This is not, I repeat NOT one of those you know, holiday letters!

December, 2011

Dear Dear Ones,

As I look at the calendar, I see it is that time of the year – for singing and eating and drinking, making merriment with family and friends. And catching up.

No, silly, this is NOT one of those letters!

Over the past year, I look and see I have many reasons to be oh-so grateful – I got a job, yippee, and really, really like it! My son Tyler got a great job, is ensconced in a cool apartment in Denver and living the good life. My son TJ and his lovely wife, Emily, far, far away in Illinois, produced and directed the ever-enchanting Violet, my newest granddaughter (and I got to see her, hold her, burp her, change her diaper, feed her – and most precious of all, sing to her and rock her to sleep – and smell that baby smell, the most heady perfume in the world).

I palled around in Boise with my grandson Max, now a young man of 7(!). We trudged into the Boise foothills, went to the park, took Karate lessons (I didn’t, he did) skied on Bogus Basin, went to church, a parade, the zoo, the circus (and an elephant ride!), the fair (he milked a cow!), the movies, the pumpkin patch, the mall. Everywhere I go with Max, we talk and talk, sometimes we sing and we always laugh.

I also got to get a little closer to my sweet, shy granddaughter Julia, now nearly 3 and also living in Boise (with Tracy and Joe and Max). Every time she says “hi, Grammy” on the phone, my heart melts a little more. She helped me choose flowers at Edwards Greenhouse – but mostly she wanted to pull the flower wagon! We played at the park, watched a parade, tried to go to church – she’s not much for the big, booming, singing church sounds – but mostly we played games like ring-around-the-rosie and hide-and-seek. She likes to hide in her room in the dark. She’s a great shopping companion and a great little singer and knows every word to the “Winnie-the-Pooh” song.

Don’t worry – this is not one of those letters. You’ll see.

My lovely, beautiful daughter Tracy, my oldest who is now all grown up, is carving out a burgeoning business at Coco Fringe, THE avant-garde salon in Boise. And, she’s a great mom, insists on a family dinner at the table every night, has the cleanest house in town and just goes and goes – she reminds me of my do-it-all-till-it-makes-you-dizzy mom who is no longer with us, but will always be with us. Tracy’s husband, Joe is a real college Joe and has set his sights on the geology field. He also helps with Max’s baseball team and spends hours playing catch and baseball with Max and does his own fair share of getting dinner ready and kids to bed. He loves to mow the lawn and keeps the yard ship-shape.

My husband Bob and I were happy we got to go to the Oregon Coast for a summer trip. The weather was perfect, we squenched our toes in the sand and let the sound of the surf lull us into a state of Nirvana. We met Bob’s parents there, Sara and Ralph and just gallivanted like beach bums. My favorite memory is when we built a bonfire on the beach and the seagulls ate out of Ralph’s hand.

(I promise, this is definitely not one of those long, boring happy holiday, this is what we did this year letters.)

It was a big year for Bob – he celebrated his 50th birthday by leaping out of a plane – and yes, he did have a parachute strapped on! He became the president of the board at TVCTV and works hard at the VSA, both non-profits – when he’s not creating some fabulous Bob Neal art, that is. He finished up his commission with the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step project and most recently donated a beautiful Dick and Jane style painting for a benefit art show.

Even though we have much to be grateful for, I sadly will say it has not all been roses. As with all life, we’ve had our ups and downs and we have lost some very special people in our lives. Bob lost his Uncle Lew and cousin Mark; on my side, my dear brother Dan and Aunt Alice.

But with Dan’s passing to that old grave robber cancer, came a rekindled closeness with my nephew Ken and niece Dana. Ken, who has always been more like a little brother to me, will, I hope, remain so. Dana, Dan’s lovely daughter, I hope will become a regular fixture in our lives.

(Don’t worry – this letter, not one of those, is almost over.)

Also with Dan’s passing as a side note: I am the last living member of the family I grew up with. Kind of weird. There’s nobody left alive who can corroborate or dispute any of my memories. Hmm.

Our faithful furry friends are fine. This year has been good to Payton, he has spent hours running amok in the foothills, off-leash and loving it. Hasn’t bitten a single soul. Mister, who has seemed in some sort of hibernation or stupor for the past few years, suddenly rallied after he killed and ate a mouse – I think it woke up the animal inside. Whatever the reason, he has a renewed bounce in his step, which is a feat in and of itself, considering he is one of the fattest cats I’ve ever seen.

Another pet note, on the sorrier side – Mister lost his cousin, Clawdia, Bob’s brother and sister-in-law’s cat and much beloved friend and family member. (To Mike and Rachel from all of us, our condolences. It is hard to lose a friend.)

My New Year’s resolutions: I will try to be a better person. I will try to turn down the volume on gossip – but I do love it so! I will try to be a better mom, with a less critical voice (it’s true, I can be harpy) and loving, hugging arms. I will try to be a better Grammy (I wish I could clone myself and just be a Grammy here and in Illinois, 24-7). I will try to be a better wife and try not to tell Bob what I think he should do (tongue biting! Tongue biting!). Most of all I will try to be a better me. And I will try to remind me to be happy and joyous each and every day I am here. It is a gift and I often take it for granted. Bad me.

I suppose that’s about it for this year. I hope you and yours are happy and healthy. Aren’t you glad I didn’t send one of those end-of-the-year, boring, guess-what-we-did letters?

Happy holidays,

Jeanne and Bob

You don’t need that latte!

I’ve got something — actually someONE — who rates head and shoulders over your afternoon caffeine fix.

His name is KC (his friends call him “Kace). He’s 12 years old and his Gramma (my friend and workmate) says “He’s a total social butterfly – laughing and smiling all the time. He loves everyone, loves school and his family.”

And, oh, yeah — KC has Angelman Syndrome.

It limits his speech, motor skills and communication.

But — someone in little ole Boise, Idaho has come up with software that could help KC — and other kids like him.

OneVoice – it’s a software for the iPad, and it has pictures for differently-abled people to touch so they can communicate with their family members, teachers and anyone else they need to “speak” with. According to KC’s Gramma “It is an amazing program!”

She is trying to raise money to get KC the iPad and the software. She’s about halfway there and I will vouch for her, this is not one of those I’m-the-king-of-Moldavia-and-you-have-won-the-lottery gimmicks.

This is for real.

And so is KC.

And so is his chance to finally say what he wants to say.

I say, let’s give him that chance.

Here’s the link:
Chip in for KC

Strange days

Have you had an exceptionally weird week? I think I can stand up and proudly say: I HAVE!

The first weird thing came from one of my Facebook friends. Now, even if you are one of my 400+ friends (I know, I know, that sounds like a lot but I started out “Friend”-ing every Tom, Dick and Harry, so to speak; I’ve mellowed out a bit on that front), I dare you to try to figure out who sent me the message about how the great state of Kansas outrageously, egregiously bans the sale of um, er, what I like to call “pleasure givers.” I hope you’re with me because I don’t want to spell this one out, if you know what I mean.

And, just in case one of you happens to get a likewise seemingly ridiculous message from one of your old time, high school or college buddies, don’t jump to conclusions and guffaw, posting the cut-and-pasted message on his or her Wall with “OMG — some one hijacked your Facebook ID and sent me this crazy thing — can you believe it?!” — like I did.

It turns out that he or she may have had a totally legit reason and wasn’t out of his or her mind at all. And she — or he — definitely did NOT want the er, potentially embarrassing and possibly mortifying tidbit on his or her Wall for all his or her friends to see. (Thank goodness you have a “delete” option, Facebook — thanks Zuckerberg!)

True, they may have had a glass of wine or two prior to posting the message and their judgement might have been a tad impaired by some sort of inebriating substance — but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a point.

The point is — I hope you’re still following me on this because I feel dreadfully close to losing my place here — there is nothing wrong with getting a little pleasure out of life — I endorse it. And as for it being — WHAT? ILLEGAL?? — that just goes beyond the pale.

So come on, Kansas — and Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Texas, Louisiana and Virginia. Get on the stick — and I mean that literally.

Some of us don’t lead a movie-star life. We can’t afford to jet-set around and we don’t have the money — or the inclination — to jump out of a plane on a daily basis.

We just wanna have fun.

Okay, so that was the first weird thing. And it took my whole lunch hour to tell you about it. Whew! The rest of the story? It’s coming…

Finally

T.J.’s Poem

Bert’s in the train,
Ernie’s in the way,
Bear wants cake,
Kitty wants to play.
Bunny wants to swim,
Lion’s got some flowers,
Mickey’s saying “hi” to Donald.
Puppy is hungry,
Big Bird has a balloon.
Bambi is curious,
And elephant’s blue
– TJ Gaylord, at the age of 5, circa 1989

Poetry of life

Bob and I went to see a movie at the dollar movies (not really a dollar anymore, but close enough) over the weekend. “Tree of Life.” It is more poem than movie and after coming home and reading a couple of pretentious reviews, I almost think I know what it’s about.

It did get me to thinking that poetry can be found in almost anything, anywhere.

I have always been a fan of poetry and so when my youngest, TJ, spouted off with a poem at the age of 5, I thought wow — a child prodigy.

Alas, the poem, I found out, was more a stream-of-consciousness, visual exercise than a genius work of art — he constructed the poem about his favorite TV and book characters while looking at them on the back of one of his Golden Books.

Then again — beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dad always said, and art in any version is pretty much the same. If you want proof, go see “Tree of Life.”

In the meantime, here is the image that inspired TJ’s prodigal poem. And don’t worry — the poem is to come.

Showdown at the sloppy joe corral

I was listening to an interview with the ever-bombastic Keith Olberman on NPR the other day and found myself shaking my head with a smile on my face more than once. That guy knows his way around a dictionary and a thesaurus, blindfolded, I bet!

Then, when I was leafing through an old notebook of my own writings, I came across something that made me think: “Damn — I coulda been a contender!”

Here is a letter I wrote at 11:30 p.m. on Aug. 13, 1989 in Olathe, Kansas:

Dear Sirs,

I just viewed your “Hormel Sloppy Joe vs Manwich” commercial for the first time. I must tell you, I found it highly offensive. The violence portrayed by the mock bullet hole-in-sauce was enough to thoroughly insult me both as non-committal viewer as well as possible consumer, but the red, oozing theatric of the lumpy liquid was quite insensitively unnecessary and totally overdone!
This procedure, too closely correlating a human shot gun-at-the-OK-Corral scene, going so far as to depict ketchup-stain imitation blood, caused me great distress, dismay, outrage and yes, repulsion. I can only cringe in horror at the rapidly approaching certain viewing of this wretched commercial by my non-violent, peace-loving and innocent three young children. How alarmed they will surely be at the sight of their present-day favorite Friday night supper as it dribbles death-like down the shirt-front jar of the visibly labeled, although somewhat stained and marred Sloppy Joe Mix. How disgusted they will certainly feel when they watch, unable to pull their eyes away from the fascinatingly macabre and grotesquely riveting meal at hand.
Is this “meal,” depicted now and forever in our tainted minds as a gun shot wounded, dying, chunky-tomato sauce-dripping outlaw, brazenly being marketed as cannibalism, dressed up in a jar?
Preposterous?
How then explain to my 4 1/2 and 6 year old the too familiar similarities between the visuals of this commercial and a cowboy shoot-out?
The stains like blood down a shirt front vs thickened ketchup oozing from bullet-shaped (and bullet-sound effected) holes in the sauce jars?
I believe this commercial to be totally mired in bad taste. As a past consumer of your product, I request that you pull this disgusting charade of marketing pulp off the video air waves. It is disgusting, offending and against all basic mores and agreed laws of life. This corrupting segment of visual garbage should be tossed back into the stockheap of unwanted, unused, unusable and unacceptable toxic-waste commercials — exactly from where it most evidently came.
Word of advice: Use material that makes people watch in happy, mindlessly wondrous fascination — not grotesquely staring in morbid dementia. I think it will work better in selling a food product.
Sincerely,

Jeanne Huff

We’ve come a long way, baby

(That’s me, on September 11, 1984, TJ’s birthday!)

My son TJ and his wife, lovely Emily, are going to have a baby. A girl!

Another granddaughter and I am thrilled!

And the other day, when I was going through a memory box, trying to weed out the stuff I keep and keep — and sometimes wonder why — I ran across some papers in an envelope.

And they made me smile.

When I had my daughter Tracy in 1978, there really wasn’t too much you could do about “natural childbirth” unless you were like my dear great friend Holly who bravely gave birth in the comfort of her own home. I was more of a chicken, I guess, and just did what the doctors told me to do. Because of that, it was a partly humiliating, horrible experience, on top of the most joyous miracle of giving birth to my very first and glorious daughter.

I was always kind of angry about how I felt I’d been cheated out of the more total beautiful experience a bit by my savage doctors who just did whatever they wanted. Shave, snip, strap.

So when I became pregnant with my son Tyler and then TJ, I decided to take what I could into my own hands. Although the idea of having the babies at home was enticing, my new doctor talked me into having them in a “home-like” hospital room, a new-fangled thing called a birthing room and all the really hip hospitals were doing it. My husband and I went to Lamaze birthing classes and we learned how to breathe our way through contractions. I spent days recording my favorite songs — Billy Joel’s Allentown and Hungry Like the Wolf, I think.

And I worked up a list of do’s and don’ts for the hospital. That list is what I found in my memory box the other day.
hosp

(Click on the “hosp” link, above, if you’d like to have a chuckle. I like how I used the word “please” and typed — mind you, that is from a typewriter! — in ALL CAPS AS IF I WERE SHOUTING AT THE HOSPITAL PERSONNEL.)

It worked pretty good, too. I won’t go into the details, but I was able to enjoy joy of the birthing experience, same as before, but without some of the frustration and pain — it probably helps not to be so naive about it all, too. I am POSITIVE Emily will have a great time.

Here’s me in the birthing room with my little sweet visitor, Tracy — I love this photo!

Mind your own bees-wax

There used to be this commercial about Off bug repellent and it had this mosquito cage a guy could put his arm inside. You could see about a million mosquitoes swarm and bite the guy’s hand. Then, he sprays his arm with Off and sticks it back in. The mosquitoes just fly around, but as the tag line said: THEY DON’T BITE — THEY DON’T EVEN LITE.
When we were kids, my brother Bill (five years older than me) and I used to watch that commercial but we knew we didn’t need Off to protect us — we thought if we held our breath while a mosquito tried to bite, our skin would close up all its pores and we would be bug proof — the mosquito wouldn’t be able to get past our closed-up pores. It was like having armor. My dad told this to us and of course, we believed him. And when Bill would get a mosquito bite anyway, even after he’d been positive, absolutely sure he’d held his breath, my dad would say he must’ve taken a breath at some point. Too bad. All you have to do is just hold your breath.
After a while, Bill and I got tired of trying to hold our breath all the time — after all, we lived in Missouri and Kansas and there were lots and lots of mosquitoes in the summertime. It wasn’t that we didn’t believe dad — he seemed really serious and sincere when he told us and kept telling us and kept cheering us on to keep trying — we just got used to the fact we obviously weren’t great breath-holders and kind of got defeated about the possibility of winning in this cunning mosquito game.
Then one day, my dad extended the story to include bees. And when you think about it, that does make a sort of sense — if your pores are closed tight, forming an impenetrable barrier, like a force-field around your entire body — well, then, any insect with a stinger just was out of luck. Case closed. Bill and I nodded but we both knew how bad we already were with the mosquitoes and that just meant more Calamine lotion. But bees… if we took a breath at the wrong time with a bee to contend with, well, that just sounded like crazy talk. We both shrugged our shoulders and just steered clear of bees and that seemed to settle things.
That is, until my friend Tina Venn, who really loved my dad and believed him to the core — and who was the best at everything she ever tried in her life — took his bee theory to the test one day.
Tina, who was probably about 9, her little sister, Tammy, 8, her older sister Terri and me — we were both about 10 or 11, were playing out in the woods on a hot sunny summer day. We weren’t riding that day, although we often did ride the Shetland ponies (my favorite was Pally O’Paint); we were playing games and exploring. We had all ducked underneath a small bridge to cool off and that’s when we heard it — a big noise, kind of a rumbling hum. We ran out from underneath the bridge — smack dab into a swarm of bees! All of us went running as fast as greased lightning and screaming of course — all except Tina.
I remember looking over my shoulder and there she was, as stiff as a statue. She had stopped in mid-run and stood there as if she had been tagged in a game of freeze-tag. I knew she was holding her breath.
We all ran back to the house and waited, wheezing and catching our breath — and wondering if Tina would show those bees who was boss. A few minutes later, though, Tina came up the drive and she was crying.
But they weren’t hurt tears — they were tears of fury.
“Ken!” she called out to my dad, who had come out on the front porch and was listening to our tale as we each took turns telling it. “Ken — you lied to me! I held my breath and stood still and those bees stung me anyway!”
“But Tina,” my dad said, “they were waiting — and they must have stung you when you took a breath. You’ll just have to practice and try again next time.”
I don’t think Tina did ever try that again — and neither did any of us. Bill once told me that he bet my dad never tried it either.
When I grew up and one day asked my dad about the mosquito/bee story, and challenged him about it being true, he just smiled and said, “You do have to hold your breath a long time — or it won’t work.”

Julie Huff (01-15-18 – 06-15-2000) and me, Jeanne Huff, circa 1995

Julia and Jeanne Huff, 1995

Treasure hunts, wet cats and memoirs

The other night I was bemoaning to Bob the fact that I had gone to a great place and, if I was still doing my Treasure Hunt newspaper column, I would certainly write about the experience. Then — just like one of the smoke hazed revelations of my youth — I thought, I don’t need a newspaper, I have a blog!
And so, ladies and gentlemen, witness the return of Treasure Hunt, where I go out and about and write about what I find.
All this because I really, really, really want to write about John Berryhill’s new breakfast stop, “Bacon.”
It’s right around the corner from the restaurant and is less like a cafe and more like a counter with some tables, chairs and there might even be a couch. You order — bacon is $1.25 a slice and there are like eight versions, including Berryhill Bacon (the one that started it all) and yes, chocolate covered bacon. All I can say is, you have to try it.
There is a variety of baked goods and you can also order steamed eggs and such.
When I went, I ordered the Berryhill Bacon (it comes to the table in a paper cup, with the top of the bacon draped over the edge). It is savory and sweet and really tasty.
My son was with me — he was in town for a friend’s wedding — and he ordered Kurobuta bacon. This one was strictly savory and had some sort of herbs sprinkled on.
I also had the bacon and white cheddar scone (the last one!) and Tyler ordered a giant pretzel, like the ones you get at the mall only better.
It’s a fun place to trade snips of bacon, talk and look out the big windows onto the day. And really, how can you go wrong when bacon is the centerpiece of the menu?

Cats really don’t like water
Some of you who know me from Facebook will already be aware that I gave our cat Mister a bath the other day. I wore gloves (they are special cat handling gloves I got at Petsmart), an apron (the kind that ties at the neck and waist, to better cover you, my dear), jeans jacket and heavy jeans. Suffice it to say — not near enough padding. I believe I would have needed metal-plated armor and even then, if there had been seams of some kind, you know any place a thin sliver of a claw could snag into, well, I think you can guess what could happen. And of course, it did. I did not come away unscathed but Mister did come away scented with baby shampoo smell (much improved) and a fluffy sort of cat coat. But there were moments of that bath when I really knew I was dealing with an animal that was in the fight or flight mode (he chose fight!) and I was on the answering side of his be-fanged and some 20-clawed weapons of mass destruction. Thank God for a kitchen hose that works!

Memoirs
My brother Dan died on Friday, May 13. My dad died March 21, 2004 and my mom died June 15, 2000. My brother Bill died in August 1995 and I hate that I can’t remember the day.
I guess what I’m saying is, I miss them. My family, the folks I grew up with and who knew me and I knew them, I don’t know, probably more than you ever know most people. It is sad to lose those people who care about you and know all your soap opera life and which year you did what boneheaded thing and remember when mom got so mad when we found her driver’s license and knew how old she really was? And remember when dad drank too much beer and couldn’t pee and had to go to the hospital? When my cat terrorized mom’s bridge club? When Uncle Al jumped into the river looking for his glasses he’d dropped in? When Dan got stuck in Africa? When Bill put chocolate syrup on the mashed potatoes (he thought it was ice cream) and then ate it anyway?
You don’t know those stories. Now, nobody knows them but me.
I think it is my duty to give some of these stories to you so I won’t be the only one holding the bag. It’s too much for one person to handle, at least that is what I’m telling myself. I think really, I just want some company.
So if you’re so inclined to read them, I am inviting you to come back from time to time for some of my family stories. Some of them are doozies.