I found Jack through a phone call to LIMA. And I found the Human Bean Coop through Jack. I was looking for a food coop like the one I shopped at in San Francisco. It seemed the hippy healthy thing to do.
My dad was sick . . . well, that’s an understatement. He had kidney cancer and we were all searching for the miracle cure. I went the way of macrobiotics. I took cooking classes with Pam and Jan, always making sure to mention my nut and sesame allergies before signing up. Jack said it would be no problem. My first class was in his kitchen. There were around 6 or 8 of us sitting around the kitchen counter. He was making a cauliflower tahini sauce in the blender. (Ah, did he use tahini?) Then he emptied the blender and, without rinsing it, he filled it with ingredients for the next dish. I felt like one big itchy hive. I couldn’t eat anything and asked for my money back. He said that was not his policy. Apparently eating this way does not make you a good person (or a smart one.) What good came of it? He told me of JoAnne’s Farm Stand and the Human Bean Coop. So you could say that was why the divine spirit led me to Jack.
I volunteered and shopped at the coop and I started cooking my own macro food. I felt great. Didn’t get those 4 o’clock sleepy blues. My dad didn’t fare so well. He died within a year of his diagnosis.
I stocked shelves, priced items, and brought toddler hannah along to help. Then I volunteered to put together a newsletter. This involved interacting with other people. I went to the board meetings. Always arguing. I stopped volunteering, stopped shopping there, and soon after, they closed up shop. (No, I can’t take blame for that.)
The next newsletter I edited was the PTA Post. I was a good mommy. I was involved. I helped out during pizza Fridays, and worked the plant and book sales. And for most of my years spent as a Camp Avenue mommy I edited the PTA Post (with the help of my friend Pat S.) And because of this I felt I had to go to all the PTA meetings. Why is it that some people take this time to bring up an issue that has only to do with their child and they want an answer now. Zzzzzzzzz, boring. Some one needs to slam down that gavel and say, “Not now, make an appointment.” Doesn’t work that way. Everyone argues, “I think we should donate the extra twenty dollars to the Save the Whales Fund.” “What? No way, we need to buy a new book for my child’s class” “How about buying a gift for the crossing guard . . . ” This could go on and on and on. Hey mommies and daddies, aren’t we all here for the children. We should all be on the same page. I did not want to be there. It had to end. It did. My girls were on their way to middle school.
After that I unwittingly volunteered to edit the temple newsletter. But first I went to a few sisterhood meetings. Nope, not for me. Then somehow, I don’t know how this happened but I received a call from Betsy B., “How would you like to put together the message?” For some reason I thought she was referring to writing short classifieds or something. “Yeah, sure.” The next day I am given a big box full of old stuff. Old newsletters, old pictures, old articles. What have I done? I went to a few board meetings. I didn’t want to be there. I’d rather be fooled into thinking everyone liked each other and got along.
Done with that! Sleeping through the night. Then the phone call from Gerda, “Vicki dear, the hort society is looking for someone to take over the newsletter. You would be perfect. What do you think? We’ll get to see each other at the meetings. It will be so much fun.” She thought it would be a good way to get me to meetings so we could hang together. Ahh, an organization in need. I thought about it and figured it would keep me involved in horticulture, so why not? I became editor and then a member. So what happened to Gerda? Apparently she was too busy being a grandma to care about me.
So now I am done with the LIHS newsletter and I have replaced it with my daily blog. Please don’t make me join anything!
Dinner tonight: Last night’s leftovers and a fresh eggplant dish.
thesommertimes 