Shopping

T's* Views
Boy, they don't know how easy they had it when they went shopping in the old days. When they needed supplies, they just went to the General Store once a month or so and picked up 5 lbs. of flour, 5 lbs. of sugar, lot quantities of whatever else they needed and that was it.
Nowadays, with all the new packaging and the variety of supermarkets available, a shopper has much more choice but also has so many more decisions to make...Should I shop at the market near home for convenience or should I go a little farther down the road for the sale on paper towels and toilet paper? Which store has the most items on sale this week? Should I buy half of the groceries in this store and half in that one to take advantage of their respective coupon offers? Should I buy the name brand the family is used to or try a generic brand to save money? If the family doesn't like it, was it worth the savings? How much more gas do I use shopping in the store that's a little farther away? (add up the gas used, subtract the cents saved, and try to figure if it's a savings or not.)
And then there's the manufacturers' coupons! Oh, those coupons! They're in the magazines, on the packages, in the mail—and because I feel like I'm throwing away a dime or a quarter if I don't hold on to every coupon I see, I have a collection that's about to take over my kitchen. (Did I mention that my aunts and my mother-in-law also save their coupons for me?) Now I have the added burden and the guilt of always meaning to sort out all those little pieces of paper and file them in some kind of system so that when I'm about to go shopping I'll know just where to put my finger on the ones I'll need that day. But how many times I stop at the supermarket on my way home from work and don't have the coupons with me! It kills me to buy a product I know I have a coupon for at home. When the cashier asks "any coupons?" I want to tell her to "hold on, I'll run home and get them."
When I do plan my shopping carefully and make sure I have all the coupons I might need with me, then the fun begins. Each time I come to another department I have to check my coupons to see which product I'm going to buy. And say I have a 25¢ coupon for Tootsy Wootsy cereal and it so happens that a cereal the kids like equally well is on sale that day but I don't have a coupon for it. That's when my brain goes into calculator arrest. "Let me see...if I get 50¢ off the $1.89 cereal, that's $1.39 for 12 oz. If the cereal on sale is $1.49 for 13 oz., which one is a better buy?" And so on and so on. By the time I'm on my way out of the store, I'm completely drained! Never mind serving me free coffee to make me feel at home. By the end of my shopping trip I could use something much stronger than coffee!
*Terri the Typesetter
 T–Views Week of March 11, 1984.

I am amazed at how much power I have.

T's* VIEW
I am amazed at how much power I have. As a wife and mother, I find I can set the tone for the entire household. If I'm grouchy, everyone seems to pick up on it and become grouchy, too...whereas if I'm calm and loving, all the ruffled feathers are smoothed and peace reigns. So many times one harsh word is enough to start an avalanche of disgruntled feelings. In reverse, it's surprising what one loving word can do. So what does that mean? That I'm never allowed a harsh word? (You got it!) Not really, but knowing how much impact I have on the tone of the household, it does make me consider before I let that harsh word out. And, not being exactly a saint (yet), I have been known to unleash some anger or resentment, but as I get older (there ARE some advantages to aging, thank goodness), I'm finding you can vent your angry feelings in an unangry way. Paradox? Well, I guess what I'm trying to say is that you can let someone know you're not thrilled with what they did, without belittling the person who did it, and that seems to contribute so much to more peaceful relations. - And admitting you're wrong now and then is not the end of the world either. It surprises me how much it pleases my husband or kids to hear me admit I might have been mistaken and be willing to take another course of action. (That doesn't happen too often, of course.) And I'm even finding that sometimes other people know more than I do! Including my kids! How do you like that for a frank admission? (The kids love it, but then I remind them that they must have gotten their "smarts" from their father or me.) It also helps to look at things with a sense of humor, and there, too, we have a choice. When one of the kids spills a pitcher of milk at the dinner table, do you laugh, scream, or cry? Screaming only adds to the confusion, everyone knows it does no good to cry over spilled milk, so why not turn the situation into a joke and relieve the pressure on everyone. After all, accidents are just that...accidents. Would you turn on a guest who did the same thing one of the kids did? So it was time for the yearly shampooing of the rug anyway, and the tablecloth is washable (thank God for polyester). Oh, it was the lace heirloom? What the heck, it was going out of style anyway. No THING is ever more important than people, and the people who travel along life's highway with us are the most important in the world, so why not make the journey as enjoyable as possible? Over the years I know there were times when I have found myself being a witch with a capital B, and while it may have gotten annoyances out of my system, the havoc it created around me wasn't worth it. You know, of course, that you have the power, too. We all have the power to create our own environment. Isn't that a mind-boggler?
* Terri the Typesetter
T–Views - Week Of March 4, 1984

Confidence

T's VIEW
For a number of years now, I've been watching the way people walk, and I love to imitate the walk of one of our office beauties as she sashays across the room here at T-Views—the girl with so much oomph, all people have to say to describe her is "the very pretty one" and you know who they're talking about. Now, there are many pretty girls at T-Views, but none of them has the same confident, lilting walk that "the very pretty one" has, and it got me thinking—does the walk contribute to the "prettiness" or does the prettiness contribute to the walk? I've seen people who could be knock-outs but weren't because of the way they carried themselves; and I've seen people who would be considered average except that they carried themselves so regally, they convinced the rest of the world that they were better than average. Try it yourself—walk like a schlep and see if you don't feel like one; then throw your shoulders back, hold your head up high and walk tall, with a little chutzpah — see if you don't feel the difference. Sometimes even the shoes you wear make a difference. I notice when I wear the flat, bulky boots I bought in a discount store, I feel flat and bulky; but when I wear the more stylish boots I bought in one of the better shoe stores in town (on sale, of course) I feel like a different person. It's surprising how much your "step" has to do with your general outlook and the image you present to the world. Take the Rock star, Michael Jackson, for instance. His phenomenal success has a lot to do with the way he moves; "nobody moves like Jackson" is how he's described. If you tried putting any other young person in "highwaters" (pants that don't quite reach the shoe, allowing the socks to show, for those of you who don't have teenagers around), what you'd have is one very unhappy youngster, yet Jackson can carry it off flamboyantly because of the motion he puts into his every step. If I tried to put my kids in anything but long-enough jeans and the right brand of sneakers, they'd swear I was out to humiliate them in front of their peers.(If only I could make them understand that it's not so much what's on your frame but your frame of mind that makes the difference.) - Another example of what a difference a walk can make was made pretty obvious on a TV show I saw not long ago. A member of the audience was chosen to model a dress worn by Linda Evans of the TV series "Dynasty." They purposely picked someone approximately the size and coloring of the famous TV star, but even though the gown fit the girl picked from the audience perfectly, which was an accomplishment in itself, when she walked across the stage, in no way did she do for the dress what Linda Evans did, mainly because she had a whole different way of carrying herself. I guess what I conclude from these observations is that if you want to FEEL confident, you have to WALK confident! (Purists may substitute the word "confidently.")
*Terri the Typesetter
T-Views Week of February 26, 1984

I made muffins two days in a row last month. So what, you say

T’s’ VIEW
I made muffins two days in a row last month. So what, you say? So that means l exposed my family twice to the dangers of EDB without being aware of it. In fact, we had just finished the second batch of muffins when the announcement came on the news about EDB, and what do you think accompanied the warning about this latest health hazard we have to worry about? The announcement was coupled with a picture of muffins! If the EDB wasn't going to kill us, the shock was . So now they're thinking of taking most of the cake mixes off the shelf. And what about other forms of grain? What about flour? What about cereals? What about bread? Where does it end? And where were these harbingers of bad news when the pesticide was allowed for use in the first place? Sometimes I wonder about the system we have of checks and balances. We always find out about the dangers of certain chemicals after it's too late to do anything about it. Remember the cranberry scare some years back? It was right around holiday time and everyone was warned not to eat canned cranberries. So my father went out and bought fresh cranberries and splattered the whole kitchen with popping cranberries. Then, all of a sudden, the danger was not a topic of conversation anymore and everyone went back to eating canned cranberries, and as far as I know, no one seems to be the worse for it. - And how about the saccharin scare? And the nitrates and nitrites? Of course, cigarette warnings have been with us for a long time and they seem legitimate, but I see one of the major tobacco companies is starting a campaign of rebuttal against the findings of the Surgeon General. So where does it all leave us, the innocent but vulnerable public? If stress is the biggest killer of them all, then what's really going to do us in is listening to all these warnings and trying to figure out what's going to be hazardous for us next, How do we develop foresight instead of hindsight? And if they take all the food items off the shelves, what do we do then? Starve? Living in a modern technology is wonderful—we have so much more than our fore bearers had, but with new technology comes new problems and it seems we have to develop a new technique for survival. (I told you we only exchange one kind of problem for another). - I guess the answer is moderation. When they give us warnings of any kind, it's usually accompanied by statistics that show a rat or some other laboratory animal was subjected to dosages most humans wouldn't live long enough to ingest, and it does make me wonder who's behind all these get-it off-the-shelf shenanigans. Is somebody out there really concerned about our well-being or is it a vendetta of some kind to ruin certain businesses? Will we ever really know? EDB, PCB, DDT, QRST... watch out for the alphabet —it could be hazardous to your health !
- *Terri the Typesetter
 *T-Views Week Of February 19, 1984

What is this thing called Love?

T’s” View
What is this thing called Love? Everyone craves it, yet no one seems to know exactly how to explain it. There's brotherly love, sisterly love, mother love, father love, puppy love, romantic love, passionate love, love of God, love of country—all classified as love, yet not quite the same in character. When we're very little we don't have to worry about giving love; we're just interested in getting it and are allowed to be very vocal and very demanding. You're a baby left alone too long in a crib? Just give a good yell and Mommy or Daddy will come running to satisfy your need for love and attention. In a few years, we change our tactics a little, but giving is not yet a part of the act. Take the very young girl with a crush on a very young boy. She may tell her best friend how much she likes him, but he comes along and she teases and insults him to hide the fact that she has tender feelings for him. She may get his attention, but that's about all. Unless, of course, he happens to like her, too; then he may very well demonstrate it by hitting her over the head with his books. A little later there's the tongue-tied teenage period, where a normally very vocal girl or boy can't find a thing to say to the object of their affections, and if they do think of something to say, they agonize over it later, wondering how they could be so dumb. As we get older, we risk a little bit of our vulnerability and dare to let our love show in gradual doses. We learn that you get more flies with honey than with vinegar, and the same little girl who insulted the little boy, now turns coquetish and learns to build up his ego if she wants his attention. Once we get married and have children, the giving part of love dominates out of necessity and we start to learn what love is really all about. Our love becomes centered more on ‘other' than on 'self' and our joy comes from loving relationships with spouse and family. Unfortunately, some people never get past the baby stage or little-boy or girl stage of love, and miss out on so much. Then, too, people have different ways of expressing love. Some express it with poetry and flowers, while others prefer the silent treatment and presume you know they love you. If you get desperate enough to ask them, “Do you love me?” they'll give you an answer like: “I married you, didn't I?" regardless of the fact that the marriage may have taken place 20 or 30 years ago. For some, saying “I love you” comes easy, but for others those are the hardest three words to say. Maybe they're afraid of commitment, maybe they're afraid of rejection, but they'll do anything to avoid saying those words. In my mother and father's case, I think they were afraid of spoiling us. My father thought strict discipline was the way to show love, whereas my mother, who was afraid of appearing “mushy,” would give us back rubs and food to show her love. It took me a long time to realize that those back rubs were her way of making body contact, which I guess took the place of hugs. Today, I give my kids back rubs AND hugs, just to make sure they know I love them. - And so, on this Valentine's Day, my wish for all of you is that Love comes into your life and stays there forever.
*Terri the Typesetter
week of February 12, 1984

Career Workshop

T's”. View
Just out of curiosity, I went to the Career Workshop at the high school a few years ago to see what I could be "when I grow up." After a battery of tests, the results pointed to Writer and/or Philosopher. "Writer" I liked, since I've been interested in writing for as long as I can remember. But "Philosopher"? How much demand is there for THAT in the want ads these days? About as much as for a Shepherdess, I'd say. But as I got to thinking about it, I figured we're all Philosophers, in a way. We all have a certain philosophy that carries us through from day to day, and I came to realize that the way we think has a lot to do with the way we cope with life's problems. That's one thing you can always be sure of, no matter where you live, where you work, or who you are— you'll always have some kind of problem. "What!," you say, is that lady telling us there really is no 'silver lining"? Not really...all I'm trying to say is that in this imperfect world of ours, total problem-free living is non-existent and if we can get that into our heads and go on from there, when problems do arrive we won't be floored by them. For some, not having a mate is a problem; for others, the mate IS the problem. For some, their job is what makes them miserable, so they switch jobs and often take on a job that someone else left because it made him or her miserable. For many, the lack of money is a big problem; for those who have it, there's a whole new set of problems—how to invest it, how to hold on to some of it without having to give most of it to Uncle Sam, how to keep the thieves and the greedy at bay. I'm convinced that we can never get rid of problems completely—all we can do is exchange one kind of problem for another. The good news, though, is that we don't have to let them get us down. Trying to drown a problem in drugs or alcohol only gives you a whole new problem to cope with. So what's a person to do? First of all, you can accept the inevitable and not waste time and energy bemoaning the fact that there are problems. Let it become a challenge and dig deep into your inner resources to find a way to solve it. How many "great" men and women came to their greatness precisely because they overcame a serious problem? Also, while things could always be better, we have to remember, too, that they could always be worse Instead of seeing only what's wrong, why not look for what's still right. Someone with a broken arm will most likely not think about all the other body parts that are still working...the other arm, legs, heart, brain, liver, kidneys, eyes, ears, etc. In other words, whether we realize it or not, there's always more that's right than wrong. It's like the picture of a white canvas with a black dot painted in the middle. If you ask people what they see, almost invariably they'll say "a black dot," whereas all the white background is overlooked. Think about that when you're faced with a black dot in your life. - Okay, I got to play philosopher for today. Next week I promise to keep it light.
*Terri the Typesetter T–Views -
 Week of February 5, 1984

The beginning of a new year...

Thoughts From A T-Views Staffer
The beginning of a new year always reminds me of a brand new notebook. I don't know about you, but I always found a new notebook so clean and inviting, like a new beginning, a new start in life, one that was going to be organized and orderly. Of course, after the first few pages, the resolve to keep that notebook neat all the way to the end wore a little thin and the pages took on that lived-in look that all things used seem to take on. But after a while, it was time for a new notebook again, and the whole resolve to do better this time was given a second chance.
When you stop to think of it, life is full of new beginnings. We come into this world with a mind full of blank pages just waiting for input. By the time we're four or five years old and feel we've adjusted to this new world of ours, we're put into the school situation, where we have to begin a new lifestyle, meet new people and learn all sorts of new things. By 8th or 9th grade, when we feel we've got it made and are at the top of the ladder, we graduate and are thrust into the new world of high school where, as freshmen, we're again at the beginning. By the time we're seniors, we're at the top again and this time we're sure we've got it made, only to find that we're back again on the bottom rung either as a freshman in college or a novice in the working world. When we feel we've reached a level of competency and confidence in our chosen field, either we change jobs or get married, and once again have to learn the ropes from the bottom. Parenthood, grandparenthood, widowhood ... on and on with new beginnings. And after this life, we'll probably begin again in a new dimension and the process will be eternal. So here's to a new year and a new beginning, without which we'd be stunted in our growth and life would be so much less challenging.
ΗΑΡΡΥ ΝΕW ΥΕΑR!
Terri the Typesetter
week of January 8, 1984

I love Fairs

Silver Linings

By Terri Andersen
I love fairs—the carnival atmosphere, the mingling of people, the aromas coming from the food stands, the feeling of celebration that permeates the air—they make me feel light and young and bouncy. But I don’t think fairs love me. Every fair I ever attended provided me with at least one traumatic experience.
The very first fair I attended was the New York World’s Fair (back in the Stone Ages, according to my kids). We went as a group with a class from School. I trudged the miles of fairgrounds with my classmates, Somehow I managed to get separated from them and can still remember the moment of panic when I thought I'd spend the rest of my life wandering around foreign surroundings. Luckily, a teacher found me in time to make the trip home with the group, but I can't say that that fair made the impression on me which the school had hoped for.
By the time I was a teenager, I lost my fear of fairs and when we were spending a vacation in Middletown, N.Y. and I heard the Orange County Fair was being held that week, I was determined to find a way to get there. Since my father wasn't the type to drive his kids five miles into town for something as frivolous as a fair, my younger brother and I decided to walk to it. Our enthusiasm stayed with us during the hike and all through the fair, but when it started to get dark and we realized we had a five-mile walk back, we weren't exactly the happiest people in the world. The next fair opportunity didn't come my way until I was married, had children of my Own, and we moved from Brooklyn, N.Y., to Danbury, CT. Of course, we had to see the Danbury Fair! Even people in the Big City knew about that one, and we couldn't pass it up, being so close and all. Our first visit to the Danbury Fair, however, proved that being in the same city didn't necessarily mean being “close” to the fair. When we found the parking lot filled, we drove around until we could find a place to park, and while it may not have been five miles away, it sure was a long walk to the gate. The trip seemed doubly long. On the way back, with overtired children who just “couldn't walk another step.” We learned our lesson that year...the early bird gets the parking spot. The following year we left bright and early, and got a terrific parking spot right near the main gate. Little did we realize, however, what happens when everyone tries to leave the fair at once at closing time. It took us over three hours just to get Out of the parking lot. Not long after that, we kept hearing glowing reports about a fantastic country fair in Bridgewater,CT and we decided to give that one a try. The parade preceding the fair would have been worth the trip all by itself...I loved the feeling of watching a parade from a blanket on the grass instead of standing 10-deep on a city street, trying to see over Someone's head. And the fair itself had something for everyone...rides for the kids and all the country fair aesthetics for the grownups. - It would have been perfect if I hadn't decided to go up on the Ferris Wheel with my youngest son. By the time we got near the starter again, I begged him in a state of panic to “Let me Off!”—which he did, and my son never forgave me for cutting his ride so short.
By and by, destiny brought us to the good old town of New Milford, CT and I’ve finally found
a fair that's just my speed now. No rides, no parking lots, just three blocks of Green to stroll back and forth, a seat at the bingo game when the feet start to hurt, with a canopy overhead when the Sun gets too hot, and a chance to see all the people we know, whom we might not have run into for months (like Our next door neighbors). The only traumatic experience that took place at this town's Fair was when a bargain I found at a sidewalk sale didn't fit anybody at home.
But, what the hey, the Salvation Army can always use a few brand new articles of clothing.
See you at the fair?

Innies and Outies

Something EXTRA June 1981 Page 11

Silver Linings

By Terri Andersen

There are indoor people and there are outdoor people—“innies” and “outies” I guess you'd call them—and I'm still trying to figure which category I really belong in. One side of me is a great lover of the outdoors. My strongest fantasies take place under clear blue skies, in clean, fresh air, with green mountains, lush forests, babbling brooks and rambling streams. I picture myself hiking through tall-pined woods, with rays of sunlight peering through the trees, giving a cathedral effect to the space around me while I tread on a pine-needle carpet. Or I'm sitting on a large, smooth rock, watching the sun splash diamonds in a cavorting stream, and the peace and solitude are broken only by the joyful chorus of birds singing their praises of nature. If my fantasy takes place in late evening, I picture myself with people who mean the most to me huddled around a blazing campfire as the velvet cloak of darkness encompasses us in a circle of warmth and friendship.
The light from the fire casts a golden glow on the faces surrounding it. To make the setting perfect someone strums a guitar while mellow voices blend in perfect harmony to ease away the cares of the day and prepare our weary bones for the peaceful slumber of a night under a golden moon and brilliant stars. I still vividly recall a vacation in the Bahamas, where I came as close to pure ecstasy as I can imagine, just sitting at the edge of a beach with clear, blue water, letting the waves wash over me as they tried to pull me into play with them. The coolness of the water against my sun-heated skin made me feel almost “One with the universe.” So much for the outdoor side of me. The indoor side of me hates bugs, snakes, wet clothes or any other kind of discomfort. I've never actually “slept under the stars” for fear of being eaten alive by the insects of the night who seem to feel the outdoors is their sacred territory and any human who dares to trespass deserves at least six welts per inch of skin. I would love to go hiking, but I haven't yet found a pair of shoes that don't hurt when I walk in them. I promised my husband we'd go walking every night after supper, but find I'm always either too full or too tired—and can't decide where to walk to anyway. I put up a badminton set in the backyard to get my share of healthful exercise and have played exactly once. Couldn't stand the gnats getting in my eyes, my nose and my mouth. Every year we say we'll try camping, but the thought of having to give up my creature comforts helps me find all kinds of excuses not to go. I promise myself to put in a few hours of gardening every day, but can’t seem to get myself over to the garden. Too much work, too much dirt, too many bugs, too many weeds. Besides, if I grow too many vegetables that only means I'll
have to either cook them, can them or freeze them, and that's too much like work, too.
If I didn't have to get out of the house to “go to business,” I'd probably never bother getting dressed or leaving the house. So I guess I'd have to say that I'm really an “innie.”
But what about those “outie” tendencies? Will they ever get to be satisfied? Maybe I'll get my fill of the outdoor life in the Great Beyond. Sure hope it's bugless.

Home Improvement

Something EXTRA May 1981 Page 17
Silver Linings
By Terri Andersen
When We think of home improvement, usually the first thing that comes to mind has to do with the physical characteristics of a home-siding, paneling, additions, etc. - There is another facet of home improvement, however, that's often neglected—and that's the quality of life that goes on inside the home.
There are a number of products on the market for improving the externals of a home, but how about some products that might contribute to a smoother-running inner, home life. The products I have in mind haven't been invented yet (at least as far as I know), but with modern technology what it is, I'm sure a little creative ingenuity could put at least some of these items in the home-improvement section of your favorite department store in the near future: —A refrigerator with an inner glass door so kids can hold the outer door open as long as they want while they study the contents of the refrigerator until they decide what it is they want, OR —A computer that shows all items and their positions in the refrigerator. When you put something in, it gets programmed into the computer and all you have to do is push the right button and the food of your choice comes out automatically. - —A doorbell with a hold button (something like those they have now on telephones) so when you're not dressed or the house is a mess, you can put the caller on hold until you make yourself decent or dash around putting the house in order. For all the caller knows, you could have been in the bathroom of busy on the phone, and no one has to be the Wiser. -A door mat that suctions every trace of dirt off shoes before anyone enters the house. —A music blender that takes the music from three separate stereos and combines them in to a listenable sound for those passing in hallways that lead to the inner sanctums where the divergent sounds originate. –A device that keeps children from disappearing the minute a chore appears. —A central vacuum system that pulls crumbs out of the air before they get a chance to reach the floor or sofa. Or better yet, a device that propels children into the kitchen when they wander into the living room or up the stairs with anything that makes crumbs. —That same device could be improved upon a little to operate in such a way that when kids try to leave a trail of coat, hat, gloves, etc. in their wake, the items would spring right back at them until said children deposited the items in their proper places. –An anti-magnetic field to separate siblings who are trying to kill each other for some unpardonable action on the part of one or the other (usually a minor infraction or imagined offense to begin with). —A TV Set that throws a cover-up shadow over females appearing on screen more naked than clothed when your kids are watching a TV show. —For husbands, a bed that eliminates a wife's headache the minute her head hits the pillow. And while we're on that train of thought, how about a decoder that translates what a wife really means when she says “Not tonight, I have a headache.” (She could mean anything from “I’ve had a hard day and am just exhausted,” to “No way, buster, not after what you said to me earlier.”) Another valuable invention for husband-wife use might be a synchronizer that turns on romantic feelings in both partners at the same time, date and place. And last, but not least, how about a love potion that can be sprayed on children, husband, wife, or anyone else residing in the home, to foster only good feelings toward one another and evaporate all feelings of resentment or ill will of any kind.
Okay, scientists and computer programmers, go to it! You should have enough ideas here to invent a houseful of new gadgets for home-life improvements. Just remember me in your patent rights.

Listen up Men on how to treat a Woman...

(Note from Karen-This one had a chunk missing so I tried to fill it back in after scanning and I hope it makes sense. Also I made up the title above from reading this. I was agreeing with everything she said as I was reading it)

Page 22 Something EXTRA April, 1981

Silver Linings
By Terri Andersen

Spring being Mother Nature's favored Season, when a young man’s fancy Supposedly turns to thoughts of love—and Mother Nature Supposedly being given the female connotation because of her unpredictability—I thought it might be a good idea to give the season's enamored young men a glimpse into the inner workings of the female of the species. - Like Mother Nature, a feminine creatures can be very unpredictable. Tell a woman how terrific she looks, and she'll point out the blemish on her chin or the spots in her outfit. Don’t tell her how terrific looks, and either She'll come right out and ask, “Don’t you like the way I look?” Then she is asking for a comment from you on her appearance. Tell her what a great meal she prepared, and she'll tell you the sauce could have been thicker or the meat more tender. Don't tell her what a great meal she prepared and she'll either fish for a compliment or tell you herself what a good meal that was and how hard she worked to prepare it. (P.S. Take my word for it—she likes to be complimented even if she does make excuses.) Brag about her in public, and she'll shyly demure and act embarrassed. Don't brag about her, and she'll manage to notify those present of her accomplishments herself, wishing that you had done it for her. Depend on her to attend to all your needs, and she'll feel put upon and wonder why you can't do some things for yourself. Do everything for yourself, and she’ll feel unneeded. Don't give her any independence, and she'll be infuriated with your chauvinistic attitude. See her as a Self-sufficient Woman, and she'll wonder why you never pamper her. Let her do all the work in the house, and she'll resent it that you don't help her. Help her with some of the chores, and she'll probably redo them because she didn't like the way you did them. (Some unpredictables are cured only by time and patience.)
Tell her you just can't take to a certain female friend of hers, and She'll defend that friend with a litany of said friend's virtues. Take to a friend of hers too enthusiastically, and she'll suddenly find reasons not to see too much of that particular friend, at least not when you're around.
Remember, a Woman Wants to be number one in her man's life...not so much number one where other Women are concerned. She may be well aware that another woman is prettier, or smarter, or whatever, but she doesn’t want to hear the comparison from her man. Another thing to remember is that a woman wants to be understood. If she's trying to do something noble, try to recognize it for what it is, That reminds me of all the times I ate the wings whenever we had chicken, because I knew no one else in the family liked them, and I didn't want them to go to waste. So what happens when we go to a party and there's a platter of chicken breasts and a few wings? I sit there dumbfounded as I hear my husband tell the others, “Save the wings for my wife, that's the only part of the chicken she likes.” Another rule to remember is; never humiliate a woman, especially in public. Her feelings are very sensitive and even after she lives down the humiliation, the thought of it will lie buried somewhere in her subconscious and surface when you least expect it. A kind word will get you S0 much further than a humiliating one.
And don't forget to keep in touch...literally, that is. A little hand-holding and a little hugging go a long way in cementing a relationship. Okay, men of the world, got that now? A woman wants to be loved, cherished, admired, number one in her partner's heart, appreciated, understood, given equal rights, praised, needed, etc., etc. Which really is what a man wants in his life, too, isn't it?
So what it all boils down to is the Golden Rule of treating the opposite sex the way you'd like to be treated yourself, and the relationship should sail along smoothly through the rest of the seasons of the year.

The first seeds have been duly planted...

Something EXTRA April 1980

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
The first seeds have been duly planted in fertilized potting soil on my window sill, and now comes the time for the grand delusions. In my mind’s eye I picture the glorious garden that will be the result of this, my initial effort, as I mentally harvest a home-grown salad of lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, carrots and parsley, to mention just a few of the ingredients I expect to reap from the garden of my dreams. Breathes there a soul who can resist those tempting pictures on the seed packets and in the seed catalogs? What better way to fight inflation, get in touch with nature and eat your way to a healthy, slim figure? So much for the delusions. In reality, I'm probably the worst gardener on the face of the earth, but I haven’t been able to totally acknowledge that fact to myself yet. Each year about this time I forget the vow I made at the
end of the last growing season...the vow of “never again” after a spring of digging and toiling and a summer of weeds and less than adequate harvests. Even Ruth Stout's No-Work Garden Book sounds too much like work to me. I want a garden that takes care of itself after I do my part by putting the seeds in the ground. Then there was the year the kids wanted to do a little gardening of their own. One of their dear teachers decided to show her students how a pumpkin grows. Both kids came home with a cute little plant in a plastic cup, which soon began taking over the window sill. As soon as weather permitted they proudly transferred their plants to the family garden. Not knowing the traits of a pumpkin plant, I had them plant them just inside the little white fence, figuring they had a whole foot or two to grow in. As I watched the vines take over not only the garden but the whole yard, I was tempted to uproot them before any more damage was done. But how do you kill a child's dream of his own special pumpkin for Halloween? Our harvest that year was two lopsided pumpkins and little else. Then there was the potato year. My father had given me a bag full of dried up potato pieces with careful instructions on how to hill them. After two or three rows I got tired of hilling so I dumped the rest on the ground and threw some dirt over them to hide my laziness.
Soon I had all this pretty greenery growing over the load I dumped, while the carefully planted cuts didn’t seem to be doing much. Since I was still pretty green at gardening, I left it all there for nature to take its course. Not being able to see the potatoes under the ground, I had no idea when they were ready so I left them alone until one day I noticed the pretty greenery was getting yellow. I figured I had neglected them and that was the end of my potato crop. It wasn’t until much later that someone told me that’s when potatoes are ready— when the leaves turn yellow. Oh, well, next time I’ll know. But nature isn’t always consistent. The year I planted broccoli I had no idea when to pick them either, so I decided to let them do their own thing. It so happened their own thing was to turn yellow after awhile, but unlike potatoes, when broccoli turns yellow, forget it. So how’s a body to know? You'd think after all these failures I’d give up, but every year about this time I can't help thinking, “this year will be different...I will fertilize, I will mulch, I will weed...and I'll have the best garden ever.” After all, Spring is a time of new beginnings, of hope and of anticipation. So who am I to thwart its promises?

My First Memory of Thanksgiving

Something EXTRA November 1979

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
My first memory of Thanksgiving was going to the poultry market with my mother to select a live turkey. The sound of the cackling birds and the smell that accompanied it should have sworn me off turkey forever. But the transformation that took place on Thanksgiving day was enough to cancel out the cringing feelings I had as I watched my mother pluck feathers and clean out all the turkey’s insides by hand the day before the big feast. Thank heavens, modern technology has made that unnecessary today, or my children would never know the taste of turkey—at least not one made at home. As the years passed, mother gave in to modern ways somewhat and bought her turkey in a butcher shop. There was a year, though, when she thought our Thanksgiving would be a turkeyless one, since there was a shortage of turkeys that year and in order to get one you had to have a special pull with the butcher. On the rare chance that a turkey might be available somewhere, she sent me out in search of one, not really expecting me to be successful. In my youthful innocence, however, I walked into the first butcher shop I saw and nonchalantly asked for a 20-pound turkey. Whether the butcher thought I was a good customer's daughter or if he just happened to have a cancellation on an order, I’ll never know, but he sold me the turkey with no questions asked, much to the astonishment of my family When I arrived home with it. The only thing my mother couldn’t figure out, though, was how the turkey got an empty gum wrapper and some dirt attached to it. I didn't dare tell her the bag it was in had torn and the turkey fell out onto the Street. Luckily, a passerby who saw my dilemma found another bag for me, and a good rinsing of the turkey at home made it good as new. Mother was so thankful just to have the turkey, she figured it was a gift from heaven and under those circumstances it must be an okay bird. Since ours was the house where all the relatives gathered, to serve a dinner without the main attraction was unthinkable. You might have the squash, pumpkin pie, biscuits, dressing and all the rest, but without that big bird, it just wasn’t the same. Why everyone gathered at our house, I’ll never know. We lived in a small city apartment at that time and didn’t even have a dining room. When it came time for dinner, into the living room went the kitchen table, with all the leaves we could squeeze into it, surrounded by the strangest assortment of chairs. But as long as we were all together, it didn't really matter what we sat on. The aroma coming from the kitchen and the excitement of all the company is a memory that lingers to this day.
There was no TV, so talk was plentiful and there was always a favorite aunt to patiently play checkers with us until we had our fill. Then there was papa and his cranberry sauce. No way would he tolerate the canned version—it had to be the real thing or nothing. As we sat there puckering our faces from the tart taste of the cranberries, he would tell us of all the dangers of canned foods. And, heaven forbid, someone should try to add a little sugar to sweeten the cranberry sauce. He also had very definite opinions as to the dangers of white Sugar. In later years, after I had married and invited my parents to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, papa wasn’t taking any chances on the kind of cranberry sauce I might serve. He came with his own bag of
fresh cranberries and proceeded to cook them for us all, Splattering red spots all over the kitchen as the cranberries popped, but fresh sauce he had to have. I might add that the first turkey I ever roasted didn’t fill the house with quite the same aroma as mother's turkey did. How was I to know that some Sneaky packer hid a paper bag of giblets in the turkey's neck cavity? And roasted paper and gizzards just don't have the most enticing aroma. But I learned as I went along and soon my house had the same luscious smells that mother's did in my growing-up years. The addition of TV to our lives added a new dimension as the kids watched the Thanksgiving parade while the turkey roasted and the warmth from the kitchen and anticipation of a house filled with relatives was creating new memories for a new generation, mingled with old value from an old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Do you get the urge to redecorate

Page 16 Something EXTRA September 1979.

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
Every so often do you get the urge to redecorate? Does the arrangement of your furniture start to bore you? Do you look at your home with a critical eye and decide it's time for a change? If yes is the answer to any of the above questions, you're in the majority. Which explains why there are so many magazines on the market ready to give you decorating advice. But have you ever tried to copy a room you’ve seen in a magazine? Or have you ever found one that would fit the room you’re thinking of redecorating? Some designers seem to get carried away with a motif and don't know where to stop, until the room looks like a clutter of bargains from a string of tag Sales. When they mix rattan of all shapes and sizes with lattice work and knick knacks that cover every inch of space, then add gaudy prints and enough plants to imitate a miniature jungle, I get claustrophobia. No doubt they expect you to have a live-in maid who does nothing but dust knick knacks and water plants.
Then, of course, there's the other extreme in decorating magazines. You know, the ones that show a 40x60 living room which contains three couches, none of which has to rest against a wall, and there's still enough room to spare for a game of tennis. Most likely there are rooms like that in some palatial homes, but in the average ranch house? So until I find a picture in a decorating magazine that fits my life-style and pocketbook, I’ll have to be content with being my own interior decorator. Not long ago I decided that if I couldn't re-do the living room I could at least move the furniture around to get a different effect. I spent the whole day trying out different arrangements, only to realize that the way it was set up originally worked best for that particular room. All that furniture moving for nothing. Then my husband walked in from work and greeted me with “Hi, hon, what did you do today?” “I spent the whole day moving the furniture around,” I replied, leaning against the wall in an exhausted pose. “You did? It looks the same to me,” he countered, and I knew I might as well bear my exhaustion in silence. I should have waited until he was home to move the furniture with me, then maybe he would have understood the aching muscles along with the frustration of wasted effort I was bemoaning. Another time I did find a new arrangement I liked, only to have everyone dropping hats, books and assorted papers on the floor where a table once stood.
To satisfy these creatures of habit and save my sanity, I had to put the table back where it was or develop lumbago from picking up all the things they dropped on the floor without even realizing the table was absent.
Every now and then I make lists of all the things I’d like to have done to make our house an ideal home....a thorough cleaning, all junk disposed of, roof repaired, yard landscaped, interior and exterior painting, repair cracked window pane, fix the steps on the side porch, etc, etc, And I just found out how to accomplish the seemingly impossible. Friends of ours, after years of putting off all those jobs, managed to get every job on their list done and make their house almost perfect. The reason? They were selling the house. Isn’t that always the way?

Whenever I complained about school when I was a Kid...

Page 16 Something EXTRA August 1979

Silver Linings by Terri Andersen

Whenever I complained about school when I was a kid, Some grownup would invariably say, "Wait til you get out into the working world, you'll be wishing you were back in school.” Now that I’ve been in the “working world” for more years than I care to mention, I still can’t imagine why everyone said that. I like the working world. Maybe it's because my school days were so different from the School days today. When I walk into a classroom today, I can't believe it’s the same institution it was years ago. Gone are the strict rules and regulations, gone is the corporal punishment, and gone is the dress code that prevailed in my school days. The teaching aid equipment they have now makes my alma mater look positively primitive—audio visual aids, tape recorders, record players, slide projectors, computers, intercoms, etc. etc. We had a black board, chalk and erasers. Period. For messages between the principal's office and a classroom there were the two legs of whichever student happened to be spending “time” in the principal's office for some minor offense. “Behave or be sent to the principal” was a threat only the very daring would take lightly,
Since it was rumored the principal had a good thick paddle which she wouldn’t hesitate to use, and many an errant student verified that fact. And how about the sports programs in today's schools? We didn't even have a gym in grade school. We got our exercise by walking home for lunch, and if we got back before the hour was up, we'd have ten minutes to jump rope or play tag in the schoolyard. When I got to high school we did have a gym but the extent of our program was jumping jacks and pushups. And if I thought they were strict in grade school, high school was even more so. All girls had to wear skirts and stockings, with hats required to and from School. Dare to come stockingless in the month of June, and you were threatened with failure to be promoted. Utter a word while the teacher was talking, and you were threatened with expulsion. I remember the time I heaved a heavy sigh of relief when the bell rang to end a particular period and I was made to stand in the corridor for the next half hour while the teacher reprimanded me, threatened to take me off the honor roll and call my parents in as a thorough chastisement. They didn't fool around in those days. How about the choices of subjects the kids have today? We were required to take a language and there was only one language offered—Latin. So Latin it was. At the time I thought it was a ridiculous offering, but time has proven that it does help with spelling and basic meaning of words in the English vocabulary, so that's a plus I think is missing today. The last time one of my sons brought an English paper home, it had extensive spelling corrections made by the teacher, to which my son added his own comment: “No wons perficked.” I guess each system has its good points and bad points. Today's schools have advantages I never dreamed of, but we did manage to learn to read, spell and work out arithmetic problems which the new methods seem to be having trouble with. So the old system must have done something right. And in spite of wishing for my school days to be ended, the desire to learn must have been instilled deeply, as I find myself constantly wanting to take courses in one subject or another. In fact, I’m looking forward to my senior citizenship so I can take free oil painting lessons, I guess we never really stop going to school. All we do is exchange a small classroom for the larger classroom of life itself.
_

Hassles--And Joys of Giving

Something EXTRA December 1978
By Terri Andersen
“Did you finish your Christmas shopping yet?,” I’ve been hearing one co-worker ask another since the day after Thanksgiving. The answer is usually something like: “Almost. I still have two or three more presents to get, but those I did buy are all wrapped and ready to go.” - How did I ever get mixed in with these organized souls? I haven't even made up my Christmas list yet!
Every year I tell myself I refuse to succumb to the crass commercialism of Christmas and that if the family and relatives can just get together, that will be enough to make my day. And as often as I tell my kids not to expect much in the way of gifts since “money is tight this year” (applies to every year since I can remember), they go on counting the days and showing me all the items they'd love to have from the catalogs that come in the mail. Hope definitely spring eternal for them, and since they refuse to believe me when I say “no presents this year,” I always find myself giving in and promising, “OK, but just one gift a piece.” The trouble is, after I purchase that “one gift a piece,” I usually see something that Johnny just has to have; then if he gets two, of course Jimmy has to get two, as well as Billy, Karen and Rick. And since the Outfit I couldn’t resist for Karen cost more than what I got for Johnny, naturally I have to add a little something for him. Let's see, that makes three for Johnny, so I'll just have to get another “little something” for each of the other kids—and so it snowballs. By December 20 it becomes a mad rat race to make sure each child is gifted equally, to blazes
with the budget, suffer the consequences come January. After all, they tell me, Christmas comes but once a year (while the bills linger on and on). In July I swore if I did any gifting it would be only homemade items, but July became December before I knew it, and out I’ll probably go to add to the coffers of big business. Compared to other families of our acquaintance, we definitely do not go overboard (how well our youngsters know what the Jones kids got and they didn't), but in these days of high prices, even a “little something”
carries a “large price tag.” What always bugged me more than anything was to see someone who got three out of the four presents hoped for complain that the fourth one was the one he really wanted most. One year I thought I'd played it smart when I shopped early for a toy the youngest begged for since October. After it was all wrapped and secreted in a closet, a new set of commercials came on TV and suddenly the longed-for toy was no longer longed-for. When I brought up the subject of the now-almost-forgotten toy, the response I got was, “Yuk, I don't want that any more. That's a dumb toy!” What did I do? What any self-respecting supplier would do—I stooped to the technique used on TV and extolled the virtues of the already-bought toy until it once more became the most desirable (then made every attempt to keep the TV turned off before any more brainwashing could take place).
The following year I waited until the last minute so no mind-changing could take place, only to find all the stores completely sold out of the No. 1 desire.
Why do we put ourselves through this? Who started this whole thing anyway? Is it always more blessed to give than to receive? Sometimes I think I would love to just receive and not have to give anything. As I go about my rounds each year, trying to find just the right gift for Aunt Harriet, I have the hardest time finding something suitable for her but I see a hundred things suitable for me, which naturally I have to forego in order to present Aunt Harriet with something she would probably just as soon do without. Why can’t we change the whole system to make it possible for each of us to go shopping for something we always wanted but didn't dare buy for ourselves? Just think how satisfied we’d all be, and how many less returns there would be the day after Christmas. I know, I know—that’s not what it's all about, but it sure would save a lot of hassle. (Shame on me! Where's my Christmas spirit?)
Of course if my idea took hold, there would be no suspense and excitement the whole month of December; no holding your breath each time one of the kids passed your secret hiding place; no thrill of satisfaction when you discover you chose “just what was wanted”; no forgetting self to think of others, (and no big profits for the merchants).
OK–so it's not perfect, but for now it's what we’ve got. Christmas should be more than just gift-giving—it's a holy day as well as a holiday and should be treated as such. I guess for the imperfect humans that we are, it's our feeble attempt to celebrate the spirit of joy that the first Christmas brought into the world, Maybe as the human race progresses, we'll find a better way—in the meantime, have a happy giving season, and a Merry Christmas!

Baked Potholders

Published October 1978
TRICK OR TREAT
By Terri Andersen
This being the Halloween season I thought I'd tell you about some of the tricks I pulled when it should have been treats—in the kitchen, that is. I should have known I was in for an unusual career in the culinary field when I had my first dinner party. I invited my in-laws and was anxious to make a good impression. Well, I made an impression all right, but it's one I have yet to live down. Nobody seems to remember what I served that day, but my baked pot-holder was a smash! It seems somewhere along the way, while, checking the roast (or whatever it was I was cooking), I inadvertently left a potholder in the oven, (in the pan, sopped in gravy, if I have to be truthful about this). When my brother-in-law wondered what that strange smell was, coming from the oven, I checked it out and realized what I had done. To this day, anytime my family hears me say ‘Where's that potholder?” (I seem to have a knack for leaving them around), someone always asks, “Did you check in the oven?” Worse yet, if I happen to serve something that isn't over-tender, I always get the remark, “Is this the meat or one of your potholders?” Really, I get no respect! Over the years I have managed to get a few great meals on the table, honestly I have, but do you think anyone remembers them? No way! All they remember is the goofs—so much so that my reputation as a cook is one of the big jokes in my circle of friends and family. As my own dear brother quotes of me: “She cooks for the gods—burnt sacrifices.” True, I have had my share of burned pots (oh, have I ever!) but I keep trying to tell people it's only because I have so many other things on my mind (you know, the absent-minded professor type). And usually I’m in a hurry so I turn up the heat to keep up with myself. The only trouble is, things do have a tendency to burn on high heat. Then there's the matter of common sense in cooking—a gift that was evidently withheld from me when housewifely qualities were being given out. Not long ago a friend gave me a recipe for Butterscotch Brownies, and I thought it would be nice of me to take a batch to another friend's house when we went to visit. I followed all the directions and thought the result was very tasty—a little flat, perhaps, but perfectly edible, if I must say so. When we got to our friend's house, what do you think she baked for us? Right! Butterscotch Brownies! Except that hers were about an inch higher than mine and able to be bitten into without breaking a tooth. (Seems I fried the brown sugar in the melted butter instead of just dissolving it. Can I help it if the recipe didn't make that clear?)
I guess what I have to do is find recipes that no one else is interested in; then when I produce the results there won't be anything to compare them to and everyone will think the way it came out is the way it was supposed to come out. Although with my reputation as a cook, even if it turned out perfect, everyone would be doubtful as to whether it tastes the way it should or not.
To be on the safe side, when my son had his graduation party I decided to buy an ice cream cake rather than bake one myself. The box said “Remove from freezer about one hour before serving,” so I took it out at two o'clock for serving at three o'clock. The only trouble is, I got to visiting with our guests and didn't think about the cake until more like five o'clock. Ever serve a melting mound of ice cream for dessert? One of my beloved offspring had to remark: “Gee, Ma, even when you don't cook it you manage to ruin it.” (Ha, ha, ha–bratty kid!) But there is one consolation to all this. Not for me, maybe, but for my future daughters-in
law. (There should be four of them someday if all our sons decide to take a chance and get married). Those four lucky girls will never have to hear their husbands say: “How come you can't cook like my mother?”

Baking a cake

Page 8 Something EXTRA May 1979

SILVER LININGS by Terri Andersen

A Betty Crocker award I may never get, but if they start handing out awards for unorthodox methods in the kitchen, I just might be nominated. It seems every recipe I decide to use has at least one ingredient in it that I happen to be fresh out of; and somehow nothing I bake ever looks quite like the picture that accompanies the recipe. Take the time I promised to bring a cake in to work to celebrate a beloved coworkers birthday. Having forgotten to bake the cake the night before, I found myself searching for ingredients to match a recipe at 7 a.m. Not being too foresighted, I already had the first three ingredients of a recipe in a bowl when I realized there were only three eggs in the refrigerator. The recipe called for four. Well, I reasoned, the three eggs I had were pretty big, so they’d just have to do. The cake didn't look as high and fluffy as I thought it should when it came out of the oven, but who measures?
Then came time for the frosting. I decided a simple glaze frosting with confectioners sugar and milk would have to suffice under the hurried circumstances, and proceeded to reach for the confectioners sugar. What did I find in the box which I was sure had at least two cups of sugar in it? You guessed it, about a quarter of a cup. Oh, dear, how do you stretch a quarter cup of sugar?
Back to the recipe file. “Super Mocha Frosting—2 tsps coffee,1/ 2 stick of butter, 1/4 cup confectioners sugar, etc.” Terrific! Mocha frosting it shall be. Into the measly amount of sugar icing went two tsps of instant coffee. Oh, oh somethings wrong. Those coffee granules are not dissolving. Do you think they meant two tsps. of liquid coffee? I bet that’s what it was supposed to be. “Now, what? Some hot water to dissolve the coffee?” No, I guess that wasn’t the answer. The mixture became much too thin—and strong! Nobody would sleep for a week if they had a spoonful of that icing.
“Okay, think fast. You have another 10 minutes to straighten out this mess,” I mourned to myself. Standing before the open refrigerator door, I waited for an answer to present itself. Surely there was something in that great big box that would Solve the dilemma I was in. “Butter—that should do it.” Mix, mix, mix. “Hmm, a little curdly or something. Needs some smoothing out.” Back to the refrigerator. “How about some cool whip? That’s nice and smooth.” So into the mixing bowl went some cool whip. “By jove, it seems to be doing the trick. Just a little more should really do it.” Trouble is, just a little more was just a little too much, and again I had a consistency that was too soft for spreading. “It needs something sticky to hold it together better,” I mused. (A little Elmer's glue? Who would notice, mixed in with the cool whip? No-that would never do. Just a demonic thought, born out of sheer desperation.) By then it was almost time for the school bus to pick up the kids, so I temporarily abandoned my adventurous concoction to get their favorite sandwiches made—peanut butter and jelly, naturally.
And, lo and behold, there was my answer—peanut butter! What could be stickier? So into the conglomerate icing went spoonful by spoonful of peanut butter until the consistency was just right for spreading. When I brought the cake to work everyone had a pensive look as they took a bite, trying to put their finger, no doubt, on just what it was they were tasting. They all agreed it was delicious (well, maybe the word they used was “different” rather than “delicious”), and I can’t figure out why no one has asked me to bake another cake since. I'd like to add that today was my youngest son's birthday and I sent in 28 peanut butter and jelly cupcakes for him to share with his class. When he came home he told me every kid in the class wants him to bring some in again Soon. See, some people appreciate “different” concoctions.

Mid-Summer Joys and Agonies

Published July 1978

By Terri Andersen
Mid-summer! A time of mixed emotions. On the one hand it’s freedom from having to get the kids ready for school, bright sunny days, fun at the beach, warm temperatures, soothing breezes, the trees all in bloom, flower gardens, fresh vegetables, and a leisurely pace. On the other hand there's the feeling of time passing too quickly and knowing that the leaves are already beginning their process of changing. I want to hold back the calendar and make summer stand still for at least another month so I can catch up to it.
Every year when June rolls around and summer is just beginning, it seems there will be plenty of time to do all the things I want to get done. Why one month should make such a difference, I don't know but by the end of July I find I have to give up any ideas I had of creating the neighborhood’s most beautiful flower garden (especially since I didn't even get started yet), and I have to face the fact that the vegetables I planted late are not going to mature overnight. Down the drain are going all my beginnings-of-the-summer resolutions: to get all 33 windows washed; to paint the trim on the front of the house; to finish that Sundress I started last summer; to spend more quality time with the kids; to get a fantastic suntan; to fill the freezer with home-grown vegetables and fruits, etc. Where, oh where is the time going? - For the kids, mid-summer is a mixture of joy and agony too. ...joy in the knowledge they don’t have to go to school, agony in the fact that boredom is setting in and they don't know what to do with their free time. A friend asked me recently, what's worse than a bored 12year old at a cabin in the woods? My answer? A bored nine- and ten-year old who pick on each other all day to pass the time. (Oh, my frazzled nerves!) In June I thought I had plenty of projects planned for the kids to keep them busy through the summer. Now it’s “I’ve got nothing to do, Mom. I’m bored.” How about this, that and the other that were such great ideas in June?” I don’t feel like doing that.” (Applies to any suggestion whatsoever.) How about all the chores that need doing around the house and yard? (Surest way to make the kids disappear for at least an hour.)
 As to the boy in the next yard, they could never see enough of during the school year: “Why don't you go play with Johnny?” I ask. “We’re not talking to each other anymore, Mom.” Or it’s “If you'd buy me that game, Mom, I’ll be kept busy for the rest of the summer.” If you fall for that trap, about ten minutes later it’s “I’m bored, Mom. There's nothing to do.” What about your new game? “Oh, I'm tired of that. It’s not as great as I expected.” But hope springs eternal, doesn't it? Therefore during the month of August I’m determined to renew resolution number 4–to spend more quality time with the kids. There's still Steep Rock Park, Mt. Tom Park, the Historical Museum, a few trips to the library (so conveniently close to an ice cream parlor), White Memorial, etc. Now if my energy just holds out. . . . .

Terri Started with Avocado

Something EXTRA June 1978 page 13

WELCOME TO MY

AVOCADO WORLD

By Terri Andersen

 It started with a tea-kettle-a gift from an aunt who knew I had ruined my old kettle by letting the water boil out while I was upstairs ironing. When I first saw the avocado-colored tea kettle, the first thing that went through my mind was something like: “Hm, it’s very nice, but it doesn’t match a thing in my kitchen. Sure wish it was a different color.” In any event, I accepted the gift gracefully and it was just a matter of time before I found a set of avocado mugs that matched it exactly. Then came the avocado dutch oven and saucepan, and my little kettle became an integral part of coordinated kitchen. It would have been fine if I could have left it at that, but thoughtful friends being what they are, the next gifts I got were avocado salt & pepper shakers, avocado-print dishes, and even avocado curtains from a solicitous sister who didn't think my old orange and blue curtains “went with’’ the avocado dish towels and placemats I had somehow acquired along the way. Even my husband contributed to the totalness of the new decor by surprising me with an avocado dishwasher that Christmas. As my kitchen took on the look of a tropical forest, it seemed only natural that the adjoining dining room should take on some of its properties, since dishes and placemats do often wind up on the dining room table too. And what would go best with avocado-print dishes? Why an avocado tablecloth of course (courtesy of a color-coordination-minded bachelor brother), whose girlfriend decided to complement his gift with a centerpiece of an avocado candle encircled in white daisies.)

Now there comes a time in every home's life when it needs a new rug. Why I thought “avocado” when I went shopping for carpet, I’ll never know. Nevertheless, that's the color that caught my eye and that's the color I ended up buying. Oh, did I mention that the dining room leads right into the living room? And that it's all one floor, so to speak? Well, it so happens it is, therefore we go again whatever color covers the dining room also covers the living room. The fact that the drapes in both rooms are avocado just seems coincidental. When I found myself ordering an avocado-print slip cover for the sofa I began to think I might be overdoing this whole color scheme business just a bit. When walking into my living room presented one with a view that resembled a chlorophyll factory, I started to wonder if maybe it was time for a change. In fact, I was beginning to dislike the color avocado intensely. I wasn’t even sure I liked any shade of green anymore, for that matter. The other day a friend came over with a gift for my anniversary. And guess what, it was a teakettle in the prettiest shade of blue!! (Oh, no. Here we go again!)

What are your dreams and ambitions?

 What are your dreams and ambitions? Is there one dream that seems to persist after others have come and gone? What are you doing about it? My dream, from as long as I can remember, was to be a writer. In elementary school the teachers had me read my compositions to the class, in high school I would have loved to write for the school paper but was afraid to try. When I had my handwriting analyzed about 20 years ago it said I should go into the literary field; my horoscope says people in my sign make good writers; and besides, I’ve always just loved to write. Over the years anyone who got a letter from me was in for a long reading session—16 pages was about the norm and people always told me my letters made them feel like I was right there talking to them. As a mother with young children I gave myself the excuse that I had no time to do any serious writing, and besides, how did I know if I’d be any good at it? Then the children started growing up and I took a part time job—where? in a newspaper office naturally! And I loved it, even though all I did was type other people's copy. It was exciting to me just to be there.

Because I worked for a newspaper, the volunteer organizations I joined took it for granted I could write and automatically made me their publicity chairman, but I didn't look at any of that as really writing. Then the other day I read a quotation about how to know when you're getting old. One of the ways was “if you have no more dreams and ambitions” and I said to myself “I guess I’m not really getting old—I still have my dream. Someday I’m going to write.” And myself answered back, “Oh, yeah? When? You can go to your grave with a dream if you never do anything about it!” How many times did I wake up at night and do a whole story in my head, only to forget it when I woke up in the morning? Today I woke up at 5 a.m. with the idea to do a column (in fact five or six columns presented themselves right then and there) and instead of going back to sleep, which I couldn't seem to do anyway, I got up and started writing. I had always admired personal columnists like Erma Bombeck and Judith Viorst (and Miriam Schlicht's “On the Other Hand” and Sharon Yoder’s “Cup of Tea” and decided this morning that this was the day I was going to do something about my dream. What you’re reading now is my first step. Where it will lead I have no idea. I may fall flat on my face or I may become syndicated (ha, ha, but why not go the limit when you're dreaming?) And now that I took my first baby step, how about you? What are your dreams and ambitions? What are you doing about them? THINK ABOUT IT!!! -

Published date?- my guess would be somewhere between 1974 and 1979

Choose Your Wishes Carefully

   The prospects for a Merry Christmas in the Jones household looked pretty grim this year; at least as far as gift giving was concerned. The company where Henry worked had cut out all its overtime, which the Joneses depended on for anything above their food and monthly bills. And even though Henry's wife, Thelma, took a part-time job evenings, it seemed her paycheck was always needed for some emergency-like a broken tooth, new shoes for the children, a tonsilectomy, etc, etc. With six children in the house, there was always something to drain the finances.
  The kids were wonderful about understanding the situation. The older children helped with the babies while Thelma worked, and even straightened up the house after the smaller children went to bed so she wouldn't have to come home to the clutter children just naturally seem to make. As for Henry, he appreciated what Thelma was doing and helped around the house all he could too. All in all, the spirit of cooperation in the Jones family was a thing of beauty.
  Lately, after all the children were asleep, Henry and Thelma would sit down and try to figure a way to put aside a few dollars so they could surprise the children with a few gifts for Christmas. "Boy", Thelma said for the umpteenth time in her life, "if only we could win one of those sweepstakes I'm always entering. Somebody has to win them-why can't it be us for a change?" "You know we don't have that kind of luck," Henry answered, "but as long as we have each other and the children, we're rich, honey." "I know that dear. But it just seems there are so many things we need. The house needs painting, all the doors need fixing. The furniture needs slipcovers or something to cover the worn spots. And the kids haven't had any new clothes in ages. Our neighbors are wonderful to bring the clothes their children have outgrown, but sometimes I feel like we're the Goodwill headquarters in this town, with everyone dropping their clothes off here."
  "I can understand how you feel, " Henry replied, "but once the overtime starts again, we'll be able to get on our feet and get all the things we need, even if it might be only a little at a time. Thank God we have our health and both have jobs. There are a lot of others worse off than we are right now." "You're right, of course, and I guess I shouldn't complain. But there's something about Christmas that makes you want to give your children at least some of the things they've been wishing for all year."
  For the next two weeks, nothing eventful happened-but on a Monday morning just two weeks before Christmas, a. Telegram was delivered to the Jones door. "Congratulations, you are the Grand Prize Winner in the McNeally Co. Sweepstakes. Details will follow." Thelma was home alone with the two smallest children when the telegram came. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry-or even whether to believe it for that matter. But before she could fully compose herself, a man from the McNeally Company was at her door and calmly announced that her family had indeed won the $100,000 grand prize.
  Thelma called Henry at work and could barely get the words straight, she was so excited. At first he thought it was some kind of joke, but when Mr. Clark of the McNealy Co. Got on the phone and assured him it was a fact, he said he'd be right home. When Henry told the men in work about his good luck, he thought they didn't look as pleased as he felt they should. But with everyone facing hard times, he figured it wasn't too easy to get excited over someone else's luck.
  On the way home Henry mentally pictured himself in the new car he'd be riding after he got the money. He even went so far as to envision a speedboat for the summer-after all, $100,000 is an awful lot of money. And of course they'd get a new house instead of trying to fix up the old one. The way his mind was running, he'd have that money spent in no time.
  When he got home he found that Thelma had just as many ideas about how to spend the money. The only trouble was, their ideas were poles apart. The older children also had ideas, and before long everyone was telling everyone else why his or her ideas were "all wet". It was really the first time the family was so divided about anything.
  With Christmas so close, though, they decided to worry about the big purchases after the holidays. In the meantime, everyone was to make up his own Christmas list and each would decide what to get for the others from the "Christmas allowance" allotted to each member of the family.
  Thelma hoped Henry would get her the mink coat, which was on her list. Henry hoped Thelma would get him the boat he always wished for. The children's lists ran from model toy trains with full layout and equipment, to toy fire engines that ran with real motors and dolls that had absolutely everything.
  Christmas morning came, and everyone got pretty much what they asked for. But for some reason, there was something about this Christmas that lacked the spirit of Christmases past. None of the gifts seemed to have a part of the giver in them. Thelma felt a little guilty about owning a mink coat when she really had no special place to wear it. Especially when she thought of the many people who would be wearing coats that either didn't fit right or even keep them very warm. Henry couldn't help feeling cheated because Thelma didn't know enough about boats to get him the one he really wanted. Robert the oldest boy who wanted the complete train layout, realized that he had more fun with the one he made last year from scraps of wood for houses and paper he shaped mountains with. The other children felt something was missing too, but little Karla seemed to sum it up best when she went to bed not with the fancy doll with all the clothes changes, but rather with the soft rag doll her mother had made for her last Christmas.

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        The fellow who gets on a high horse, is riding for a fall.

Published December 1973 or 1974