A precautionary warning for procrastinators: There are 10 days left on the Christmas-shopping calendar. So, unless you’re relying on Santa to tumble down the chimney with all of your wrapped gifts, you better a get a move on!
Although for the forgetful-at-heart and for the thrive-under-pressure, 10 days probably seems like an eternity, especially if you’re fortunate enough to shop from the convenience of your home like my dad. I’m not talking about shopping the last-minute deals on Amazon. I’m talking about a shopping destination even closer to home: the pantry.
My dad isn’t the type to make a checklist and he’d rather have a stocking full of coal than experience the inside of a mall, except Blondie’s cookies (which, incidentally, can also be found in the pantry so who needs a mall?) Pair that with an unfailing forgetfulness and you have one heck of a holiday gift giver.
Although he has many thoughtful and kind characteristics, his memory bank seems to be in overdrawn mode during the holidays and ‘tis the season for his lackluster memory to sparkle and shine.
Christmas- Circa 2007 really put his forgetfulness center stage, glowing under the Christmas-season spotlight.
As Christmas Eve morning’s sun rose from its slumber, my family rushed to their stuffed stockings lying under the mantel with our handwritten names glistening to identify the festive socks overflowing with goodies and gifts. But, one stocking stood out like the wilting Charlie Brown Christmas tree in a field full of bountiful evergreens.
The one marked, “Cathy” provoked a pause in the unveiling and redirected eyes: As my mom started extracting her “holiday tokens” from her stocking, her facial expression transformed from excitement to confusion.
First, she pulled out an opened box of Dots - upon further examination the crumpled package’s contents only included a few green and yellow dots left over and unwanted ... for, most likely, months. The further she reached the more familiar the items were to her: A pair of her own socks, a card from my Dad - from five years ago - and her comb. Finally, there was one object left. A circular one. Perhaps a festively-wrapped surprise? Nope, a can of green beans.
Everyone erupted with laughter at the sight of her “gifts” laid out amongst the stockings stuffed with new socks, unopened boxes of candy and a card purchased in 2007 with a freshly-penned message.
It was a sight we saw for years, opened boxes of Oreos, a jar of expired peanut butter, but each year he got a little better; interjecting a gift card for food not found in my parents’ pantry or a card purchased in the same decade. Last year, he overcame his faulty memory and the stocking marked, “Cathy” finally fit in with the field of evergreens. But, as she reached into the toe of her stocking Dad generously filled with sealed packages, there was one gift that represented a remnant of the memory we all love and not even Dad could forget: A lone can of green beans.
So if you run out of shopping time, take to your closet, pantry or even your basement, it might not go over so well the first year but it gets funny, believe me.
I hope you have a ‘bean’ingful holiday!
[friday]
Lindsay's column: 12.14.12 >> Green beans aren’t just for the dinner table
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Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most. -
Kokomo Speedway
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
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Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
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The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
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Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
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The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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Bracket Madness
As a Hoosier, it’s hard to believe Wednesday night marked my first bracket-building experience. Despite my love for sports, I never got into brackets. I’m a one-team-at-a-time gal so in the fall it’s the Colts; in the winter it’s the Hoosiers; and in the spring and summer I go to baseball games for the people watching and soft pretzels. So, I never learned the pros and cons of other teams and what makes them worthy of winning in a bracket.
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Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
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You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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Save IU School of Journalism
As the doors swing to a close, the pens held at the hands of journalists aren’t writing, the recorders aren’t rolling and the cameras aren’t capturing. The envelope of Indiana University School of Journalism’s future is unfolding, but the details are sealed tightly by Lauren Robel, Indiana University Provost, who recommended the school merge with Indiana University’s College of Arts and Sciences (COAS) last week — expelling the journalistic institution from its Ernie Pyle Hall home and potentially downgrading the nationally-ranked school to a program within the bigger-is-better school of thought.
- More [friday] Headlines
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