60 things about someone who's 60

Photo: Elise, James and my mom, Shirley Ann, showing a special music box. Christmas 2009.

Happy Birthday, Mom! In your honor of your 60th, here's a list of 60 things we love about you:

1. You get Kyle's brand of humor when he told me: "If you were really nice, you'd say 50 things."
2. Your cooking.
3. You use cloth napkins for regular meals.
4. You pray for Ben.
5. The way you helped us evolve to like frozen chocolate chip cookies -- forget storing them.
6. Grieg's "Peer Gynt Suite."
7. Christmas music in October.
8. Carefully selected birthday cards -- purchased months ahead of time.
9. All the years you called me at 2 a.m. to wish me a happy birthday. (Or was it just once, and I dreamed the rest?)
10. You find the best bargains around.
11. You call to let me know of grocery specials.
12. College care packages.
13. "I'm shrinking, I'm melting."
14. You listened to hours and hours of Hanon and scales and never complained.
15. Trinkets on my pillow.
16. The stuffed animal with the "Jennifer, I love you" t-shirt, stowed in my suitcase on a high school trip.
17. How well you listen.
18. You don't look 60 at all. (See #1)
19. Kitchen sink baths and baby lotion rubdowns on all my infants.
20. When I, the woman, constantly call to learn the answers you tried to teach a disinterested girl, you've never once said, "I told you so."
21. Homemade bread -- and the fact I now also set aside Tuesdays for baking.
22. "Do I look like I'm wearing a black and white striped shirt?"
23. Your loving care of 2-year-old Kyle and me in your home for my five weeks of pregnancy bedrest with Emma.
24. Your rolls.
25. Road-kill pumpkin pie.
26. That you still let us tell the story about road-kill pumpkin pie. In public.
27. Having three guest rooms (Kyle digs this! It's the closest he'll ever get to the Ritz.).
28. "Do I look like I have a whistle?" (See #22)
29. Making Jeff lunch while he used Jim's computer during his job search.
30. The way you make plates "magically appear." (Jeff says you need to brush up on that, though.)
31. Surrounding us with no food.
32. The time you walked toward Kyle's high chair carrying a bib, but (subconsciously?) tied it around Grandpa Jim's neck instead.
33. Knuckle sandwiches, with jam.
34. Your one-day turnaround on laundry. I'd wear something to school, next afternoon it was washed and folded on my bed. Seems like it takes me weeks to go from hamper to dresser!
35. Happily paying such a steep price for trout ... what are we down to ... $1,000 per pound?
36. Movies on VHS cassette, complete with commercials. (But they're meticulously labeled with entire cast! -- the movies, that is.)
37. Your color memory. You'll buy something to go with an item I own, and even if you haven't seen it for a long time, it's a perfect match.
38. Your beautiful handwriting.
39. So we didn't feel awkward, you said all the grocery items you gave us during Jeff's unemployment were "buy 1, get 1 free." We knew it was a lot more.
40. If we were really, really nice, we'd end this list now.
41. You introduced me to Agatha Christie's mysteries.
42. The immaculate home of my memories. HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU DO THIS RAISING FIVE KIDS? (Not that I'm baffled or anything.)
43. A freezer always full of ice cream. Holy frozen cow, woman!
44. The way you direct errands to your impressive food storage room. "It's on the third shelf down, about five boxes over, behind the pickles." And you're always right.
45. You address letters to our sons "Master Kyle, Master James, Master Samuel." It's as if you see something we don't.
46. Your wedding gift shelf.
47. The closet full of Christmas wrap.
48. The way you apologize, every Christmas, that it's not much -- yet we've never wanted for more.
49. Letting the grandchildren wind your music boxes.
50. You have a better grasp of my children's shoe sizes than I do.
51. When I had to leave the hospital before preemie Emma could, others said I was foolish to decline their offers to take Kyle while I recovered from surgery. (Jeff had to return to work.) You alone understood that I could not  -- I couldn't! -- go home to an empty house, and so you drove to our apartment daily to help me take care of Kyle.
52. You told me to say "Moo" when I had to buzz in for admittance to the NICU.
53. Granddaughter sleep-overs and your party bath tub. (So recalls Elise.)
54. Your curling iron technique. Elise, especially, loves your beautiful blonde hair.
55. Once squeezing my hand during the Young Woman's broadcast.
56. Your selflessness.
57. The way you constantly tell me how grateful you are for Jeff.
58. Your testimony of the atonement.
59. How just the thought of you gives me comfort when I am sick.
60. You've given me a model to live up to, every day.

Time capsules

Ann, 91, and Samuel, 1 -- July 2009

Ann, 88, and Elise, 4 -- August 2006

Grandma Ann, my 92-year-old neighbor, died this spring. I miss her. I feel her loss even more sharply now, for this is the season of daily visits on her patio. Four years of routine: Each summer morning as I dragged a watering can through my yard, I'd listen for the creak of her back door. Then I'd call out, "Hello, Ann!" from over the fence.

"Hello!" she'd holler. "Come on over!" And I'd open the gate that joins our yards. Ann liked to survey the day's new blooms, how drained the hummingbird feeder was, things like that. I'd help her weed here and there, install a drip line, or guide my children to sweep her steps, things like that. My kids knew where to find me when the phone rang. Mostly Ann and I just talked -- about parenting and education and all the cultural events she enjoyed attending. She was my friend.

She was also a saver. Of EVERYTHING. 

Her out-of-state relatives recently excavated a stash of seed packets somewhere in the garden shed. Would I like them?

Hmm, let me think ... Of course I would!

There were dozens of brightly colored envelopes, the oldest labeled with "PACKED FOR 1971." Some of the flowers have never been opened. I shared these with my dad. Next spring I'll sow them, as an experiment, of course. Although kept dry, the seeds have gone through so many temperature changes I'll be surprised if they sprout. Won't that be a kick!

Several of the vegetable envelopes were neatly packed in spare cardboard cartons that once held green bean seeds. Ann once told me her husband loved to garden. Was this his way of keeping track of the varieties they liked best?

I haven't figured out what -- if anything -- I'll do with the packets.  Maybe decoupage them onto a patio table top? Make a cover for a garden journal? (Send your ideas if you have anyway!)

No matter what, I'm glad I got to see these little time capsules before they went to the trash.

The empty vegetables were particularly revealing, with their top left corners uniformly ripped off. I can vividly picture Ann's husband Dwain gripping them with his thumb, making a quick tear and sprinkling them into prepared rows. I never even met Dwain. Can't you imagine him planting, too?

This packet shows how our dietary attitudes have changed over the decades. Check out all the cooking suggestions for the beans.

For variety ... try cooking home grown beans with ...

BACON AND CHOPPED ONIONS • MUSHROOMS SAUTEED IN BUTTER

SLIVERED ALMONDS • MUSHROOM SOUP AND MILK

Or season beans with ...

CREAM SAUCE • SUMMER SAVORY AND BUTTER • PREPARED MUSTARD AND BUTTER • SPRINKLED WITH GRATED CHEESE

For a last amusement, look at the front and back of this forget-me-not envelope, packaged as a bank promotion:

THESE SEEDS

are bursting with energy

to help you produce

some beautiful flowers.

Let us turn your 

spring financial gloom

into bloom

BY PLANTING EXTRA MONEY

in your pocket.

ONE CALL DOES IT ALL!

By the way, that bank collapsed this year. Oops. Think these seeds will sprout?