I got hooked on scrapbooking more than a decade ago, when my daughter was a toddler and a friend with a daughter the same age took me into her basement and introduced me to the joys of taking lots of photos and then using your imagination to turn them into personal works of art that capture moments in your life. I was skeptical of my abilities at first but soon learned that scrapbooking is not really hinged on your artistic skills but on your desire to tell stories.

I didn’t have a designated space for many years when I lived in the Washington, D.C. area so I left pictures, colorful papers, glues and other supplies in my friend’s basement and we would get together most Friday evenings to scrapbook until well after midnight. Our daughters loved it too, as they would get to play with dolls and games, watch movies or do what they wanted without our involvement. As they grew older, they even suggested that we scrapbook more often so they would get more playtime.

Scrapbooking is a way to relax, a reason to sit still for a while, reflect and enjoy fellowship with good friends. In many ways, it’s sort of like the old-fashioned quilting bees, when women would gather to stitch quilts and talk.  

I finally donated furniture in a guest bedroom and turned it into my scrapbooking room. (Guests subsequently slept on a comfortable airbed when they visited.) That way, I could leave out many of my supplies and when I felt like scrapbooking it wouldn’t be a chore to unpack everything. In fact, scrapbook stores and internet sites offer all kinds of bins and shelves and other organizational supplies for folks who want to create fancy work spaces, and many do. Another friend created a scrapbooking room with built-in shelving and desks in her basement when it was remodeled.

Here in Charlotte I’ve had to keep most of my supplies packed away. I’ve created a small space in my garage, where I have put a desk and tried to organize some of my materials around it. Over the past few evenings, I’ve had some time to make my scrapbooking space more accessible.

Scrapbooking is one of the  things I do to get revived for dealing with the stresses of living.  Now, as I juggle my personal needs and those of my aging  mother and teenage daughter, scrapbooking is increasingly a special time  for me. Besides, it’s a lot of fun.

What do you do to refresh yourself for the demands of your life?

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As a 10th grader, she’s entering critical parts of her high school experience, both academic and social. Now is the time when she not only must make sure she’s taking the appropriate courses required for college, she also has to be mindful of grades. She also wants time to hang out with friends at football games and other activities. So, I figured that my daughter, who only sees the floor of her closet every few months when I insist that she clear it out, might benefit from an organizational contract.  It also would be a preventive measure for some of the issues we dealt with last school year. For example, my daughter would claim that she was studying while sending text messages to friends, who claimed they were studying too. I don’t think so.

We developed a contract outlining study time on weekdays and weekends. During these hours she must put away her IPod and cell phone. We set a daily curfew for texting and use of the internet and IPod. She got Fabulous Fridays, when she can do whatever she wants after school– go to a football game, hang out with friends, watch a movie, read a book. We figured out a schedule for weekly chores around the house and formalized family dinner at least three times during the week and on Sundays. We’ll also huddle on Sunday evenings to synchronize schedules for the upcoming week and talk about any problems. Most importantly, my daughter agreed to do her best academically.

Of course, all contracts have penalties and we included some in ours: loss of computer, IPod and texting time, for instance. There are benefits, too. My daughter wants a new cell phone, and if all goes well the first semester, she’ll be able to get one at the end of the year.

The first few days of school have gone well. Today, my daughter got back in bed after her alarm clock went off but when she finally got up, she moved in a whirlwind to dress, grab a breakfast  bar and walk out the door at 6:20 a.m. to catch the school bus. The high schools start early here in Charlotte and getting to the bus stop on time last school year was challenging for my daughter. This year, I told her, I am no longer offering  taxi service. It’s in the contract.

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This summer, however, she has found her  breakfast groove.  As a result of her growing confidence in the kitchen, she has been pulling together robust morning meals.  Whole wheat pancakes and turkey bacon.  Biscuits and eggs. Biscuits, turkey bacon and cantaloupe. Cinnamon raisin toast and turkey sausage.

I have been giving my 15-year-old daughter cooking lessons, with help from other family members. For a year, I’ll be teaching her the basics, along with family recipes, and hopefully stir in her an interest in preparing a variety of healthy foods. My Mom, sisters and an aunt are helping. Our guide is “Martha Stewart’s Cooking School” cookbook.

I’ve been delighted to see my daughter take charge of preparing some of her food.  She is increasingly spending more time in the kitchen, either to wash dishes or help out when we aren’t having a class. And, she goes with me regularly to the grocery store or farmer’s market.

One morning recently, my daughter decided to experiment for breakfast. She prepared a sandwich:  an egg and turkey, fried in a bit of olive oil, with cheese on whole wheat bread. She understands that eggs have a lot of cholesterol and eats no more than three a week.

Some of her friends from Maryland will be visiting us for a few days in August. I’m going to turn the kitchen over to my daughter for breakfast.

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I expected resistance to the idea. We’re eating too much healthy food, my 15-year-old complained. She already fusses periodically about having to eat brown rice and whole grain bread all the time. And the only reason she doesn’t grumble about eating Raisin Bran and other grain-based cereals is the deal we made some years ago. She gets to eat all the Froot Loops and other sugary cereals she wants during trips but doesn’t get them at home.

In teaching my daughter cook, I’m also trying to help her understand how to make healthier eating choices. Though she’s doesn’t particularly like all the changes over the past few years, I know that with time they’ll become a part of her normal eating habits.

Several months ago I began an effort to teach my teenager to cook, finding time in the rush of everything else she’s doing to spend time in the kitchen. I have been wanting to improve my cooking skills too so I enlisted the aid of  my mother and Martha Stewart. My daughter and I are using “Martha Stewart’s Cooking School” cookbook as a guide.

For our flatbread pizza, my daughter and I picked up low-fat mozzarella and cheddar cheese,  turkey Italian sausage, a tasty tomato sauce and fresh spinach. It was a quick and easy process: She spread all the ingredients on the flatbread and broiled it for a few minutes.

In the end, my daughter liked the flatbread pizza. She said she’ll make it again, using different ingredients. But, she asked, what about regular pizza? My advice: Eat it sparingly and on special occasions.

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For a few moments, I was a bit confused. The idea of being a senior is foreign to me. That’s not how I think of myself, and neither do any of my other 50-something Baby Boomer friends.  My voice almost cracked  when I responded, “Why are you asking?”

My daughter gave me the envelope she was holding and pointed to the return address, which included the words senior healthcare. The letter was addressed to me and came from my new physicians’ group here in North Carolina. I didn’t choose the doctors because I think of myself as a senior or because I have significant health problems. I figured it would be a good idea to have specialists who would already know my health history when I’m really old.  

Studies show that Baby Boomers, who range in age from 46 to 64, are fighting the description of people over 50 as seniors, unless, of course, it is used for those who are at least 80-years-old. A recent survey showed that Boomers feel much younger than their actual ages, and as age increases, the gap between their real age and perceived age expands. Turning 50, many say, is the new 40.

I looked at my daughter and could see the fear in eyes. For a 15-year-old, someone who is 30 is considered old, so a description of someone as a senior means ancient, near death. I reached over, gave her a hug, and told her, “No, I’m not a senior.”  

When life spans were shorter, turning 50 meant old age.  But at a time when older adults are still having kids, skydiving, running marathons and learning the latest dance steps, age is a state of mind.

If you’re over 50, how do you think of your age? Are you a senior or not?

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We didn’t expect to develop such a deep interest in our tomatoes.

For more than a decade, we were deck gardeners. From the time my daughter was a toddler, I’d let her play in the dirt and help plant herbs and flowers in pots on the deck of our home in Maryland.  We looked forward to our fresh basil, rosemary, thyme and hot peppers. At our new place here in Charlotte, there’s a community garden plot available on a first-come, first-serve basis. We both like tomatoes so I decided to sign up for a space and dedicate it to tomatoes only.

We spent a few hours some weeks ago getting rid of weeds and getting the soil ready for planting before I purchased six heirloom tomato plants. We have both been overcome with the peace and quiet joy of tending to the plants and anticipating their bounty.

My daughter and I have been touched by gardening magic.

I’ll continue to share our gardening stories through the summer. Won’t you share some of yours?

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Consider the goings-on at my house. On Sundays, my daughter and I go to the 9:30 a.m. services at a Baptist church. My daughter gets up, rushes to get dressed and then as I am applying my finishing touches starts complaining that she doesn’t want to be late. In fact, she’s intent on getting to the separate youth services early. Monday mornings, and every morning during the week, she barely gets to the school bus stop on time. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

A month or so ago, I took my 15-year-old daughter for her annual physical examination. I had been telling her for months that she needed to use a deep moisturizing cream on her skin every day since it is very dry. She ignored my advice and insisted doing it once a week or so was adequate. The doctor noticed the dry patches on her skin and repeated the advice. Now, my daughter applies the cream most days. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

One day my daughter is talkative, pleasant, sharing the stories of her life. The next she’s silent, moody and spends hours in her bedroom, behind a closed door. Sometimes she likes to tell jokes; sometimes she doesn’t smile. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

There are times when we act silly together. There are times when I wonder about the silliness of something she’s done.

My mother probably thought I was an alien, too.  I have plenty of stories — like the time I didn’t say anything to my parents for several weeks, except when spoken to, because they made me show them my bank book after I got my first job. I was 15 1/2. I used to spend hours in my bedroom reading books. I was moody sometimes too.   

I still give my daughter hugs. I tell her how wonderful she is. I know that she is going to come back to earth. In five years or so.

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I stared at the rusting monument to old-fashioned clothes drying, a reminder of a time when it was practically an art to hang the clothes just-so, making sure all the pieces touched each other neatly and that under garments were discreetly tucked behind sheets and towels. A few of the old, battered clothes pins were still attached to the sagging lines.  

Come look at this clothesline, I told my daughter, and then recounted stories of how her grandmother taught me how to hang out clothes. I described the fresh scent of shirts and pants and linens dried by the air and the sun, how her aunts and I used to sneak and play tag as we ran between billowing sheets. I told her about the rule that meant my mother always sent us to bring in clothes on Saturday evenings, even it rained and they were still wet: No clothes on the clothesline on Sundays.  

Wow, my 15-year-old daughter said, “this is historical.”  I just smiled. 

A clothes line was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.   

It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.    

For then you’d see the ‘fancy sheets’
And towels upon the line;
You’d see the ‘company table cloths’
With intricate design.   

The line announced a baby’s birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.   

The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You’d know how much they’d grown.   

It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.   

It said, ‘Gone on vacation now’
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, ‘We’re back!’ when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.   

New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy gray,
As neighbors carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way.   

But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody’s guess.   

I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line!   

By Marilyn K. Walker  

What are some of your memories of clotheslines?  

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Everybody knew that if you didn’t get at least one slice when the desserts were first spread out, you might not get any at all. So the family stood patiently in line, waiting to pick up one of the pre-cut pieces. We had learned from experience that if there was no portion control, some people would slice pieces nearly the size of a whole pie.

My Mom’s sweet potato pies are delicious, delightful and delectable (I enjoy those three words and like to use them when describing really good food.) They’re not fancy. No nut toppings or marshmallows. Just flavorful and creamy and melt-in-your mouth good. My sisters and I grew up on them. They’re legendary in our extended family.

My mother loves to bake them.  As kids, she’d cook a couple every Sunday for dinner. They would often be a part of a picnic when our parents took us for a day trip to the beach or on other outings. As we left for college and to pursue our lives, there would always be pies waiting on the table when we walked in the door of our family home for a  visit.

Then came the grandkids. They would get a pie for birthdays, a whole pie that they didn’t have to share. My Mom would make a pie if they made a special request or just because. She cooked some for the dinner after my daughter’s christening. And just as my daughter learned at an early age that grandma wanted her to respond with a  ”yes mam” when asked to do something, she also understood the specialness of the sweet potato pies.

Mom says she learned the recipe for the pies from my father’s mother. After they got married, they moved in for a while with my father’s five brothers, one sister and his mother (her husband died at an early age) and that’s where she honed her technique.  

My Mom pies are her special gifts, her trademark way of saying I love you and I celebrate you. She isn’t able to make as many pies these days, but we still enjoy them at Thanksgiving and Christmas. My sisters and I all know the recipe but when we cook sweet potato pies they just don’t taste as good as the ones prepared by our Mom. When our family is together this weekend for Mother’s Day, we’ll be thinking about those pies, and loving up on our Mom.

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I’ll admit it’s not as interesting as experimenting with spices and herbs or enjoying the aroma of cooking food wafting through the kitchen. But it’s something we ought to teach our daughters, particularly in these days of practical living. The economic crisis has forced many of us to view coupons and sales with a different intensity. I’ve always been value-conscious but it’s just plain ridiculous to ignore the free money offered through using coupons. And grocery stores, faced with penny-pinching families, are competing against each other for the best weekly promotions.

My daughter rushes to get the Sunday newspaper after church services so she can get first dibs on the comics. She didn’t smile when I pulled out the coupon booklets and told her that we would go through them, looking for discounts on items we regularly eat. The trick to coupon clipping, I told her, is to forget loyalty to any one brand and to ignore coupons for the preservative, sodium-filled foods in boxes and cans. Of course, she was excited when she stumbled upon a buy-one, get-one free coupon for Cold Stone Creamery.

Our exercise in evaluating coupons — and it will become a regular part of many Sunday afternoons — is part of my year-long effort to teach my daughter to cook. I’m figuring it all out as we go along. My Mom is going to give a few hands-on sessions and I’ve just about memorized the table of contents of “Martha Stewart’s Cooking School” cookbook, which I’m using as a guide.

With our coupons in hand, we made stops at two grocery stores near our house that are less than two miles apart. First, we did a walk-through as I explained the general layout of grocery stores, with fresh and refrigerated foods located around the edges. We looked at the aisle groupings, so she could understand generally where to look for different items.

The first grocery store offered triple manufacturers’ coupons so we used all we had there and picked up a $3.99 watermelon, broccoli, buy-one, get-one free whole grain bread and a few other items on sale. By the time we left the store, my daughter’s eyes were practically rolling in her head from boredom. She wanted me to drop her off at home and finish the shopping. I didn’t.

At the second store we found split chicken breasts for 89 cents a pound, ground turkey for $1.97 a pound, oranges, yogurt, etc. etc. When we got back home, we had been out shopping for about two hours. My daughter was cranky, I was irritated. It will get easier, I told her.

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