Onion Oops

by Jeanette Levellie

 

When I planted my first garden, I was as green as an onion top. The closest I’d come to gardening was when Grandma Viola sent me out to her berry patch behind the garage to pick strawberries. I was all of six then, so a few decades had warped my memory enough to convince me that gardening was simple and sweat less.

When I got my brilliant idea to become a gardener, the Los Angeles suburb we lived in rented spare land from a factory, which in turn rented 10’ x 10’ plots to gardeners. Although the gardens were over two miles from our house, I figured the rewards would outweigh the travel time. My imagination salivated with images of steaming vegetable stew and bright green salads harvested from our own patch of earth. Naiveté at its worst.

            While buying onion sets, I wondered why they came in such huge packages. Who needed a hundred onions? They must know what they’re doing, I thought as I drove to the garden, maybe not all of them will come up.

            I pulled out the instructions. “Plant 10 inches deep, 2 inches apart.” How will I ever get them that far into the soil? I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead, eyes, and neck. And I hadn’t even opened the package yet.   

            I trudged to the car, hunted down a pencil, then stomped back to the garden. All afternoon I punched and jabbed until the final bulb—and I—lay exhausted in the soil.           On the way home, a doubt crept in. Had I read the instructions right? At a red light, I grabbed the empty package and saw, “Ten inches apart, two inches deep.” Oh, great. Now what?

            Rushing inside the house, I called our neighbors, grand scale gardeners from Kentucky who could make sweet corn grow from a pile of sand and a smile.

            “Lucille, what should I do?” I cried. “I planted my onions ten inches deep.”

            Did I hear a smile hidden behind her sweet Southern drawl?  “My lands, child, they’ll never come up. You’ll have to replant. They’ll just sit in the ground and rot.”         

The following day I tromped back to the garden with another hundred onions. Planting the second set over the first ones, I made sure they were only two inches deep.  I surprised my family a few weeks later with a plateful of lovely green onions on the supper table. I passed it around, grinning. I hardly noticed that I was the only one who ate any.

            “Did you forget we don’t like onions, Mom?” teased my son. “They look pretty, though. How did you make that fun shade of green for the tops?” I wanted to smack him with my holey gloves.

Instead, I swallowed my pride and took a few onions to Lucille, who allowed herself a loud laugh over my crazy planting mistake.          

            But I had the last laugh when several weeks later the original hundred onions popped up, their whites a full ten inches long. They were the best onions I’d ever killed myself over.

Platform Building from Jail

by Jeanette Levellie

Dear Savvy Granny:

I am a newbie writer, trying to build my platform by joining all the social networking sites. Everyone tells me I need to get on Merry Mug Shots. They say it’ll help me gain exposure as a writer, so people will recognize my name and buy my books. Are you on Merry Mug Shots? If so, has it helped you gather a tribe?

Thanks, 
Clueless in Seattle

Dear Clueless:

Yes, I joined Merry Mug Shots a couple of years ago. It’s a great way to keep up with family and friends who’ve never heard of letter writing, and think a phone is for typing with only their thumbs. But you must strategize to gain your bevy of buddies. Like I did.

At first, I accepted friendship requests from every Mabel, Butch, and Greta who breezed onto my profile and offered me a cyber dark chocolate. Merry Mug Shots must have known the kinds of people I liked to hang out with, because they posted suggestions of new ones to befriend, complete with a mug shot of each. How sweet of them to help me gain more friends, I thought.  I spent many merry moments on their site.

Then they put me in jail.

Yep. Seems I had knocked on the doors of too many people who reported that they didn’t know me from Eve. Merry Mug Shots sent me a not-so-merry message, forbidding me for seven days from making new pals in the MMS playground. I think it was meant to make me cry, put away my pail and shovel, and repent of my too-chummy ways.

What MMS didn’t know was that I came out of the womb with business cards in my wee hand, introducing myself to every nurse, doctor, and aide in the hospital. I planned birthday parties for all the newborns in the nursery, and volunteered to be the clown.  I came back six weeks later to teach my first How to Make Friends and Influence Parents class.

Nope. MMS jail didn’t scare me. I’d been making friends for fifty years when Merry Mug Shots was still a dollar sign in her daddy’s eye. In fact, I got more friend requests while I was in jail than I’d had the entire two years my mug shot was out in cyber land. So my advice to you is: join MMS right away, and then request friendships of every kid in the sandbox, until someone gets suspicious and they throw you in jail.

This will do more for your writing career than all the platform-building schemes out there. They don’t call me Savvy Granny for nothin’.

You Are Smarter than You Think!

by Jeanette Levellie

Wanna feel extra clever today? This list of five ditzy doings will encourage you:

1.       When the bill at a drive-in burger shop came to $4.25, Aunt Minnie handed the young cashier a five-dollar bill and a quarter. The teenager gazed at the money for a moment, then said, “You gave me too much.”

“I know,” Aunt Minnie replied, “this way you give me an even dollar in change.”

The cashier left the window to find her manager, who returned with the money. “I’m sorry ma’am; we can’t do this type of thing,” he said.

Aunt Minnie shrugged as the teenager handed her $1.75 in change.

2.       A rural newspaper received this letter from a concerned reader: “I think the Township needs to move the Deer Crossing sign out on Highway 14. Too many deer are getting hit and killed there. They need a safer place to cross.”

3.       When a lady went to the mechanic’s shop to pick up her car after a repair, the mechanic apologized for locking the keys inside. He was busy finagling to get the door on the driver’s side open. The lady walked around to the passenger side. Finding it unlocked, she opened the door, then said to the mechanic, “Hey, this side is unlocked.”

“I know,” he replied, “I already managed to get that side opened.”

4.       If you plan to rob a bank, be careful where you write your hold-up note. One robber put his on the back of a deposit slip—his own!

5.       Believe it or not, I have been guilty of a few dumb doings. While in the lunchroom at a former job, I noticed the clock had stopped. I called the facilities manager to bring some batteries next time he came down to the kitchen.  A few minutes later he showed up, batteries in hand.

“Jeanette,” he said, “this clock is electric—the cord is hanging right here.” He plugged it in and set it. Heat crept up my neck and into my face as I said, “Well, the cord and wall are both white—it blended in!”

True Confessions of a Teacher the Last Day before Christmas Break

by Jeanette Levellie


My palms were sweating. “I’ve got to get this car to the median,” I thought, looking over my shoulder at three lanes of early morning L.A. traffic. “I need a miracle like the parting of the Red Sea.” Wait, wrong Bible story. This was December 20th. How about a miracle similar to finding a birthing manger in Bethlehem?

“Whatever—just help me get to school on time, Lord.”

It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation. My students had always been generous in past years, but I knew they’d pour on the presents today, since it was my final year teaching at the small private school my kids attended before we moved across the country.

I wasn’t fretting over leaving my teens at home alone while I dashed my husband to the train station, or the expense of fixing whatever troubled our sick car. I was thinking of those beribboned boxes of stationery I’d regift at the next Missionary Mamas Christmas party; the “Best Teacher” mugs I’d drink from twice before giving them to Goodwill;  and the matching sets of dish towels I’d put in a drawer to give my kids’ teachers next Christmas. The thought of missing all that loot made me want to cry.

As I put the car in neutral and opened the door to begin pushing, a pickup truck pulled up behind me, the driver motioning me to get back in so he could push me from behind. I was able to turn the corner and ease the car to a stop. I smiled as I waved my thanks to the kind driver, noticing the embroidered name on his blue uniform: CLARENCE. “Thanks, Lord,” I chuckled.

By the time I jogged the quarter mile home, more than my palms were sweating, but I didn’t have time to change clothes. Those gifts were waiting.

My sixteen-year-old daughter was thrilled that she got to drive us to school in her car. Her younger brother was not amused. “Mom, the last time Ruthie drove, she went the wrong way up a one-way street and nearly killed us!”

“We’ll just have to risk it, Ben. I may never have another bonanza like this again. I have to get while the getting is good.” He sighed, and grabbed two overstuffed pillows from the couch on his way out the door. This was the dark ages, before airbags.

We made it to school in record time, with only one mishap—a scratch on the passenger side from a holly bush in a residential neighborhood. “Don’t’ worry, honey,” I crooned to Ruthie, “it’s hard to judge your speed when you’re turning corners. Those people shouldn’t have planted that bush so close to the sidewalk, anyway.”

As Ben staggered out of the back seat, still clutching his pillows, he moaned and slapped his forehead. “We forgot our lunches, Mom. You made us go in such a hurry; we left them on the kitchen table. I can’t make it ‘til 3:30 with nothing to eat!”

I put my arm around his shoulder as we walked into the building together. “Don’t worry, son. I’m counting on at least three boxes of See’s candy and two fruitcakes. I’ll share with you, okay?”



A spunky pastor’s wife of thirty-six years, Jeanette has published articles, greeting card verses, stories and calendar poems.  She authors a bi-weekly humor/inspirational column in her local newspaper, and enjoys speaking to church and civic groups, offering hope and humor in every message. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to several cats. Her debut book Two Scoops of Grace with Chuckles on Top releases in April 2012. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com

Maggie Moments

by Jeanette Levellie

My husband met me at the door, his eyebrows in V-formation, always a sign of worry. “Why were you gone so long, hon?” he asks. “You just went to mail one package.”

 I threw my purse and myself onto the couch, grabbing a cat for comfort. “I had a Maggie moment,” I sighed.  He shook his head and grinned.  A look of relaxed understanding took the place of the V-formation. 

Maggie, bless her darlin’ heart and ditzy head, is a crisis magnet. She’s the one person in our family we can rely on to add drama to our lives. Every errand turns into a screenplay for a feature film. Take a simple trip to the market for a bag of noodles.

“I think it was that checker’s first day on the job,” Maggie moans, dumping her sack of groceries on the kitchen counter. “She didn’t know where the noodles were, and had to call the manager. He showed me the right aisle, but they were out of whole-wheat noodles. So I decided to run up to the Pine Street Market—that took forever since I got behind a funeral—and then I discovered they’d gone out of business. I had to go back to the first market and buy flour and eggs to make our own noodles.  It’ll only take three hours. You don’t mind having dinner a little late tonight, do you?”

We’ve tried to analyze why Maggie thrives on trouble above her fellows. We can go to the post office, market, or bank and run into glitches that annoy us to Mars and back. Yet, we only get a tenth of the emotional surge from our episodes as Maggie does.  We still haven’t discovered why her predicaments are superior to ours. We may never. 

Oh, I see by your knowing smile that you have a Maggie in your family, too. I also see that same look of confusion on your face that we get every time a Maggie moment happens. It sure helps to know we’re not alone. 

Although the solution to dealing with Maggies is not easy, it is simple. To paraphrase my friend Jesus, whose family was filled with Maggies, “You just gotta love ‘em.”

“Nutty with a dash of meat” best describes Jeanette Levellie’s speaking, writing and life. She has published hundreds of humor/inspirational columns, articles, greeting cards, and poems. A spunky pastor’s wife, Jeanette is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to four cats. Her debut humor/inspirational book, Mirth and Worth in the Real Lane, releases in April of 2012. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com

Shouting Food

by Jeanette Levellie


           Red potato salad with green onions shouted at me a few days ago, demanding I ask my husband to make a batch. I was quick to obey. Since Kevin has perfected this recipe to an art form, he was eager to assist me in indulging the food voices.

            Don’t pretend you don’t hear them, too. When you are reading in bed at night, the chips you hid from your kids holler to you from the sock drawer.  You make sure no lights are oozing from under closed bedroom doors before you slip the drawer open and ease the bag out.  You even place each chip on your tongue lightly, allowing it to soak in before biting down. You can’t risk waking anyone with loud crunching.  Those chips are yours, all yours.

            And we’re all familiar with singing ice cream, chattering cookies, hollering pizza, and humming donuts.  They sneak up behind us as we drive to work, write emails, and watch TV.  No activity is sacred to these tormenting treats.

            Right before we went to sleep last night, one accosted me. “I wish we had some dark chocolate truffles,” I said to Kev.

            “Sorry, hon.  We have Girl Scout Cookies in the pantry. Do you want me to get you some?”

            I sighed.  “No; thanks anyway.  I’ve had enough sweets today. I just wanted to entertain my tongue.  I need to say “no” more often to screaming food.”

            “Good for you, Jeanette. The Apostle Paul would be proud of you for keeping your body under control.  G’nite.”

            “Wait,” I said as I flipped my bedside lamp back on. “I didn’t say I was cutting out snacks forever; only that I’d had enough sweets for one day. Can you please get me a bowl of that red potato salad?”   





“Nutty with a dash of meat” best describes Jeanette Levellie’s speaking, writing and life. She has published hundreds of humor/inspirational columns, articles, greeting cards, and poems. A spunky pastor’s wife, Jeanette is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to four cats. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com.

Nevertheless

by Jeanette Levellie

“Mom, I can quit school now; I already know everything.”

I looked down at my son in his baggy shorts and Star Wars t-shirt, the top of his head barely up to my shoulder. I forced a grin from erupting. “No, son, you are not quitting school. You have eight more years to go, then college. And although you’re smart, you don’t know everything.”

A storm filled his eyes. “Yes, I do, Mom. I know everything there is to know! So I don’t need school anymore.”

I learned a word when he was three and his sister was six that I pulled out whenever the argument started smoking. “Nevertheless,” I said, “you are not quitting school.” He stomped down the hall, slamming the door to his room. This shook our entire 48 x 60 mobile home, rattling every goblet in the built-in hutch, but I stayed glued to my spot in front of the stove, where my spaghetti sauce and I shared a silent chuckle.

After he came out of his room and got over his pout long enough to eat spaghetti, he went to a university, procured two degrees, and became an animator/writer par excellence. But there were a heckofalotta neverthelesses between that pout and those two degrees. 

            The summer he turned fourteen, I forced him to choose between taking music lessons and joining a sports team. I was thrilled when he opted for guitar lessons, since I could barely tell the difference between a hockey puck and a pie tin.

He came home crying after the first lesson. “Mom, my fingertips are so sore, they might fall off by the time the summer is over. I’ll have to live with little callousy stubs the rest of my life. You’ll be to blame if I fail in my chosen profession because I can’t use my hands.”

My word helped me circumvent a trip to the guilt farm. “Nevertheless, you are not quitting guitar. If your fingertips fall off, we’ll find a teacher with a huge glue stick to paste them back on for you.” When he started composing songs for the band he formed, I asked him if the glue didn’t ruin the guitar strings. He acted like he hadn’t heard me. Of course.

But my favorite use of the word was during his junior year of high school. I had pushed him through Algebra, dragged him through Biology, and prayed him through Government. All he wanted to do was draw cartoons.

“Mom, I will never use any of this stuff they are teaching me. I don’t need to know how many bones are in my feet, or why we have negative numbers. Animators never use that junk. All I need is art.”

“Nevertheless, son, you have to take these classes to get into college to study animation. They’re the hoops you have to jump through. Sorry.”

That was over ten years ago. Last month the animation studio he works for announced the completion of a project they’d done for Microsoft’s Halo action comics. I let myself grin this time, and patted my word on the back. “Good job, nevertheless.”

*** artwork copyright Ron Levellie, 2009

“Nutty with a dash of meat” best describes Jeanette Levellie’s speaking, writing and life. She has published hundreds of humor/inspirational columns, articles, greeting cards, and poems. A spunky pastor’s wife, Jeanette is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to four cats. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com

Meatloaf Wars

by Jeanette Levellie

When we first married, I taught my husband how to create a meatloaf, from my mother’s recipe. Nothing fancy, but when it hits your tongue, you're happy to be alive.

I thought I was doing myself a favor by teaching him to cook more than pork chops and burgers. Aha.

Mr. makes his first meatloaf. We have friends over to share it. They mistakenly think it is his cooking expertise, not my teaching ability, that causes their taste buds to tango.  Hmmpphh.

Next time I need a break from cooking, the new food guru locks himself in the kitchen while he adds soy sauce and other secret condiments to “HIS” recipe. More applause from misled tasters disguised as friends.

The final coffin nail for Mom’s meatloaf occurs when my hero gets up at 5 a.m. on the morning he’s scheduled to cook, and hand-crumbs the bread as fine as a high note on the violin. That night he grins to the sides of his chef’s hat as my ex-friends help him devour his masterpiece. When they get home, they rush to their computers and write stunning reviews for "Meatloaf for the Stars" magazine, and email Mr., suggesting he start a restaurant.

It’s not that I mind never cooking a meatloaf again. The shocked stare from Mr. when I suggest making Mom’s recipe, the guests wondering why the secret spices disappeared, the falling of the sky—I can handle all that.

It’s the demise of Mom’s family formula that I grieve. Now it’s lost in that huge recipe box in the sky, among 297,685 others from unsuspecting wives who taught their husbands to cook. I hope the angel chefs can keep from embellishing it.

If not, Mom is going to have a thing or two to say when she gets there. 

A spunky, sometimes reluctant pastor’s wife of thirty-six years, Jeanette has published articles, greeting card verses, stories and calendar poems. She authors a bi-weekly humor/inspirational column in her local newspaper, and enjoys speaking to church and civic groups, offering hope and humor in every message. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to several cats. Find her blog, On Wings of Mirth and Worth, at http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com

An Outhouse to Celebrate

by Jeanette Levellie

“Did you see that?” my husband guffawed, pointing out the car window on a recent road trip.

Why does he torture me like this? If I miss something spectacular or funny, him saying, “Did you see that?” only makes me angry. “What was it?” I said.

He was still hooting with laughter. “A billboard for an Outhouse Festival; I can’t believe it!”

 “Are you serious?” By now, I was giggling, too. “What is there to celebrate about outhouses?”    

I can understand celebrating the Honey Bee, the Furry Bear, Covered Bridges, Popcorn, and Raggedy Ann & Andy. Bring on the parades. Sell deep fried Twinkies and tacos in a bag. Hire a brass band to play on the town square for festivals honoring those essentials in our society. But, outhouses? Every time I’m forced to use one, I am not thinking of Ferris wheels, lemon shake-ups, and ice cream cones.

I suppose they are a great invention, if you’re out in the middle of nowheresville and can’t find a bush. Still, to have an entire weekend dedicated to holes and the houses that hide them? How desperate must we be for something to party over?

            If you really want to celebrate, I have a few great ideas:

• Celebrate living in a nation where you have a free education, can criticize a political candidate openly without being arrested, can vote, and can worship whatever god you choose.
  
• Celebrate being rich, even if you only have one set of clothes and food for just today. Most dogs and cats in this nation live better than millions of people in the world.
  
• Celebrate if you had parents who loved you and taught you right from wrong. Many children don’t.
  
• Celebrate that you are in sound enough mind and have decent enough eyesight to  read this article.
  
• Celebrate your friends. My Dad used to tell me, “If you get to the end of your life and can say you have one faithful friend, you are a rich person indeed.” I am discovering how very true that statement is.
  
• Celebrate your marriage if it’s lasted over ten years. Most do not.
  
• Celebrate a God who gave you all the wonder of creation simply for your enjoyment, and who loves you just as you are.      

I’ll bet you can come up with a few more reasons to celebrate; things we all take for granted and fail to notice until we’re without them. For that matter, next time I go camping, I may have to reconsider celebrating an outhouse after all.

A spunky, sometimes reluctant pastor’s wife, Jeanette Levellie has published articles, greeting card verses, stories and calendar poems.  She authors a bi-weekly humor/inspirational column in her local newspaper, and regularly speaks to any group brave enough to have her, offering hope and humor in every message. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to several cats. Find her blog, On Wings of Mirth and Worth, at http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com

The Not-So Easy Bake Oven Escapade

by Jeanette Levellie

            Aunt Lois and Uncle Jack bought me the toy of my dreams, an Easy Bake Oven, the year I was eight. I had wanted one forever (well, a year or so) and couldn’t wait to try it out. Two days later I was down the block at my friend Kathy’s, where we strung an extension cord out onto the driveway to make our dainty delicacies, Kathy’s mom voting us out of her kitchen for who knows what crazy reason.

            After only twenty minutes of baking delight, my older brother, Danny came down, shouting that Mom wanted me on the phone. I hurried up the street, wondering why Mom was calling from work in the middle of the day on our Christmas vacation. Maybe she just wanted to have me get something out of the freezer for supper.

            Instead, I got an earful. “Danny says you are strewing your Easy Bake Oven stuff all over Kathy’s parents’ driveway. Clean that up and get it home this instant. I’m sure Aunt Lois and Uncle Jack did not intend you to be traipsing all over the neighborhood making messes with that toy. They spent a lot of money on that...”

            I tried to argue, explaining that we’d only made one or two recipes, and Danny was totally exaggerating about the mess. But Mom refused to listen. I dejectedly walked back to Kathy’s, picked up my oven, and toted it home. Conveniently, Danny had blipped out of the universe for the next two hours, when Mom would be home to prevent me from poisoning his kool-aid with dish soap or putting thumbtacks on the toilet seat.

            Because he was the only male in the family for several years between Mom’s two marriages, he felt it his duty to keep enforcing his reign of terror over me. The Easy Bake Oven Escapade was only one in a long line of tactics meant to intimidate the short redhead. I shudder at the memory of Arm Behind Back Torture in the Back Seat while Mom is in Grocery Store; Waiting at Bathroom Door in the Dark with Terrifying Stone-faced Look; and Blood-congealing Maniacal Laugh before He Beat Me up.

            We youngest may have been spoiled with extra toys, later bedtimes, and more of Mom and Dad’s money when we went to college. But we paid for it in our earlier years by the torture imposed on us from above. I haven’t done the research, but I’ll bet you my Easy Bake Oven that Genghis Khan was an older brother.

            Danny passed away this January. He’s probably training the older angels how to give the younger ones noogies, and the best times to tattle to God.  I wish I could be there to hear it. I also wish I could have him back here for an hour or two. I’d hold his arm behind his back, right up under his wings, and make him cry, “Uncle!” for me just once. 

Jeanette Levellie authors a newspaper column in Paris, Illinois, and has published magazine and devotional articles. She is a pastor’s wife, mother and grandmother. Find her humorous/inspirational blog at http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com

Crawzilla

by Jeanette Levellie         

© Ron Levellie

Our first spring in Paris, Illinois found us settled into country living fairly well. Or so I imagined. A lifetime in Los Angeles cannot prepare you for the crazy things that happen in a rural setting.

This particular morning I was up early. The pre-dawn sky was grey at best. I hadn’t had my caffeine yet, so was still groggy when I opened the back door to let the “fur children” in. But, what I saw crawling across the lawn woke me up fast, and I found myself charging down the hall to our bedroom, adrenaline taking over.

“Kev, get up, now! There is a huge insect out back; I’ve never seen one this big before, even bigger than those horrible potato bugs we had in California! It’s awful, it has claws, and it’s waving them in the air. Hurry, it’s going to get the kitties,” I cried, on the edge of hysterics.

Here is my husband, who does not do well being awakened from a deep sleep at any time, but this is 5:30 in the morning, for goodness’ sake. A frantic redhead is jumping about the bedroom, wringing her hands and saying something about a killer insect. He creaks up and slowly reaches for his glasses.

“Get your pants on, please! Go out and squish that horrible thing before it attacks my kitties!” I rush to the back door, like Kevin needs a tour guide. In my wide screen imagination, I can see my babies sprawled on the lawn, stiff from the poisonous bite of this science-fiction-like creature.

Finally, Kev stumbles down the hall and out the back door, peering onto the lawn to view this potential murderer of my cats. He waits an eternal minute to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, then starts chuckling.    
 
“Jeanette, do you know what this is?”

“No, but can’t you just kill it?” I whimper.

“Honey, this is a crawdad! It must have crawled up from the creek when it rained last night. It’s perfectly harmless. It will find its way back home eventually, and it’s more afraid of your cats than they are of it! Let’s go in and get some coffee!”  He is so kind, but he cannot help shaking his head at my city-bred naivety. I suppose I did panic a little, but never having seen a crawdad “in person” before, it sure looked like an enormous killer insect to me!

Kev still teases me about the morning he rescued out cats from the dreaded Crawzilla. After living here eleven years, people who know the story continue to rib me about it. And I laugh at myself along with them.

I wonder that we snicker about our mistakes in misjudging crawdads, but think it’s okay to judge people by their appearance, their occupation, or their name? I once heard a speaker say, “You know you are free of prejudice when you treat someone who can do you absolutely no good as well as you treat someone who has the ability to help you tremendously.”   

You are still not going to catch me dancing with any crawdads in the early morning hours, but “Crawzilla” taught me that you can’t judge a creature, or a person, by their cover.

A spunky, sometimes reluctant pastor’s wife of thirty-six years, Jeanette has published articles, greeting card verses, stories and calendar poems.  She authors a bi-weekly humor/inspirational column in her local newspaper, and enjoys speaking to church and civic groups, offering hope and humor in every message. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to several cats. Find her blog, On Wings of Mirth and Worth, at http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com

Maggie Moments

by Jeanette Levellie

My husband Kevin meets me at the door, his eyebrows in upside-down V formation. “Is everything okay, hon? You just went to mail one dinky package, and that was two hours ago.”

I throw my purse and myself onto the couch. “I had a Maggie moment,” I huff.  He shakes his head and grins.  A look of relaxed understanding replaces the V-formation.

 Maggie, bless her darling heart and ditzy head, is a crisis magnet. She’s the one member of our family we can count on to add glitter to the mundane. Every task turns into a screenplay for a feature film.

Take repairing a door that won’t lock.

“I think this door is cut wrong,” declares Maggie. “They just don’t make things right anymore. I’ll have to see who I can get to take it off the hinges and re-cut it. Lord knows I can’t afford a new door.”

Kevin and I look at the door, then the lock. We are allergic to tools, but we each have a smattering of left-brain cells. And if we collaborate, we sometimes manage to replace a worn-out part or fix a broken one.

Kevin tries the lock, then turns to Maggie. “All you need here is some WD-40. I have a can in the trunk. Be right back.”

He sprays hither and yon, wipes the door, then tries the lock again. Magic. “There you go, Maggie! Good as new. I’ll leave the can with you, so if this happens again, you can spray it yourself. Okay?”

But Maggie is unsatisfied. A solution that takes only two minutes can’t be right. She tries the key herself, jerking and tugging ‘til her forehead glistens. “I don’t know what you did to mess this up, Kevin. It’s worse than before. I can’t do a thing with it. I’ll just have to call that guy down the road who does carpentry work. I wish things were simple, like they used to be.”

We wonder if anything in Maggie’s life was ever simple. But next time we visit, her grin is wider than a melon slice as she shows us her new lock.

“After he cut the door, he realized he’d chopped too much off, so he had to put this weather-stripping on the bottom to keep the wind out. He attached the lock down here, where it bolts directly into the floor. I practically have to stand on my head to lock it, but at least it’s secure now. And he only charged me $150!”

We shrug, congratulate Maggie, and Kevin pockets his WD-40. At least Maggie is happy with her new lock. It will give her something to talk about until the next crisis arrives.

We’ve tried to analyze why Maggie thrives on trouble above her fellows. We can change a toilet valve, replace a garbage disposal, or patch a garden hose, and run into glitches that annoy us to Mars and back. Yet, we only manage to get a tenth of the emotional surge from our episodes that Maggie receives.  We still haven’t figured out why her predicaments are superior to ours.

But, hey, maybe you can you help us. I see by your knowing smile that you have a Maggie in your family, too.

          


A spunky, sometimes reluctant pastor’s wife of more than thirty years, Jeanette Levellie has published stories in Guideposts anthologies, articles in Christian and secular magazines, greeting card verses, and calendar poems.  Her bi-weekly humor/inspirational column, God is Bigger, has been a popular feature in her local newspaper since 2001. She writes twice a week for her devotional/humor blog at http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com. Jeanette also enjoys speaking to church and civic groups, offering mirth and worth in every message. She and her husband Kevin live in Paris, IL. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and servant to several cats.

The Pact

by Jeanette Levellie


“Let’s make a pact,” suggested Kev on one of our frequent walks, where we discuss everything and nothing.

“What kind of pact did you have in mind?” I cautiously asked. A pact where we agree to not eat desserts on weekdays or not talk negatively from five to seven p.m., I can handle. But don’t ask me to quit overreacting, keep my house sparkling clean, or pass up a sale on dark chocolate. I’ll let you down.

“Let’s agree that we will always handle issues that arise in a mature manner,” he answered. His face was serious when he said it, too.

My knees buckled as I guffawed. “Kevin, in spite of our Valentine’s Day wedding thirty years ago, we have rarely handled things in a mature manner. What preposterous idea makes you think we can start now?” He must have agreed, because he hee-hawed along with me. We stood in the road and roared like two preschoolers discovering their dad’s underwear drawer.

Please don’t misunderstand: we are not idiots. We raised two responsible adults, we both hold down decent jobs, and most days we keep our sanity in this crazy world. We have, however, had our share of not handling situations in mature ways.

Like the time I got mad during an argument, and slammed the lid of the cookie jar down, breaking it beyond repair. Did I mention that it was my favorite cookie jar?

Or the day Kevin asked me to navigate him to a new friend’s house in Los Angeles, and becoming impatient, he grabbed the map from my hand. I should say he tried to grab it. I was so irate with him for implying I didn’t know how to read a map, I refused to let go. Two adults, one a preacher, the other a Christian School teacher, wrestling with a map in the front seat. Aha.

My favorite fight occurred on a Sunday night. I was enjoying the song service, and snuggled next to Kev as we harmonized on “Learning to Lean.” Kevin can harmonize with bullfrogs; he has an excellent ear for chords. But, when he adds notes where they aren’t written, and does ‘do-bop’s in my ear as I am worshiping, I become as hot as a waffle iron on a Saturday morning.

“Will you please quit singing in my ear? It’s bugging me,” I whisper, trying not to disrupt those around us. Kevin grins like he’s five and has just caught his first fish. Now I’ve given him exactly what he wants: the satisfaction of knowing he’s stolen my composure. On the next song, he continues his musical torture by making up stupid words to the song’s tune and breathing them in my ear. That’s when I lose it.

Whap! Slap! Sock! on Kevin’s upper arm.  “Stop it right now!” I mutter, my voice growling, veins bulging out of my neck. Not even noticing my wimpy attempts at slaps, Kevin is in husband heaven, blatantly laughing. The older couple behind us could not be more delighted. To witness the preacher’s wife beating up the preacher during Sunday evening service is a rare treat, indeed.

So much for our “Maturity From Now On” pacts. At least our brouhahas serve as entertainment for our congregation. Happy Valentine's Day!

          

  

Dangerous Donuts

by Jeanette Levellie

 

            “Honey, come quick,” I shrieked to my husband, Kevin.” That couple in the car across the road is in trouble.”

            Standing at our picture window of our living room, I clamped both hands over my mouth to keep from sobbing. My heart hammered in fear, a contrast to the serene blanket of snow on the lawn.

            When we relocated from Los Angeles to Paris, Illinois three months earlier to pastor a rural church, we were surprised at the differences in culture. The stores displayed Udder Balm at the checkout counter in place of breath mints. Gas stations sold mulch right alongside the antifreeze. People waved as we passed their tractors on the highway and spoke to us at the farmers’ market, even though we were strangers.

But no kind greeting or wave could’ve prepared us for the harrowing scene taking place before us now. This was culture shock at its worst.

             Careening out of control just fifty yards from our house, the car was a flash of red and silver atop the frosty ground. Our eyes stayed frozen to the window for several seconds, watching the horror unfold. But, what could we do? All of our urban savvy was worthless to this couple, spinning on the snow like a child’s top. I grabbed the only weapon I knew how to use, and bawled out a prayer:

            “Lord, deliver those people,” I shouted. “They need Your help right now, before they die, or flip onto the highway and hurt some…”

            Kevin placed a hand on my arm to interrupt my hysteria.

            “Wait, Jeanette. Look over there, opposite from the car. There’s another one spinning in circles, going the reverse direction. I wonder if they could be doing that on purpose. Do you think it’s some sort of winter game they play around here?”

            Squinting to focus, I realized he was right. The cars faced each other, revolving in opposite directions, like two steel monsters dancing to the music of “Winter Wonderland.” For several minutes they whirled, grinding their tires into the gravel. Picking up speed, their chrome bumpers reflected light from the pristine ground cover. When they’d reduced the snow to a slushy rut, they stopped. Paused. The drivers appeared to sigh in contentment. And off they blazed, leaving us to stare at each other, befuddled.

            The following morning, I worked for several hours before I gathered courage to ask my co-worker what we’d seen the day before. I certainly didn’t want her to discover how dumb we city transplants were. She made it easy for me by reading my thoughts.

            “You live six miles south of town, don’t you? I bet you get a lot of teenagers coming out your way after it snows, doing donuts. It’s safer out there, away from the highway” she explained.

            I shook my head and grinned. “That’s what you call it: donuts?” 
“Yeah,” she chuckled, “young people do it for fun when there’s a good snow. It’s pretty harmless. Just our method of keeping the boredom away during a long winter. I should have warned you about it. If someone from the city saw that for the first time, it might scare the stuffin’ out of them!”

            “Yeah, it just might,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. 

            Since that first winter’s excitement eleven years ago, I believe Kevin and I have adjusted well to rural living. We buy our mulch at the Speedy Fuel and say “hello” to people we’ve never met. But, I may never get used to donuts in the snow, rather than my coffee!

The Christmas Wedding Hero

by Jeanette Levellie

I mean. How can you top first graders singing Away in a Manger accented by lisps from missing teeth as a wedding prelude? No one noticed the ruby poinsettia sprays draped over the end of each pew, or the candelabras’ reflection on stain glass windows. We were too busy peering around heads to catch those six-year-olds singing. And singing. And singing.

After the third round of Silver Bells, even the grandparents in the crowd started suspecting a glitch.

The bride’s mother stilled our curiosity when she stepped to the front. “Is there an organist in the house?” she half shouted, half laughed. “Our organist is lost in Casey, and can’t be here for forty-five minutes. If you can play, please step into the pastor’s office to the left of the sanctuary.”

Gasps and nervous chuckles shot through the crowd. But I knew someone who could save the day. “Honey, you can play,” I whispered to my husband. “Go tell them you’ll help.”

“Oh, Jeanette, I don’t play the organ—only the piano. It’s a different instrument altogether. Surely in a crowd of this size, there’s someone who’s trained on the organ.”

Not to betray my German heritage, I persisted. “No one is moving, Kev. You can do this; I know you can. Just don’t use the foot pedals, and they’ll never notice!”

His eyes skimmed the room with a nervous gaze.  “No, I don’t think I could.”

“Yes, you can, now just go do it.” My elbow may have slipped into his ribs; I don’t remember.

With one final desperate look around the room, the man rose from his seat.  He moseyed to the door of the pastor’s study, eyes on the carpet. As he pulled the door shut behind him, I sighed in relief. Thank you, Jesus.

Five minutes later, when he took his seat on the organ bench, a collective smile embraced all 200 guests. He played the processional like the first snowfall, sprinkling each bridesmaid with music as they glided down the aisle.  He gained more confidence for The Wedding March, and the bride received a full-scale storm of Wagner. By the recessional, organ music avalanched from his fingers. As the ushers dismissed each row, he bounced on the organ seat like a kid on a toboggan, playing original compositions, carols, and classical pieces.

No need for stairs from the platform to the sanctuary floor. He floated down and out to the parking lot, his halo glimmering in the afternoon sun.

At the reception, guests lined up to congratulate the wedding superhero. He grinned and nodded between bites of cake, “I was happy to help;” “It was the least I could do;” and my personal favorite, “No problem at all!”  I finally snatched his wallet and held up his driver’s license next to his face.

“What are you doing, Jeanette?”

“Checking to see if I came with the right man.”

He grabbed the wallet out of my hand. “I just didn’t want to steal the show from anyone else who could play. Everyone might think I was showing off.”

“No way would they think that about you, hon. Everyone could see you only wanted to help some friends out of a jam.” I jabbed him in the ribs one last time, and straightened his wings.


photo credit: unknown

Forcing, I Mean, Encouraging a Thankful Heart

by Jeanette Levellie

When our kids were small, we started a Thanksgiving Tradition that has proved to be a great source of fun and encouragement. We put each person’s name on a slip of paper and dropped them—the papers, not the people—in a basket or hat. After the meal, everyone drew a name from the basket—no peeking!

Then we sat with pen or pencil and paper—fancy stationery or plain copy paper—and wrote that person a note telling them why we were thankful for them. When the children were too small to write, they whispered their dictations to us.

When all were completed, we went around the table and read them aloud. Some brought laughter, others tears, all a sense of kinship and gratitude.

How amazing to see God’s hand at work during these “Thankful Letter” moments. A sister forced to write why she was thankful for her snotty little brother sees him in a new light for a moment; a dad suddenly realizes he needs to express his esteem for his son more often; a spouse receives a compliment for a quality they thought had gone unnoticed.

Hearts stir to new feelings of love and affirmation. God is proud. We are ministering to each other the way He intended when He created the family, bringing out the gifts in one another’s lives.  Thanksgiving becomes a time of refreshing our commitment to the ones we love most.

The Creator has placed people in our lives to make us better than we could be without them. He has put us in others’ lives to bring them closer to His good plan for them. Being thankful to Him for others is a way to celebrate His goodness. And a way to enlarge our hearts toward the goodness around us.

Now, here is my Thanksgiving note to you, dear friend: “I appreciate your giggles and smiles at my craziness, when others roll their eyes or shuffle their feet. I love you for believing in me when I couldn’t find the courage to believe in myself. I thank the Lord for causing our paths and pens to cross, and for using you to notice the stars in my heart, causing them to shine a little brighter. You are making a positive difference in one life—mine—and I suspect many others.  Thank you, thank you, thank God for you. I bless you.” 

If you dare to try our little tradition of penning notes of gratitude this Thanksgiving, I’d love to hear the results. You can email me at jeanettelevellie(at)gmail(dot)com, or find me on Facebook.  

Wooly Worm Report

by Jeanette Levellie



When we moved from L.A. to Paris, Illinois eleven years ago, someone asked me what I thought of the winters here.   Wrapping the third scarf around my neck and adjusting my earmuffs, I said, “I try not to think about them too much.”

Not that spinning off the icy highway into a ditch isn’t my idea of a fun new game.  Or that I don’t enjoy drinking seventeen cups of tea a day from November to March—I always did enjoy that burst of energy a strong cup of tea gives.  I even discovered a brand of long underwear that are made from silk, so you don’t have to buy clothes two sizes larger than usual. That’s always gratifying.

Did you know there is a surefire way to predict winter weather? According to early American folklore, you can forecast the harshness of an upcoming winter by examining the brown band around a wooly worm’s middle. The thinner the brownish red band, the harsher winter will be. 

But I have my own methods.  As we go on a walk up the country lane near our home at Nevins and I spot a wooly worm scooting across the pavement, I’ll note its coloration. If it’s dark brown or black, representing the bare earth, I predict a mild winter with no snow. If it’s orange—a happy, warm color—I maintain the upcoming winter will be warmer than usual. And if the wooly worm is white or tan, I report that winter will be fast and fun, with snowfall only on Christmas Eve.

Scientific? Hardly. Accurate? Rarely. But my overly biased wooly worm reports make us laugh every time. And giggles help us get through the long, freezing months better than gripes.  I imagine even the wooly worms laugh. At me.



Photo credit: flickr.com

How Do I Annoy Thee?

by Jeanette Levellie


 

Photo credit: Collegecandy.com

When I’ve accused my husband of laying awake nights concocting new ways to annoy me, he disagrees. “I don’t have to lay awake—I irritate you without trying.”

I recently discovered how he invents all these bothersome habits of his that seem to multiply daily as he ages. He is the founder and lifetime president of the Annoyance of the Hour Club for Men.

                He never upset me when we were dating and engaged. Well, maybe once a week or so, but it was easy to overlook the wee little quirks that everyone must have. Love and passion trump those prickly frustrations hardly worth mentioning.

                Until the honeymoon. While I was sleeping, washing my hair, or glancing at the moon, he called the first meeting of the AOHC, with only himself in attendance. And he’s been devising new ways to bug me ever since.

How can a person make noise getting underwear out of a drawer? He’s invented a way.

                How can he always need to be in the same spot at the same moment as I, in my extra large kitchen?  He’s figured that out, too.

                Can he listen to high-pitched snippets of irritating music as he transfers cassettes to cd’s on the computer when I’m gone to work all day, and he has the house to himself? Oh, no. He must do this never-ending job when I’m home, trying to concentrate on my writing in the next room. 

                When I’m at Bible study on Friday nights, I’m sure he holds meetings of the other men who belong to his Club—all married men—and they share their secrets and new discoveries.

                “I found out that when I trim my toenails during her favorite TV show, it drives her nutso.”

                “Dude, that’s nothing. You need to trim them when her mother is visiting. Or better yet, don’t trim them at all, and then stab her with them just as she’s dropping off to sleep.”

                I can imagine the back slaps and high fives when one of them comes up with an original annoyance.

                “Hey, you guys know how we decided to start mumbling to ourselves all over the house? I discovered this week that humming the same tune hundreds of times in one day works much better. They can ignore the mumbling after awhile, but the humming makes them crazy. Especially if there’s no definable rhythm or melody. Just make something up with the same six notes over and over.” They then practice for each other, perfecting their hums until they reach the perfect pinnacle of irksomeness.

                Next on the agenda comes smacking, slurping and spilling of the noisiest snacks and drinks they could find, and closing their eyes to the leftover mess.

                They end the meeting with a secret oath to work harder at grating on their wives’ nerves, proselytize every new husband they meet, and teach their sons from infancy how to develop exasperating habits.

                I thought of starting my own club for women, so we could retaliate. But after two minutes of consideration, I realized none of us would live long enough to catch up, let alone even the score. I’m forced to concede: as creative as we are, we women cannot hold a—drippy—candle to the ways men find to annoy.   

Mall in a Pocket

by Jeanette Levellie




When we flew to California recently, I poked into the seat pocket in front of me and found treasure: a magazine full of unique items you’d never buy unless strapped to a seat thirty six thousand feet up and bored. I am not a shopaholic, but these inventions had me wishing I had a third job.  

A cushion keeper to store all my outdoor cushions and pillows in one place: only $119.95. Oh, yes. I was telling my husband last week how devilish a chore it is to keep track of those pesky outdoor cushions and pillows that scatter themselves across the lawn and patio. This little storage unit, complete with handles and wheels, is the perfect solution. We’ll have to get rid of one of our cars to make room for it in the garage. But at least our cushions will be stored and shielded.

A money sorter that loads up to 130 bills and counts over 1,000 per minute: only $199.00. I have been worried about the problem of making money faster than I can count it. This is the solution to my problem of all those fifties and hundreds flying every which way as I try to count them.

A telescoping chandelier duster: only $149.00 for the basic set, which comes with five cleaning attachments and a handy carrying case. The chandelier in my guest bathroom is the dustiest it’s been in weeks, and my downstairs maid will be thrilled with this addition to her cleaning kit. I may even splurge and buy the ostrich duster head for only $24.50 extra.

An eight-color write-on mural of the world: only $149.99. It covers 9’ by 13’ of wall space, but I’m sure Grandma won’t mind if we take down her oil paintings, and Mr. Kinkade’s print can be hung in the back bedroom. I have always wanted to have a map of the world I can write on, and this one comes with a dry erase marker for hours of educational fun. You may hang the panels as one piece or individually, in case you just want to write on Antarctica, not the whole globe.

A marshmallow shooter: only $24.99. Shoots mini marshmallows over 30 feet. Unlike inferior marshmallow shooters, this baby comes with and LED light that aids in locating your target. Complete with easy-to-refill magazine that holds 20 marshmallows (not included). The barrel and magazine are top rack dishwasher safe. That’s a relief!

A barbeque branding iron: only $79.95. Now you can find out who’s been sneaking in your backyard and cooking on your grill. This stainless steel branding iron will personalize your steaks, burgers and chicken thighs, so everyone will know who to praise for a meat well done. If you want the custom cedar gift box, it’s only an extra $10.00.

Perhaps next time we’ll splurge and go first class. I’d love to see the handy trinkets in their seat pockets!




Jeanette Levellie writes humor and inspirational articles, columns, and books. You can find her on Facebook and http://jeanettelevellie.blogspot.com

Milk and Bread? Yeah, right.

I just went in for milk and bread,

I never meant to lose my head,

But by the time I’d reached the door

My cart was dragging on the floor.

“What happened?” cried my shaken spouse,

“You bought enough to fill a house!”

“But honey, dog food was on sale

And I couldn’t pass up half price kale!

Just look at these socks with rainbow toes,

And polka dot tissues to blow your nose!

I had to buy snow cones, three for ten,

And chicken livers to feed Uncle Ben,



Who loves to pop in unannounced, you know,

I’ll feed him persimmons—just look how they glow!”

I grinned and I gloated, I basked in delight,

That I’d found such bargains for our budget tight.



Did it really matter we didn’t have dogs?

Or despised that ol’ kale? We’d feed neighbor’s hogs!

I guess I’d forgotten poor Uncle Ben’s passing,

But fried chicken livers would be such a blessing



At the next carry-in on our 5th Sunday dinner,

As a shopper, no doubt, I reigned as the winner!



JEL, 05/04/2010