The Pickle Opportunity

Mugs habitually appeared and disappeared in my house. They would come from friends, Sunday school teachers, gift exchanges; and they would disappear as those things mysteriously do. There was always a varied assortment crammed into the top cubby of the cupboard. One day Rebekah, looking for a mug for her coffee, pulled out one we’d never seen before. It was white and had a bright green pickle surrounded with wiggle lines indicating that the pickle was moving. Next to it was written, “Give ‘Em the Pickle!”


It made us giggle. Which is likely why the slogan has been so successful all these years. However, it meant nothing to us at the time. Rebekah carried it to my dad’s office and asked what it meant. He told us the story about the ice cream shop that served sandwiches with pickles on the side. One day a customer came in and asked for a second pickle. The waitress told him there would be a charge. Disappointed, the customer wrote the owner of the ice cream shop. The owner, Mr. Farrell, gave the company a new mantra: give ‘em the pickle! Because he knew that customer service was more important that the value of the pickle.

It is a solid business technique and the whimsy of the pickle makes it memorable. It has stuck with me. It was not the only lesson in good work ethics my dad ever gave me. But it is a concise summary, a catch-phrase or slogan to help me remember the selflessness and thoughtfulness my parents tried to instill in me. The same attributes my dad exhibited in sitting down to explain that funny little mug to us.

Now my office is offering a customer service training seminar. We are showing a video of Mr. Farrell telling his pickle story and outlining his principles. I’ve been asked to organize it and lead the discussion afterwards. I am qualified for this because I am not shy about expressing my opinions in front of others. But as I was cutting out “pickle bucks” (yes, those are real) this morning, I had to smile to myself. Because while Mr. Farrell’s video is both entertaining and informative, nothing gives those principles more emphasis than being backed by a person you’ve seen exhibiting them all their lives.

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Large families are difficult to miss. One vacation my mother lined us all up to take a picture, and other tourists stopped and took pictures as well. Inquiring minds would want to know, “Are all these kids yours?” Those who were not as strong in mathematics would ask, “How many of you are there?” When we would tell them, they’d say, “You could be your own baseball team!” We’d smile and nod even though we didn’t know how many people were needed for a baseball team. What we did know was that we had enough people to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Like many of our traditions, it began with Shakespeare Club. More specifically, it began with our Shakespeare Club’s Dickens Christmas Party. Junior high and high school students wearing an assortment of crushed velvet ball gowns, bonnets, top hats, and false side whiskers sat around our living room caroling. Dawn, the only adult I’ve ever known willing to organize a Dickens Christmas party for twenty-five teenagers, divided us into twelve groups to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas. One brave soul sang “A partridge in a pear tree” solo. “Two calling birds” was sung as a duet by an aspiring soprano who stood up and enthusiastically belted it out and a reserved young man who looked down and mumbled it uncomfortably under her warbling.

This performance became epic in our house. It didn’t take us long to begin to perform it ourselves during car rides. Starting with the oldest we’d each take a line and all sing “five golden rings” as loudly as we could. Every verse ended with Mom singing “two turtle doves” and Dad bringing it home with “a partridge in a pear tree.” Once in a while Mom would surprise us and pay tribute to that Dickens party by belting her line out in a shaky vibrato.

The Beautiful Land of Life

"Rejoice with your family in the beautiful land of life!" ~Albert Einstein



 

People often comment on my memory. I’ve been told that I have a mind like a steel trap. I usually smile, shrug and say “I never remember the important things.” But the truth is that I don’t have a mind like a steel trap. Just ask my boss Roy who has had to explain the codes on business property tax bills to me at least five times. If anything is a steel trap, it is my heart (my spirit, my psyche, if you will). Emotions stick with me for a long time.



For instance, when I pick up my shell-pink plastic mixing bowls, I remember driving to the post office, the new diamond on my left hand catching the sun, and picking up a package from my Aunt Mary Beth. I am so grateful for that feeling of receiving my first engagement gift – that representation of the new life that I am now living. And I wish Aunt Mary Beth knew how happy it made me and how happy I am now. But those are the kinds of things that are impossible to truly communicate.



 

So this is my attempt to express my gratitude to and for my family - those eleven strong, distinct personalities that have made me irreversibly who I am. This is my attempt to give homage to a journey that has traversed across states in a “Candy Apple Judge Bus” and a journey that has traversed on the Back of the North Wind to edges of the world.

I’ve always known I would write about my family. When something particularly unusual or funny would happen, my mom would say, “Put that in your book one day!” We even had a title for the book: A Waffle for Mama. It was inspired by the stacks and stacks of waffles my mom would cook every Saturday before finally sitting down to eat one. More recently, I’ve thought my sister Leah should write that book. She is smarter and much funnier than I am, but right now she is busy dissecting cats and observing zebras. In the meantime, I will begin the task with a blog.

There are twelve people in my family – ten kids, two parents. However, there were only two weeks that we all officially lived under the same roof. Those were the two weeks between my youngest sister being born and my leaving for college in Greenville, South Carolina. Now we ten kids live in six different cities. Not too bad for ten people, right? Three of us are employed full-time. Seven are full-time students. Judges love school. It was something pounded into us by news articles on uneducated people who had to work in chicken factories.

One good thing about scholars is that they are usually convenient to be with around the holidays. Only one of us couldn’t manage to get a week off for Christmas. And since Rebekah couldn’t be brought to the mountain, we are moving the mountain (aka Judges) to Rebekah. I can not wait to be all together. In the twinkle of Christmas lights and the folds of bows on evergreen wreaths I am reminded of the twenty-eight Christmases with which I’ve been blessed, and I am filled with anticipation for my next Christmas this weekend. I wish these kinds of happy memories for everyone.

I'm Back!

If anyone is still reading this, I appreciate you sticking with me in spite of my Sabbatical. Hawaii was lovely. It is my intention to write about it before those little nuances begin to slip from my memory, but I believe that the tone of our Hawaiian trip will always be with me. I have had some remarkable vacations in my life, but this trip resonated with me in a particular way. I can't help but think that all the little ways we planned ahead and saved for it made it more significant . Because, of course, all those little things made us grow closer to each other and better able to communicate. Those virtues make any experience shared by a husband and wife sweeter. So soon I will be sharing the highlights of our trip, and in the meantime I will be expounding on Christmas, and why I've been silent in this online medium.

Last night Matt and I exchanged gifts. For anyone who thinks we were premature, I assure you: this is the longest we have ever waited to do this. And we didn't even start hinting and giving clues until last Saturday. It was not from lack of enthusiasm, so I proudly ascribe it to our increase in patience. And if that wasn't evidence enough that we are adults, yesterday I called and ordered a ham. I won't be cooking Christmas dinner, but I am certainly contributing in a grown-up manner!

Matt gave me some precious gifts. It's exciting to see our gift giving show evidence of our growing to know each other better. His gifts always speak of love and generosity; this year they sang of understanding as well. I was more confident in buying for him as well, and seemed satisfied with the results.

I've been busy recently writing on my novel. Every day I am less self-conscience muttering that phrase "writing my novel." It is important to take myself seriously as a writer. After all, I've been published on this blog fifteen times!! Although I have been directing my energies towards the Novel, I miss the sincerity and interaction of blogging. So I'm back. With intentions of documenting my growth in my relationships and writing (and my lack of growth in physcial stature and general rotundness).

Thank you for reading. Merry Christmas!

P.S. The picture was taken at the Greenville County Register of Deeds office. That little snowman has been with the county longer than any of us. He makes me smile, so I included him in my picture.

Weekend #10

Today is a crazy day. I was overwrought last night, and as I was stumbling into wakefulness this morning, I could feel that I’d been grinding my teeth in my sleep. Sweet Nicole at work brought me a diet Coke and I slurped it up with gusto. Now the caffeine is racing through my blood stream wreaking havoc on my customarily caffeine free nervous system. So I have clamped my mouth shut and am steering clear of social sites on the internet. Caffeine has caused me to carry-on conversations that keep me up at night squirming with embarrassment at the memory. Thankfully, I have a respite here at work with me. A friend has lent me James A Michener’s Hawaii to read before our upcoming journey, and it is a lyrical description of adventure and beauty. The physical book itself makes me happy because it has a worn canvas cover suggesting years of reader enjoyment, and on the thick spine Hawaii is written out in faded pastel Copperplate – each letter a printed in a different color. It is charming and friendly. Here is my favorite sentence from just the first page, “Agitated by a moon stronger then than now, immense tides ripped across this tremendous ocean, keeping it in a state of torment.” My jaw aches and there is squabble buzzing around my head, but I have Michener at my fingertips and Hawaii is only four weeks away!

This weekend was atypical to say the least. Matt surprised me by taking me to a bed and breakfast in Asheville. I’ve never been to a bed and breakfast before, and found the entire experience utterly delightful. Asheville was alive with the change in season. The morning air was undeniably cold and the trees were the colors of fire. I'd always considered the suggestion to "rediscover romance" to be merely a marketing device; I now realize the distinct benefit of spending time together far away from the day to day tasks of laundry, dirty dishes, and dingy carpets that seem to stare up at me accusingly. The room was white and clean and had a fireplace. There was a four poster bed and a goose down comforter. We ate at a Spanish fusion restaurant in funky downtown Asheville. The mountainous terrain and dated architecture give Asheville a unique feel. Matt mentioned that it reminded him of Diagon Alley and that he expected to see a flying car at any minute. And sitting in the restaurant, half undeground, the flash of headlights was well above our heads. I love how Matt is imaginative to relate to my poetic side but also gounded enough to keep me from overdosing on emotions. When we got back to our "cottage," we found chocolate covered strawberries waiting at our bedside table (courtesy of the romantic Mr. Collins). We ate them as slowly as we could in front of the fireplace.

Money-Free Weekend #9

"I'm a pack rat of sorts myself. Of emotions. Not so much with actual things." - Pushing Daisies

South Carolina has succumbed to autumn. The days are mild and the evenings are distinctly chilly; the vivid blue sky is turning grey, and the silky green trees are edged with red. I have traded in my sundresses for wool slacks, and I’ve tucked away my polo shirts and unfolded my sweaters to hang in the closet. Fall is upon us and Hawaii is only a month away!

Saturday morning began with a sharp dose of reality. Matt had to work, so I got up with him and helped him gather up all his stuff and kiss him goodbye. When I opened the garage door, I was abruptly reminded of our community garage sale. There were a dozen people standing at the end of our short (very short) driveway staring at me as I stood there in my ratty sweatpants and sweat shirt, my greasy hair piled on my head haphazardly. There should be some kind of law preventing strangers from being in front of your house at 8:00 am on a Saturday. If I wanted people to know what I really looked like I wouldn’t spend so much money at Sephora. After slipping Matt a discrete goodbye kiss, I slipped back inside where I debated between going back to bed or snuggling on the couch with Henry and watching Pushing Daisies. Henry and Pushing Daisies won, so we settled down on the couch and watched the Piemaker and the girl he calls Chuck solve the mysteries of life and death.

At 10:00, I packed Henry in the back of the car and headed out to pick up Lucy. Lucy is the two-year old daughter our friends Nathan and Holly. Nathan is Matt's best friend, and Holly and I are fortunate enough to get along as well. Lucy is delightful, and I'd been wanting to have a play date with her for a while. It finally worked out that Holly needed someone to watch her at the same time that I was free to do so! Lucy came out dressed in a green sweater, blue and green flowered pants and matching green and blue striped glasses. I generally have a rule that children in my presence can not be better dressed than I am, but I made an exception for Lucy. We stopped at Liquid Highway to get some lattes for the adults, and then met Beth at the dog park downtown. As we made our way from the parking lot to the dog park (all the while trying to juggle two lattes, a pug, a dauschund, and a two year old), we passed some volunteers planting. One of them called out to Lucy, "I like your sunglasses," so she stopped and twirled for them and announced, "I have a 'pack-pack' too!"

Money-Free Weekend #8

I have not posted here in a month. We have been continuing to save money and live our weekends to the fullest we can, but I’ve become too distracted living life to write about it. September has been beautiful in South Carolina. The humidity vanished and the sunshine remained. The sky burned bright with that blue that September seems to have some kind of special monopoly on. Every evening when I got home from work, the wood floors and pear colored walls in our house glowed comfortably in the lazy sun beginning to slip into evening. We loaded up on Asian pears, and I’ve made buttery pear cakes that we ate with hot coffee. We’ roasted asparagus, caramelized cauliflower and boiled new potatoes and then dressed them in olive oil and yogurt. I don’t want to place too much emphasis on my feelings or risk taking myself too seriously, but I think I have manage to shake of this bout of restlessness and discontent.

This past Saturday we woke up in Atlanta. We had gone down Friday night to help my accomplished sister Rebekah celebrate the successful completion of her CPA exam. Daddy paid (read moochers), and Matt and I stood nearby to let some of the fruit of her labor rain down on us as well. I always enjoy staying at my sister’s Atlanta townhouse. It’s like staying in a boutique bed and breakfast where you are the only guest, and you are related to the proprietor. She has the poufy guest bed with soft sheets and a fluffy duvet that is perfect for burrowing when you don’t want to face the sun. The room also has a unique alarm clock in the way of her birds who will sing you into wakefulness if you continue to ignore the sun. Her shower has thundering water pressure and her towels are like big velvety blankets. Then of course, there is her wardrobe which I like to scavenge through and her array of makeup that makes Sephora’s sample tables look stingy. Rebekah brews us lattes and makes us food. It is truly lovely.

We didn’t leave as early as we had planned (see above description of blankets, makeup and lattes for explanation), but were able to tear ourselves away in order to be home not too late after lunch time. I immediately jumped into organizing mode. Atlanta is not only home to the largest aquarium in the world and Coke; it is also home to The Container Store. I have been eyeing Rebekah’s nifty containers for quite some time and gradually made my way to their website, but this was the first time I was coming home with Containers of my own. When I was in junior high/high school, my mother’s nickname among their friends was “the Tub Lady.” It seems I am not impervious to the inevitable fate of turning into my mother. Matt had given me a budget and I was seventy cents under! That takes skills. Loaded up with my bins, I organized all the bathroom drawers and under the sinks of both bathrooms. Inspired by my own organizing prowess, I also cleaned all the surfaces and mopped the floors. I stopped short at vacuuming, because I consider it the most unromantic of all common household chores. How can you escape into the world of Jane Eyre on your headphones or pretend that you are Marie Antoinette in prison if you have to maneuver a huge plastic sucking motor around your carpets? Matt is not, however, hindered with these sensibilities and stuck his head around the corner to ask, “Are you going to vacuum?” Translation: Please vacuum; the carpets are dingy, darling. I decided that vacuuming for Matt is almost romantic, and obliged.