Everyday Life

When we lived inside Wichita city limits, where our power was provided by the massive energy company Westar, we called about trees encroaching on our power line – only to have the power company tell us that they would only take responsibility for the alley line. Once the power line split off from the alley to service our neighbor and us? We were on our own.

And maybe that’s the norm. I certainly don’t know. That was the first home either Daniel or I had ever owned. But we hired an arborist to come out and trim our line – and to do a little extra work around the yard too.

Then we moved to Prairie Elms, where we have all sorts of prairie weed trees (aka Eastern Red Cedar) and tall but scrappy Siberian Elms along our fence line, right underneath our power line. It just so happens that I desire to keep exactly zero of those trees – and even though we are now the proud owners of a rather nice chainsaw (and beaucoup bucks worth of accompanying safety equipment), I don’t feel comfortable with Daniel or I removing almost any of them.

Because, tall trees. Relatively close to the house. Very close to the power line.

I knew we’d need to hire someone to get them removed in the next couple of years before they became a hazard. But I was not looking forward to the prospect of researching arborists again, contracting one, determining the minimum they could do to make it safe for us to do the rest, and paying for the whole bit.

But then I was taking my rest time and I heard a knock at the door. A few minutes later Daniel entered our room to see if I was still awake. The folks with the bucket truck who’ve been in the neighborhood all week are clearing power lines for our electrical co-op. Was I okay if they just took down all the trees under the power line?

Was I okay with it?

It’s a dream come true.

2018 is shaping up to be my kind of year.

It’s a coyote-eat-chicken world out there – and the number of free-range chickens about dwindles as the season drags along.

This proud cock is the only neighborhood free-ranger who still ventures onto Prairie Elms. Louis will be heartbroken when he goes the way of all unsecured prairie chickens.

Once upon a time, when I lived in Lincoln Nebraska, I decided to take up worm composting. I started calling around to all the local bait shops, hoping to find some red wrigglers – the best of composting worms.

I was met with rejection after rejection. “No, we haven’t got any of those.” “Sorry.” “What about…”

Finally, a shopkeeper who I now remember to have a Southern drawl (whether it existed then or not is anybody’s guess) explained: “Ah, ma’am, you can’t find any of those this time of year north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

I thanked him warmly and ordered my worms online from a warmer climate. And from that moment on, the Mason-Dixon line was forever burned into my consciousness as “where they don’t have winter.”

Years later, I moved to Wichita Kansas. It’s still on the plains, shares many similarities with the place of my birth. But the climate is nothing like Lincoln’s. Winter weather here is like those memes about Southern people, emptying the grocery stores whenever more than an inch of snow is forecast. (True Story.)

I was completely baffled by it, totally caught off guard. I’m used to Plains-folk (Midwestern, we sometimes call ourselves, likely to the chagrin of those blizzard-surviving Wisconsin-ites) being tougher than that.

And then, one day, for whatever reason, I was looking up Wichita’s exact location. Latitude 37.68 N. My aha moment had come. Wichita was south of the Mason-Dixon line (39.43 N)

I announced this happily to my husband, thrilled that I had finally found an answer to my “why are Wichitans such wimps?” He, not having had my experience with the red wrigglers (and the corresponding association of “south of the Mason-Dixon line” with “no winter”), was less than impressed.

But it was a groundbreaking discovery for me, and one I think of whenever “winter weather” is predicted for Wichita. I laugh a little internally and roll my eyes: “Southerners”, I think.

To all of you real Southerners out there – and, yes, even to my Wichitan friends – please understand that I mean no slight by this. The reality is that the infrequency of “winter weather” in the south makes it much more likely to be dangerous in smaller quantities. Roads aren’t prepared for it, municipalities cannot justify the purchase of equipment to deal with it, drivers don’t have experience driving in it. Further south than us, homes may not be well equipped for cold snaps. While I might still feel like your reaction to snow is a bit of an overreaction, it’s not unreasonable. But it took the “Mason-Dixon line” for me to realize that Wichitans are not just a wimpy version of Plains-folks but a product of their environment, here where the Plains meets the South (at least insofar as weather is concerned).

Was I six, seven, eight when I first read Kirsten’s Surprise (of the American Girls collection) and decided I desperately wanted to celebrate Santa Lucia Day?

I’m not sure exactly when it was, but it was decades ago. For decades, I’ve been waiting for a chance to celebrate Santa Lucia Day.

Now, I know I tried to celebrate at least once growing up – I remember finding a white gown at a used store and hemming it up so my little sister could wear it for Santa Lucia Day. But, in general, I was (am) full of enthusiasm – and my siblings were less-than-willing participants in my schemes.

So I waited.

I waited until I had a captive audience – children who have little choice but to participate with my schemes.

This year, in other words.

I found a picture book that mentions Santa Lucia Day and checked it out of the library. We unwrapped and read Hanna’s Christmas by Melissa Peterson (illustrated by Melissa Iwai) together on Sunday.

On Monday, we cut out a Santa Lucia crown for Tirzah Mae, covering it with construction paper holly leaves and cardboard candles. We cut out a pointed star boy hat for Louis, too; but he refused to wear it. He wanted a crown like Tirzah Mae’s. So he got a crown too, covered with blue construction paper stars. Tirzah Mae wore her crown to our 40 week prenatal appointment.

She wore her crown all day long Tuesday, proclaiming herself to be “like Hanna”. She requested re-read after re-read after re-read of Hanna’s Christmas. Occasionally, Louis tried to grab Tirzah Mae’s crown, so we got his out for him.

Tuesday evening, I dared labor to start by arranging canned cinnamon rolls onto a cookie sheet in a wreath shape and placing a dollop of cherry pie filling in each. I’d contemplated baking them in advance, so we could still eat them if labor started and I wasn’t prepared to bake them in the morning – but I decided on the dare instead.

My body feinted, but didn’t take the dare. Daniel baked the rolls while I napped after a long night of what I had hoped was the beginning of labor.

We woke the children, put on their crowns, and ate our cinnamon rolls (Mental note: yes, doing the cans was a wise move relative to the uncertainty over baby – but I’m never buying canned cinnamon rolls again. They were gross! But the kids and Daniel still enjoyed them, so we’re all good.)

The beginning of what I hope will be a long tradition of celebrating Santa Lucia Day.

I’m not one to shop local for local’s sake. Trade protectionism, whether on the federal or state or local level, isn’t my gig.

What I am into is three things: bargains, service, and stuff you can’t find anywhere else. And truthfully? It’s highly unlikely you’ll find all three in any one location.

Except maybe at The Heavy Hanger. I was first introduced to The Heavy Hanger one year ago today, on the Saturday after Thanksgiving (sometimes called “Small Business Saturday”). I hosted Thanksgiving for my whole family at Prairie Elms (our home), and one of my sisters felt the need for a new bra right away. She’d looked on the internet for the best place to buy a bra in town and had found The Heavy Hanger.

So a whole contingent of us went down to be fitted. The proprietress was skilled and efficient, finding just the right bras for our diverse and not-found-in-department-store sizes. We were sold. I was sold, even though I didn’t end up purchasing any that day since I had a full supply I’d laboriously bought from Amazon after Louis was born (have you ever shopped for nursing bras online? I bought and sent back probably a dozen different sizes and models before I arrived at something that worked, even if it wasn’t ideal.)

My sisters have since taken special trips down to Wichita to get new bras from the Heavy Hanger. It’s that good. And the last time they were down? It was time for me to start replacing those post-Louis bras. So I got a new bra too. And a new bathing suit with actual support – on clearance for a great price. (The bathing suit I had in my drawer was one I made myself TEN YEARS AGO after I tried fruitlessly to find something sufficiently supportive – so finding a bathing suit with support that fit off the rack and was on sale was kind of a big deal.)

Well, that’s all marvelous, but it’s what happened next that convinced me that The Heavy Hanger was worth its weight in gold. As I passed that magic line last month into “more pregnant than I’ve ever been”, I also experienced the relaxin-induced ligament-loosening that prepares the body for labor. My ribcage expanded and my bra band became really uncomfortable. I toddled off to The Heavy Hanger last week expecting to drop a couple hundred dollars on new bras to get me through the next month of pregnancy.

Instead, the owner listened to my predicament and told me not to waste my money on bras when we don’t know what I’ll need in a month’s time. She sent me out the door with a $1 extender (that perfectly solved the problem I was having) and encouraged me to give her a call when I have the baby so she can get me the right size then.

This is why even a globalist like myself supports my local bra shop. Service, selection, and a shopkeeper who’s not going to encourage you to waste your money.

If you find yourself in the Wichita area, I highly recommend dropping by The Heavy Hanger.