Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

I made scalloped potatoes yesterday.

 In my memories, Lonnie was here with me, peeling, slicing, and making me laugh. Lonnie is quiet and sweet, but she can also send a roomful of people into hysterical laughter with her unexpected comments and her puns.

Lonnie is sister to my husband John, his only sibling, and I’ve known her almost as long as I can remember. She’s part of many happy memories. Lonnie and I saw each other every Christmas season from the time we were young married couples until we were senior citizens. Until Mom Poole died at age ninety, our families celebrated every Christmas together. Sometimes we got together other times during the year too.

The last time Lonnie and I made scalloped potatoes we were in Georgia visiting Mom and Dad Poole. By then Alzheimer’s was beginning to steal many things from Mom, including her ability to cook. So, when the family gathered, Lonnie and I made scalloped potatoes. Mom and Dad loved them.

As we peeled and sliced potatoes and onions Lonnie and I bonded all over again, and the months we’d been apart evaporated. Tears from peeling onions rolled down our cheeks, but we laughed often too. You can’t be with Lonnie without laughing.

I remember once Dad Poole, who was almost always cheerful despite his frail health, was pulling his long oxygen hose behind him. It was getting tangled, and we heard from Dad something we seldom heard—a sigh.

Lonnie adored both her parents and spoke to them always with only the utmost respect. But when she sighed, she looked at him.

“Well, up your nose with a rubber hose!” Lonnie said.

And then Dad laughed. The living room full of relatives echoed with laugher so loud I don’t know how the walls didn’t bend outward.

It’s a gift, being able to make people laugh in hard times. Lonnie has it, and so does John. They come by it naturally; their dad was the king of laughter. At his dialysis unit the nurses nicknamed him “Mr. Sunshine.”

Lonnie lives now in a beautiful assisted living home. I don’t know if they call her Mrs. Sunshine there or not, but they should. The home puts funny videos online, and Lonnie is often the star. In that home Lonnie is doing what she’s done everywhere, living her best life, and helping others live theirs.

I missed Lonnie as I peeled potatoes yesterday. The recipe called for six potatoes, but I peeled thirteen, so we’d be sure to have enough. I almost forgot I was fixing scalloped potatoes for only four, not for the crowd who’d gathered in Georgia to visit with Mom and Dad.

There’s a comforting rhythm to peeling potatoes that makes it easy to remember happy times. One of the wonderful things about getting older is how full your memory book is by then. It’s even larger than my old favorite Betty Crocker Cookbook. Like my cookbook, my memory book has some favorite pages tattered from use.

I never remain with memories that hurt; why would I do that? That would be like staring at a picture of a recipe in my cookbook that makes me gag; no thank you! I rifle through the pages of my memory book and settle on one that makes me feel contented, or loved. I linger on ones that bring a smile or a laugh.

I love remembering when Mom and Dad Poole were still alive, Dad with his oxygen–the rubber hose up his nose, and we all gathered at their home: Lonnie and Truman, their children and grandchildren, John and I, our kids, and our granddaughter, the only one of our fourteen grandchildren who’d been born yet. We pulled the heavy roaster pan of scalloped potatoes out of the oven and the rich aroma filled the small house.

As we ate someone said, “Do you remember when…”, and then we were laughing our way down memory lane. It was a beautiful backroad to take.  

As yesterday’s scalloped potatoes browned in the oven, I thanked God for memories. What a precious gift they are; but we aren’t meant to live on them alone. As long as we’re alive we should keep making new memories.

I made a new memory yesterday. When Lonnie and I used to make scalloped potatoes, Kimmee often whispered to me, “Mom, don’t put in any onions, okay?”

I explained I had to put in the onions; that’s how we’d always done it, and that’s how people liked it.

“I don’t like the onions, and Danny doesn’t either,” she whispered. Danny is her brother, and no, he wasn’t crazy about the onions, and I have a hunch some other people weren’t either, me included, but tradition is tradition, right?

But yesterday I didn’t peel or chop a single onion. I used onion powder instead. Kimmee approved, and I think Danny would have too, if he’d been here to eat them. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose any of the family would have complained about the absence of onions if we could only gather one more time to eat, to talk, and to laugh.

And we will someday, in heaven.

But until then, we have old memories to enjoy and new ones to make. I want to be sure to do just that.

After my sister, Eve, left for heaven, my brother-in-law Bruce showed us pictures of good times they’d had together. He looked at us with tears in his eyes.

“Make memories,” he said, “because someday memories will be all you’ll have.”

I cherish my memories of yesterday. I loved thinking about happy family times while I peeled those potatoes, and you know what? I found out a tear or two can roll down your cheeks when you’re making scalloped potatoes even when you don’t peel a single onion.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

Once upon a time I got mail, real mail, lots of mail! It came with colorful stamps and ended up in the battered rural mailbox we had back then.

Before people had the internet and could just type a quick note on Facebook or a comment at the end of a blog, it took real work to contact a writer. In retrospect, I’m surprised so many did it. I have heaps of mail I’ve saved through the years so my kids can have the honor of throwing it out after I depart these premises and go where no one gets mail.

Sometimes a letter arrived addressed to “Donna Poole Writer Pittsford, Michigan.” Other times an envelope said “Lickley’s Corners Baptist Church Donna Poole Pastor’s Wife Pittsford Michigan.” The mailman knew us; it’s a small town, and the letters arrived. If, perchance, one went into a neighbor’s mailbox, the neighbor brought it over.

Usually, my fan (or hate) mail was addressed, not to me, but to the publications I wrote for. Editors then forwarded it to me. One editor often included humorous remarks to take the sting off if the letter was of the “you stink” variety.

Once an editor wrote, “If you quote me, I’ll deny it, but I’d hate to be married to this woman. I think she has problems beyond her dislike of your column and our publication.”

Why did I get so much mail? I had a column in one magazine for twenty-two years; that’s long enough to make readers either love you or hate you.

I also wrote Sunday school curriculum for children for over fifty years. Some of my favorite mail came from kids. One little girl wrote, “I liked your lesson. Do you know anything else about the Bible? If you do, will you write back and tell me what it is?”

The children drew pictures of me the way they imagined I might look and decorated their pictures with hearts and stickers and almost always signed their notes, “I love you.” I didn’t get any hate mail from children.

I didn’t really get much negative mail from adults either. People wrote for other reasons. Some people contacted me to share their sorrows; cancer at age thirty-five with five children nine years and younger, the loss of a daughter at the hands of a drunk driver, a woman only in her thirties needing dialysis three times a week. Many people wrote to tell me about their lives or families. Some people wanted my help; to compile a book for them, to locate an out-of-print book, to sell something, to find a topic for a mother-daughter banquet, to do some research for them, to send them a list of recommended books for a certain age. Some people wanted advice on how to get started with writing or how to fix a broken relationship. I got asked for recipes. I received requests to speak in many places as far away as a remote village in India.

I didn’t get any neutral letters. Some people asked me to write more; some asked me to shut up and never write again. Some asked me to use more quotes; some said I quoted far too often. Some praised my style: “So glad it’s deep and not the fluff most women’s columns are.” Another reader dismissed my writing as “fluff” and “out of touch with reality.”

One man threatened my editor if he continued to print “this kind of thing” (my column) his church would stop buying all material published by that press including their Sunday school curriculum.

A lady in her late eighties wrote to tell me she had a mission in life, and it was to correct authors’ mistakes. She pointed out a word I’d misspelled. I wrote back. You’d be proud of my humility; I didn’t say I was glad she had such a noble purpose for staying alive.

Another sweet lady, also in her eighties, wrote to suggest a topic for my next column. She wanted me to write about people who refuse to help clean the church. She was the only one in a church of one-hundred members who offered to help when the pastor requested. She closed with, “When you write about this, please don’t use my name.”

One woman took offense at the authors I quoted. She was sure none of them were headed for heaven. She went on to say she didn’t believe I was a true Christian either, and that if I didn’t know enough not to read those kinds of books, my pastor husband should stop me, and if he didn’t know any better either, he certainly did not belong behind the pulpit!

Did I respond? I’m sure I did. I answered every letter unless my editor told me not to. There were several vicious ones from a man in California. My editor told me to quit responding and also told me he hoped I never ran into that man in a dark alley somewhere!

Well, a sage wisely said everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.

Probably ninety-eight percent of the letters were kind. The phrase I heard most often and the one that warmed my heart was, “I feel like I know you.”

When a columnist or a blogger can make that kind of connection with her readers, she’s done her job.

I still occasionally get real mail with stamps on it. A reader from Ireland has brightened my day several times with mail, but most people are like me. We use snail mail now and then, but we rely on text messages, email, Facebook, and Facebook messenger. And that’s fine. I enjoy the connections I make with readers on the internet too.

By the way, let me be perfectly clear. Whether you live in a remote village in India or the town next to mine, please don’t ask me to come speak at your mother-daughter banquet, or your puppy’s adoption, or at your boat’s christening. Why not? I won’t be able to come. I’ll have laryngitis. I can guarantee it.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

I have thousands of them.

Half a century ago, I started copying on three by five cards quotes from books I was reading. I did this for many years, stopped, and recently started again. Something is different this time. My handwriting is wobbly now, looks like an old lady’s scrawl, and I can’t imagine why. But something else is different too.

“John, feel this.” I handed my husband an old three by five card I’d written a quote on many years ago.

“Now feel this.” I gave him a newborn three by five, baby-fresh from its package.

The old card was thick, sturdy, dependable; something made to last half a century.

The new card is a lightweight piece of junk. I don’t know how long it will survive being pulled out and pushed into its place in my antique card file cabinet.

This small irritation, during all the world’s enormous crises, bugged me. It was like a tiny mosquito buzzing around my ear and refusing to be swatted. So, I asked Siri and Safari why three by five cards are thinner now, and when they shrugged and yawned, I went to know-it-all Google. Eureka! I found I was not alone in my angst. Others have noticed and commented too, not just on the decline in quality of the humble index card, but also in construction paper, and many other things too.

It seems in many ways we’re paying more but getting less for our buck. There’s even a word for what’s happening, “Shrinkflation.”

“It kind of feels like you’ve been had.” So says Professor Hitendra Chaturvedi from Arizona State University when commenting on shrinkflation.

No “kinda” about it, Prof. We’ve been had alright!

Shrinkflation: Put less in the package but charge the consumer the same amount of money or even more.

Shrinkflation: make index cards almost as thin as notebook paper.

The consumer won’t notice.

I sympathize with manufacturers’ dilemmas; raw materials cost more. Way more. But I resent their assumption that the average consumer won’t notice there’s five to twenty percent less than there used to be inside bags and boxes. I resent even more they were correct; with most products, I didn’t notice.

I read an article listing some of the products included in shrinkflation: Cottenelle, Sun Maid Raisins, Safeguard soap, Keebler’s M & M cookies, GM cereals, and others.

I’ve noticed shrinkflation in something everyone needs that isn’t for sale. We may offer less of ourselves to others after circumstances and people leave us battle scarred and hurt. We put up shields. We become a little less kind and giving. Perhaps we present ourselves as the same package we once were, but there’s less inside. We have no intention of putting ourselves out there for others the way we once did; what if we get hurt again?

Or maybe we aren’t battle scarred and hurt; we’re just weary. Why keep caring and giving when so few others do?

Kindness shrinkflation is everywhere.

In a world that’s growing colder, more callous, and more self-centered, I’m blessed to know so many givers, people who’ve resisted shrinkflation, the way they do at my favorite coffee shop, Pam’s Place.

Pam sets the tone at her place. She opens before most of us wake up every morning, ready to welcome the earliest risers, not just with delicious coffee, but also with a smile and an encouraging word or two. I’ve gotten to know several of her regular customers. It’s a place where people actually connect with each other.

There’s no shrinkflation of kindness at Pam’s Place; it’s everywhere. No one argues. We don’t talk much about politics, except maybe to tease Ken about being in Facebook jail so often. People don’t stay long; we’re all busy. Someone may tell a joke. Someone else may ask for prayer. We stop by, say good morning, grab our coffee, and we’re gone. But the kindness of Pam’s Place lingers for the rest of the day.

Pam’s Place isn’t real. That is, it’s not brick and mortar real. There isn’t even a coffee shop named Pam’s Place; that’s just what I call it.

Pam is real. She’s a Facebook friend I’ve known since high school. Pam does something many would think a little thing. Every morning she finds an attractive photo of coffee cups, adds a few words of encouragement, and posts it on Facebook. Every evening Pam shares a lovely picture and says goodnight. In a world where kindness is shrinking, Pam spends time, every single day, to give a little joy to the people in her world.

Several of us check in with Pam each morning. Chris was a regular; she was a tea drinker, and Pam often had some virtual tea waiting for her. When Chris died of cancer, we stopped by Pam’s page and found comfort from each other. A little thing became a big thing that day.

You don’t have to post on Facebook every morning to add kindness to this hurting world.

At the cancer center where I go many different nurses come to collect patients when it’s time for a treatment. One nurse comes into the large room and sings the patient’s name. It makes me smile, and I’m not the only one who smiles in that room where many are hiding tears.

A text. A phone call. A plate of cookies. A smile. A hand on a shoulder. A prayer. Find your own way to give a little kindness. Little things become big things.

Call me D.P.—not Donna Poole but Dreamer Pollyanna; I can see it now, a world without any shrinkflation of kindness. It could happen too if everyone would just be a Pam.

Meanwhile, while I wait for that to happen, does anyone know where I can buy some decent three by five cards?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

The corn grew tall that July weekend, just as it had done when the Potawatomi had roamed this land. Sweet and clear, the church bell rang out over the green fields. It was saying, “It’s time to celebrate! Come on over.”

The church had hosted many celebrations in its century long history, standing on the corner where two dirt roads meet. Old timers told of weddings where guests had stood four-deep outside around open windows trying to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom. And the one room schoolhouse next door that had served as both a community club and a church fellowship hall had its own stories to tell of spelling bees and quilt making parties.

The four corners had once boasted a post office, a country store, a grange hall, and a church. Only the church was left. A local newspaper said the once bustling corners was now “barely a presence on the map.” That might be true for some, but for the pastor who’d spent his entire adult life there, loving on the broken and the hurt, the church was his heart.

The pastor had guided several generations of children during his years at that church, including his own children and his grandchildren. When his kids had been young, they’d gone to church for Sunday school, morning worship, evening service, and Wednesday prayer service. They’d never questioned going or complained about it, even when they were teens; it was just part of life. They’d loved the church, and the church had usually loved them back. That’s not to say they hadn’t rejoiced when a snowstorm, or a loss of electrical power. or some other event had closed the church for the day.

When the kids had been young, prayer meeting had started late to give the farmers a chance to finish milking before coming. It had also been the service most poorly attended. The pastor’s boys had often stood, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, peering out of the clear glass section of the stained-glass windows, hoping against hope that no one would pull into the parking lot.

“Dad, it’s five minutes after eight. How long do we have to wait until we can go home?”

“Someone might still be coming. Let’s give it until quarter after.”

If it had been winter, they’d taken turns abdicating the window watch to go stand on the big square register between the pews, the only heat source. The old furnace beneath the register had moaned and groaned, struggling to keep up with the wild winds whipping around the white frame building. Usually, the winds had won.

Sometimes, when the fifteen minutes had expired, the kids had gotten their wish. No one had come to prayer meeting, and they’d gotten to go home.

Other times, the boys had groaned at twelve minutes after eight o’clock. “Oh no! Here comes Anna May.”

The children, two boys, two girls, now middle-aged adults were there today for the celebration. And so were many others who’d grown up travelling down the dirt roads to the white frame church. As they waited for the celebration to begin, people reminisced about the old days.

“Remember when you threw the baseball through the stained-glass window?”

“As I recall, it was you who did that!”

“Well, remember when you tried to throw one of the girls’ flip flops over the roof and it got stuck up there, so you tried to knock it off with a frisbee, and that got stuck too?”

“I do believe I remember that.”

The new fellowship hall, the one the pastor didn’t think he’d ever live long enough to see finished, was completed, but barely in time. It still smelled like fresh paint. It could seat one-hundred twenty people, a proud number for the little church on the corners, and it was packed full of at least that many. Some talked fondly of happy fellowships in the old schoolhouse, but it had seated only about fifty people and had no running water, and no indoor bathroom.

For that matter, the church itself had no running water and no indoor bathroom when the young pastor and his wife had come, with their two-year-old, to rural southern Michigan fifty years before. The “bathroom” had been an outhouse outback. The pastor’s wife had found it humorous that in warm weather every child in the church had to make at least one trip to the outhouse, but when it had been cold or rainy, no one had to go.

The pastor’s wife was quiet that celebration day as she watched the women bustling in the kitchen area, finishing the last-minute food preparations. For years she’d overseen everything like that and had cooked a good deal of the food too, but those days were long gone. She looked at her walker, but not with regret. The years had been good years. Time had dulled the hurts that had happened in the little country church and had left in their place only a warm gratitude for the love and community she’d found here. She’d never expected to feel contented to be an old lady, but she was, except for that one thing she couldn’t change. She’d not fight with the Lord about that; what good would it do?

Someone tapped the mic. It was time for the celebration to start; the church was honoring her husband’s fifty years of faithful service. He’d come to the country community not knowing a combine from a planter or beans from winter wheat. But he’d learned. He’d helped chase down stray cows and pigs, saved a calf from a pack of wild dogs, and once had dropped down a coal chute to rescue children accidentally locked inside a house. God had blessed him for that half-century. Big churches might scoff at what looked small to them, but she believed the old song, “Little is much when God is in it.”

He was no Billy Graham, her man, but he’d helped a few here and there find God. And he’d loved his people well and taught them to love one another. He’d loved her well too, and his children and grandchildren. Some of them were speaking today to honor him.

But first the singing! How that church could sing! Then came the speaking. So many people, so many words.

One son said, “There aren’t many left like my dad. I’m proud to be his son.”

A daughter said, “He tried everyday to live what he preached. I love him so much.”

A little girl said, “His face made me happy.”

After thirty minutes of praise that would have made an angel blush, they asked the pastor’s wife to speak. She said only a few words; she didn’t have strength for more. “I want to say we love you and thank you. We wouldn’t be what we are; we couldn’t have done what we have without you. Now I want to read you one of our favorite verses.”

Her hands trembled as she tried to turn the pages, and a daughter helped her find Psalm 115:1. “Not unto us, O Lord,” she read, “but unto thy name give the glory, for thy mercy and for thy truth’s sake.”

And then came the food, such an abundance of food prepared by loving hands in honor of this celebration.

The pastor’s wife didn’t eat much; she was so tired, but she loved hearing the conversation and laughter flow around her. She wished today never had to end; she’d hold it in her heart forever. But it did end, as all things must.

Her son helped her to the car. “Mom, do you ever wonder about God’s timing? Why did He have to take Dad to heaven last week? Dad would have loved today.”

She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “I missed him terribly today, but I kept thinking this beautiful celebration was nothing compared to what he’s enjoying now.”

Her son bent down and hugged her. “You’re right, Mom. He’s having the grandest celebration of all.”

The church bell rang sweetly again, signaling the end of another wonderful day at the corner where two dirt roads meet. And the corn grew tall.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

Dead is dead, right? I mean you can’t say something is so dead.

But it is. It is so dead.

The beautiful tree we bought the day after Thanksgiving 2022 and decorated with so much joy and hope stands desolate and dead in our living room. Needles scatter all over the floor, along with a few ornaments the cats have knocked down.

I look at the dead tree and at the needles slowly taking over the house and sigh. Symbolic they are. For all the plans we had for Christmas activities that never happened. Why not? Let’s just say it was this, that, and the other thing. Including influenza and Covid.

It’s past the middle of January 2023 now and we still haven’t had family Christmas. I happen to know three grandkids in Ohio ask almost every day when it’s going to happen, and I imagine the rest of our crew of fourteen grandchildren wonder the same thing. It’s now scheduled for the last Sunday of the month, Lord willing and if the creek don’t rise, and hope against hope.

But the tree is dead. No one has had the physical or emotional energy to remove its decorations. I’m going to do that as soon as I finish writing this article. Maybe. I know John will help me. I’m already hearing hundreds, thousands, millions of dead needles falling as we remove ornaments.

Okay, so I exaggerate. It’s a prerogative of authors and evangelists.

Which reminds me. Did you hear about the evangelist who went to a pastor pleading for an intervention?

“Please, help me. I’m preaching at your church Sunday, and the Lord has convicted me of sin. I have a ginormous problem with exaggeration. I’ve literally cried gallons of tears about it.”

The pastor nodded. “You do have a problem.”

“Will you sit behind me when I preach? If I exaggerate, tug on my suitcoat.”

Sunday came. The evangelist held the congregation spellbound with his persuasive personality and superb storytelling.

“I don’t usually preach in churches this small,” he said. “The last auditorium I preached in was one-thousand feet long!”

He felt a strong tug on his suit coat and cleared his throat.

“Yes, five-hundred feet long…and two feet wide.”

Well, we didn’t have a Walton Family Christmas or a Hallmark movie one either this year, but lest I exaggerate our woes we had many blessings too. Our kids’ program at church was excellent; I loved every minute. Our candlelight service, always a favorite, lived up to expectations. True, no one remembered to bring a candle, not even us, but the readings and specials captured hearts. Christmas Day here with just the four of us really was wonderful, white Christmas and all, until I got sick in the middle of it.

And there hasn’t been a day since when everyone here has felt completely well. That’s why the dead tree still stands, yet undecorated, a metaphor for shattered plans.

Life’s magical moments, its joy filled days can’t last forever. During a celebration death knocks on a door somewhere; or a doctor gives a grim diagnosis, or a heartbreak ends a relationship.

You and I, we climbed our hills with so much hope, didn’t we? The highest height was just in sight when we slipped and began a downward slide. I see a sled. Grab it my friend; hold on tight, and off you go. Let the tears freeze on your cheeks as you zig zag down. It’s quiet now, peaceful even, and the sled finds its own way through beautiful snow draped pines. You aren’t going in the direction you’d hoped, but you see beauty through those frozen tears. The sled skids sideways and stops. You’re at the bottom now. You climb off, weary and sad, and look up at where you once were. Perhaps one day you’ll have the energy to climb again, but not now. You’re too tired; the hill is too steep. Your hands are freezing; somehow, you’ve lost your mittens. You shove your hands into your pockets to warm them and feel a flicker of warmth in your heart. You know right away what it is, and you thank God you haven’t lost that. It’s hope. You glance to your left and see someone else climbing off a sled. It’s me, I haven’t lost hope either, not yet.  

Hope is why we’re decorating another tree here in the next few days.

Our daughter who lives with us discovered an artificial flocked tree at an after Christmas sale. We split the cost. It arrives today. Those decorations I’m taking off the dead tree are going on the new one. No one in this house is a big fan of artificial trees, but I think we’re going to love this one.

Are we crazy to decorate again? Maybe. But family Christmas, like life, is what you make it. And along with love, laughter, and lots of good food, we want a tree at our family Christmas. For the grandkids. Okay, for the grandma too. Trees are metaphors for lots of things. Ours has lots of lights and a spinning antique star ornament. It says yesterday. It says today. And it says maybe tomorrow.  

“Through the years we all will be together

If the Lord allows

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” –Hannah Kerr lyrics

by Donna Poole

It wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made but I couldn’t help myself.

You see, our dear pastor friend had died. Because of my cancer treatments I couldn’t do any of the things I used to do. I couldn’t go to the memorial service to honor him and comfort his wife or hug his family members, also my dear friends. I couldn’t serve at the funeral dinner.

I’m no longer on one of the hospitality groups at church. Every January I still print up the sign-up lists for the hospitality groups and children’s church workers, but the last three Januarys I haven’t been able to add my name the way I always did before.

I’ve lost count of how many funeral dinners I once oversaw, but those days are no more.

Our church didn’t fix the entire meal for our pastor friend’s funeral dinner. The people in charge only requested salads.

My husband, John, started to call Martha and Marilyn, the two women on our church hospitality committee that month, so they could arrange the salads.

“Tell them I’ll make enough macaroni salad for one-hundred and fifty people,” I told John. “That way they won’t have to get so many other salads.”

He stared at me.

His Donna? The one who usually must take a nap after a simple shower because she’s so exhausted?

“Don’t forget you have the family coming here for Thanksgiving the day before, honey.”

“I know.”

“And Kimmee can’t help you make all that salad; she and Jenny have to shoot a wedding.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how much I can help you either. If I’m going to take Thanksgiving Day off to be with family, get ready to preach the funeral on Saturday, and prepare for Sunday, I probably won’t have much time available to help you on Friday.”

“I’ll be fine. I love that family and I can’t be there to comfort them. And I love Martha and Marilyn. There’s so much I can’t do, honey. Please, let me do this for everyone.”

“If you’re sure….”

“I’m sure. Make the call.”

The following days were a storm of activity, cooking, cleaning, moving furniture, setting up tables, and decorating for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was wonderful, a day of love and laughter, one of those days you keep in your heart forever.

After everyone left and we cleaned up I think I must have found our bed. I don’t remember.

The next morning, I could barely wake up. Then I remembered. Macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty! My feet hit the ground with a groan and a prayer. Well, the recipe was easy enough. Just in case you ever need it, here it is.

Macaroni Salad for 150

8 pounds macaroni cooked and drained

4 ½ pounds shredded cheddar cheese

8 pounds fully cooked ham cubed

3 bags frozen peas, 20-oz each, thawed

3 bunches celery, chopped (about 18 cups)

3 large onions, chopped

3 jars green olives, sliced (Sorry, I can’t remember the size.)

Dressing:

12 cups mayonnaise

12 ounces Western or French salad dressing

½ cup white vinegar

½ cup sugar

2 cups half and half

2 ¼ t onion salt

2 ¼ t garlic salt

1 ½ t salt

1 ½ t pepper

Directions:

In several large bowls, combine the first seven ingredients. In a large bowl, combine all the dressing ingredients; pour over ham mixture and toss to coat. Cover and refrigerate until serving.

“You call me if you need me,” John said.

“I won’t need you,” I promised.

So much for promises!

In generosity added to love I forgot to calculate one vital factor: Who has containers big enough to mix that much macaroni salad?

It wasn’t long before John was in the kitchen helping me. I still don’t know how we did it. I’m pretty sure our guardian angels were laughing, not helping. Finally, we got all the salad mixed and put into sturdy, disposable lasagna pans, all that would fit, that is.

There was a considerable amount of salad left.

“You know I love macaroni salad, honey,” John said as he started hunting for containers to put the leftovers in.

I looked at the kitchen. Every pot, pan, and bowl we had was dirty. There wasn’t a clean spot to sit even a coffee cup.

About then our granddaughter stopped by and were we ever happy to see her! We were more than ready to sit.

“Come in, Megan!” I laughed when she walked into the kitchen. “This is what a kitchen looks like when you make macaroni salad for one-hundred fifty people. Want some?”

“No, but thanks, Grandma.”

She looked around the messy kitchen with those wide blue eyes of hers and offered to clean it up, but I refused.

“Just stay and talk awhile, if you have time.”

Megan did stay, and her grandpa and I loved every minute. Lunch time came and went. She had to be hungry. Again, I offered macaroni salad. Again, she politely refused.

We hated to see Megan leave; we always do.

And then we tackled the kitchen. What a job.

“She…went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.” –O’ Henry

When we finally finished cleaning up, John was ready for macaroni salad. We ate it several times that day.

By the next morning when John left early to deliver the pans of salad for the funeral dinner, I was already tired of eating it.

“Tell them to give any leftovers to the family or the kitchen help, okay?”

“I think they said they’re going to give the dinner leftovers to the homeless shelter.”

I’m pretty sure I made way too much macaroni salad. I’m pretty sure the people at the homeless shelter couldn’t eat it all. I’m pretty sure it ended up in a dumpster somewhere, but that’s okay. I was just glad it didn’t come back home because we ate the macaroni salad we had here way longer than it’s safe to eat it, and I haven’t made it since. Nor do I plan to.

A few days later I remembered something. Megan doesn’t like macaroni salad. And it seems I don’t either, not anymore!

Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? Maybe. I do believe I ate way too many pieces of Christmas chocolate candy. But I don’t think you can have too much generosity mixed with love. I’d do it again it a heartbeat; if I thought it could bring a little help and comfort to my friends, I’d offer to make salad for one-hundred and fifty people.

But you better believe it wouldn’t be macaroni salad.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole