It's a Bundt

So I've been thinking about the Sisterhood of the Traveling Bundt Pan thing, because it's more fun to think about than, say, the economic downturn, Oklahoma's breathtakingly poor health statistics, or how I should really lose some weight. After reading the original "Traveling Rules", I came up with some of my own rules. They really only make sense if you read the original rules (see link above). So here goes.

You must always wash the bundt pan.
You must never make jello in the bundt pan. It's jiggly.
You must never say the word "fat" while eating what was baked with the bundt pan.
You must never let a man bake something with the bundt pan (although you may bake something in his presence).
You must not pick your nose while using the bundt pan.
You must document your experience with the bundt pan on your blog for the other bundt sisters.
You may only possess the bundt pan for the specified length of time before passing it on to one of your bundt sisters.
Remember: bundt cake = love. Love your bundt sisters. Love yourself.

Hmmm. It might be fun to pass something around like that as a way to connect with others with whom you've already formed a sort of connection through bloggyness. Kind of an experiment in building community. According to Wikipedia, bundt comes from the German word "bund" for gathering. That seems appropriate. Or am I just crazy and need to go back into my hole?

Girl Talk

Have you seen the site called Kindred? I love it because I love the girlie-girl desktop wallpaper. That's right women. Arise! Unite! Fem up your family computer. Stake your claim. I have the artwork by Ez Pudewa on our family laptop, but I had a hard time choosing, they were all so unique.

Computers don't have to be so masculine. I recently bought a new laptop for work and I so wanted to buy the pink one but I didn't. I went with the pretty purple one since I figured if a guy co-worker had to borrow it, he would be somewhat less mortified.

I've always wondered how pink became the girl color and blue the boys'. I think that's somewhat of a cultural thing. Hold on. Duh! I just googled it. Apparently before the 1920s babies from western families were mostly in white and dresses were worn by both boys and girls. THAT explains a lot. Those old family photos had me worried.

Both my daughters went through a PFD phase (Pink Fluffy Dress) when they were little, but Angela more so than Tessa. Angela wanted to wear nothing but a dress and "panties-hose" from about age three to five. Tessa is currently going through her second PFD phase I think. Maybe that's the sorority influence. Grunge just doesn't work with pearls.

You've heard of "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" right? I read about a group of women who decided to do something similar only with an expensive diamond necklace. They pooled their money for the $7,000 necklace they named Jewelia. I'm way too practical for that. Plus I would have absolutely nowhere to wear it.

I'm thinking of starting "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Bundt Pan".

Blizzard 2009. Or not.

I'm in for the day, folks. It's not because of the half foot of snow piled outside my window. Because, as Mark predicted, that just didn't happen. Mark is a weather curmudgeon. If Millionaire weather man Gary England or the 4-Warn Storm Team are interrupting local programing for an important weather advisory, with their big logos and tense, attention-grabbing music, Mark is sitting on the couch mumbling "it's gonna miss us" under his breath.

Which is good I guess, when it comes to dire warnings about bowling ball sized hail or ten feet of snow in March. OK, I exaggerate; and usually some part of the state gets pounded as predicted. Just not always us. Mark pulls up the weather map and watches the radar and the direction in which the storm is moving and makes his own prediction for Bethany. Angela still calls him some mornings to ask him what the weather will be for the day so she'll know how to dress for playground duty. Guess he's shown more reliability than the television weather dudes.

Did I ever tell you about the time we were in Galveston waiting to board a cruise the next day? We were considering a sunset walk on the beach and I wondered aloud what time the sun set. Without hesitating he answered "7:12". Oh, OK then. Let's take a walk. He just knows weird things like that.

If a sport involves a ball and there are also numbers involved, his brain absorbes the stats like white on rice. I'm sure he has the entire NCAA March Madness bracket in his head, easily moving winning teams into the next slot without benefit of paper. It's a phenomenon.

But he can't remember that Monday is trash day. I just don't get that.

My love/hate relationship with this town-Part XI

Bethany is a strange place. Sometimes in the evening when Mark and I are out walking, it takes on a sweet glow, where all the houses are well painted, the yards are lovingly tended, the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.

Then there are other times when it scares the crap out of me because of all the absentee landlords, the hand lettered signs tacked to telephone poles advertising pit bull pups for sale, and the random furniture and appliances gracing the curbless streets. I want to run screaming to the far northwest corner of Oklahoma City, or to north Edmond, where everything is new and shiny and, well, without character.

Because if Bethany has one thing, it's character. At least that's what people say about places and things that have seen a lot of life, are weathered and beat up from the experience, but still possessed of some beauty and worth.

A few fun facts about this town where I was born and to where I have returned (stats from www.epodunk.com):

• The latitude of Bethany is 35.518N. The longitude is -97.631W.
• Elevation is 1,309 feet.
• The estimated population, in 2003, was 20,009.
• Square miles: 5.21
• During the heydays of Route 66, Bethany was known as the stretch where you couldn't buy gas or cigarettes on Sundays.

Do you feel enlightened? It was the excellent school system that led us to choose this corner of the city, and hopefully it will be that same school system that will sell our house some day when we are ready to move into a shinier, scrubbed-clean kind of neighborhood. But for now, we're loving the low-pressure, low-expectation feel of the place. There is something to be said, after all, about lowered expectations in life.

Tragedy is the word for the day, apparently

I kind of overdid the Starbucks last week. I guess I was feeling extra tired and pitifully in need of comfort food/drink. And for some reason, just the smell of a Starbucks store floods me with joy and contentment. And I'm not even kidding. If they would bottle that smell, I'd be first in line to buy a case and start spritzing my world.



On Saturdays Mark makes a Starbucks run and we sit on our little spots on the couches and sip coffee, read The Oklahoman, and drop crumbs all over the furniture from my Orange Cranberry Scone and his Cream Cheese Danish. We're creatures of habit. But this past Saturday a tragedy occurred while another tragedy was avoided. A dog, oblivious of my need for a steaming grande soy vanilla rooibos latte, ran in front of the car. Since it was a dog and not a cat, Mark applied the brakes, and MY drink went flying. (I just lost all you fellow blog readers who love cats. It's not so much that I don't like cats, it's that they make me itch and sneeze and they don't wag their tales to tell me how they feel. I don't like guessing. A dog tells you right off what they think).



So anyway, I was forced to choose between asking Mark to go back to Starbucks, or drink something else. To be fair, he immediately offered to go back. But I'm just not that selfish. But don't think I didn't consider it!



All that to say, I discovered I could make a pretty darn good soy vanilla rooibos latte at home. Rooibos tea is from South Africa, and when we lived in Joburg, it was my drink of choice. I brought back large quantities, and then had anyone I knew who was traveling that way bring me some more. Then I ran out and it was a tragedy. But then, glory to God, the USA discovered rooibos. It's sort of pronounced roy'-bus. But you have to roll the "r" and stretch out to rooooy, and the "bus" part sounds more like a hiss with a "b" in the front. OK, so I'm not a linguist. But you don't have to pronounce it correctly to try something new. You'll love it!



Ingredients:

1/2 cup vanilla soy milk
2 tsps sugar (can't be helped)
Rooibos Tea (often called Red Tea or White Tea - don't know why they can't decide, but look at the box and it should say Rooibos)
Hot water - duh






Heat your water in the kettle, heat your soy milk in the microwave or steam it however you prefer. Add 2 tsps sugar to the steamed milk. I would NOT recommend using honey instead of sugar. The honey overpowers the rooibos flavor. Add your tea bag and your hot water, let it steep a bit and there you go. Leave the bag in. It won't get too strong like a black tea.






And if you want the full experience, put it in a to-go cup with a lid, write your name on it, and have a loved one yell out "Grande Soy Vanilla Rooibos Latte for Cari at the Bar". Ahhhhh. Joy in a cup.


And that, my friends, is as close to a recipe as you are going to get on this blog.

Back to the empty nest

The nest is empty. The chick has flown the coop. Wait, is she a robin or a chicken? I think I'm mixing my metaphors. Were those metaphors? The youngest daughter went back to college after a week of spring break and it's just us two old folks left. That's what I'm trying to say.

Is it just me, or does Spring break feel like a national holiday and I wasn't invited? Maybe it's just because one daughter is a student and the other a teacher. But it seems like everyone I know was on a break last week while I worked. It was a nice "break" to have Tessa home for the duration. Cocooning was her spring break plan, and I'd say she did it well. Now I miss her and it hasn't even been 24 hours.

It's such a pleasure to actually like your children. That was always my goal while raising them. Let me be clear - my goal was not to get my children to like me. I think they do now actually enjoy my company, but that wasn't the goal of parenting. I wanted them to learn to be well behaved, to contribute to the family and society in a positive way, to be respectful to others - all in an age appropriate manner. Of course, I also wanted them to learn to think independently, to love learning and books, to be compassionate, to love God.

All that to say, I just like hanging out with my kids.

Disambiguation

Entropy (disambiguation) - in thermodynamics, is a measure of the
unavailability of a system's energy to do work.

My system's energy is unavailable to do work today. All my system's energy wants to do is laze around the house, read a good book, sip rooibos tea. My system could probably manage to muster enough energy to put some order into my house because...

Second Law of Thermodynamics: Things naturally move from a state of order to disorder

If anyone needs a model of the second law of thermodynamics for a science experiment, they may look at my house right now. Any room moves from order to disorder at twice the speed of light.

It takes a great deal of energy just to maintain order, much less improve upon life. Our bodies age despite our efforts to maintain our youth. Our minds become cloudy and atrophied without constant effort to keep those synapses firing. You can pretty much apply these laws to every area of our existence.

I'm thinking maybe simplicity is the key. The simpler the system, the easier it is to maintain and the less energy it takes to keep order.

Dazed and confused

What day is it? I think I completely missed St. Patrick's Day. Not that that's a big holiday for me. I was always irritated in elementary school when I forgot to wear green and got pinched. Who thought that one up? Did St. Patrick really decree that everyone should wear green and go around pinching each other? It got really irritating when I grew up and people still did the pinching thing at the office. Seriously. Can we please act like adults? Besides, I bruise easily.

March 17 is more remembered in my family for my Grandpa Metz, who passed away last fall. It was his birthday. I think there might have been a little Irish in him, but he was mostly of German descent. I still catch myself thinking I need to go visit, but then startle with the realization that that entire generation is now gone.

I think today is Thursday. Can anyone confirm that?

Tessa is home for Spring Break, much to her disgust, since ALL her friends went somewhere fabulous for the week. Probably kind of like how ALL her friends had Furbies, or ALL her friends got new cars when they turned sixteen. But I'm enjoying having her home. She sweet talked her Daddy into going to rent a movie last night and we watched Australia, which is a movie of epic proportions. I thought we were done when Hugh Jackman and that woman whho is actually from Australia - you know, the one who used to be married to that guy who likes to jump on couches. I'm telling you, my brain is fried. Nicole Kidman. That's it. Anyway, when Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman finally got together and it looked like there was going to be a happily every after ending, that was the start of a whole 'nother movie!

Anyway, I'm thinking it's Thursday, which means it's not Saturday, and I still need to go to work. Maybe a Starbucks will bring me into the present. Sounds like as good a reason as any to spend $5 on a cup of coffee.

Don't talk to me until at least 10:00a.m.

The family has been passing around a few emails about our planned June trip to Portland, Oregon. I returned one email with what Tessa described as "very direct" response, i.e. rude! Which somehow got us on the topic of trying to be nice to people when we don't feel like being nice at all, or when tired, or when distracted by other things. Many of us claim to be introverts and I think I'm in that group. No, I know I'm in that group. I'm not the uni bomber. I don't want to live in a shack in the woods and plot evil. I want to connect with others. But being with people is often an energy drain rather than an energy gain. I need some recovery time.

One lesson extrovert Mark has struggled to learn is my desire for a calm and talk-free morning routine. Nothing makes me crankier than a chipper verbal greeting and a big hug to greet the dawn. And when I'm fixing my oatmeal, there is no need to choose that moment to fill ones cereal bowl, dig for a spoon, reach around me to open the fridge for the milk. One could wait 30 seconds and have the kitchen all to ones self. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

I've been trying to think what else is in the energy-gain category for me: Being creative, learning something new, helping one of my daughters with a project, organizing things, finding some alone time to read a book or putter around the house. Nice. I wonder how I could restructure my world to include more of those things. At my age I want the how-I-spend-my-time scale to be tipping way over to the side of energy gaining activities. Or at least tipping more towards peace and contentment.

Slippery Slope

We're back home and oh so weary. After the adrenaline push of days of trying to keep it all together and being strong for others, we may come crashing down today. But it's probably only the beginning of a long journey.

Anyway, Mark turns 50 in June, so I thought I'd start a running list of things we need to save our money for. And because, well, I just love a good list on a Monday.

• Depends
• Pill box with the days of the week in large print
• Volume enhanced phone
• Shower chair
• Doorbell that makes the lights flicker
• Large print books
• Household staff

Did I mention that while in Wichita we went to the medical equipment supply store? It was like a wonderland of gadgets to help folks live independently. I'm telling you right now, and remember you heard it here, that's the business to be in. These stores are few and far between and the mark up it apparently very high. Actually, the business to be in would be for used medical equipment. Where does all that stuff go when it's no longer needed? Basements/garages? Craigslist?

One other thing I've been pondering for a few days. What is the origin of doilies? I'm gonna have to research that one.

Life goes on...

Gpa Bob had his heart cath thing done late yesterday evening. No good news though. There is too much damage and blockage to repair. We all went to bed last night with heavy hearts but also joyful hearts because our man Bob is such a good and godly man and we can still hope for much more time with him, with perhaps an altered lifestyle.

Now there's a man who likes to keep busy. I think of him as a kind of Midwestern renaissance man. Since his retirement 20 years ago he has developed a love of cooking and baking, always eager to share a new recipe or new ingredient. He also loves to paint (by number) and the house is now filled with scenes of tranquil life painted on canvas and always seasonally appropriate. Is it snowing? He's got a painting for that. Is it spring and the trees starting to bud? He's got a painting for that. Need a music scene for over the piano? He's got a painting for that.

He's always been a HAM enthusiast. As a radioman in the navy he learned Morse Code and can still pound it out with the best of them, although I think most of his amateur radio contacts are by voice these days. A new issue of QST - apparently "the official journal of The National Association for Amateur Radio" came in the mail yesterday. I was reluctant to send it on to the hospital since I was hoping to read it myself. A recent issue I picked up by his recliner tempted me with headlines about DV Dongles and RF Ammeters and "eliminating fears of SMDs". Frankly, I thought they had a pill for that now days.

We'll be having a family pow-wow I'm thinking, as soon as brother Bob flies in from Arizona. For now I'm off to the medical equipment supply store to find an affordable shower transfer chair for MPML. It's amazing what you can find on Craig's List, but so far I haven't found exactly what we need.

OK, now that you've nodded of, I think I'll end this post.

My friend is 50!

A life long friend of mine had her 50th birthday this week. Some people come and go, and some seem to become a permanent part of your life. My early memories of her are of us playing together on my Grandma Johnson's living room floor. Grandma Johnson was a sewer and a quilter, and she had made us some matching outfits out of scraps that were cuter than anything you could buy at the store. In fact, I remember my Grandma made her the sweetest bedspread for her canopy bed out of pink gingham.

She was physically much more mature than I, with an early onset of curves and a tiny little waste that most grown women would die for. As we got older she had a ridiculous crush on this scrawny guy with a gelmet. Seriously, the guy had no balls at all. I never really knew what she saw in him with his early 70's spandex outfits. She had a little sister who was as flat as a pancake and it was always funny to see the two of them side by side. Nobody ever said life was fair.

It was her pink convertible that I was most jealous of. Long before I could drive she was jetting around with the top down, stopping at her dream house only long enough to change into yet another sparkly set of clothes before heading out to another party or tennis match. OK, I was also jealous of those tiny feet that slipped so easily into impossibly high heals while I skipped along in my Keds.

That woman never seems to age either. By the time my own children came along, she was just as slim and curvaceous as always, but with even better hair and a darker tan. Some people warned me not to let my impressionable young daughters associate with her. After all, with her impossibly perfect face and figure, she might somehow send them the message that they weren't good enough - that all women were supposed to look like her. But I ignored the warnings, and I think my daughters turned out just fine. I hope to someday introduce my granddaughters to this fabulous, ageless friend.

I recently came across some picture of what she looked like when we first met. Seriously, we should all be so lucky to age as well.

The following blog entry is rated PG for brief nudity and immature subject matter

Still at the in-laws. For some reason today seems to have a high "ewww" factor. For example I ran down to the finished basement to make use of the facilities because the upstairs facilities were occupado. While, you know, doing my business, I started feeling drips on my head and hearing unusual sounds of water running in the wall behind me. Here's a tip. Never, I say NEVER, look up when you feel drips on your head.

Thinking the worst (did she pass out in the tub?) I raced like a mad woman up the stairs and knocked on the upstairs bathroom door, only to discover MPML (My Precious Mother-In-Law) helplessly trying to stem the tide, stop the flow, call down the plumber gods for assistance with an overflowing toilet...to no avail. I'm pretty handy with a plunger, but there was no quick fix here. MPML and her walker were scooted out the door, towels and a mop were applied, the plumber was called. Remember the drips on my head? Now I think I need a shower.

Another free tip because I'm here to serve. If you're talking to anyone from what Tom Brokaw called the greatest generation (and I have to agree with him), never ask them in an off hand way how their parents managed birth control back in the day. You might get a startlingly specific answer.

In other news...there is no other news. Nothing new from the cardiac care unit. Just lots of waiting while everyone's life is on hold and at the mercy of an apparently very busy cardiologist.

So that's been my day. How's yours?

It's not the Hilton

Hanging out in Newton with precious Grandma Dot (my mother-in-law) while Mark hangs out with his Dad in the Cardiac Care Unit in Wichita. Somebody, who shall remain nameless but whose initials are Grandpa Bob, ignored signs of serious heart problems for, oh a day or a week or, mmm, maybe a whole month. When he finally called the doc he was instructed to report to the emergency room stat. Isn't that how they talk in the medical field? We need 5 cc's of heptapheranagan and then push 4 cc's of globomadaphin stat. His BP is 200 over 950.

At least that's what I heard when we arrived in a rush last night. It's all so much gobbledygook to us lay persons. Except for the blood pressure being over 200. That was fo'real! Thus the all expenses (not) paid trip to a luxury suite in the cardiac unit.

Prayers are appreciated.

You probably had to have been there

When Tessa comes home from The State's University it's an event. We're expected to offer a standing ovation and post welcome signs and hire a band and, well, I'm getting a little carried away. But it IS a big deal when the nest gets filled back up, even briefly, with either of our daughters or our son-in-law.

When Tessa comes home she often uses my dressing table to get herself ready for whatever the next thing is that requires more than her "I'm at home and no one can see me" uniform of sofie shorts, a sweatshirt stolen from my closet and a makeup-free face. She often leaves some of the essentials of beauty back at the sorority house, since her arms are full of laundry and books when she makes her entrance. And she knows my chi is her chi. My blush, her blush.

The last time she was home though, she had a few words of admonition for me. Apparently my collection of beauty products is, well, pathetic. A woman of a certain age, she instructed, would typically have more invested in her beauty products.

What can I say. I'm low maintenance.

When I heard she was headed to the mall I hitched a ride in hopes she would take me by the hand and show me the wonders of Sephora. And she did. She scoured the store looking for just the right shade of eye shadow, a self-sharpening eyeliner and a really good makeup brush. She definitely knows her stuff.

My one contribution was to suggest looking for an eye shadow primer to help that expensive eye shadow stay put. We rounded up one of the many roving Sephora experts, who was happy to show us three options. If you've frequented these types of places, you know they have samples open for you to try. Except the one brand I wanted to try didn't have an open sample.

Stick with me. I have a point.

We stood there and watched her open a brand new primer, stroke it across the back of Tessa's hand to demonstrate, then wait while we decided on our purchase. Tessa went with another brand, but I wanted the brand we had just sampled. It made perfect sense to me to just grab the sample out of the woman's hand. We opened it ten seconds ago, for pete's sake. Why waste it! Apparently that's just not done. After a brief game of tug-of-war, the Sephora woman won, insisting that I should take an unopened primer. No amount of my low-maintenance, mother-who-apparently-doesn't-get-out-much logic would convince her otherwise.

At one point in the brief wrestling match I looked over at Tessa for moral support but she had miraculously teleported herself to the far corner of the store and was engrossed in reading the fine print on a $50 tube of mascara like there was going to be a pop quiz. Judging by the disappearing routine, I was doing it all wrong. Fine. I'll take the stupid unopened tube and get the heck out of Dodge before humiliating my makeup savant any further.

Apparently you can dress me up, but you can't take me anywhere but Walmart.

Cari's Infinite Playlist

Right now I'm listening to Nora Jones sing Come Away With Me on Pandora and that song and her voice never fail to take me back to a bittersweet time in my life. I'm instantly transported to an airplane. It's dark enough to hide the tears dripping off my chin and the hum of the engines is loud enough to drown out my quiet sobs. It's the first time I've heard Norah Jones and her voice is hauntingly beautiful and deeply moving. But that voice just deepens the sorrow of having said good-bye to my precious 16-year-old Angela. Mark, Tessa and I are flying off to live in South Africa, and we've turned Angela over to four sets of loving parents who have vowed to watch over, protect and provide for her while she finishes her senior year in high school.

For me, music can instantly transport.

Any time I hear Fly Like An Eagle (Steve Miller Band) I'm back in high school in the only art class I ever took. I loved that class. Conservative little me, my friend Dan, and a bunch of potheads. Good times.

Anything Elton John from the 70's - Bennie and the Jets, Rocket Man - and I'm on the bus with my youth group, trying to ignore the couple making out in the seats across the isle.

Down to the Moon by Andreas Vollenwieder - I'm resting on a couch with my walkman, belly huge, counting minutes between contractions a few hours before Angela made her debut.

Raffi singing Mary Wore Her Red Dress and I'm in the Caravan, driving toddler and pre-schooler to play dates and gymnastics. Does anyone listen to Raffi any more?

1990s Techno music - I'm in a taxi in Bulgaria, careening down the trolley track praying a trolley is not around the next curve.

You get the point. Like most of us, I can trace the path of my life through music. Even more interesting is the way in which that music was delivered. Radio, records, cassettes, 8-tracks, CDs, MP3 players, iPod, Pandora.

Have you seen the movie Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist? Is it just me or does it seem like a modern day version of American Graffiti? Watch both and tell me if you don't see the similarities. Love both movies.

I think that's a good metaphor for my life - Cari's Infinite Playlist. Keep the good songs coming!

Tell Obama to legislate a 4 day work week and we can all volunteer on the 5th day.

Mark took the day off today to volunteer for a project with friend Berry. The Wilds of BLC do a spaghetti fundraiser thing twice a year and Mark has his favorite jobs. On Wednesday he spent the evening browning about 85 pounds of burger. Now that's a lot of burger. That would give me carpal tunnel. I really hate browning burger. At our house, Mark usually steps in because I 1)hate it 2) usually burn it due to impatience 3) don't get the nice, fine particles like he does. So he came home REEKING like he was working the grill at Irma's Burger Shack. The dogs loved him though. They wanted to lick his shirt or just chew on him for a while. I requested he pass GO and not collect $200 (or a kiss, which is usually what he wants to collect when walking in the door).

Today's job is to cook sauce for the 700 plus spaghetti lunches that will be delivered all over OKC. Hope he showers before I get home. But isn't he a good guy to take a vacation day to do this? Berry's a good friend and his program is well worth it.

There's lots of philanthropy going on in the fam right now. In addition to Mark's efforts, Angela's 5th grade class is collecting cans to cash in and contribute to this fund. Nephew Austin is collecting cash for this project.

Cool stuff. Makes a wife/mama/auntie proud.

Gotta love twitter

My daughters are smarter than this

Ode To The Bachelor

Train wreck
Rubber neck
It's not me, it's you
Bad hair
Dirty underwear
What's a girl to do

Yes folks, it was a train wreck and we watched, just like those folks on the highway who can't help but slow down and rubber neck, hoping to see a dead body on the side of the road. And there were dead bodies. But it's not you, it's me, he says. Meaning, it's so you and I'm outa hear faster than you can say "Hi, my name is Jason, and I make stunningly bad choices".

Hi Jason.

Frankly, I was shocked he didn't change his mind again after seeing Molly's hair. Seriously, you're seeing the man you love and lost, and on national television, and that's what you chose to do with your hair? I read on Chris This-Is-The-Final-Rose-Harrison's blog that the women do their own hair and makeup. Um, yeah.

Airing your dirty laundry on national television makes for good ratings I suppose. Jerry Springer for Prime Time. But I can't say much. I watched. I couldn't help myself.

His voice is a part of my childhood

Paul Harvey died yesterday at the age of 90. For me his voice is eternally connected to my grandmother's house here in Oklahoma. My grandmother listened to the radio a good part of the day, often in hopes of winning that ever elusive big cash prize that a local radio station offered. Paul Harvey's voice reminds me of her perfectly fried chicken, fried okra, steaming, buttered mashed potatoes, and sweet tea.

Even as I child I was drawn to his distinctive voice. It held an unusual mix of warmth and authority. I would wait patiently through his news commentary-"Stand by for news"- liberally sprinkled with his personal product endorsements, to get to the best part; a short, chronological biography of a famous person. The identity could only be guessed until the end, when Mr. Harvey revealed the identity and finished with the iconic "and that's (pause for emphasis), the rest of the story."

And of course, he was an Oklahoma native, born in Tulsa. We're just made of good stuff here.

"Good Day!"