Livin’ in an Amish Paradise

“We been spending’ most our lives living in an Amish paradise…” Weird Al

It’s getting close to lunch time at my clinic, but I have no hope of wrapping things up for a break any time soon. Why not? The waiting room looks like a call back for extras for Witness. Women in sturdy blue polyester dresses and enormous black bonnets, de rigueur for every Amish lady, are shushing children in blue shirts and black overalls, their bowl haircuts shrouded with enormous black hats. Men with springy gray beards sit silently nearby, dressed in their identical Amish uniforms. Probably only one of this cast of thousands is actually scheduled for an appointment. Yet in the course of the visit, I’ll start with one and end up seeing three or four, as they think I might as well see the daughter with a “little” cold (pneumonia), the diabetic grandma (blood sugar over 400), and their cousin’s farrier, who happened to come along for the ride. And could I please hurry it up, because the neighbor who gave them all a ride has to get back in time for dinner. Yes, just another day of Amish Hell at the office, and I’m smack in the middle of it.

The Amish are a sturdy sect of traditionalists who live simply and eschew modern technology. Originally members of a church schism in Switzerland, the Amish community left to settle in the Pennsylvania area, and eventually migrated to other parts of the US, including Michigan and Indiana. The Amish community is truly off the grid, living free of silly government entanglements such as Social Security numbers, government IDs, and therefore, health insurance. So just about any day might be Amish Day at the free clinic. The Amish folk are for the most part lovely, delightful people who would do anything to help a friend or neighbor. So why do I feel like I’m in the seventh circle of hell whenever their group darkens my door?

They come in large swarms, with no concept of anyone’s time, except their own. They want everything done at once, because they came all the way to town, darn it, and they’re busy people with things to do. The women wear two-piece dresses held together

by straight pins, and more undergarments than Scarlet O’Hara. Nothing strikes fear in my heart more than to think that I might have to ask one of them to get undressed – a 20 minute ordeal at least on each side of the operation which will tie up one of my two exam rooms for the next 40 minutes. Every Amish patient expects me to solve their problem, without their giving me any information about it. “So how has your blood sugar been, Rachel,” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Oh, I can’t really say. It’s high.” Then we begin the game we play every time, which I always lose. “Is it higher than 200?” I’ll ask, hoping this time I might get an answer. “Oh it’s high. I can’t really say.” “Can’t really say” is the Amish polite way of saying “you are an English woman, an outsider and I’m not giving you any information no matter how many different ways you ask.” And so I jump in, treating a pain they won’t describe, or a cough that has been present for God knows how long, listening to lung sounds through industrial polyester,  and expected to do it in record time because, really, don’t I know they still need to get to the store and be home in time for milking?

Later, if we have to call them about test results or an appointment, a new kind of hell begins. Their emergency contact person is listed only as “Bruce,” a non-Amish neighbor who has a phone, and has somehow become trusted enough to take their messages. I always hope that we never have to contact them for anything urgent, because Bruce might be busy with the plowing and not get them the message right away. Plus, he’s handling messages for every Amish family up and down the road, and with each family boasting 8 to 18 children, that’s a lot of Amish. There’s never any point in calling them to reschedule an appointment, because they’ll just show up anyway. After all, they went to all the trouble of getting a ride, and they’re not going to redo it just for my convenience.

Yet, in many ways they are endearing. They represent an earlier time, when neighbor trusted neighbor, when it was possible to be happy and connected to one’s community without having a phone permanently attached to one’s palm. Despite my frustration, I love most all of my Amish patients. They remind me of goodness, community, and simpler times.

© Huffygirl 2013

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To Gabriele

Gabriele died last week after a long illness. I have never met her, but thanks to her daughter, Suzanne at Walking Papers Blog, I feel like I have. For months, Suzanne has shared Gabriele’s journey, her prose interspersed with photos, poems and stories about her mom’s life, and finally, death. Stories about family. Photos of Gabriele and her daughters and grandchildren. In an unflinchingly frank journal, Suzanne shared the gritty details of a beloved family member’s gradual separation from this life and her step into the next.

As I read I sometimes laughed, sometimes cried, but always felt empathy for Suzanne and her family thousands of miles away, yet so close. And through it all, I relived my  own mom’s brief illness and death, recalling the good, the bad, and the journey of her life. Others felt the same way, as Suzanne’s journal brought friends and strangers together in a community of followers of the story of Gabriele.

The internet can be a monster  – it can sap us of our free time and energy, with cat videos, FB and endless news cycles. But it can be a blessing too, making us part of a community across a nation or across an ocean, bringing us together as we share our stories and making our world a smaller place.

I wish peace to Gabriele who is now at rest, and peace to all who trek through their own journey across this world that is not so big after all.

© Huffygirl 2013

• Walking Papers Blog
• You had a good run Grandma (huffygirl.wordpress.com)

My husband is the most popular man on earth

I’m a  lucky dog; I’m married to the most popular man on earth. And how do I know he is? Because, everyone is after him right now. He gets fistfuls of personal mail daily. Multiple phone calls from strangers. People stopping by the house, leaving notes on the door that say “Sorry I missed you” and “I’ll be back soon.” So “why is everyone after your husband Huffygirl?” you might ask. Unfortunately, not because he is so good-looking, smart, or cool, although he is all of those things (well maybe not so much cool…). No, it’s because he is turning 65 soon.

Yes, hard for both of us to believe, but my husband is about to become eligible for Medicare. And every company that sells any kind of Medicare supplemental insurance wants him.  It’s a veritable dog fight to see who will get him first. Right now, he’s as popular as Jack Nicholson on Oscar night.

The mail started trickling in last fall, a good six months before he would be Medicare-eligible. Well-known insurance companies, plus ones we’ve never heard of. Yes, best husband, we want YOU, and here’s why. Then the phone calls started. Night after night. Thanks to that wonderful invention, Caller ID, we can avoid speaking to most of them, but that does not stop the ringing. His phone is ringing like the head cheerleader’s two weeks before prom night. Everyone wants a date with him.

Now, with his birthday looming closer (April 2nd, in case you’d like to send him a card) they’ve stepped up their game. Insurance agents are starting to appear uninvited at our door. They leave perky hang tags on the doorknob with hand-written notes: “Best husband, sooooo sorry I missed you. I’ll talk to you soon about your Medicare options. Can’t wait! XOXOXO” Apparently they think that just because my husband is turning 65 soon, he’s sitting at home during the day with his cane, just waiting for them to drop by.

As April 2 looms closer, I expect they will step up their game. I’m hoping for swag – not coupons for Metamucil, diabetes supplies from Wilford Brimley, or $50 off a Hoveround. No, I’m hoping for serious swag. Restaurant dinners, weekend getaways, wine of the month, vacation trips. Sure, I know there are plenty of 65-year-olds out there to fight over, but hey, mine is special. With all the biking and running we do, Best Husband should be one of the least expensive 65-year-olds out there to insure. Perhaps, they’ll even start paying HIM. After all, he IS the most popular man on earth. At least for now anyway.

Huffygirl with THE most popular man on earth.

© Huffygirl 2013

The red and green of it all: Waiting for Christmas

Camped out waiting for Santa

© Huffygirl 2012

Tragic News

I am shocked and saddened by the recent tragic shooting in Newtown, CT, as I’m sure most people are. The people of Newtown have been made to endure what no one should ever endure  – the loss of innocent children and others. My heart and prayers go out to the folks of Newtown, CT, and I hope readers will keep them in their thoughts and prayers as well. My hope is that no one else will ever have to expereince such a terrible loss: that parents will never again have to send their children off to school, wondering if they will return home safely.

© Huffygirl 2012

Welcome to Christmas Card Lane

While out running this morning, I noticed one of my neighbors had placed a quaint reminder of Christmas long ago in his front yard: a handmade, painted Christmas card sign, propped up in the front yard, with a spot light to illuminate it at night. “Seasons greetings from the _______” it proclaimed, it’s elf and reindeer resplendent upon the four by four sheet of genuine plywood. Seeing this immediately brought me back to  a simpler time, when folks in my city lined up in their cars to see  “Christmas Card Lane” each Christmas season.

There was a certain street in my city which  each year, proclaimed itself “Christmas Card Lane.” Residents erected a huge sign at the entrance to the street, which said “Welcome to Christmas Card Lane” painted  across a Currier and Ives  back ground. Then, for about the next three weeks, cars would line up nightly to drive down Christmas Card Lane and see the handmade Christmas cards that the majority of the homeowners displayed in their front yards. More than once we joined this queue, kids in the back seat, slowly creeping down the street among the bumper to bumper cars, to look at the homemade painted Christmas card signs propped up in the snowy yards of nearly every home.This was more than just a custom of a neighborhood putting out plywood Christmas cards.  No doubt the neighbors had a meeting each year to decide on the details for the Christmas card display, and helped each other put up and take down their signs. This simple event built community and fostered neighborly togetherness. No matter what your faith, how could you not like a neighbor who put a large message of peace and love in their front yard each year?

Today, this all sounds terribly quaint. I don’t think I’ve seen the big Christmas Card Lane sign for some time now. I expect that as the original homeowners died or moved away, new residents moving in probably said “What? Once a year we have to make a giant Christmas card, and set it up in our yard, so we can be held hostage in our own driveway while strangers clog up our street with traffic?” Today, folks are probably much too occupied to spend an hour or two on a snowy night driving slowly up and down a street to look at homemade Christmas yard signs. The kids in the back seat would no doubt be texting instead of peering out the windows with their noses pushed up against the cool glass. They might glance up from time to time, if only to film the spectacle to put on YouTube – with a title like “My parents are holding me hostage on Christmas Card Lane.”

But, it wasn’t just about driving down a street to see Christmas yard signs. It was about a family doing something traditional together, in a relaxing, unscheduled way. It usually involved hot chocolate and cookies after, with all of us gathered around the table, and nothing else distracting us or calling us away. No TV, smart phones or texts. What could be more important than a relaxing evening with your kids, doing nothing better than just being together?

Maybe my neighbor, with his plywood seasons greeting, will start a new tradition for my community. I think it would be a good thing.

© Huffygirl 2012

Related link: Waiting for Santa (huffygirl.wordpress.com)

Drowning in leftover turkey

After many years of hosting Thanksgiving dinner, I’ve finally found a quick and easy way to use leftover  turkey. At my house there’s usually a large portion of dark meat left, that often gets discarded before I can sneak it into casseroles or give it away to departing guests. This year, faced with an unusually large amount of leftover gobbler, and a smaller than usual number of leftover relatives, I was struck with inspiration. Everyone loves pulled pork, so why not pulled turkey? Here’s the recipe:

Pulled turkey

Left-over cooked turkey, cut into 2-3 inch pieces, any amount

Barbeque sauce, any kind you like (I used Brownwood Farms Cherry Barbeque Sauce)

Liquid for simmering (chicken broth, water, or my favorite, Bell’s Oberon beer)

salt and pepper to taste, plus any spices you want to add (garlic etc)

Simmer turkey pieces in about 1-2 inches of your chosen liquid in a saucepan, until pieces easily pull into shreds with a fork, about 1-2 hours. Drain cooking liquid. Add salt and pepper, (about 1/2 teaspoon of each for 2 cups of turkey), any other spices such as dried chives, or garlic, and enough barbeque sauce to adequately moisten the meat. Simmer on low heat until meat is warmed through. Serve on buns.

© Huffygirl 2012

How to poison your family and make it look like an accident

It’s almost Thanksgiving again, and time for the age-old debate of stuffing versus dressing. I originally posted about this  conundrum on November 25, 2010, and thought it worth repeating just in time for this Thanksgiving. After all, it’s not every day you get an opportunity to poison your relatives with a delightful holiday dish!

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Stuffing Versus Dressing

In the states it’s almost time for Thanksgiving, an annual holiday where everyone eats too much turkey and pie, and watches the Lions lose again. For the Thanksgiving cook, the meal preparation always brings up the age-old debate – stuffing vs dressing. They both start out the same – dried bread cubes, seasonings, sometimes broth, margarine or butter, and water, made into a conglomeration that is either stuffed inside the turkey (stuffing) or baked separately in a dish (dressing). Everyone has their own opinion on which is best, and families line up fiercely divided each year on which way this delectable Thanksgiving carbohydrate should be served. Accompanying this debate of which way is tastier is the issue (some myth, some fact) over which way is healthier or safer. Who knew that dried bread cubes could raise such ire among otherwise friendly people?

In my family growing up, we always had dressing. I’m not sure why, but I think it was in part due to the fact that: it was easier. The dressing could be made while the turkey was cooking instead of earlier in the day when the turkey was ready to go into the oven. It was quicker. Stuffed turkey is supposed to take longer to cook than unstuffed (although in my own cooking experience I have never found this to be true.) It was safer. My family and others believed that the stuffing could become contaminated with bacteria from absorbing the meat juices and turn an otherwise delightful day into a merry trip to the emergency room.

Then I met my future husband whose family was all stuffing, all the way, and why would anyone consider doing it differently? What could be better than bread cubes infused with savory turkey juices and the two pounds of butter that Buttterball and others inject into their turkeys before sending them off to the store?

So what’s a girl to do? I have to admit I found both ways tasty, although sometimes the stuffing did not look quite as appetizing as the dressing, depending upon what colors it turned from the meat juices it absorbed during cooking. Eventually when I took over hosting the Thanksgiving meal, my compromise was to make stuffing and dressing. The amount of stuffing that would fit inside the turkey was not enough to serve everyone at the table anyway, so I would serve a dish of each, or sometimes mix them together, which I guess gives you something which is neither stuffing nor dressing, but there is not really any good combination word you can make from combining stuffing and dressing.

This compromise did not come without a cost, however. Members of the dressing contingent would make sly comments like “Make sure you’ve cooked that stuffing to 160 degrees so we don’t all get food poisoning, ha ha,” while members of the stuffing contingent would say “Who would want to eat that dressing? It always turns out so dry.”

And when it comes right down to it, where did the whole stuffing/dressing custom come from anyway? Imagine the Pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving. They’ve had a horrible year. First, all that travel and they couldn’t even earn any points from it. Then, having to build a settlement, squabble with the Native Americans, endure hardship, disease, cold and hunger. Finally, the ones who survived prepared what was probably a somewhat meager feast in celebration. There was no Kroger stores in Plymouth, so they had to hunt down their turkey, then pluck it, cut off the inedible parts, and remove the disgusting innards. After going through all that, and wrestling the turkey into a heavy cast iron roaster, you’d think that the Pilgrim cooks would have had enough of turkey prep for one day. But some creative person, staring into the empty cavity of the just gutted turkey said “hey, wouldn’t it be a great idea to cut up bread into cubes, add water, lard and spices and stuff this sucker?” And the rest as we say, is history.

Whether you eat stuffing or dressing, may you all have a happy and grateful Thanksgiving!

© Huffygirl 2012

(Dedicated to Aaron and Chris, my stuffing-loving relatives who will be eating someone else’s stuffing this year. Miss you!)

Charlotte’s Web: Sixty years of some pig!

Charlotte’s Web, the classic children’s story about Wilbur the pig and his spider friend, Charlotte, turned 60 yesterday. I remember reading this book night after night at our kid’s bedtime, making up different voices for all the characters, and all of us crying when (spoiler alert) Charlotte dies. Fortunately, I was able to capture some photos of Charlotte’s descendant for the anniversary. Thanks E.B. White for your poignantly endearing tale.

© Huffygirl 2012

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The bride wore lace…

The bride wore lace, the groom wore dreads. Between the convergence of two rushing water falls, the two plead their love and commitment to one another.

No traditional recitation of “love, honor and cherish…” from these two, though their words promised the same, but in promises of the mundane. Their essence was sincere and true: I will love you no matter what; I will let you be yourself; I will let the best parts of you shine though to the least parts of me.

The guests departed with homemade centerpieces in Mason jars, and a warm feeling wrought from a wedding that was all about love and nothing about show.

(All the best to you Aaron and Andrea!)

© Huffygirl 2012