The Provider

The woman inserted her quarter and the grocery cart was released from it's line of inmates. 

So we meet again she thought as she walked through the Aldi entrance. There was a sale on butter so her objective was to buy an entire case, as well as other things discovered in the Sunday flyer. 

She waited behind a couple to get a gallon of milk. They were deliberate in their choices, marking each with discussion as they crossed items off of their list. The woman couldn't help but notice that they didn't appear to have much; by the way they were kept and dressed. It was far too cold this March to leave the house wearing thin t-shirts and no coats. 

They were polite and apologized for standing in her way; the woman didn't mind. This was her day off the farm. 

Fifteen minutes later the woman made her way to the check out line and found herself once again behind the same couple. The man had his wallet out and was reviewing the groceries they had placed on the belt. 

In a deflated, quiet voice he whispered to his wife, "I don't think I have enough money." He continued to leaf through the folds in his wallet, and then his jean pockets. The wife watched with worried eyes. "Do you have any money on you?" he asked.

The wife searched through her purse and pulled out a couple dollar bills. They paired their money and both looked at the food they hoped to buy.

The woman behind them suddenly felt a bit of anxiety on behalf of the couple. 

The cashier scanned the items quickly, dropping them into the cart at the end of the belt. He read them the total and the man handed him the bills. "We're short."

The cashier counted the money. "You're short $1.40," he let them know, quietly. The couple reviewed their cart and quickly discussed what item they could do without that week. 

"How much are you short?" the woman behind them asked. The cashier repeated: $1.40. 

"Well, I've got that, I'm certain of it," said the woman. She dug into her purse and handed the cashier the exact amount. Both the man and his wife were incredibly grateful and thanked the stranger multiple times. They left with their cart full.

The woman visited briefly with the cashier as he rang total. He and she both agreed that we've all been there. 

"Like butter?" he asked. 

"You have no idea....," the woman replied. 

She packed her bags, returned her cart and retrieved her quarter. Then she loaded her car and settled in to drive to the bank. "This car is such a mess!" the woman said aloud as she tried to get things organized on the seat and console so she could even operate the Ford. She lifted a tablet, her calving notes  from the farm that morning, and stopped. Instantly. 

Under the stack of records:

$1.40 sitting on her console. 

Across town, my phone rang.

"Hi Momma."

"Boy do I have a story for you!" she said enthusiastically across the phone lines. 

"Oh my, what happened?" I asked, then listened to her tell the story.

 

Plenty left over to share with others. Mom got her $1.40 back, somehow. 

Penny Pincher

I don't always pinch pennies with the likeness of vice grips, 

but when I do it's on necessities and comforts 

such as food and toilet paper. 

At one point last weekend, I set out to pick up a few things. 

Besides the extreme pressure and anxiety I feel during check out, I love shopping at Aldi. They carry almost everything I need, their selection has more than doubled in the last two years, they have unbeatable prices and the store is small and easy to navigate. Avoid that place on the first day of the month and it's an even better experience. I can reorganize stock in search of empty boxes with the the very best of them in order to get $1.79/gallon milk and Sunshine Bay Sauvignon Blanc at $6.99.

However, without fail I get so nervous during check out. 
Is there a cart at the end of the belt?
Should I push my cart around? 
Will I get my quarter back?
Is the cashier in a good mood?
Is there space for me at the packing counter?
Who is behind me?
Why are they buying so much beef jerky?
Why didn't he put a divider between our food? I am not buying his beef jerky...

"How are you today? $34.28. Cash back? Have a good evening."

Wait. 
What? 
Where am I?
Did I already pay? 
Before I know it, the cashier is pushing my cart out of the way and asking the Jerky Hoarder how his day is going. It always happens so fast. It's like the Soup Nazi experience of grocery shopping.

After my blood pressure lowered from my Aldi experience, I stopped at the Amish Dollar General to pick up other things I had on an imaginary list somewhat stored in my cray-cray head. The Amish discount store has a reputation for great prices on all items, if you can get past the cosmetic shortcomings...

Last summer I bought two coral Maybelline lipsticks, one each for Momma and I. They were only $.80 and looked great if you could get past how bad they made your lips burn. I also bought Cody a 50-count One-A-Day men's vitamin that was only a couple months expired. Fifty vitamins for $1.50, regularly $8.00! He has yet to break the seal on the vitamins, but I'm optimistic that 2015 is the year. He mentioned something about sterilization. I don't really remember. 

Anyway, while I roamed the aisles aimlessly like a lost child, I was thrilled to find Italian seasoning by the case, two pounds of butterscotch chips and bananas - none of which I had even thought of prior to entering the store. I came in to look around and went out with $.03 change from a twenty dollar bill. 

Minutes later (the real problem with each of these places: convenience) I reached the homestead and began to make trips into the house with my newfound treasures. 

I walked back outside after trip number one to see Cody staring blankly into the back hatch of my vehicle.

"Please let me you did not buy food at either of those places. Tell me you only bought cleaning supplies."
"Food and toilet paper," I responded, holding up my 18-double-roll-super-pillow-plush toilet paper purchase. 

"Linds," Cody said while studying the purchase, "that has tire tracks on it. It's been run over by something."

(UGH! He's such a details guy, I thought to myself.)

"I saw that, but I just need to reshape it then store it somewhere where with won't regress. It only cost like eighteen cents per roll. You can't put a price on that!"
"Yeah, I can. It's eighteen cents....on roadkill toilet paper."
"Oh, there are worse things," I continued as we carried the groceries in. I was trying to think of worse things, but the more I looked at our little flattened rolls of roadkill, I couldn't think of much. Between you and I, I'll never tell Cody that. How was I supposed to get those on the spool? 

"Uhhh, are these bananas?" he asked once we reached the kitchen.
"Uhhh, what else would they be?"
"Did you really buy midget bananas? They're already starting to brown. Why would you buy bananas with cheetah spots already?"
"Because they were thirty-cents per pound compared to sixty-six cents. You do the math." 
And then Cody said something under his breath that had absolutely nothing to do with math. 

That night we had had some good friends over for dinner. I opened the freezer and my two-pound bag of butterscotch chips hit the kitchen floor, busting open and scattering like hundreds of ants scurrying across the linoleum.
OH, THE HORROR!
I - along with six others - dropped to my knees and started scrambling to snatch up the tiny pieces, one by one. 
"Do you want to save these?" Timmy asked as his long arms extended to corral the rogue candies.
Before I could even open my mouth, Cody yelled, "No! We're tossing them." I didn't even have a chance to ask everyone to put them in a bowl so I could rinse them off for a refreeze! Darn that Cody, always looking out for my reputation. The next few minutes were a haze. With every chip I heard ping into the trash, I simultaneously heard a dollar cha-ching!
Ping.
$$$Cha-Ching!$$$
Ping.
$$$Cha-Ching!$$$
Something like $3.00 down the drain. 

Days later and I've found that my pinching pennies did nothing for patience. Being run over by a Peterbilt should have been the least of our concerns when it comes to the toilet paper. These roles are somehow triple-layered, mismatched, uneven and basically a really big pain in the the....neck. One minute we're trying to get a few squares, the next it's like the entire bathroom floor is covered in shreds of paper and half the "value" roll is gone.

Oh, and - the 18-pack value pack only had 16 rolls in it. 

Darn those Amish, always doing things their way. 

The way I see it, I'll continue using my vice-grip-money-saving-practices, like buying a case of knock-off Windex with twelve broken spouts, until one of two things starts happening:

1. Some discount salad dressing that was a victim of an I-70 fender bender causes our hair to fall out or

2. Cody starts doing the grocery shopping. 

See you Saturday at the 

Amish Dollar General, Bertha Yoder. 

A Root Beer Thanksgiving

Last week I flushed toilet paper down a commode that didn't accept toilet paper, flooded a foreign bathroom and decided to retell the story on the world wide web. 

Just when I thought I couldn't get any more mindless, this week I decided to go to Meijer.

On a Monday evening. 

On the Monday evening before Thanksgiving. 

I'm a glutton for punishment.

The wind blew ferociously at 5:10 PM as I pulled into the mega Meijer parking lot, which was 90% full. People flooded like dizzy flies to the bright lights of the storefront. 

I didn't have a long list, still I had divided it into sections and aisles using my best recollection.
Simple things like Irish steel cut oats, lacy swiss and marjoram leaf.
Seemed easy enough. 
Except nothing - including the Irish steel cut oats, lacy swiss and marjoram leaf - were where I expected them to be. 

Which lead to this:

Anticipated, organized route:                                                Actual, horrible route:

                      

The red circles indicate visible tension, verbalized swear words or me trying to imitate the look of disapproval Dear 'Ol Dad used countless times between years 1988 and 1998. Yep, I used that. 
Seemed to work in by the specialty cheeses, not so much in the cereal aisle. People who eat Kellogg's SMORZ are so rigid.

I walked down the potato chip aisle four times and didn't have a single bag of potato chips on my list. In aisle six I almost apologized to a gal for crushing her five bags of powered donuts between her two cases of root beer, but then I realized she had five bags of powered donuts and two cases of root beer in her cart. No tap of my cart could have ruined the diabetic sugar high she was about to experience. 

I made it to the refrigeration section (for the first time that night) and couldn't get to the butter because two gals who had gone to nurse's training together in 1977 were reuniting for the first time since then. 
"Move it to Facebook, ladies!" I said (in my head) as I nudged my way between them to get a box of butter. I gave it two seconds of consideration then grabbed a second box in case snow comes before Thursday. Never know. 

Napkins. 
Croutons. 
Powdered sugar. 
All afterthoughts which returned me to the battlefield. 

It's been years - sincerely - since I used anything but self-checkout at Meijer. By the time I reach that point in my shopping, I try to interact with as few folks as possible. I gauge the line length, the characters in it, and the items in their cart. I work hard to get behind blue collar men who have nothing but milk, antacids and beer in their cart, but sometimes luck just isn't in my favor. 
This was one of those nights. 

The first gal in front of me purchased her groceries using two different payment methods: EBT and cash. There was a stark nutritional difference between the items she bought with cash, and the ones she bought with EBT. 
Fact: A head of lettuce costs a fraction of the price of a bag of powered donuts. Or a case root beer. Just sayin'.
She had two young girls with her, maybe four and six years old. They defined hyper and defied rules. To pacify the two, the gal gave them each a plastic bag. Wanna guess where the bags instantly went? Yes - right over their heads. 
It made me sad. 
I was strangely relieved when the gal gave them each a quarter to ride Sandy. 

Sandy has been abused. 
Especially during the holidays. 

Finally. 
My chance at the register. 
Except the machine wouldn't take my MPerks number. I tried it again. 
Again. 
Again. 
Annnnd one more time before tapping the HELP button. 
By the time help-girl-Mandy made it to my aisle, the register shut down. 
"I'm sorry, our registers keep restarting due to usage tonight. You'll have to move to another line."
I had one hundred thoughts running though my head; none of which I'd say aloud in front of the Original Jean. 

I moved to the next line and waited behind a woman who chose not to scan her food, but rather "search" for it in the register. It became a word game. 
A Wheel of Food Fortune, of sorts. 
Exept, she spelled as well as I due: Tiribly. 
Beats. 
Karots.

Cale.

She ate like a champ but she spelled like an orangutan. 
She also collected every coupon Meijer had issued in the last six months. Couldn't blame the woman, though I totally did after fifteen more minutes in line. 

My MPerks were rejected at that particular register, too. The machine couldn't handle a "7".
After several tries, Mandy returned and entered a magical code that stopped the beeping and lowered my blood pressure. 
The only reason why I didn't absolutely lose my head at that point was 

1. 

**holidays

and 

2. One of work's very best customers was ironically using the self-checkout line right next to me. What luck. He and his wife greeted me, 

no doubt wondering why I looked so strung out and stressed. 

They - on the other hand - looked relieved and refreshed: HARVEST 2014 IS OVER. 

I smiled and tugged at my hair, trying to wisp it out of my face. 

They asked how Argentina was; I'm fairly certain that 

they thought I had just stepped off of the 10-hour flight. 

Nope, just grocery shopping in my own personal hell. 

By the time I made it to the exit doors - AKA FREEDOM - I had only forgotten one thing: the insulated casserole dish carrier I was fixin' to unintentionally shoplift because I left it on the bottom rack of my cart. I picked it up and handed it to the greeter and let her know I didn't have time cycle through hell again. 
Something about my tone caused her to not ask any questions and smile extra wide. 
It was annoying. 

I got onto the interstate and headed home and Cody called shortly after. 

"Weird as this sounds, someone just posted about a black cow on Facebook. The kind with ice-cream and root beer. Any chance you picked up root beer at the grocery tonight?"

When The Credits Roll

It was a once-in-a-lifetime voyage. 

I mean, unless King George pulls a Garth and decides to retire....twice?

Cody and I traveled south last weekend to watch George Strait perform his last concert in the musical motherland of Nashville. What a performance from a class act. At the conclusion of every song we looked at one another and wondered, "What could he possibly play next to top that one?"

Each song was a hit of which the crowd knew the lyrics, even with so much left off the playlist. 

I guess it's hard to pack 40 years of number ones into a two-hour show. 

It's also tough to pick a favorite Strait hit, because so many resonate with life:

Write This Down - If I don't, I'll forget it

Amarillo By Morning - Show circuit theme song

All My Exes Live In Texas - Or did at one time

Run - I actually only do this if I'm being chased

Give It Away - Please, seriously, toss all of those cups

Does Ft. Worth Ever Cross Your Mind - Yes, and it makes my head hurt just thinking of it

Ocean Front Property - My house in Greens Fork I'm trying to sell...just blocks from the Greens Fork River!

Living and Living Well - Cody. 

But there is one Strait song that hasn't hit the radio waves, and maybe one day it will.

It is the kind of song that makes you three minutes late to work so you can listen to it one more time. 

The kind of song placed on every playlist you create, because it's a lyrical reminder. 

The kind of beat that makes you put it on repeat and crank up the volume. 

The kind of lyrics that remind you why you keep mascara in your console. 

The kind of title you print off and hang in your office:

When The Credits Roll

(3 minute song)

I've played the rebel teenager, 

the mysterious stranger


The wild child on the run


I've been the college dropout, 

the commitment cop out


The comin' home prodigal son


It feels kinda like a movie


Makes me wonder what I'm gonna see



When the credits roll 

and the show is over


And I see all the parts I played


Get a glimpse of my soul up on that screen


I only hope I can say


I was a little less villain


And a little more hero


When the credits roll



Was I in it for the money, 

was I trying' to be funny


Was it all about me being right


Was I a stand up witness, 

did I offer some forgiveness


Help somebody see the light


When the curtain comes down some day


I wonder what the Critic will say

When the credits roll 

and the show is over


And I see all the parts I played


Get a glimpse of my soul up on that screen


I only hope I can say


I was a little less villain


And a little more hero


When the credits roll



I always think about the different roles I've played in my life when I hear the song.

The neighbor in Greens Fork would say I've played the unprepared gal who never had enough sugar or eggs.

My sorority sisters might say I play the one who returns texts or phone calls 3 days later. 

The gal at Dillard's knows me as the habitual returner who can't decide on bedding.

The kid at the carwash remembers me as the gal who will - without fail - ramrod over the curb like I'm in some kind of hurry and then forget to put my car in neutral. 

Gary at the hardware store would say I'm the character who never actually knows what I want or need before entering his store. Always some big idea...

And I look at this list and realize that none of it matters once the Credits Roll. 

I don't want to be remembered for little, insignificant things - do you?

I'd rather commit to doing - even small things - with great love. 

What will you see once the Credits Roll?

A little less villain, and a little more hero?

In images and impressions, how will you be remembered?

The giver or the taker?

The forgiver?

The one guided by money?

The comic who hid behind humor?

The one who stepped up?

The hero?
The committed one or the one easily swayed?

The teacher?
The "just enough"?

The heartache?

The worker?

The example, good or bad?

The friend?

Far past the days when you're present in every day life, people will forget what you said and what you did, but what they won't forget is the way you made them feel. 

How will you be remembered once the Credits Roll?

I should have reached out to my neighbor and made an extra cake for she and her husband who work long hours. 

I should drop what I'm doing and answer those phone calls when friends need me. 

My hours should not be wasted by anything as insignificant as picking out bedding. 

I should have tipped the car wash kid for waiting until the foam covered my rear windshield before laughing at me.

I need to thank Gary and his employees for answering 429 questions while smiling and thinking, "Wow, she seemed more put-together in high school..."

This Wednesday, I challenge you to join me:

Commit to living with the consideration of how the credits will roll once your show is over. 

I know I will. 

Because I'd sure like to be remembered for more than the shopper who holds up the line at Aldi's because I tried to fit 14 items into my arms rather than pay a quarter for a cart. 

Good To The Last Drop

My Escape´sledded down the old farm lane last Friday evening, arriving to the Original Jean's house just before the setting sun drifted below the frigid tree line. It was cold, not looking anything like the photo below; the only green to be found was on the shutters.

It's a grandiose homestead, but on the inside of those walls the conversations are sensible and simple. 

Good or bad.

Wrong or right.

Black or white. 

Or, pink?

Grandma asked me if I wanted coffee and if so, one, two or three?

I replied I'd love a coffee, black, but just one. 

That wasn't what she was asking. 

This is the mug The Original Jean gave me to use. Suggestive??

The Original Jean went on to make a cup of coffee for me from her Keurig machine, then proceeded to use the same K-cup for two more cups of coffee. 

Three mugs filled by the same K-cup. 

I jumped up to advise when I saw her making the second cup without changing the cartridge; weeks shy of 84 years, she knew exactly what she was doing. 

She was serious about getting every last use out of her resources, taking "good to the last drop" quite literally. 

"No sense in wasting it," she said, sipping a cup of coffee that more closely resembled dirty Greens Fork River water. 

Breakfast consisted of a frozen bagel from a bag that had been around a while. I'm 98% certain I was present when The Original purchased the same bag of bagels at Aldi in 1995. Remembering that I'm eating it in the name of science and my dear Jean, I continued to chew my bagel while requesting more spray-on butter. I don't know where my Momma learned to cook, but I'm certain she had to have married into that deal. 

"You don't like it?" Grandma asked, noticing my jaw-full effort. 

"No, it's good," I replied, completely guilty and feeling it.

"No it's not. But the bags almost gone and you're helping me clean out the deep freezer. Don't worry. Carry-out chicken for lunch," she was honest enough to make me laugh aloud. 

In our home:

• Broccoli rubber bands were an intricate part of every science fair project we ever entered.
• Soap was never tossed; it was always paired with a larger bar to work for a few more showers. 
• Rubber boots lasted far after they got their first crack, as plastic grocery bags served as liners for years. 
• Trash bags were never on the grocery list; to this day, CVS bags and mineral sacks line the bins. 
• Beef brains, tongue, heart and liver: all parts that provided iron in our young diets. My parents didn't waste any part of the animal we'd raised for food. 

Today, as a wife preparing a meal, that entire list makes me want to gag. But it sure taught me to appreciate a great cut of beef.
Good to the last drop, indeed.

A weekend at The Original Jean's confirmed that she is still living life to the very last drop.  
She doesn't have to suffer through weak recycled K-cups numbers 2 and 3, yet she does in the name of being thrifty. 
She doesn't have to start her day at 5:30 every morning, but she does in case anyone needs her. 
She doesn't have to send Christmas letters to Granddad's old cattle friends scattered across the country, but she does because she knows that would please him. 

I overheard a friend say once, "In reality, I guess we all live beyond our means." 

I disagree with that statement. 

There are still folks who clip coupons long after the farm has been paid off in full and the kids are through college.

Moving past the money, I do wonder how many of us live life with the "good to the last drop" mentality?

Jeans that repurpose when patched. 

Milk cartons turned home for delinquent nails. 

Soup that stretches. 

Minutes that matter. 

Hours that honor.

Days that deliver.

And years that build a life worth living. 

Are you taking advantage of every opportunity that presents itself?

Should you have gone with your heart, rather than your pocketbook?

I wonder if more times than not I live comfortably - with the stout coffee and New York strip - rather than the beef brains purpose that is requires I stretch beyond my comfort zone to grow into someone worth knowing. 

This week I challenge you to find a resource - person, place or thing - you've wasted and find a way to make it good to the last drop.

Maybe a service project you need to invest more time into. 

Maybe a pivotal email you have left lonely in the drafts folder.  

Maybe that corner of the barn that collects nothing but the outcasts. 

Maybe a person who could be so much more if you just gave them the time.

Maybe it's a simple as being creative in the kitchen and not throwing out that food on the brim of darkness. 

Because let's face it:

If the Original Jean made an entire bag of bagels last 19 years, the least you can do is finish off the Super Bowl leftovers.