Welcome to Mr. Jefferson's house

Raise your hand if, like me, you haven't been to Thomas Jefferson's home since you were young.

So, being the my-kids-are-gonna-learn-some-history-and-realize-there's-more-to-life-than-Disney-Channel-and-Halo-3 type of mom that I am, I begged the husband to take our children to Charlottesville this past weekend. Considering the federal government, our school system and my work deemed it a three-day weekend, what better way to celebrate Presidents' Day than tromping around Monticello?

So this weekend we hit the road, arriving in time to roam the grounds where Evan attended college and which Mr. Jefferson spent his post-presidential years designing. The next day we headed for Monticello and its 5,000 rolling acres.

Funny, Monticello looked bigger when I was a kid, much like the staircase at my elementary school seemed massive to 6-year-old eyes but tiny when returning as a grown woman.

Still, though the house appeared smaller, it wasn't without its surprises and delights. And just knowing I was standing in the rooms where one of our founding fathers ate, slept and pondered made me feel special being there.

Our family was taken back by Mr. Jefferson's innovations, from a dumb waiter of sorts to bring wine up from the wine cellar into the house to a clever weather vane that allowed him to tell the wind direction simply by looking up while standing on his porch (no going out in the yard to look on top of the house). The bed, in a two-sided alcove, allowed him to enjoy his chambers and adjoin them cleverly, and his closet was above the bed. When he needed to change out clothes for the season, Jefferson would send a grandchild shimmying up the ladder to fetch his wardrobe. He also had a preference for octagonal rooms (try placing furniture in one of those!), and it took him 40 years to complete the home. One can only guess that his wife had the utmost of patience.

I cannot think of any better way to have spent Presidents' Day than visiting the home of one of Virginia's -- and our nation's -- great men. You should visit Mr. Jefferson's house, too, given the opportunity, and discover that he was a man ahead of his time. It's a wonderful brush with greatness.

Welcome Home.

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Feeling a little love

Don't get me wrong. I love flowers, particularly tulips, but I think they should be an everyday pick-me-up to yourself and anytime gift to those you love. So I never understood a man's push to give flowers to the lady in his life on Valentine's Day. Sure, blooms in the season of hearts are wonderful, but make them all year long, too.

No, the best way to a woman's heart - at least for this gal - is a little help around the house. So says noted marital researcher Dr. John Gottman, author of "Why Marriages Succeed or Fail." In a nutsehell, this is what he says: Men who do more housework and child care have better sex lives and happier marriages than others.

Amen to that. Speaking from personal experience, a clean home is a happy home. A happy home means a happy wife. And if said wife got a little help getting it to that clean state, that's really reason to smile.

According to Joshua Coleman, a psychologist and author of "The Lazy Husband: How to Get Men to Do More Parenting and Housework," "When a man does housework, it feels to the woman like an expression of caring and concern, which then physically reduces her stress."

So here it is, guys: Don that apron. It doesn't have to be the frilly type. If you want to earn a special place in your honey's heart this Valentine's Day, man up and do the dishes. Vacuum the house. Change the bed linens. Do a couple of loads of laundry (and dry, fold and put away the clothes, too, please). And if you're looking for bonus points, scrub out the microwave. We hate doing that.

Do all this and I bet your significicant other will be in such a great mood from the sparkling house you get a peck or two or three.

And she won't even wonder where the flowers are.

Welcome Home.

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A return to simpler things

The economy's in the dumps, Christmas is going to be scaled way back this year and now the budget shopaholic's paradise - Value City - is going under.

But amid this dreary state of affairs came a whisper of sensibility, even hope, and it fit in my daughter's backpack. For a little while at least the Hecht household has a reminder that people can make do, will make do and have always found a way to make do.

It's not the answer to the economy, but one cheerful red and blue book, "The Little House Cookbook: Frontier Foods from Laura Ingalls Wilder's Classic Stories," has the Hecht household rethinking budgets, meals and what really matters.

Abby greeted me this evening with news of her discovery in the school library. Already a fan of the "Little House" books (I'd saved my precious collection from childhood and have shared them with her), she was thrilled to spy the 1979 book and immediately checked it out. Her first request as I set down my briefcase: "Mommy, can we make Green Pumpkin Pie tonight?"

And then they flooded back to me - memories of Laura Ingalls books devoured on hot summer afternoons, and the fabulous descriptions of early American foods captured from the writer's keen memory. As a child of the '70s, Laura Ingalls was my heroine, and the "Little House on the Prairie" series boosted my fascination. (Mom and Dad even took me on a pilgrimage to her De Smet, S.D., home, but that's another blog or column.)

After supper, Abby and I settled onto the couch by the fireplace and perused the pages of "The Little House Cookbook." 

"Let's read the recipes and pick out some to make," she chirped, her 8-year-old mind already planning a menu that would include Green Pumpkin Pie for dessert. 

And so we read about Raw Turnip Snacks ("Were  they like early potato chips?" Abby wondered), Cottage Cheese Balls (the jury's still out on that one), Long Winter Bread, Stewed Jack Rabbit and Dumplings, and Fried Cornmeal Mush. And these are just some of the tamer pioneer recipes! We marveled at the ingredients, read featured snippets from the Laura Ingalls book series and scanned Garth Williams' accompanying illustrations. She was just as fascinated with the humble-but-hearty foods as I was at her age.

Abby's starting to have an appreciation for the food we eat today. She knows meat simply doesn't come from a foam tray shrink-wrapped in plastic, that milk doesn't start off in a carton and that eggs don't magically arrive in a plastic container. And she knows our forefathers were hard working - and grateful - for the food that graced their tables. They did it with little money in their pockets, stretching every dollar  and sheer will to do whatever necessary to feed themselves and their families.

I thought it fitting that this book made its way to our home tonight as news of the shrinking economy settles over Hampton Roads. One way or another, all of us are going to be affected - whether it's through an aircraft carrier that may be reassigned to Mayport, yet another small or large business shutting down, or a workplace downsizing. It's times like this, when the economy isn't fat, that we should remember our country's simple roots. That we can find a way to get by, and that eventually the cloud of financial gloom with lift.

My family's guide through this dark time might just be a child's little red recipe book. Even if we don't cook up Blackbird Pie and Bean Porridge, it'll still serve us a little hope. 

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My new man

I'm in love with a new man. He's bald, comes in a box and likes it when you squeeze him.

He's pretty handy, too, and never complains about helping me tidy up around the house. When I've used him up, I can throw him away. And yet he doesn't mind. He doesn't even care if his replacement's just like him.

Yeah, that Mr. Clean is a pretty understanding guy.

Tonight, noticing the little scuffs and scrapes that life leaves around the house, I went in search of my fella and found him under the sink. He was nice and plump and fresh. Half an hour later, I'd worked the life right out of him.

How did we ever get along without Mr. Clean Magic Erasers? And what are these things made of anyway? They remind me of mattress foam. I wonder: If I cut up an old mattress, would I have hundreds of makeshift Mr. Cleans at my disposal?

Nah, I like keeping my buddy around the house. He sure is helpful.

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Batten down the hatches

Ah, it's almost autumn in Hampton Roads. That means a mix of this-weather-is-awesome mornings to melt-in-your-shoes afternoons as we hit mid-September.

Since Ike's just visited Texas and we've got the Hanna-wasn't-so-bad mojo going, hurricanes and tropical storms are prominent on folks' minds. It's pretty hard not to think about it with gas prices soaring (it was $4.93 - yes, you read that right) at Dodge Store on Hampton Boulevard yesterday as we made our way to Mitch's first fall ball game of the season. Meanwhile, the other three stations in that area hovered around $3.59. How can you not think about hurricanes with gas prices like that affecting folks at the pump?

So visting Kroger this weekend I noticed it's Hurricane Central, with batteries, gallon jugs of water, canned goods and even generators on the shelves. No joke...good-sized generators at the grocery store. I love my Kroger, but sometimes the weirdness of what the supermarket stocks baffles me. Patio furniture sets in the spring and summer. Big grills when barbecue season starts. Recliners - full-size, this-is-Dad's-chair type of recliners. Blows me away. Which, I guess, is appropriate for hurricane season.

So back to this time of year. I confess that as a Norfolk native who's weathered her fair share of hurricanes, tropical storms, snows and the Blizzard of '80, I'm pretty used to to myriad weather situations. You just learn to live with it. Thankfully, the husband bought a generator several years back when I was heavily pregnant with Mitch and we lost power for more than a week. We finally hooked up a window-unit air conditioner in our bedroom, the bedroom TV (gotta have the television!) and the fridge - and Evan made the generator-check dance every few hours to monitor its gas level. It's been put to good use ever since, in snows, hurricanes, you name it. We also have the requisite jugs and jugs of water, enough canned goods to feed a small army and medical accouterments to rival the Red Cross. If you've lived here any length of time, you just know to have this stuff, you know?

As a primer, though, we're working on a story for Saturday's Home on clean-up measures after the storm and what you can do to prepare for the next one. Think "lessons learned."  

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Danger, danger...DIY!

As I write this the countdown is on for our do-it-yourself contest judging.

In T-minus a few hours the judges will roll in to tally up the best DIY projects that Hampton Roads had to offer this year. I can't wait. I especially can't wait to spread the good news to the winners. Be waiting for the calls Wednesday night!

In the meantime, I've got the DIY fever. On Sunday, I brainstormed three new projects for Evan to accomplish and even helped with one. Hey, I don't wield a hammer too often, but I'm good with handing him stuff and fetching even more stuff. But if I try to do tear out, hammering or building myself, watch out. A visit to the Urgent Care is likely in store. Our last visit entailed me stepping on a board with a rusted, 53-year-old nail when we tore out two closets in the den and added an upstairs laundry room. Did you know a 3-inch nail can go right through the arch of your foot -- and that it's more painful than childbirth? (Trust me...I know. I had natural childbirth with Abby.)

So, the DIY fever and remembering the rusty-nail incident (one tetanus shot later) got me to thinking: How often do people REALLY hurt themselves doing DIY projects?

Luckily, a coworker sent me a timely press release on the subject from Angie's List, a provider of consumer ratings on local service companies. (The gist of the release was "leave projects to pros" and not try to do certain things yourself. But I was more interested in the statistics provided.)

So, get this. According to the Consumer Product Safety Commission, 136,000 emergency room-treated injuries are because of ladders each year. And hand and power saws cause another 100,000 injuries annually, according to the National Safety Council.

And nail guns, it seems, are a growing problem among DIYers. (Don't you just love nail guns...zap, zap, zap?) Injuries from them resulted in 35,000 emergency-room visits last year. One man shot himself in the hand while remodeling his basement.

Talk about getting attached to your work!

But all of this isn't enough to sway me from the value and personal reward of DIY. For the satisfaction, you just can't beat it. And the money you save is a great bonus, too. Just be smart about it.

And one piece of advice: Wear shoes when you're doing a tear out. Trust me. Your feet will love you.

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After the storm....

OK, everybody who spent today cleaning up after Hanna, raise your hand!

I'm not a "hurricane hopeful" - someone who wants our area to get walloped by hurricanes and tropical storms. But I do love the nesting opportunity offered by a storm, whether it's rain, thunder or snow. After all, aren't we told to stock up on water, canned foods, batteries and so on?

So as Hanna blew through yesterday morning, the first thing I wanted to do was...nothing. Just wanted to rest under the covers and listen to the wind howl through the trees and under the eaves. And watch the trees sway outside my bedroom window. Nothing like that and enjoying the rain pelting on the roof and windowpanes. Eventually, though, you have to get up, so I spent the day cleaning, organizing my craft corner and watching movies on and off (and even a little football with the husband. I must be feeling particularly domestic to watch football).

But this morning there was no escaping it: The yard and deck took a beating from Hanna. Someone had to clean it. Since Evan had to work this morning, that someone would be me. Granted, it's too pretty a day to be cleaning up what Mother Nature threw at us, but it had to be done. I enlisted my two helpers, Mitch and Abby, after prying them away from the playroom, and we set to work beautifying the deck and back yard between choruses of  "but, Mommy, do we have to?"

Lemme just say this: I could sell straw. Lots of it. I could open my own stand and peddle this stuff from all the pine trees on our property and our neighbors' property. If we don't keep up with this mess, we'll be buried in it. It chokes the gutters, gets stuck in bushes (one of my pet peeves) and is a pain to sweep from the deck since it gets caught between the boards. Oh, and try picking it out of wicker furniture. Not fun. If anyone needs pine straw for mulch, you're welcome to bag some from the Hecht household. If anyone has a good idea of what else I can do with all this straw, please let me know. Please!

A couple of hours after we started, the deck and backyard were looking sharp again. But I didn't want to take all the fun, so I saved the front and side yards for Evan. I just know he'll love that.

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Bus tales: Will your kids make it home OK today?

The Hecht household looks forward to the start of school with an equal mix of fear and cheer.

We're thrilled the kids will be back in the classroom, their bright, young minds eager to absorb knowledge (at least, until the newness of the school year wears off).

But we're also gripped by an annual anxiety: Will the school system lose our progeny again this year - again? Will we get the call from the division saying they put our kids on the wrong bus - again? That they're driving around Norfolk trying to figure out what to do with them- again? Or worse, that they're not sure what bus they put them on - again? Or will we have to call the bus people to find out where the kids are when we get the frantic call from the sitter saying they didn't get off the bus again this year - again?

Only the day will tell.

I love my children's school. The education is superb. The teachers are great. In fact, it's a model for other learning institutions, and there's talk of building more schools in Norfolk following its instructional concept and method of enrollment. 

So how, I wonder, can such a wonder school's bus services send my kids goodness knows where year after year after year? I've tried everything: writing their bus number on their hands in permanent marker, giving them notes for their teachers, talking to the teacher before the start of school, talking to transportation.

Apparently, it's a strange concept that a kid might ride one bus in the morning and a different one in the afternoon, getting off at a day care or sitter's since the parents work full time. But I know we're not alone. I've heard that other families do it. And each year I dutifully fill out the required paperwork to do be able to do so. Yet every year my kids get put on the assigned morning bus or else a bus that's neither our assigned morning nor afternoon bus. Really.

And here's the kicker. We've stopped riding the morning bus, period, because 1) two years ago the driver argued she would not stop at our designated stop as printed in the paper; 2) when we went to the stop she told us she wanted us to go to instead, the bus drove right by us; 3) one day the bus bypassed our neighborhood altogether (I could see it turning a block before ours and turning down a street not on the route); and 4) the bus would come either very early or very late, but not within the allotted window we're told to expect.

So I started schlepping the kids to school every day. At least we know they get there OK. Now the question is, will they get home OK, or will we have a repeat performance? I'll update later today on the comments below.

Are we alone? Anyone else have busing woes with their school? I'm eager to hear them.

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Are you a shower reader, too?

I do some of my best thinking in the shower.

Shower singing? Forget that. There's no better place to ponder world issues, the state of the economy, tomorrow's to-do list and, oh yeah, the fact that it's time to clean the grout.

But sometimes even the most avid shower thinker gets tapped out.

That's when I turn to my bath product bottles for a little light reading. I have a whole library's worth at any given time.

Consider the tally taken now during my evening shower:

1) 10 bottles of body wash in assorted scents

2) Two cans of shaving cream (one for each gender)

3) Five bottles of shampoo

4) Six bottles of conditioner

5) One vat of bubble bath

6) One bottle of shower moisturizer

7) One bottle of foaming facial cleanser with meadowsweet (what the heck is meadowsweet, anyway?)

Most bottles are as good as any book. Many categories from which to choose, too.

Want to learn a new language? Try Redken's Blonde Glam line. The directions and product teaser are written in 10 - count 'em, 10 - languages. But the ingredients are only in English.

Need some self-help advice? Aussie brand delivers on its conditioner, promising to teach you how to live it up and have a bad attitude. "And by bad we mean good. And by attitude we mean attitude." How do you argue with logic like that?

Like biographies? Check out the Every Man Jack line. (This was a new one on me when my husband brought it home.) You meet "Jack" through a Q-and-A format. By the end, the bottle declares, "There, now you know Jack."

Desire a bodice ripper or whatever else one calls trashy novels? Old Spice classic scent body wash delivers. It makes this promise: "If your grandfather hadn't worn it, you wouldn't be here."

That's just an image of my grandparents I'd rather not have. Think I'll check out another book, er, bottle when the thinker goes on the fritz.

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Know a good pantry moth solution?

Pantry moths are getting the better of me.

A couple of months back, I shared my "dirty little secret" with Home readers, asking if they had a solution to these nibbling pests that worm their way into your cabinets in dry goods from the supermarket. Not sure when my little guests - er, pests - hitched a ride to the Hecht household. But I can tell you one thing: They've visited too long.

I thought I had them licked. After my column appeared asking for solutions to make the little buggers go away, I was inundated with good advice via phone and e-mail.

Special traps. Bay leaves. Assorted sprays. Spearmint gum. Get rid of your food. Tried 'em all. And yet the pantry moths persist. Not as many as before, but they persist.

I thought I'd had finally got 'em all before we left for vacation in the mountains. Since we were going to our timeshare (translated, "It's a 'vacation,' but Victoria still has to cook and clean house every day."), I packed a bunch of food to take with us and save some bucks in these tight times. Scouring the cabinets and pantry for unopened foods and planning meals in my head, I loaded up with cereals, mac n' cheese, rice, canned goods, spaghetti fixings, and cake and brownie mix. Then off to Massanutten we headed.

Day two of the trip, my almost-10-year-old, Mitch the Cereal King, sat down to the table for his morning meal. I opened a new box of Honey Nut Cheerios, poured in the milk and moved on to fixing eggs, grits and bacon for the others. Mitch, who's already had his experiences with pantry moths in his favorite breakfast food at home, carefully eyed his "Sweet Cheeries." With my best Mom optimism I assured him that the oat rings were fine.

I'd barely cracked an egg when my credibility was lost.

"MOMMY! I'm not eating these. There's a bug in my cereal."

Dang. Practical mother that I am, I told him to eat it anyway...more protein for your diet. He declined. And then, that night, I opened a cabinet door in the timeshare kitchen to ponder dinner. You know what flew out at me. An in-your-face hello. Or else the pantry moths were showing me who the boss is.

"Oh," Evan said casually after watching me flap my arms around, trying to kill it, "I already got one earlier."

At least the pantry moths are living up to their traveling reputation. Hey, they even like to go on vacation.

The day after we returned from vacation, I launched an all-out assault that sucked up most of a day. Took EVERYTHING out of the pantry, even the shelves, and scrubbed with hot, soapy water. Scoured the tracks on which the drawers glide. Cleaned the little tiny holes for the adjustable shelves. Washed every canned and bottled good. Threw away all of the boxed goods.

Oh, the waste. It hurt my heart (and pocketbook) to haul three large bags of boxed goods to the trash. But it had to be done. And I was sure that, finally, I had won the war.

I did, for one day at least.

Then I saw yet another of the flitting critters in the kitchen. I sent it to smudge oblivion within 10 seconds. Then I saw another, and another. And then Mitch had a pantry moth in his Raisin Bran - from a brand new box of Raisin Bran, no less - last week. And so the war continues. Mitch is starting to favor other breakfast foods at this point.

I think insects really will reign over us one day. In the meantime, please, does anyone have any suggestions on sending pantry moths packing - permanently?

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