the psalms of joy, they felt an inner peace they had not known before. When they got up to take their leave, the Virgin put the little Jesus into their arms one after the other. They gave Him back to her with tears and left the cave forever changed by this night, this place, their experience and the touch of the baby’s skin against their hearts, His Heart only beating on earth for less than 12 hours touched theirs inexplicably.

What they came away with was a Gift greater than the small gifts they bore, however the most acceptable gift they presented was their faith. In that holy place, on this Holy Night, they bore their faith and laid it at His tiny feet. It was the most acceptable gift and as they laid their hearts bare, He blessed them and changed them in an instant and though their visit was brief, His impression on them was eternal.

May the Infant bless you and your family this Christmas and may the humble joy of the Holy Night remain with you throughout the New Year. Merry Christmas!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

If He Did It... and Oops, She Did It Again!

O.J.’s book deal went down in a ball of flames last week. Hats off to the hoards of people who hounded the network and publisher. Obviously both came to their collective senses in nixing the O.J. interview and book deal. Do I detect a smidge of decency in a sea of sewage and waste? Since we already know that he allegedly “did it”, many people , including the families of the victims, were highly offended at his narcissistic approach to capitalizing once again upon the savage murders of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown and bystander, Ronald Goldman. It’s a wonder the man can look himself in the mirror everyday with thoughts like these running through his ego maniacal and monumentally sociopathic brain. It makes me wonder what little regard he has for his own children; to peddle such useless garbage on the American public. It would be best if he kept those thoughts to himself.
Never to be told no, we can expect the usual from O.J., who will likely find another publisher. With money getting tight, he desperately needs to keep up his membership at the country club, where the search for the real killer continues. This man is definitely a national embarrassment.

Oops, she did it again. Does anyone give a rat’s phooey about Britney Spears, other than People Magazine? The little spoiled brat marries a do nothing like Kevin Federline, makes babies with him and decides she’s had enough already. So what are we supposed to do? She did it again and how many more times will this stupid little girl make the same mistake? Feel free to set your watches by the next nuptial fiasco of Britzhername.
What is amazing to me are the hoards of people who worship at the altar of Britney Spears.. Whatever. I’m sure. I’m like really irritated. These are two people who have no sense of shame so they would probably be thrilled to find their dirty laundry once again strewn across the yard of this magazine or that late night talk show.

Apparently the plague of our culture is a failure to set ourselves aside for anything or anyone. We’ve lost a sense of sacrifice. Why were my parents and grandparents able to make sacrifices and yet there are kids today who will stand outside Wal-Mart and Target for three days waiting for the PlayStation 3 to be released. Tents and sleeping-bags on the pavement for PS 3’s? Are you kidding me? How many employers lost their employees to the sick days they took for the PlayStations?

I am taking a sociology class right now and I’ve learned a lot about what is socially acceptable today versus what was socially acceptable when I was 19 years old and in college. Pretty much everything is socially acceptable, in case you were wondering. Not much is off limits anymore. We’ve pretty much accepted every little thing as a fundamental right, even a fundamental right to be wrong, stupid, careless and criminal. Right and wrong, good and bad…these are only a matter of perception. When our perspective changes, then we can change our minds, call in sick, write a book, sell our story, sell out, sell up and move on. The whole concept of sacrifice is completely lost on today’s cultural elite. The relativistic approach to life is a matter of what one values or simply doesn’t value at all. Marriage, divorce, murder, life, the right to die, free speech when the speech is politically correct, race cards, and the right to the very first PlayStation 3 darnitall anyway.

I’m waxing skeptical here folks, but the whole idea behind the “I and the Me” being fundamentally first are what plagues us more than terrorism right now. It’s the Almighty Me that put forth the O.J.’s and the Scott Peterson’s of the world onto the center stage of national debate and media sensationalism. The fact that he’s short on cash and sitting high on his pedestal is the driving force behind his “tell-all” story, “if he did it”.

O.J. write a book? Britney’s marital woes? I’d rather buy myself a nice root canal. So he did it, and she did it again. They’re made for each other and as the song goes, “they’re not that innocent.”
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Photos: Googleimages.com

Truly thankful

I want to be a rebel this Thanksgiving. What does that mean? I don’t know. There are just some years where I’m sick of turkey. I’m not much for ham either. What’s wrong with me? I usually love the whole turkey, stuffing, cranberry, potato, and gravy thing….I like it when it gets all mixed up. Not this year. I’m thinking seafood this year. I’m thinking the Italians got to me. They always do that.

J.D.’s Italian cousins visited from Como in October and you would know they were here because of several evidentiary points. 1. We went through approximately 2.5 liters of olive oil, 2. We drank approximately one case of wine, 3. Two blocks of parmesan are missing from the refrigerator, 4. Several jars of antipasto are missing, 5. The grappa bottle is almost empty and 6. There are wine corks with toothpicks everywhere in this house and the card decks are missing a few face cards.


I know none of this makes any sense to non-Italians, but those of you with two milliliters of northern Italian red corpuscles running through your veins know exactly what I’m talking about. Many of you know I claim this heritage by contamination only, but when it comes to cooking, drinking and celebrating, I’d go Italian every time. When the cousins left, my kids were in tears, my broken English sounded horrible and my broken Italian worse. If someone actually recorded the way we all talked while they were here, it could be a sitcom. Golly, it was fun.

Piero returned to visit with his son Mauro and daughter-in-law Sara. Mauro and Sara had never been to the U.S. before so it was their inaugural visit. MoMaher had a reunion festa to end all festas and even the Irish relatives became Italian for a day. J.D’s brothers flew in from Utah and Washington and the cousins were together again. The bittersweet moment for me was in greeting Piero again for the first time since his wife Guiliana passed away in 2004. I cannot describe in words what that wonderful woman meant to me, so I will leave it at that. She was here in spirit because I felt her the whole time they were here.

J.D. pulled out the old pictures and videos from the last time they were in California in 1998. It was the first trek for Piero’s family to the United States and like their pilgrim cousins who immigrated here in the early 20’s; they made the journey with the faith that something exciting was on the other side. American cousins came out of the woodwork for that reunion, including Lenny and Ronny with their accordions and the music was fantastic. I looked back on that time as such a great family memory. I’ve never seen my mother in law look so youthful and happy, while the rest of us slowly succumbed to the inevitability that we were all truly Italian. It was the start of a decade of travel exchanges to and from Italy with MoMaher and her sons. It took almost 80 years, but hey, who’s counting. Nonno Giuseppe is smiling from heaven.

I know I won’t be able to talk my parents into eating fish this year for Thanksgiving, so as we sit down to our traditional Thanksgiving meal, I am reminded of why I am truly thankful. I want to thank the readers of this newspaper for the time you took over the last year to express your encouragement and prayers for my Dad’s recovery. I am happy to report that Pop is getting close to not needing his wheelchair as much, and he emphatically plans to walk my sister down the aisle next May for her wedding, even if it’s with his walker. He is truly a survivor. I expect miracles, perhaps a golf game in ‘07 because God has been so good and gracious to us. These are the rare priceless times of life to be truly thankful; and I am most thankful for my irreplaceable family.

In that vein, enjoy your Thanksgiving with friends and family, eat whatever you want e rendiamo grazie a Dio.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Would you want to know?

Does it make you uneasy to consider the possibility that in California today, your daughter could be removed from school by a “counselor” you’ve never met, who has secured financial arrangements on her behalf, to procure a surgery you do not “know” about? Would you want to know?
That is the fundamental question facing voters next week when confronting Proposition 85, otherwise known as the “parental notification” proposition. The subject of this proposition deals with fundamental legal issues involving the protection of minor girls, not a woman’s right to choose an abortion. Don’t be fooled. Proposition 85 involves minor children, not legally adult women seeking a legal abortion. Opponents of the proposition stand to lose a lot of tax money if it passes, so their “business” is at stake. What is being requested in this legislation is a law to ensure that a parent of a young girl possesses a legal right to know when surgery is being performed on her and/or whether abortive medications have been administered to her. Before you vote on Tuesday, I would urge you to consider a single question. Would you want to know?

If passed, nothing changes, except maybe the amount of cash pocketed by abortion mills. A parent could technically get notified and consent to an abortion for their child. Nothing is changing as far as “abortion rights” for children. If a minor in an abusive home is seeking remedy from parental notification, there are waivers which are afforded to these minors by the courts within this proposition. The opponents of the proposition don’t want you to know that. They’ve launched a costly campaign to defeat your right to know on Nov. 7 because they stand to lose money. For children in an abusive environment, three protections within the proposition are in place. First, if the court determines that a child’s parents would abuse her, the court will order an abortion without parental notification. Secondly, if the court determines that a minor girl is mature enough to give informed consent, the state will waive notification. Lastly, if there is a medical emergency, the abortion can be performed immediately. There are no loop holes here, just a law that would make it a requirement for abortion providers to notify you when your minor child is seeking an abortion. Would you want to know?

What does it mean for you to know that most abortions performed on minors are paid for by the state or other adults not legally responsible for the health and well-being of your child? What opponents don’t want you to know is even more disturbing. Technically speaking, child abuse and statutory rape can occur in cases where abortions are secretly performed on minors and parents are the last to know because the abortion provider is not legally required to notify a minor’s parent. Planned Parenthood claims to be fully compliant with mandatory reporting of child abuse crimes, but one need only to listen to the tape-recorded telephone conversations which are available on the web at www.yeson85.net between their clinics and a “13 year old girl” to understand how little protection is in place for a child in this situation. If you’re not disturbed, then something is wrong with you.

Post operative complications from performing abortions on young girls include infections, infertility and in some cases, death. The child suffers the consequences of a decision made in fear, and the parent is unable to help because they have not been notified. Opponents vehemently want the status quo because of money and the politics over legal abortion.

Let’s suppose you work full-time with two daughters attending the local middle and high schools. Tomorrow one of them will be taken by someone you’ve never met to an abortion center for surgery. Pre-operative pelvic examinations and lab tests are done on her, IV’s are started, general or local anesthesia is administered to her, invasive gynecological surgery takes place and then it’s over. Your daughter is transported to and from school to this facility and discharged with little if any post operative care because all of this happened in a single afternoon. What if she developed an infection? Would she have the presence of mind with a high fever to know that she needed to be in the hospital because of a terrible post op infection? How many girls neglect their health because of “their secret”? Who loves your child more than you do; a school counselor, a school nurse, or the abortion provider who sees her one time? The abortion center stands to gain between $300- $400 for surgery funded entirely by your tax dollars and mine. What do they stand to lose from not notifying you? That’s the real question.

My daughter was hospitalized last year after two knee surgeries with unexpected complications from secondary health issues, including the surgery. It wasn’t even a question of our participation in her care; it was expected. Her father and I were her primary advocates. Why are we excluded in a crisis pregnancy? Follow the politics, follow the money. At least 30 states in the United States have “notification” laws in place to protect minors. Why is California among the last to adopt these protections? It’s because the largest percentage of abortions performed on minors are performed in New York and California and abortion providers are the strongest lobby against your right to know.

In a state that has laws prohibiting minors from taking aspirin at school without parental oversight, we are still not allowed to know when that same child seeks a surgical procedure that could affect her health physically and emotionally for the rest of her life.

Prop 85 is not about consent. Your “Yes” vote is about your right to raise your own child. Read through the rhetoric and make an informed decision next week. Would you want to know?

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

So you wanna marry my sister?

Published October 19, 2006


Michael- I heard through the grapevine that you want to marry my sister. There are a few things that I think you need to know before you ask her. Not that you asked me, but hey, you know this family, we have our noses in everything.

Tricia came into the world not waiting for anyone to deliver her. She wasn’t waiting for our mother, and she wasn’t waiting for any doctor, no, not her. She arrived on her own terms and made quite the entrance. So expect a lot of drama and adventure in your marriage. Not the bad kind, but the spontaneous kind. For instance…”Honey, I booked us this nice little adventure in the outback and we’re leaving tomorrow morning”, or “Merry Christmas, we are all going hiking in Tibet!” I know there is some crazy Southern European blood coursing through her veins, which is probably why she ended up with the mysterious brown eyes and great hair, so you have one wild woman on your hands, but let me tell you something, she’s all heart. If she loves you, it’ll be forever. So guard that heart with your life. We know where you live.

Some pointers, not that you need them… but make sure you take the lead in this relationship. You’ll want to be romantic because she is very romantic. Her happiness is in being with you and making a life with you. Be thoughtful because she is very thoughtful. Take care of her, because she cares so much for you. One of the things I most admire about you is that you have put God first in your relationship with my sister. That will sustain you both through the years as you build your life together. So in that regard, you are out of the ballpark. Good job.

It might be none of my bees wax, but when you ask her to marry you, be sentimental about it. She’ll love it, plus it garners all kinds of extra points with us. You see Michael, when you make our sister happy, you make the whole family happy…I’m not trying to go all Corleoni on you, but we’re watching you. Make that marriage proposal worth talking about at Christmas, because we’re all tired of talking about the Europe trip of ’83.

For the record, when you marry my sister, we’re family…blood and guts…until the end, which means that if we show up at the delivery room with the video camera and pizza, don’t be too offended. We’re pretty loud and we like a good party. We’re usually around for holidays, baptisms, weddings and funerals. We’re pretty good about potlucks, and we’re big on dessert. When it comes to the valleys of life, we’ll worry about you if you get sick and one or more of us will be on the internet trying to figure out the best course of treatment for you. If something really bad happens, we’re usually on our knees praying, and don’t be too alarmed as we tend to cry.

As you probably already know, my sister is eclectic. She loves nostalgia, old music, great coffee, fine wines, lazy days, good books, being in, near or close to the water, new projects, and shopping (ugh….sorry). She has great taste, great ideas, and a twisted sense of humor. She can be very opinionated. She’ll contribute more than she expects from your relationship, so try to keep up with her. She tends to pour herself out, so remember to fill her up frequently by stopping at Starbucks.

Most importantly, my sister loves you and your girls more than life itself. One thing I’ve learned about the women in my family through the years is that we don’t go down without a fight and we’d pretty much throw ourselves in front of a train if we knew it would save the family, so in case you were wondering, there’s no divorce in the family dictionary, just death. Finders-keepers buddy.

She’ll stand by you for your whole life, she’ll fill your house with joy and laughter and then she’ll redecorate. Be prepared for adventures in fine dining and weird films. She’ll make sure your children are well rounded in their education because she values education as much as she values family. She’ll grow with you in faith and as you grow old together, you will grow deeper in love because like you, she appreciates what she has found and she will treasure your marriage and your family.

Lastly, if you eat her ice cream or her chocolate, be very contrite or beware. Ok, Michael, now that know all of this, yes, you can marry my sister.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Aunt Carol, the Proverbs 31:10 Woman

Published October 5, 2006
Aunt Carol, a Proverbs 31:10 woman

(Who shall find a valiant woman? Far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her). That woman was 62 years young, born in Hatfield, PA, raised in Bloomfield, New Jersey and lived her life in the Jersey Shore area of Manasquan and Wall Township. The testament to her life are her three sons and daughters-in law, three grandchildren and loving husband of 42 years, all whom adored her, the valiant woman, whom I called Aunt Carol. She was so easy to love because she loved greatly. She was the proverbial, Proverbs 31:10 woman.

My Aunt, Carol Ann Megill, passed away September 10. It came as a complete surprise to me because she preferred to keep her suffering private. Over the last year, while going through chemotherapy for an aggressive form of cancer that had metastasized to her liver, she continued to work at her grandsons’ preschool; a job she held for the last 16 years. She started a weekly correspondence with me by email, giving me family updates about the pending wedding of her youngest son, Tom and his bride Natali. These weekly emails included news about the grandkids and always asking after us, how we were doing; never hinting at her health crisis. In a bittersweet twist of fate that only God understands, Aunt Carol left the world six days before the wedding. She was so happy for them. Every reminder of her on the day of the wedding brought tears to my eyes.

(The heart of her husband trusteth in her; and he shall have no need of spoils). Aunt Carol looked after Uncle Earl with a warm home, loving smile and good cooking. She loved broadly and deeply. When it came to her life, it could not be measured by its length, but the width of her love to her family and friends. She completely poured herself out to others, taking care of her own family and her mother who passed away in January 2005. When over 400 people showed up to the funeral, coming out from all layers of her life, one only had to notice what an impact she made on others. I’ve seen Aunt Carol twice in the last three years, once in 2004 and then in 2005 when I returned for my grandmother’s funeral. I noticed that my Aunt, a beautiful woman, became even more beautiful over the last two years of her life. Cancer may have robbed her of her life, but the beauty of her soul manifested completely in her physical appearance. She was truly a beautiful soul. As she became more incapacitated, she armored herself for a battle to win, mostly to make it to Tom’s wedding, but also to watch her grandchildren grow up. My uncle says she never uttered a single complaint. She worked every day, helped plan the wedding and then developed a sudden and severe blood infection, which ultimately cost her life September 10.

(Strength and beauty are her clothing and she shall laugh in the latter day. She hath opened her mouth to wisdom and the law of clemency is on her tongue). One of the things I most loved about Aunt Carol was her ability to forgive the faults of others, see only the good in most people, and leave them where they were at, without judgment or harshly reproach. When she smiled, her eyes smiled too. Her home was always open to friends and family. One only needs to know my cousins, Doug, Dan and Tom, to know what an incredible mother she was to her sons. My cousins married loving women, obviously based on the loving example of marriage they had in their parents, a compliment to the love they received from their mother. Her daughters in law were her daughters and they were loved by a mother, not a mother-in-law.

The greatest love of her life was her only love. My Uncle Earl held up his entire family the week of the funeral and the wedding, just the way his wife would have wanted him to. He managed to be a gracious host, a wonderful father, Pop-Pop, uncle, brother-in-law and friend to all who came to the wedding. Seeing him kiss her goodbye the day of the viewing broke my heart. I never could imagine one of them without the other. They brought out the best in each other.

(Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her). Saying goodbye to Aunt Carol is still something I am getting used to. I will miss her emails, her voice on the telephone, her cards at Christmas and birthdays, and her smile…that is something I hope I’ve inherited from her. I hope I can carry her spirit with me for the rest of my life. (Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.) The hole Aunt Carol has left in the world is huge since God has taken her back to Himself. I’ll never forget her.

Her last words before saying goodbye were always, “I love you”. Aunt Carol, I love you too.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Lost in translation

Published 9-21-06

Learning a second language requires a certain amount of discipline to be successful. My daughter likes her Spanish teacher. She had two years of Latin before starting 9th grade and finds Spanish much more enjoyable than doing the declensions that weighed down her studies with Latin. I guess I don’t blame her. There’s not much opportunity to converse in Latin, unless she’s talking to God at Mass on Sunday. What makes the Latin so helpful is that it is a root language and all the other romance languages spring forth from it. To hear is to listen. I can’t do either, which is why I only speak English. My Spanish would translate something like this, “Paco and Maria have a house on their birthday and it’s blue. Paco lives in a refrigerator. They are very happy.”

How to immerse Shannon in Spanish? She has some tapes, but then there’s always television. JD and I talked about the Spanish language television stations and agreed that the soap operas are a little too racy; thus she’d get more than just a language education from watching Spanish television. Overall, the fluidity with Spanish makes it one of the most enjoyable languages to speak and listen to. Sometimes I’ll click through the sports that are in Spanish and I’m mesmerized by the energy of the Spanish announcers; kind of like Marv Albert on 10 shots of espresso.

A prime example of being lost in translation is the year 1978, when Mom and Dad took us on one of those cross country RV trips that I always talk about. Dad met this German man in the campground at the Grand Canyon. Being polite, Dad extended a visit to the German man, should he ever “hypothetically” make it to California. We weren’t home two weeks when a knock came at the door. “Gunther” stayed on the couch at our house for three days. Dad’s two years of German from his days in the Army failed him miserably, and we had no ability to converse with our unexpected guest. My best friend next door was in a high school German class and he came over to translate for us. The first night went something like this: “When is your birthday?” “Can I borrow a pencil?”, and the really engaging conversation ice breaker, “What is your Mother’s name?” These three questions filled up about two minutes of the entire three days he lived with us, and for the next two days we stared at each other until he left. What a great memory. Dad never used his two years of German again.

Some other things just get lost in translation when the music is really loud. I was working at this pizza joint in San Francisco, while I was in college. The music was turned up a little, when I tried to take a customer’s order. It went something like this:

Me: “Hi, welcome to the Front Room. What can I get for you?”
Customer: “Do you have pickled herring?
What I heard: “Do you have difficult hearing?”
Me: “Ugh… sometimes…..”
Customer: “Do you have some now?”
Me: “I hope not!” “Can you speak up?”
Customer: “Huh?”
Me: “What?”

I hope Shannon masters her studies of Spanish. I look forward to her thoughtful and engaging conversations with my buddies at La Fiesta Taqueria in Folsom. Last time I tried it on one of the fellows there during the lunch rush, he thought I was taking an exercise class. Maybe I looked like I needed one. There’s a lot lost in translation.

Learning good Spanish will open all kinds of doors, plus it’s the next best step to learning Italian and of course she will need immersion to master Italian. That would mean bi-annual trips to Italy, visiting the relatives and seeing the countryside. She might need a chaperone to take her there. I will certainly volunteer to go. The sacrifices we parents make for the sake of our children. I’ll be sure to bring along my hearing aid.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

So long American Idols

Published September 7, 2006

If you didn’t watch American Idol last season, forgive me for this little pop culture digression. We watched the television show last season and became hooked after the first episode of auditions, primarily because two girls from Sacramento were featured as contestants. As a family, it was one of the only shows we looked forward to every week. I must be losing my mind to admit this in print. On top of planting ourselves in front of the television to watch it last season, we forked over an enormous amount of money to see the American Idol Tour at Arco Arena last week. We had so much fun with the kids. I didn’t have to worry about foul language, drugs or booze. My daughter, Shannon, had a homemade,” We Love Taylor” sign that one of her friends made for her, which was really sweet. These family friends went with us to the concert, and they, of course, were witness to my bizarre over-40 dance techniques. Our son Conor danced through the whole concert. He loved Chris Daughtry. I guess we all did. Aw shucks.

Our youngest, Birdy does a pretty awesome impersonation of Ace Young singing “We Will Rock You”. It’s hilarious. Birdy is 9 years old. So you can see we are not talking about serious culture here. As an old broad, I quickly became a Taylor Hicks fan last season. His entrance at Arco was hysterical. He came out from under one of the upper bleachers and danced his little “Taylor dance” all the way to the stage singing the Doobie Brothers song “Takin’ it to the Streets”. The crowd was on their feet right along with him. Yeah, me too. What a geek.

Most memorable was Mandisa, opening the show in her hometown, telling the crowd that it wasn’t too long ago when she sat in the upper deck of Arco Arena watching Janet Jackson belt out her favorite songs. Mandisa’s voice, large and soulful, commanded the stage with her rendition of “I’m Every Woman”. It was far better to see her perform in person than on television. She mentioned that her mother was in the audience. I wondered what she was thinking seeing her daughter perform in front of a sold out crowd at Arco Arena. Must be surreal. When Paris Bennett sang “Midnight Train to Georgia”, I got up for a little boogie stretch. Lisa Tucker was in rare form with her tribute to Elton John on the keyboard along with her Jennifer Holiday piece “I am changing” that won her over to everyone on last season’s show. Her Mom was in the audience too. I guess all of the parents in the audience were proud of these kids.

One of my favorites from last season was Elliot Yamin, the young man whose mother followed him to Idol after a serious illness. This is the same lovable Elliot, who is deaf in one ear and a diabetic. Yep, that Elliot, who has a voice like Stevie Wonder and a face only his mother could love. We loved him too. I probably voted for him 100 times.



Bucky Covington looked like he was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He interacted with the audience like a kid in a candy store. He took the show outside in the parking lot afterwards and made sure he met and greeted everyone who was willing to shake his hand. Kelly Pickler hugged everyone outside like a bride at a wedding reception. It was hilarious to watch all of us old folks with our kids waiting for them all to come out of the Arena to their motor coaches. Our kids met Kelly, Bucky, Kat and Taylor Hicks. Birdy will never forget when he touched her thumb. The kids talked about the concert all the way home. I was just happy our kids got to met celebrities who are real people, even if it’s all just a bunch of hooey.

In the meantime, we’ve shut off the television, to get back to school and to life. The time we spent with the American Idols last season reminded me of the days when I was a little girl and my whole family sat down to watch The Carol Burnett Show.



Photo of Taylor Hicks courtesy of Tami Esling- who had really good seats at the concert!!!!

“I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh and sing a song. Seems we just get started and before you know it, comes the time we have to say “So Long”.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@ sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

The only thing that keeps me going

August 24, 2006

We have a million socks in this house but none of them like each other. Since when did socks learn how to increase, multiply and separate? They are everywhere, except together and never where you can find them. I hate them. The person who invents and markets disposable socks and manufacturers them cheap will solve all the world’s problems. Somewhere in Afghanistan is a woman with sock issues. Trust me it’s a global problem and Al Gore needs to get working on it.

We stopped sorting socks years ago. We decided we’d put them in a basket, exerting some modicum of control over them....and they never get paired. They get tossed around the house, while they seek out their mates in the dog’s mouth or attached to some pair of pants that was recently folded. Brown socks like to hang out with white ones and the pantyhose loves to twist around them both. The socks invade my inner peace with their “just try to find my partner” attitude. Sometimes, I gather the courage to throw them all away, but then there might be the chance that I saw the match to that green Boy Scout sock somewhere… these are real goals, people and this is war.

I aspire to come up with the perfect system for laundering socks. Color coding socks, putting them in mesh bags and other great systems are only as the good as the person doing laundry. The kids define laundry as anything in their room that needs to be picked up and out of sight. Socks, rocks, balls, wrappers, clothes that haven’t been worn since 1997 all make it to the laundry pile, and the wayward socks are with them all.

We have multiple college degrees in this house, but it’s the mystery that never gets solved. My husband gave up trying to figure it out so he buys his own bags of fresh socks and stopped looking for the old ones. The old ones are left to me. They torment me. If socks were children; C.P.S would have collected me years ago.

My washing machine hates the socks as much as I do. It likes to hide them in places I haven’t found or somewhere between the rubber boot seal and the door. Once they are caught there, they never rinse completely, they smell worse than before and they take on a more menacing appearance when they are soaked and alone. It’s the little girl socks mixed with the big old teenager boy socks that wreak havoc on a whole system of peace and harmony in my home. The laundry piles up, laughs at me and I swear I’ve seen movement, Nah.

Occasionally some eccentrics in the clothing world, something we haven’t seen in years make it to the laundry pile after a long absence. It reappears like a prodigal child, usually out of season and many sizes smaller than its original owner. I have friends with large families and we talk about the laundry behind its back. We are especially catty when discussing clothes that end up in the laundry pile with their hangers still attached to them. The kids deny knowing how those clothes got there or why they need to be washed again. No one knows. I pulled a full parka and a basketball out of the laundry basket yesterday and wondered if I missed a ski trip with the basketball team this summer. Amazing as the piles are…there is an unspoken rule in this house that if a particular article of clothing has had contact with the ground; it is somehow contaminated and must be laundered immediately. Once it has escaped its folded capacity, and unless it is attached to the body of the person to whom it belongs, it’s officially dirty and therefore must retreat to the pile where it meets all its other friends who have no place to go. The concept that closets and dressers welcome these clothes completely escapes my family and as the laundry piles grow, the only solution I see for my family is to move to a Laundromat.

The towels are a whole other matter which in polite company I refuse to discuss, because not only do they hate their appointed towel racks, they must hang around the dark corners of our house while they are wet. They only like being wet one time before they officially make it to the laundry pile. For some reason, once they make contact with a dried fully bathed body, they rush to the laundry pile to mix with the smelly socks and underwear thereby staking claim to their official status as “dirty” and there they lie in wait for me. If I were rich, I’d have a big incinerator…well you get the point. As I write this, at my feet are a fresh bag of JD’s socks from Costco waiting for their big release.
My only friends in the laundry pile are the pants. When I wash them, they pay up. You have no idea how much money I made from the pants last year. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

No crying in Chemistry!

Published August 10, 2006

I had an epiphany after taking my chemistry final last Thursday. First of all, I would never have taken a chemistry class at my age, had it not been for my father’s health crisis this last year. Second, I am a crazy person who has abandoned her family for 8 weeks to study chemistry (my kids have done everything - laundry and cooking-I love these children). Put that in a recipe with a husband who has basically said...do what it takes and I'll handle everything else and you get one blessed woman who is a glutton for punishment in the land of acids and bases.

I dropped out of chemistry at age 19. I was not a serious student. I always took the easy way out. This summer, however, I spent 40 extra hours per week outside of class working on chemistry. This is a science class you cannot (despite your best attempts) bluff your way through. Those of us with BA degrees now know what those with BS degrees found out. Bluffing cannot fit into a chemical equation anywhere. So I had to start from scratch. I took a hard class, the hard way. What a whiner. I know I drove my tutors to drink.

It was difficult....I didn't do great on exams...I did average and poor on exams....I flogged myself to death because of this...my professor was patient and said to hang in there. I hardly believed her until my (two), count em' 2 tutors....encouraged me to keep going. I was at the tutors every minute I wasn't in class. I turned in every stitch of homework, every lab report, my research project (a short dissertation on oxygenated hydrocarbons...yeah, take sound effect of one big yawn), and then I showed up for every class, every lab and suffered through my younger counterparts' ability to balance equations and chew gum and listen to I-Pods for two months.....I was the old lady in the class who had a binder full of calculations and a book from Borders called “Chemistry for Dummies”. My research project was about gasoline. This was ridiculous. It took a tutor drawing an ‘Electron Hotel’ for me to understand how electrons fill their orbital shells in atoms.

However, little epiphany revealed something big I hardly expected to happen. I did well on quizzes, I got full credit for homework plus I turned in detailed lab reports... but for some reasons on major exams...I made stupid mistakes...old lady stuff....) I hit rock bottom two weekends ago when I thought I had aced an exam....and got a 65. (8 points were from not transposing answers correctly). Test anxiety syndrome….bad contacts, blurry vision…whatever. I then put myself to bed for one day and believed everything I ever heard about people who wanted to become nurses but couldn’t because of the chemistry class they had failed….I started to despair about the last 8 weeks. A friend in tutoring said “Oh this is the class that made us cry. Hang in there. It will pay off. Trust me.” A week ago, I listened to those encouraging voices and went to bed early. I decided not to cram for the final. I looked over the book, my notes and the quizzes I had done so well on, and said “I’ve studied enough”. This class is over. I did my best. It’s not up to me anymore, either I pass or I fail…”God, you take the final tomorrow…I’ll bring the calculator”. It was time to take the final and get on with my life. I talked to myself until I fell asleep for the first good night’s sleep I had in 8 weeks.

I took the final, and finished early. My professor agreed to let us wait so she could give us our grades. After putting the ScanTron into the machine to grade my final....she handed it back to me and all I could say was, "thank you God"....I got a rock solid "B" on the final..... My grade for the class cumulatively was “B” because of the work, the hard stuff....and I cried...then I cried all the way out to the parking lot thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I actually learned something this summer”.

The gift in finishing this class was watching my father take some steps this weekend with his bilateral leg braces and his walker. It’s been 10 months since his aneurysm surgery. It was a priceless. His tan is coming back and the hospital bed was picked up a couple weeks ago. I asked him if I could take a sledgehammer to his wheelchair someday, but he’s not ready for that yet. We have to save something for Christmas.

What a ride. Don't ever quit- God can work miracles, even with old ladies who cry over chemistry. Folsom Lake College – You rock! Next semester is Nutrition. Compared to summer school, this should be a picnic. I can’t wait for the class to start.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net