The Time I Was Arrested For Shoplifting ...

Shoplifting at Shopko

It was summer, a long time ago, when all my little birds were still in the nest and the big daddy bird still lived there and was working on our house. My shopping cart was piled high with building and remodeling supplies. I was impatiently waiting for the young man in the red smock to tint my paint when I spotted small bags of red licorice hanging on hooks at the end of the aisle ~ the unassuming red twisty things that were about to change my life. I would wish later that I had never seen this candy.

I hummed a few bars of Garth Brook’s song, I Got Friends in Low Places, as I opened the bag of licorice bites and put a few pieces into my mouth. I grimaced when I realized how terrible it was. It was red, synthetic, play-pretend food. Sometimes I can compromise with generic items, but I guess not when it comes to licorice. I refused to waste the calories by swallowing even that one mouthful (remembering every diet book’s advice to make sure, if you’re going to cheat, that it’s really worthy of cheating). I inconspicuously spit it into a napkin that was in my pocket.

I dropped the leftover bag of candy into the cart, watching it bounce from side to side on the light bulbs, paintbrushes, coat hooks and small tools, until it rested on the bottom. I scanned my shopping list for forgotten items and glanced hurriedly over the contents of my cart as I whizzed through the store. My eyes perceived the candy but my brain didn’t recognize it as danger. I was thinking about the amount of money I had spent, the time I had taken to do my errands, the places my children needed to be that afternoon, and what I could fix for supper on such a hectic day. I was totally unconcerned about the candy.

I finished my shopping and hunted for the shortest line at the registers. Waiting in line doesn’t usually bother me like it does some people. It gives me a chance to peer through the end-stand tabloids and find out what’s happening in Hollywood, which is exactly what I did on that day.

As I put the last of my items on the counter to be scanned, I ignored the licorice resting on the wire grate of the cart. In a moment that almost wasn’t conscious, I decided not to pay for it because it was awful. I knew that I could buy it and then wait in line again at the service desk for a refund, so I just decided to skip this step and handle it right there.

In retelling this story, I amaze myself at my own stupidity and shortsightedness. I can’t even pretend to explain myself. I have no excuses. I should have had a premonition of the impending disaster that was soon to be upon me by what happened next, but, unbelievably, I did not.

I stood at the register and waited for the total as I wrote my check. The phone rang. The clerk answered the phone at the register and whispered for a moment, then hung up. She casually leaned over and peeked into the bottom of my cart. “Is that your candy?” she asked. I looked at it and justified my answer in my mind in a millimeter of a second. “Nope. That’s not mine,” I replied. That was one of my many mistakes that day.

I scooped up the bags in my arms and stopped at the pay phone by the exit door. “I’ll be home in a minute,” I promised my impatient daughter. “Make sure everybody’s ready to go when I drive in and we won’t be late.” I left the cart inside the store with the candy still in it as I hurried to my car.

The bags were heavy and the cans of paint hung clumsily from each of my arms as I scuttled through the parking lot. I felt a hand rest on my arm from behind me and I turned, smiling, expecting to see a friend or acquaintance. “Excuse me, Ma’am. I’m security and I need you to come back into the store with me.” My mind went blank and I looked around in a daze. Did I accidentally carry something out that wasn’t paid for? Was he mistaking me for someone else? Was my check bad? Was this a joke? Was I on Candid Camera?

The detective was in his late twenties and had ocean-colored eyes that were probably beautiful when he wasn’t scowling with disgust. I followed him into a small room adjacent to the service counter. I stood frozen as the door was closed behind me, numbly and mechanically surveying my surroundings. The room was a cool gray and windowless, like a cave. The store manager, two detectives with walkie-talkies in their hands and a woman with a deeply disappointed face sat around a small table. They were looking at me like I had just received the death sentence. My eyes moved slowly to a plastic bag that lay in the middle of the table that someone pointed to. Oh, oh. No way. This can’t be! What have I done? What is going on here? Just as criminal evidence is presented in court, the bag contained the proof of the crime ~ the licorice.

“Do you recognize this candy?” asked the detective who seized me in the parking lot.

I hesitated. “Yes.”

He sighed. “Why didn’t you pay for it after you ate some?”

Gulp. “It was terrible.”

“That’s no excuse!”

The disappointed woman recorded our conversation on a mini-recorder and wrote shorthand notes furiously. She pulled her glasses down on her nose occasionally to look at me with contempt.

The police were called. I was informed that after I was prosecuted in District Court, the information of my arrest and conviction would be printed in the newspaper for all to see. I would be asked to never return to the store again. I would be handcuffed and led in shame and disgrace through the store to the squad car, where I would be taken to the police department and “booked.” I went to pieces.

“I – I – I - I can’t believe this is happening! Please oh please! I just spent over $150.00!”

“What you just spent is not relevant!” snapped a detective. “You ate candy you didn’t pay for! Technically, that is stealing. The price is not important. Stealing is stealing is stealing!”

I begged for another chance. “And I couldn’t be sorrier! I just didn’t understand how seriously you would take it. I never thought about how you’d take it because I never thought. I just didn’t think anything about it!”

“We gave you a chance. When the phone rang and then the clerk asked you if that licorice was yours, weren’t you a little suspicious?” asked the store manager, with an expression on his face that he was talking to an idiot.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t! I never thought! I just never thought! I can’t explain what I was thinking because I really wasn’t thinking about anything except getting home. I never analyzed it. Well, I sort of did. It crossed my mind that I could pay for it and then get a refund, but I didn’t want to take the time when it would have just achieved the same end anyways,” I sobbed desperately. “If I have to go through this store in handcuffs like I just robbed a bank, I’ll die. I promise, I’ll die!”

The detectives glared at me. The store manager tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. The disappointed woman pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. I was cooked. I was a dead duck.

“I need to talk to someone! I have to think this out! There must be another way! If I had known the trouble this would cause, I would never, ever, ever have done it! Please! I’ll never be able to explain this to my kids. Oh, my kids (sob, sob)! My church friends (sob, sob)! My parents will be humiliated! I clean houses for people! I clean houses for doctors and they trust me and now I’ll lose my jobs and my reputation will be ruined!”

I blew my nose on the hem of my coat. Their faces remained expressionless, except for the woman’s. She looked at me as if to say, “I don’t like you. I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re getting what you deserve.”

I paced back and forth in the small room, ten steps each way, with my hands on the sides of my head in despair as I cried. “My nerves are just about shattered and this might push me right over the edge. I’ve been on Prozac for three months for my nerves, which I buy here, by the way. Now I’m really going to have a complete nervous breakdown and nobody cares!” I wailed.

My mind was malfunctioning. The time spent waiting for the arresting officer was going in psychedelic-drug slow motion, but I was thinking in hyper-speed. I had an idea. “What if I worked here for as long as you thought would be fair, for free, in exchange for you forgetting this ever happened today? I’m a hard worker and I know you won’t believe me, but I really am as honest as the day is long. I just don’t know what came over me today, but it will never happen again. I lost my mind. I went completely berserk. This was a one-time only, I promise. Please, oh please, what do you say?” There was no making a deal on that day. They didn’t even answer.

A man of imposing presence removed his police cap as he stepped into the room. He smiled weakly when we looked at each other, and I began to cry torrents of fresh, new tears as I recognized him. Officer Hoffman and I had daughters who were friends, and we knew each other casually from the places our girls went together. I was drowning in agony. The officer put a hand on each of my shoulders from behind and guided me gently toward the door, like you’d lead an old, disoriented loved one.

Someone said, “Sir?” He quickly replied, “I don’t think the handcuffs are necessary. She doesn’t look very dangerous to me. I don’t think she’s going to make a break for it,” he said as he winked.

The members of the interrogation squad were openly antagonized and disappointed by his refusal to handcuff me. Part of the punishment for shoplifting was the deliberate humiliation they wanted offenders to experience. I clung to Officer Hoffman through the store and to his squad car, as if he was my only friend in the world.

The ride to the station was intensely humiliating. I couldn’t have been more ashamed if he would have been bringing me in for murder. “Isn’t this some kind of weather?” this kind soul said, groping for nonchalance. I nodded and snorted. “I heard that Autumn and Crystal had a great time at the dance last week,” he continued. “Yup. Our little girls are sure growing up. Um, hmm. I was just telling my wife the other day that before you know it, we’ll be having boys calling and dates and broken hearts and all those girl things. Yup.”

He was the sweetest man I ever met. He talked about everything except what was going on. I made unattractive, guttural sounds in response to his light chatter, as I wiped my nose on my sleeve and contemplated my hopeless future.

The radio dispatcher who formally signed me in at the precinct was a girl I knew from high school. Patty Tallio, another acquaintance. Isn’t that the way my luck would go, I thought. Why, oh why couldn’t I have made this mistake in another town where nobody knew me? Patty was a real professional. To save face (my face, that is) we pretended we didn’t remember each other. As she filled out the required papers, she asked, “Cost of theft?” Officer Hoffman cleared his throat and changed positions uncomfortably. “Thirty nine cents,” He replied.

I almost lost control of my bladder. This was the most humiliating moment of my existence. If I HAD to go through this, at least it should have been for something worth the tears and embarrassment, like a car or diamonds or something. But candy? Thirty-nine cents worth of licorice? And crappy licorice at that! Hardly worth being arrested over.

I was fingerprinted and photographed from the front and side, just like they do on television. I think some things are instinctual, regardless of the situation. Photographs aren’t taken for no reason. Photographs are taken because someone looks at them. Oh dear! What if my mug shot was printed in the newspaper with the story, or hung on the wall of the post office? I couldn’t have that. I did the only logical thing I could do.

“Officer Hoffman, Sir, could you please hand me my purse for a moment? I’ve had enough embarrassment for a lifetime. I’d feel better about this if my picture didn’t reflect this disgraceful situation I’ve brought upon my myself. If you would be so kind as to allow me to comb my hair and put on my lipstick, I’d really appreciate that.”

He turned away from me and tried to stifle a laugh. I believe he also rolled his eyes. The ride home was the worst part. I had to explain this to four little faces that thought I was just about perfect.

“I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” I began. “When Momma said never take anything that doesn’t belong to you, I meant never – ever- ever – ever take anything, and I mean anything that doesn’t belong to you. That’s the law, and I want to tell you just how serious it is,” I explained.

The children actually took the news better than I expected. They were righteously indignant that they had missed their afternoon adventures and that I had been disgraced. They were amused by the rituals involved in the arrest and how precisely it mirrored their favorite cop shows. They must have even glamorized it to their friends, as one little girl observed me closely several days later, before saying, “Terah said that you were arrested and went to prison! That is so cool, Mrs. Croschere!”

While the world slept, I spent that night writing a long letter to the head manager of the Shopko store. It began, “Dear Mr. Starr, my name is Theresa Croschere. I’ve been thinking about this letter for hours and have no idea what to say, so I’m just going to start talking. I have so many things to tell you that I already know this letter is going to be novel-length. I just need to ask you one thing. No matter what you decide to do regarding me, I just beg you to read my letter all the way through to the end before you make a decision. Please let me say what I have to say, no matter how long that takes. After that, it’s all up to you and I will accept your decision as final …”

I talked about who I was, what I believed in, what I preached to my children about honestly and obeying the rules, and about what a poor judgment I had made that day in his store.

“Technically,” I wrote, “my theft was not thirty nine cents. I ate approximately three pieces of the licorice bites. I technically didn’t even eat them. I spit them into a napkin. I left the rest of the bag in the cart, in the store. I swear I didn’t come into Shopko with the deliberate intention of stealing candy. If I wanted to steal candy, I would have taken it with me, and it would have been good candy, worth stealing. I'm not making excuses or trying to be funny, but I think sometimes you have to examine a person’s motives, not just their actions, and what is in their heart and mind when they do something, especially when it comes to something hurtful, stupid, or with serious consequences,” I went on to plead.

I also made a point of the amount of energy that was spent following me around the store and interrogating me, and all the probable items that walked out the door while everyone was focusing on me and my candy.

“Taking anything that doesn’t belong to me is stealing. And stealing is stealing is stealing,” I agreed with all my heart, “but there might be a point where it becomes absurd, and where the punishment just doesn’t fit the crime.” In my letter of 26 pages, I knew that the best defense I had was the fact that I hadn’t taken the candy out of the store. Thank God for that. I begged for his mercy.

Several days later Mr. Starr called me at home and informed me that I was the first and only person in twelve years whose shoplifting charges were dropped at Shopko. He had considered my letter and all the circumstances surrounding the event. “The store detective who observed and followed you is very, very angry about this,” Mr. Starr informed me. “He feels that you should get the same punishment everyone else has, regardless of the value of the theft. Actually, he is considering giving me his letter of resignation, but that’s another story.”

I told Mr. Starr that I had no words to express my gratitude. He said, “I’ll just accept your thanks and we’ll call it done. Please don’t write me a thank you letter because it will take me hours to read it.”

Years have passed. The store detective didn’t quit his job, but made it his new mission in life to follow me around the store every time I came in for many months. He hid behind shelves and ducked between rows of clothing in an attempt to prove to everyone that he was right about me. One day I had enough and I turned around quickly in the center aisle when I knew he was following me and shouted, “Look, enough is enough! I am not going to steal anything today, tomorrow or ever. I will let you search me if you promise to stop stalking me. I made a horrible mistake. I don’t know a lot of things that are going to happen to me in my lifetime, but I know what is never going to happen again, even by accident. I give you my word.” That was the end of the story of the detective and me.

This has been a deeply humbling experience for me. I am now very careful and conscientious of what I do while shopping. I have a new and serious respect for the laws of the land. I try to be understanding and forgiving with others because someone was understanding and forgiving with me. If I could go back and do it over again, of course it would be different! I don’t know what else to say. I was Forrest Gump. I was Dumb and Dumber. I was Clueless, long before it was cute to be clueless. I will make other mistakes until I’m 90, because I was never 90 before, but I will never make THAT mistake again!

When I use a public ladies’ room and read a sign on the wall that says Shoplifting is stealing! It’s not a prank, a joke or a thrill. It’s a crime. Even if it’s your first offense, you could be punished with more than $2000 in fines and five or more years in prison, plus a record that will haunt you for the rest of your life. We prosecute shoplifters! I BELIEVE! Amen.

Yours truly Tia

Happy Easter Making I Spy Jars

Happy Easter! He is risen ~ alleluia!

After a lovely dinner at my daughter's house, Keira and Lukie made the I Spy Jars I promised them. I brought two totes full of all kinds of small stuff, and a nice jar with a lid for each of them. They have I Spy books, but had never made a jar before. I explained the process to them.

We would go through the totes and choose all kinds of small items for our jars. They were so excited to dig through costume jewelry, miniature dollhouse items, beads and buttons, seashells, sewing and craft supplies, and tiny toys and things collected and forgotten about over the years. They asked their daddy for coins from his pockets for their jars.

My grandson, Collin, their older brother, decided to get in on the fun. He thought it would be 'cool' to make his own jar, to entertain his friends. He found a tiny plastic mouse, a little Buddah, some charms, an arrow head, glass beads that look like marbles, a screw, and all kinds of assorted junk that he liked.

I had wanted to make a master list of all the items in each jar, before putting in the rice, but the little ones were just too excited and overtired from the holiday (and no nap today). They just couldn't wait. You can think of a lot more games to play with the I Spy Jars if you have a list of the items inside, but Keira and Lukie liked theirs just the way it was.

They put their chosen treasures inside their jars, and Collin poured the rice, filling the jars about 3/4 full. You want to leave enough room to be able to turn the jar and find your items. They sat with each other saying things like, "I spy a santa claus button!" and the other one would look for it.

Collin will make a list of all that he has in his jar, so he can play 'timed' games with his friends. You can give someone the jar and have them write down everything they can find in two minutes, and compare it to the master list when you're done.

I have a feeling we will be making more I Spy Jars for Christmas gifts this year. The kids had a great time, and I had a wonderful afternoon. I told them that all my 'junk' has been neglected too long, and the little toys would be so happy to have someone playing with them. Keira and Lukie were excited about that idea. We're big 'Toy Story' fans, and know that toys have feelings!

A nice clean, dry jar with a good fitting lid, some interesting toys and small items, a bag of rice, a master list, and a pretty piece of raffia or ribbon tied around the top of the jar, makes a very special handmade game.

I hope your Easter was as wonderful as mine. Jesus Christ is risen today!

Love Tia

Happy National Down Syndrome Day

This is a story I wrote some years ago, about my wonderful Down Syndrome son, Brian. Brian is almost 39 years old now. I wish everyone a beautiful, perfect, happy National Down Syndrome Day. I love you, Brian. I'll see you tonight at the Marquette National Down Syndrome Celebration.

Blue Baby

Last week my son, Brian, went to the prom. He asked me a week earlier and I said, “Yes, you can go,” and “I’ll take care of everything.” That was the last word said about the prom until Friday afternoon at 4:00. I asked Brian if he was going to his grandparents’ house that night or in the morning. He looked at me wonderingly and said, “I’m going to the prom tonight.”
“Brian! I hate it when you do this! Why didn’t you remind me?”
“I did,” he answered. “I told you about it last week. You said it was okay.” He trusted me enough that when he asked me once and I said yes, that was the word and he didn’t have to think about it again. I apologized.

At 6:00 we stood in the entryway of a supper club in Marquette. I surveyed my boy in the hurriedly pressed dress clothes, holding the purple corsage we made in the car because no florist could make one on such short notice, for a girl who never even came that night. I looked at him and asked in a silly voice like I had a pinched nose, “Who are you?” He laughed and answered, “You know me, Mom. I’m Blue Baby.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “Now I remember.”

I remember a tomb in St. Luke’s Hospital in the broiling August of 1972, when everything was not groovy. A sixteen year old girl lay curled in bed in a fetal position in a room where the other occupant had been hastily removed so she could be alone. There were sinister monsters dressed in white in the hallway that crept past the door and peered in to look at her, and whispered unspeakable things like mongoloid, retarded, Down’s Syndrome. A Catholic priest asked her parents, “Is she going to keep him?”

“Is she going to keep him?” she repeated incredulously. She looked at the strange, bald creature who rested by her swollen stomach. The baby with the small, round head, tiny ears, stubby fingers and slanty eyes never cried. He didn’t cry because his world was perfect and she didn’t know it. Besides, she cried enough for both of them. Keep him? Of course she would keep him! He looked like a baby to her. He had so many things to teach her.

Her devout, Catholic parents had their own adjustments to make. They had to face a small town of judgmental spectators and defend their daughter who had broken all the rules. People talked. People whispered. People shook their heads.

Two weeks after the baby was born, she began her senior year of high school. She walked carefully down the crowded hallway with a pillow to sit on, because it still hurt ~ this girl, this rebel who was the first pregnant girl in Marquette Senior High School to say, “I stay and I finish.” It was a different time. Girls quietly left school when things like that happened.

The Home Economics teacher who had befriended her throughout her pregnant, junior year, stopped her in the hallway on that first day of school. She excited said, “Did you have a pink baby or a blue baby?”
“I had a blue baby,” was all I could say.

Brian followed the sounds of the music to the banquet room that had been festively decorated for this Special Education Prom. His friends crowded around him when he walked in and they hugged each other affectionately, like long last friends, forgetting that they had been together in school all day. Like Brian, they all had sweet faces that looked like a child you would see on the outside of a can, asking people to donate their loose change.

I watched them laugh and twirl around in their party clothes and clap for each other. I think they come from another place, where everything is good and beautiful and always happy. Brian is different than everyone else in our family. He loves to write letters to everyone he knows that include a mixture of television advertisements, Bible Scriptures he has memorized, and the country and western songs he loves. After raising two ‘normal’ daughters, I have come to the conclusion that Brian is the smart one. I say that with a heart full of love for each of my children.

Pandemonium pervaded the room in the supper club when a particular song began to play. Some kids had partners, some were in wheelchairs, some were alone, and others were escorted by Staff. Everyone in unison began doing hand motions and touching themselves all over as they turned, twisted and shook their hips. I felt lightheaded. What was this, and more importantly, how did my son know it?

Someone next to me, whom I couldn’t understand very well, told me it was the ‘Macaroni Dance.’ I stood on a chair to watch Brian, who maintained unabated synchronization with his beautiful, brunette partner. I strained to discern her face. It was Wendy, whose last name I never knew, but someone I’d never forget. I hadn’t seen her in years.

It was the Christmas classroom party during Brian’s last year in the high school special education program, before he moved to the Jacobetti Skill Center. I was eating a Christmas cookie and opening the angel ornament Brian had made for me when a dark-haired, soft-spoken girl sat down beside me. “Are you Brian’s mom?” she asked me, and I said that I was. “My name is Wendy. Do you remember me?” I said that I was sorry, I didn’t. “Actually we never met,” she said, “but I’m Wendy from Brian’s first year here. Wendy ... from the pool.”

The blood drained from my face. “Ohhhhh,” I answered. I was recollecting. Brian had only been in the high school program for a few weeks, far from the cocoon that protected him, and his social behaviors, in middle school. He didn’t know all the games or the rules yet. Swimming was one of the regular education classes he was mainstreamed into.

One day as he sat on the pool side bench with his class, a girl approached Coach Carr and told him she would not be swimming that day. She was fully dressed in school clothes, shoes, a Redman jacket, and she carried a backpack full of text books on her shoulder. Some regular education boys sitting close to Brian dared him to push her into the pool. He said he didn’t know, and they assured him it was a good idea, and everybody would think it was funny. Whatever went through Brian’s mind at that moment will never be known to anyone but him, but he did it. He pushed her in ~ school clothes, shoes, Redman jacket, backpack and all. Her name was Wendy.

A stern teacher from the principal’s office called, explained what had happened, and asked me to pick Brian up immediately. He was expelled from school for two days, with the intention that when he returned, he would have a clearer understanding of appropriate behavior and decision-making. I was too distraught to ask what happened to the boys who told him to do it.

Brian lost his allowance for a month in order to buy Wendy a bouquet of flowers, a box of candy and a card, which he drew a hundred sad faces on. When I dropped him off at school two days later, I believed that how we treat girls was a lesson indelibly imprinted upon him. When he got home that night I said, “Did you take care of that today?” He said he did, and we never talked about it again.

I looked at Wendy in the Christmas classroom, and smiled painfully. “I’m glad to meet you, Wendy,” I croaked. She said something to me that I will remember for always. She said, “What happened to me with Brian changed my life. When he came back to school after his suspension, he walked into the pool area carrying flowers and a present. Everybody, even Coach Carr, stopped breathing. I was standing by my girlfriends, and he walked over to me and never looked me in the eye. He set the flowers and the present on the floor in front of my feet and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Wendy,’ and walked out of the room. All the girls cried, all the boys pretended they weren’t crying, and no one looked at anybody else or said a word. I thought about that for a long time, and I decided I wanted to spend my life helping and working with people like Brian. I graduated from high school last year, and I’m at Northern now in the Special Education Program. I just wanted you to know.”

The lascivious dance ended, and Wendy and I waved to each other as she was pulled in another direction by one of her students. That was our Wendy ~ Brian’s Wendy. I stood face to face with my boy. Who would I be today if I had never been part of Brian’s world? I don’t think I’d be working in a group home where 16 mentally disabled adults call me mom, and I don’t think I would have learned enough love to be able to take someone else’s infant who would never walk, speak or be toilet trained, and raise her as my own. Much of who I am today is because of what I learned from my son.

“Well, well, well,” I said to Brian with mock sternness. “A smart mother knows when it’s better not to ask questions, because you might find something out, if you know what I mean. Let me just say one thing here ... when we get home, how about you teach me that dance?”
Blue Baby smiled and took my hand and said, “Rrrright.”

Mastiffs & Chihuahuas

I had a dream last night about the new Chihuahua puppy my sister and her husband got yesterday. They live in Tucson, Arizona, where they have different kinds of ‘critters’ to be aware of than we do here in the hearty Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Vicki and Tom have to be on the lookout for snakes, spiders and lizardy things. I have deer, bear, bobcat and fox in the woods around my house. I’ve always thought that they should have a dog to help protect the house from unwelcome ‘visitors.’ I sure would if I lived there. Talking to Vicki last night about her new puppy Coco, reminded me of a time when I had four dogs.


I was lucky enough to spend some years raising mastiffs. I had two English Mastiffs and two Dogue de Bordeaux, French Mastiffs (‘Turner & Hooch’ dogs). Nix, Billy Rae, Ivan and Gertrude were about the best dogs a person could ever have. Yes they are as big as baby elephants and yes they do have heads the size of stop signs, but they’re as gentle and devoted a dog as you could ever hope to spend your days with.


I took all four of them many times in my little Tracker. They loved to ride in the car, and were content to lay down, as long as the car was moving. I remember going to a car wash, paying the attendant, and warning him that I had ‘dogs in the car.’ He looked a little confused and shook his head and said, "Ummm, okay." As he began to prewash my car and tires with a soapy broom, my babies decided to sit up and see what was going on. When all four heads came up at four windows, the poor guy almost had a heart attack. He jumped back and dropped the broom. He clutched his chest and laughed and yelled, "Those aren’t dogs! Those are dinosaurs! I bet nobody bothers you when they’re around!" He was right.


My mastiffs got a lot of attention in these parts, where hunting dogs are the most popular. People knew the house on the corner that had the four DOGS. They never barked, but their presence was undeniable. I took my safety from predators for granted, until one early morning ...


I was putting my daughter Jenny on the school bus at 6:45 AM. I left the glass sliding door open to the front porch, as I always did. My dogs never moved from their beds when I told them to stay. I had no fear of them running out the door, even though I lived on a very busy road. I waved to Jenny as her bus pulled away, and then went into the house, closed the sliding door and drapes, and went back to bed for a half hour.


When I got up, my four elephants ~ I mean dogs ~ were laying down, lined up in the dining room, facing the sliding door. They were about ten feet from the door, and watching intently. I asked them what was wrong, and told them that I thought I saw a scene like that in a horror movie once. I said, "Whatever is the matter with you guys this morning?" I pulled back the drapes and saw an enormous bullfrog inside the house, cowering by the door. He must have hopped up the wheelchair ramp and into the house, while the door was open and I was putting Jenny on the bus.


At first I didn’t believe he was real, as he was huge. I only had a moment to get brave and shoo him out of the house, because I was afraid that if he took one leap, he’d be on the other side of the room and I’d have a heck of a time picking him up.


I had over six hundred pounds of dog whimpering softly, watching me get the bullfrog out of the house. They may have saved my life in the face of a bear or an intruder, but not with that frog. They were scared to death. They were all lined up with their eyes bulging, which at least alerted me to something being wrong, but they weren’t going near it. Mastiffs are not hunters.


I spent the morning scolding them, calling them cowards and cement heads. They would look at me and hang their heads, then drop to the floor in puddles, as if they had nothing to live for. They were very remorseful when Mommie was upset with them. On the heals of a heartbreaking divorce and having to leave my home, I had to find new homes for my Nix, Billy Rae, Ivan and Gertie. How I loved them.


Last night I dreamed that Tom and Vicki’s new puppy ~ a Chihuahua, a mere morsel of a dog, compared to my mastiffs ~ yelped and yarped and danced in a circle like a mad dog, around a bullfrog that had found its way into their home. I’m not sure what she would do in the face of a man or bear, but she sure took care of that frog!


My dream reminded me of the good days in my life that I spent with four very special animals. In a perfect world I would have a much bigger house, two English Mastiffs and two Dogue de Bordeaux. And maybe one tiny Chihuahua, who could take care of the really ‘big’ problems!

Best & Easiest Meatloaf Meatballs Recipe

When I run into women and young girls who say they can't cook a thing, I tell them what my mother used to tell me ~ if you can make a good meatloaf, you can survive. That was a very long time ago, but meatloaf is still a favorite comfort food, and very versatile. This is what you need:

2 pounds good ground sirloin (or turkey or venison)

1 packet dry onion soup mix

1 egg

2-3 Tbsp. ketchup

6 saltine crackers

1/2 cup milk

1 cup raw coleslaw (or 1 can sauerkraut - well drained)

A few shakes of Mrs. Dash seasoning or black pepper

Soda crackers (or bread crumbs) are only for a little binder and flavor, and shouldn't be really noticeable. I love the old Andy of Mayberry episode where they were planning a party. Aunt Bee and Thelma Lou were making a list of what friends should bring what. They mentioned someone, and Barney recommended that they not invite her. The ladies scolded him, and he said, "Well, if she comes, she'll bring meatballs and they're always awful! They're 99% bread crumbs and 1% meat!"

Aunt Bee had to agree. She told Thelma Lou that the last time the friend had brought meatballs, they found them everywhere after the party ~ in potted plants, under the cushion of the couch and on the windowsills, behind draperies. Now we can't be having any of that! Your meatloaf (or meatballs) will be perfect, and everyone will fight over them. People will want you to come to their parties and bring your famous meatballs! And counting your crackers just makes good sense. We are making meatballs, after all, and not crackerballs.

Now take a big bowl and mix everything in it. The only way to do it right is to dig in and mix it with your hands. Of course your hands should be freshly washed before mixing, and immediately afterwards. Keep your hands and counters very clean when you're dealing with raw meat of any kind. Turn your oven onto 350* and let it preheat.

Don't say yuck about the raw coleslaw. It will cook down and become soft and just blend in. It will give your meatloaf a nice flavor and some extra fiber. If you substitute the drained sauerkraut for the coleslaw, it will also give it a wonderful flavor ~ even if you think you don't like sauerkraut! My fussy grandchildren have no idea how many extra vitamins they get in Grandma Tia's food, hehehee.

I like to use the little bread pans my mom bought me after Halloween one year. They're perfect for five individual meatloaves. You could also bake your meatloaf in a 9 x 9" pan, a round cake pan, or even muffin tins if you'd like. I don't like to bake mine in a regular sized bread pan, because by the time the meatloaf is cooked thoroughly in the middle, the top and edges are way too done.

After putting your meat mixture in the pan or pans of your choosing, press down well with a fork. I lay a piece of tinfoil on the top of each pan, to help the meat cook, without drying out the top. I'm all about easy clean-up, so I put my little bread pans on a large tin foil baking sheet, while they're in the oven. Any drips or juices will stay on the pan, and not your oven.

I bake my loaves for 35 minutes, then remove the tin foil from the tops, and cook another 5 minutes. Your oven may cook faster or slower than mine, so just make sure they're cooked inside and not pink. Take them out of the oven and let them sit for a few minutes. There will be juice or liquid in your cooking pans, but don't be alarmed. It's not all 'fat' from the meat. Your liquid ingredients will create moisture while baking. Take two forks and lift each of your little meatloaves out of their cooking pans, and set them on a clean plate or rack to cool.

To make meatballs, I use a tablespoon and scoop out each ball of meat mixture, and roll it in my hands. Before I started doing that, I would have miniature meatballs, medium sized and monster meatballs. After using the tablespoon, I found that I could make them all very close to the same size. I use a cookie sheet to bake meatballs on. I take some tin foil and krinkle it up a little, and lay it on the sheet, so the meatballs don't sit directly on the cookie sheet. That helps the meatballs cook all the way through, without burning on the bottom.

Bake them at 350*, just like the meatloaf, and don't cover them. You can make any sized meatballs you want, and start checking them at 25 minutes. Big meatballs might have to cook another ten minutes or so. Just make sure they're gray and not pink inside.

I like to slice the meatloaves that I'm going to freeze. That way they're ready to use, in any amount you need. Meatloaf can be used in so many recipes that would call for ground beef. You can cut it into cubes for chili, spaghetti, lasagna or any casserole you would put cooked hamburger in. You can cover the sliced meatloaf with a brown gravy, and add some sauteed onions and green peppers for your own version of salisbury steak. If you have meatloaf in the freezer, you always have a fast meal waiting for you.

Happy cooking, you gorgeous meatloaf ~ meatball maker, you!

Yours Truly Tia

Thing One Thing Two & the Christmas Tree Crayons

Yesterday I sat with two of my five grandchildren, while my daughter ran some errands. The first thing the little ones do is to dig through my purse and tote bag, while they ask, "What do you have for us, Grandma? What are we going to do today?" If I don't bring a simple, fun craft to make, they want to count out my change, take out every picture from my wallet, pop out every square of gum from the foil packet, squirt my hand sanitizer on every visible part of their bodies (plus the dog), make happy faces on every page of my miniature address book, try on lipstick, and generally run amok. Keira is almost five, and Lukie is three. My daughter lovingly calls them 'Thing One' and 'Thing Two.' I find it in my best interest to come prepared to entertain. You can never go wrong with an easy art or craft project. Children love to make something with their own hands.

I've stumbled upon many websites with great ideas for recycling coloring crayons. I love this fun way to use up all those broken pieces of crayons. The kids were very excited to sit at the table and peel the paper off a can of old crayons. I love Lukie's face as he used all his might to break the crayons and lay them into the tree molds.

I use a silicone baking pan to make recycled crayons. If you don't have one yet ~ I'll tell you ~ they're the slickest invention. They can be baked in your oven up to 500*. They're flexible, dishwasher safe, and you don't need to grease them. I set my silicone mold on a cookie sheet to keep it stable during baking. The cookie pan was confusing Lukie a little bit. He was sure we could eat the crayons when they were finished. I kept telling him, "Nope! They will always be crayons for coloring when we're done, even though we're making them in a cookie pan." I explained the process that we would be using to the kids.

We peeled all our crayons, and made sure there were no paper scraps on them. We broke the crayons into small pieces, and laid them in the Christmas tree molds. I wanted to make some crayons with different shades of one color, but the kids were too excited. We ended up with dazzling rainbows.

I preheated the oven to 350* for this project. When our tree molds were filled, I put the pan in the oven for about ten minutes. You will want to check your molds after five minutes. It won't take long to melt your crayons. When they're melted, take them out of the oven and let them cool.

We wanted to hurry up the process, so that we could finish before Lukie's nap. I set the hot cookie sheet on the deck, in the cold snow. I covered it up with a baking sheet, as it was snowing heavily outside. Within 15 minutes, they were solid, and popped out of the tree molds easily.

Lukie didn't make it until the end. He fell asleep as we were finishing, so I only had a chance to snap Keira's picture with the finished product. She has a birthday coming up in March, and she wanted to know if we could make more crayons for her friends. I think we will experiment with sprinkling some 'fairy glitter' on her birthday crayons, before baking.

Silicone molds can be expensive, but you know how much I love them already! I picked up this one for 75% off, after Christmas, at our Michael's Craft Store. I'll be looking for a heart shaped pan on sale after Valentine's Day. Maybe the kids and I can make heart shaped crayons for St. Patrick's Day. You know the old saying ~ A day late, a dollar short, a holiday behind ... yep. That would be me. It's a fun project, no matter what shaped pan you use. The Christmas tree molds are always in fashion around here. We live and love in the great Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and are surrounded by forests. It was another cold, snowy, cozy day in the UP, cooking crayons, watching the snow fall, and appreciating each other.

Yours Truly Tia

Things That Disappear

Last night I was looking at the beautiful card my sister Vicki made for my birthday with my name on it. I know she has a Cricut (?) machine that cuts letters and numbers and shapes. I think I asked her if she can cut on fabric, and she said no.

I've thought about fabric letters so many times, just for different projects. I've had a package of very cheap alphabet letters that I punched out the other day. They're not made of cardboard, and the paper isn't even poster board thick, but I wanted to play with them, and maybe put one of the kids' name on a sweatshirt or tee shirt.

I was looking at the letters last night, and I took out the 'B' for Brian. The two holes in that letter are very small, and I was wondering how I would actually cut it out of fabric, make it stiff enough to handle, and then machine applique it onto something.

The phone rang a couple times last night, and I talked to Brian's group home, Jenny's group home and my friend Glenda. Then I sat down again with my shoe box of letters. Where that 'B' went is driving me nutty. I looked and looked, and it's nowhere to be found. Yes I looked in the garbage can and even in the refrigerator. Aye ye ye.

I am convinced that I really do have a family of gnomes ~ and certainly some mischievous fairies ~ who borrow my interesting things and hoard them away for themselves. I know that my letter 'B' is somewhere with my pink Jilly Zhu Zhu pet. I opened her on Christmas morning and had her for most of the day, and then VOOOP! She was gone. I've torn this place apart, looking for Jilly. And what they do with all my socks from the dryer are beyond me. More on this mystery later.

Yours Truly Tia