saturdays.

August 2, 2021August 2, 2021 ~ Edie Olson ~ Leave a comment

Saturday mornings when I was growing up meant house work. Mom would put on the music and like Pavlov’s dog we’d get going. But instead of salivating for a treat, we were wound up for slave labor.

“Vacuum first, then dust!”, “Dust first, then vacuum!” To this day I’m unsure of Mom’s rule as it seemed, no matter which step I took, it was wrong.

If she found a poorly cleaned dish in the cupboard, my sister and I were tasked with emptying the cupboards and rewashing EVERYTHING! I later learned this tactic was used on my two older siblings. However, in the retelling of their story, they shared a secret. They would remove all the dishes, rewash a few of them, then re-stack the rest slightly different to give the illusion all the dishes had been cleaned. Robin and I were not that clever. We’d complain about Mom, bicker at each other and clean the stupid dishes.

Mom was a drill sergeant, but that probably wasn’t a bad thing because the smell of clean; ammonia, bleach and Pine Sol, bring a smile to my face.

The “Saturday-morning clean-up music”, as I called it, is actually Jazz. I prefer the pieces with lyrics, ’cause I like to sing along. It’s my favorite music and I’m pretty sure that is because the “Drill Sergeant” introduced it to me.

The drill sergeant gene isn’t in me. So the connection to Saturday mornings and cleaning doesn’t exist in my family. I think they laughed when I tried to introduce the concept.

Saturday mornings are still filled with the music as Jazz plays through our speakers. I also listen for the sound of my neighbor’s water fountain. I hear leaves rustle through the trees and there are barking dogs as well as noise from lawn mowers in the distance.

Brian usually makes coffee, and cuts up fruit for a salad. We sit at the table, reading news from our phones. I might prepare biscuits or bacon and eggs or potatoes or something that helps empty the fridge.

The floor isn’t mopped routinely, but when it is, there’s the smell of ammonia or pine sol, that makes everything alright.

stating the obvious.

August 2, 2021 ~ Edie Olson ~ 1 Comment

Don’tcha just love those people who state the obvious?!! That’s me. I’m HER!! I’m the person that gushes “Wow, your eyes are green!” or, “Ooh, you have dimples!”.

I just heard myself to the young girl with the red hair (I’m sure she already knew the color of her hair 🙄). She grinned. Her dad said, “she always gets the attention”.

I kinda don’t want to, but some may find offense so, I apologize if I cause any.

“Wow, you’re a red head!” in my mind means, I love your red hair! It’s lovely! It’s my favorite!

I love freckles. I have freckles, so I always tell people with freckles, they “have freckles”. Duh!! I do the same to beholders of dimples or those with a gap in the middle of their smile. Marks of beauty imho. Do I need to point them out, probably not?? I dunno.

Recently I was told of a young boy who once too often heard adults tell him how “pretty” his long curly eyelashes were. Thinking “pretty eyelashes” belonged on girls, he went to the bathroom and cut his off. Red lights shine brightly at the thought of a little kid with scissors so close to the eye. Fortunately, it’s a story told with humor as he grew into an adult with pretty eyelashes.

My children and husband walk a few paces ahead of (or behind) me. I figure this is to offer the pre or post apology. “Please don’t mind my mom”.

I will remark on the color or pattern of someone’s shirt, tie, dress or socks. I hear music in people’s voices. I hear authenticity in an accent. My curiosity holds no sinister veil. I simply find excitment in the individuality, or joy in the shared traits. It’s all just threads in this tapestry of life. My comments are my awkward way of saying “hello”, starting a conversation or telling someone I see them. I see their worth.

When I was fourteen, the owner of the little market where I bought my after school snack of orange soda and Almond Joy (🤢) told me, it was always nice when I entered his store because I always greeted him with a lovely smile. One time when I was in the store, he suggested I enter the “Miss Teenage America” contest. He gave me the paperwork which I filled out at home with my mom.

The talent portion of the application was the challenge. I decided I would sing and dance (even though I’d never sung or danced in front of anyone). My mom laughed at the thought and suggested I share my artwork. I filled in “sing and dance”. Turned out it wasn’t a problem as I didn’t make it far enough in the contest for it to matter.

The steps it took to participate in that contest from self evaluation to being interviewed, then celebrating the accomplishments of others were new and memorable experiences I’ve been able to take with me throughout my life.

I never forgot the kind spirit in which that man complimented me. I think things like that go a long way.

Straight White Male.

June 24, 2018June 30, 2018 ~ Edie Olson ~ 2 Comments

Print PRIDE week. Sitting in a coffee shop, I overheard part of a conversation from the table next to me, “When is MY day? I wanna know, when will there be a day for me, a straight white male. When will there be a day to celebrate me?!!!” Shocked, stunned and disgusted, I gathered my things and removed myself from the situation. At that particular moment, a response from me would not have been pleasant.

One Mother’s Day many years ago, as we were getting ready for church, I asked my mom, ‘’Why isn’t there a Children’s Day?” My mom answered, “Everyday is Children’s Day.” I nodded as if I understood.

Today I nod, because I do understand.

As children we assumed the world would take care of us, and for the most part, it did. Adults looked after us, fed us, dressed us, protected us and provided a place to lay our heads. Television programs were designed for us. Family vacations were planned with our schedule and our enjoyment in mind. The world revolved around us, and everyday was “Children’s Day”.

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are days set aside to remind us (children) that someone else (Mom, Dads and other adults) are out there working to make life comfortable, and safe for children. They are days set aside for children to take a moment and say, Yes, you ARE an important part of my world and you help make me who I am. I honor and respect you as you have honored and respected me.

So… Dear Straight White Male, I say to you, everyday is Straight White Male Day!

Pride Week, Black History Month, Native American Month are special days set aside to acknowledge someone other than the Straight White Male, but they are days created for your benefit, for you to look closely at those who are not like you.

These special non ‘Straight White Male Days’ give you a chance to examine your privilege, your entitlement, your history, your place in this world. It’s a time for you to recognize the role diversity played in making you YOU! You can acknowledge the other people who struggled to make life work in a world that did not value their existence.

Consider the non-‘Straight White Male Days’ a time to renew your spirit and give honor and respect to those who have done the same for you throughout history.

Reflect and give thanks, we all have reason to celebrate.

Happy Pride.

The 57.

June 22, 2017June 22, 2017 ~ Edie Olson ~ Leave a comment

Version 2

When your birthday falls on a Saturday, what better way to celebrate than a good old fashioned house party with friends, music and a drink created just for the occasion.

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The 57. A Watermelon Martini:
Juice from half a lime
1 mint leaf
1/2 oz. of Monin Watermelon Syrup
Ice cubes
1-2 oz Hangar 1 Vodka
1-2 oz seltzer water
Mint leaf for garnish

Muddle the lime juice, mint leaf and watermelon syrup in the bottom of a shaker. Add ice cubes, vodka and seltzer water. Gently shake, then strain into Martini glass. Garnish with mint leaf.

Fun Times!

Insomnia and Butter.

October 26, 2016October 26, 2016 ~ Edie Olson ~ 1 Comment

Insomnia.

In the wee small hours of the morning I found myself watching a Jacques Pepin cooking show. He shared a memory of eating toast with homemade butter in his grandmother’s kitchen. Jacques’ own granddaughter, Shorey was on this particular episode helping him in the kitchen. He gave the granddaughter a small jelly jar filled halfway with cream. He put a lid on the jar and told her to shake it continuously. He then went on to show his television audience how to make butter using a food processor.

While demonstrating and giving culinary words of wisdom, he’d check on Shorey to make sure she was still shaking her jar. After about ten minutes, he asked the girl to remove the lid and show us her cream that had now become a small clump of butter sitting in a pool of buttermilk!

Butter.

I made butter! I have a food processor, but I chose the jelly jar method, and it worked. It took about the same amount of time it takes to prepare a pot of tea. I spread some of my homemade butter on a couple of pieces toast and topped it with marmalade. It was delicious! I look forward to sharing this process with my grandniece and nephew the next time they visit.

My dad used to drink buttermilk and as a little girl I’d turn up my nose watching him drink the stuff. I remembered it as tasting sour and yucky, but the by-product of this homemade butter (that I made) was slightly sweet and enjoyable. Who’d da thunk?

Directions:
• Fill a small jar about half full of cream. Put a lid on it and shake continuously 10-15 minutes or until the contents separate.

• Pour the “buttermilk” into a small glass and drink it, or use it for buttermilk pancakes.

• Place the ball of butter on a cheese cloth, or paper towel and blot out the excess liquid.

• Add salt if desired. Refrigerate.

Crayons.

October 4, 2015October 6, 2015 ~ Edie Olson ~ 5 Comments

There is something exciting about a brand new box of crayons. Colorful, bright, clean and smelling of wax. Then somebody borrows one, tears the paper, dulls the end and breaks it….

At Bible Study this past week, we were asked to illustrate our perception of Glory. I immediately thought of that new box of crayons. A perfectly, sharpened, orderly, smudgeless box of colorful glory!

I have a memory of a playmate showing up with the Crayola Crayon box of 96 colors with its built in crayon sharpener! I was impressed and thought this added feature sure way to keep those crayons looking fresh. Unfortunately you had to peel back the paper on the crayon in order to sharpen it. Also sharpening a crayon makes it smaller. I finally accepted that if you use the crayon, it will never look new. Kind of like having cake and eating it too.

I had to re-think my bible study illustration. Perhaps Glory doesn’t have anything to do with perfection.

My crayons, no longer perfect, live in a plastic shoebox. They are broken, the wrappers are torn, smudged, unreadable or missing. They are the crayons that were used to give life to masterpieces created by my children and their friends. Each dulled colored stick of wax had a story to tell.

I think, like the crayon, we start out perfect. As we live, we leave marks on our canvas gradually creating our own masterpiece.

Adam and Eve were hanging out in paradise with only one rule to follow, Leave the apple alone. Although their world seemed perfect, they were still given the gift choice. A decision was made, and consequence ensued.

If perfection was the only expectation, why weren’t Adam and Eve simply destroyed and a new set (of humans) created? Instead, they were given an opportunity to live, grow and recreate outside of paradise. They were given life outside of the perfect environment. One can only exist in the womb, it isn’t until we are outside of the womb that we live.

Perhaps it is all as it should be.

Outside of the crayon box.

I am like the crayon, spreading color, my sharp edges are gone, I am broken, my wrapper is torn. My story is the markings on the canvas.

Perhaps Glory is when I can look back and say, I’m happy with my masterpiece.

Ava at the Beach.

September 3, 2015August 2, 2021 ~ Edie Olson ~ 3 Comments

I was complimented when a friend said she wanted to spend a day watching me paint, and/or paint with me, see how I work….. Is there a method to my madness? I decided to follow the progress of a painting taking photos as I went along.

Often I find I overwork something then wish I could press the “undo” button and go back a step or two. That’s when my husband might question why I didn’t put my signature on it and hang it on the wall several iterations ago.

I imagine many artists have a desired “look” or “feel” they want to achieve. Some point of measure that is known only to the artist herself, and until that point is reached, the signature may remain lost in the hairs of the brush.

This particular project went from palette to canvas with relative ease. I don’t really know why one painting can be completed in a couple of hours, while another takes months of frustrating do-overs? I’m pleased with how I was able to capture the sun on her knee.