New location for slideshow of Marilyn Tyler pix:
https://photos.app.goo.gl/djLzZYywMPhfLMPw9
Saturday, May 18, 2019
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Gramma Alpha's (and "Grammy" Marilyn's) Famous Oatmeal Buttermilk Pancakes
*********************************************
1 cup whole oats (not quick oats)
1 cup buttermilk (We prefer Knudsen's)
2 eggs
1/4teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Real butter
Real maple syrup
Mix together the buttermilk and oats and allow to soak 20 minutes (or even overnight). Mix in the other ingredients. Fry up in safflower oil in your old well-seasoned cast iron skillet (or a non-stick skillet) on medium heat.
Tip: Use a large spoon to spoon the batter onto the pan and create the pancakes. (This batter is not like traditional smooth pancake batter. It's kind of thick and lumpy and you need to make smallish pancakes, no bigger than 3 1/2 or 4 inches in diameter. If the oats were soaked a long time, you sometimes need to add a little splash of extra buttermilk to thin the batter.) When you spoon the batter onto the pan, use the edge of the spoon to thin the pancakes a bit and nudge the high blobs out to the sides a bit.
Serve immediately with real butter and real maple syrup.
1 cup whole oats (not quick oats)
1 cup buttermilk (We prefer Knudsen's)
2 eggs
1/4teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Real butter
Real maple syrup
Mix together the buttermilk and oats and allow to soak 20 minutes (or even overnight). Mix in the other ingredients. Fry up in safflower oil in your old well-seasoned cast iron skillet (or a non-stick skillet) on medium heat.
Tip: Use a large spoon to spoon the batter onto the pan and create the pancakes. (This batter is not like traditional smooth pancake batter. It's kind of thick and lumpy and you need to make smallish pancakes, no bigger than 3 1/2 or 4 inches in diameter. If the oats were soaked a long time, you sometimes need to add a little splash of extra buttermilk to thin the batter.) When you spoon the batter onto the pan, use the edge of the spoon to thin the pancakes a bit and nudge the high blobs out to the sides a bit.
Serve immediately with real butter and real maple syrup.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
ONE WOMAN’S PATH, by Marilyn Tyler
My purpose—for me a matter of survival and, oddly, both selfish and unselfish—became clear many years ago. Until the discovery of my raison d’être, though, I had imagined I made my own choices; in truth I’d had much help in setting goals.
Had someone asked me when I was a child what my purpose was, I would have replied: “to get an education.” Parental instructions to my siblings and me were explicit.
“Our responsibility is to keep a roof over our heads, to feed and clothe you and to bring you up as best we can,” they told us.
“Your job is to go to school.”
Their expectations powered us to excel at book learning and the taking of exams. The Deters children won spelldowns and brought home report cards filled with A’s. Each of my two sisters became valedictorian of her high school graduating class and we all marched off to college, as was expected of us, to earn our degrees.
When I launched into marriage and adulthood, my purpose, based on small-town family values, was clear: to be a good helpmate and an exemplary elementary school teacher.
My husband also had a purpose in life: to become a millionaire. His passion for success as a builder/developer became the focus of our marriage. The two of us worked hard and for seven years postponed having children in order to devote all of our energies and resources toward realizing his dream.
When my husband decided he no longer wanted to be married, my life fell apart. My father had warned us that marriage brought the possibility of widowhood or other hardships, but no one prepared me for divorce.
“A wife needs to be a good partner,” he often told his daughters. “If her husband dies or becomes disabled, she must be ready to take over and support the family.” Yeah, okay. But what about getting dumped? That eventuality had not occurred to anyone in my family.
After eleven years in a marriage I had supposed would be forever, I found myself unmarried, with a four-year-old daughter, and nursing a severely wounded ego.
What to do? It seemed obvious: my new purpose was to regroup and move on. Using entrepreneurial skills learned from my former husband, I set out to become financially independent through my own efforts. By living frugally and investing modest savings in income properties, I fashioned a secure financial life for my child and myself.
Well along the road to solvency, however, I lost my sense of purpose. What had begun as social drinking got out of control and at age forty-three, twice-divorced, I felt depressed and hopeless. Alcoholism owned me and had become my guilty secret. How had my life gone so wrong? Neither my relative affluence nor my best thinking could solve the problem or lift me out of the incomprehensible demoralization in which I found myself.
An epiphany sounds like such a grandiose event that I used to doubt such a thing could occur, but it can and does. It happened to me.
On the night of September 21, 1977, I lay drunk on my bed, unable to sleep, feeling doomed to ongoing misery that could end only in death or madness.
From that despair, my voice cried out for help perhaps to the God of my childhood, whom I had long since abandoned. There are no words to describe the spiritual experience, but immediately afterward, a profound peace came over me. The certainty that everything was going to be all right brought the relief of untroubled slumber.
When I awakened, my first awareness was of freedom from the compulsion to drink alcohol. My Furies had vanished and have not returned.
What has all this to do with purpose? Or the power of purpose? Everything, in my case. Please understand that I haven’t joined a temperance movement—I’m aware that most people can drink and be merry, even though I cannot. My purpose in life is, and has been for the past twenty-six-and-a-half years, to be available when another alcoholic reaches out for help.
We sober alcoholics belong to an unusual fellowship. Having found a way of living happily without mind-altering substances, we learned that the best way to keep our sobriety is to give it away. So that is what we do. We don’t evangelize. We simply say, “If you want what we have, we’ll share with you how we rebuilt our lives—how we learned to ‘behave our way into better thinking, not think our way into better behavior’.”
Something more than being struck sober happened to me that night in 1977. My priorities shifted— attitudes toward people and money and death and the meaning of life changed—all for the better. For example, I have learned to see the similarities, not the differences between you and me. I know, now, how much is enough and have lost my fear of financial insecurity. My know-it-all-ism is somewhat diminished, which alone qualifies as a minor miracle.
Having become teachable is a gift of my epiphany. When this student was ready, teachers appeared.
“Utilizing prayer and meditation is like going to a gym and working out,” they told me. “You don’t have to believe in it, you just have to do it and you’ll get results.” Willing, finally, to take direction, I pray for guidance on how to be of service and for the power to do so.
“Meditation is listening to the silence,” the wise ones said. “Meditate on a regular basis and intuitive answers will come.” I tried it and guess what? It works for me.
The law of unintended consequences has brought unexpected benefits: old rifts have healed, damaged relationships were repaired, and resentments that used to plague me are gone.
Each morning begins with an attitude of gratitude for the gift of sobriety. I didn’t earn it or buy it or steal it, so it must have been a gift. On a daily basis, I rededicate my energies to a spiritual way of life and recommit to helping the alcoholic who still suffers.
The sun has risen as I write this. The first order of my day will be a meeting with my fellows. I’ll suit up and show up to bear witness that it is possible to recover from alcoholism. It is my purpose.
THE END
Had someone asked me when I was a child what my purpose was, I would have replied: “to get an education.” Parental instructions to my siblings and me were explicit.
“Our responsibility is to keep a roof over our heads, to feed and clothe you and to bring you up as best we can,” they told us.
“Your job is to go to school.”
Their expectations powered us to excel at book learning and the taking of exams. The Deters children won spelldowns and brought home report cards filled with A’s. Each of my two sisters became valedictorian of her high school graduating class and we all marched off to college, as was expected of us, to earn our degrees.
When I launched into marriage and adulthood, my purpose, based on small-town family values, was clear: to be a good helpmate and an exemplary elementary school teacher.
My husband also had a purpose in life: to become a millionaire. His passion for success as a builder/developer became the focus of our marriage. The two of us worked hard and for seven years postponed having children in order to devote all of our energies and resources toward realizing his dream.
When my husband decided he no longer wanted to be married, my life fell apart. My father had warned us that marriage brought the possibility of widowhood or other hardships, but no one prepared me for divorce.
“A wife needs to be a good partner,” he often told his daughters. “If her husband dies or becomes disabled, she must be ready to take over and support the family.” Yeah, okay. But what about getting dumped? That eventuality had not occurred to anyone in my family.
After eleven years in a marriage I had supposed would be forever, I found myself unmarried, with a four-year-old daughter, and nursing a severely wounded ego.
What to do? It seemed obvious: my new purpose was to regroup and move on. Using entrepreneurial skills learned from my former husband, I set out to become financially independent through my own efforts. By living frugally and investing modest savings in income properties, I fashioned a secure financial life for my child and myself.
Well along the road to solvency, however, I lost my sense of purpose. What had begun as social drinking got out of control and at age forty-three, twice-divorced, I felt depressed and hopeless. Alcoholism owned me and had become my guilty secret. How had my life gone so wrong? Neither my relative affluence nor my best thinking could solve the problem or lift me out of the incomprehensible demoralization in which I found myself.
An epiphany sounds like such a grandiose event that I used to doubt such a thing could occur, but it can and does. It happened to me.
On the night of September 21, 1977, I lay drunk on my bed, unable to sleep, feeling doomed to ongoing misery that could end only in death or madness.
From that despair, my voice cried out for help perhaps to the God of my childhood, whom I had long since abandoned. There are no words to describe the spiritual experience, but immediately afterward, a profound peace came over me. The certainty that everything was going to be all right brought the relief of untroubled slumber.
When I awakened, my first awareness was of freedom from the compulsion to drink alcohol. My Furies had vanished and have not returned.
What has all this to do with purpose? Or the power of purpose? Everything, in my case. Please understand that I haven’t joined a temperance movement—I’m aware that most people can drink and be merry, even though I cannot. My purpose in life is, and has been for the past twenty-six-and-a-half years, to be available when another alcoholic reaches out for help.
We sober alcoholics belong to an unusual fellowship. Having found a way of living happily without mind-altering substances, we learned that the best way to keep our sobriety is to give it away. So that is what we do. We don’t evangelize. We simply say, “If you want what we have, we’ll share with you how we rebuilt our lives—how we learned to ‘behave our way into better thinking, not think our way into better behavior’.”
Something more than being struck sober happened to me that night in 1977. My priorities shifted— attitudes toward people and money and death and the meaning of life changed—all for the better. For example, I have learned to see the similarities, not the differences between you and me. I know, now, how much is enough and have lost my fear of financial insecurity. My know-it-all-ism is somewhat diminished, which alone qualifies as a minor miracle.
Having become teachable is a gift of my epiphany. When this student was ready, teachers appeared.
“Utilizing prayer and meditation is like going to a gym and working out,” they told me. “You don’t have to believe in it, you just have to do it and you’ll get results.” Willing, finally, to take direction, I pray for guidance on how to be of service and for the power to do so.
“Meditation is listening to the silence,” the wise ones said. “Meditate on a regular basis and intuitive answers will come.” I tried it and guess what? It works for me.
The law of unintended consequences has brought unexpected benefits: old rifts have healed, damaged relationships were repaired, and resentments that used to plague me are gone.
Each morning begins with an attitude of gratitude for the gift of sobriety. I didn’t earn it or buy it or steal it, so it must have been a gift. On a daily basis, I rededicate my energies to a spiritual way of life and recommit to helping the alcoholic who still suffers.
The sun has risen as I write this. The first order of my day will be a meeting with my fellows. I’ll suit up and show up to bear witness that it is possible to recover from alcoholism. It is my purpose.
THE END
From Hunter and Tyler, delivered by their father David at the memorial
Ode to Grammy
by Hunter and Tyler Gordon
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
You were so fun.
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
You were number one.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
We love you so much,
When it comes to tea and toast
You had the right touch.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You were so cool,
We all had fun in Palm Springs
Swimming in your pool.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You read us great books,
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You had the looks.
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
We’re sad that you died.
So Grammy, dear, Grammy,
We’re not satisfied.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
We wish you were here.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You were very dear.
by Hunter and Tyler Gordon
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
You were so fun.
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
You were number one.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
We love you so much,
When it comes to tea and toast
You had the right touch.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You were so cool,
We all had fun in Palm Springs
Swimming in your pool.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You read us great books,
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You had the looks.
Grammy, dear, Grammy,
We’re sad that you died.
So Grammy, dear, Grammy,
We’re not satisfied.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
We wish you were here.
Grammy, oh, Grammy,
You were very dear.
From Gerry and Karen, delivered by their daughter Kate at the memorial)
Dear Family and Friends of Marilyn,
Gerry and I regret that we won't be able to hug and be hugged, weep and join you as you gather together to honor the memories of Marilyn. Story upon story will be shared and bring happy thoughts of times spent with her. Pure affection allows me to share my experiences with this exceptional, and yet beautifully flawed, human being.
1. She gave of herself without complaint or reservation. How many of us have heard her tell a table full of friends and/or family that she wanted to pay the tab because she had a bunch of new money burning a hole in her pocket.
2. After she’d done all she could, she’d do more. After a brief sermon and a not so subtle chastisement, she would do whatever she could to help you out of some foolish predicament you might have gotten yourself into. But woe be onto you if you made the same mistake twice.
3. Family first was her mantra. Ricky and Lynn were her pride and joy. She was an example of love without conditions...and she had every right to be proud. Holly and David were welcomed into her life with wide open arms. And their offspring brought her a joy that held no measure. Motherhood, with all its complexities, appeared to come naturally to her, and she savored every moment of it. The love she had for her family was true and honest. Without sugar-coated words she expressed her devotion in a myriad of ways to all of us.
4. Marilyn was the consummate hostess. She demonstrated that fine china and sterling didn’t make a party. Give people good conversation, good food and something to gossip about on the way home. They’ll never notice the garage sale mismatched place settings and “interesting” flatware. Cloth napkins and a freshly ironed table cloth and, voila, eccentric elegance.
5. I remember a phone call from Marilyn many years ago. She said, I’m going to sew myself a hostess gown - pick up 3 yards of material and we’ll do it together!¨ I wore my hostess gown for years and years afterwards. She taught me that $3.00 of pink cotton can make you feel beautiful.
She leaves behind a legacy of many memories; her love of life, cheerfulness and positive outlook should give us all pause to take an accounting of our own attitudes.
Tusen taak, dear Marilyn, tusen taak.
With love, Gerry and Karen
Gerry and I regret that we won't be able to hug and be hugged, weep and join you as you gather together to honor the memories of Marilyn. Story upon story will be shared and bring happy thoughts of times spent with her. Pure affection allows me to share my experiences with this exceptional, and yet beautifully flawed, human being.
1. She gave of herself without complaint or reservation. How many of us have heard her tell a table full of friends and/or family that she wanted to pay the tab because she had a bunch of new money burning a hole in her pocket.
2. After she’d done all she could, she’d do more. After a brief sermon and a not so subtle chastisement, she would do whatever she could to help you out of some foolish predicament you might have gotten yourself into. But woe be onto you if you made the same mistake twice.
3. Family first was her mantra. Ricky and Lynn were her pride and joy. She was an example of love without conditions...and she had every right to be proud. Holly and David were welcomed into her life with wide open arms. And their offspring brought her a joy that held no measure. Motherhood, with all its complexities, appeared to come naturally to her, and she savored every moment of it. The love she had for her family was true and honest. Without sugar-coated words she expressed her devotion in a myriad of ways to all of us.
4. Marilyn was the consummate hostess. She demonstrated that fine china and sterling didn’t make a party. Give people good conversation, good food and something to gossip about on the way home. They’ll never notice the garage sale mismatched place settings and “interesting” flatware. Cloth napkins and a freshly ironed table cloth and, voila, eccentric elegance.
5. I remember a phone call from Marilyn many years ago. She said, I’m going to sew myself a hostess gown - pick up 3 yards of material and we’ll do it together!¨ I wore my hostess gown for years and years afterwards. She taught me that $3.00 of pink cotton can make you feel beautiful.
She leaves behind a legacy of many memories; her love of life, cheerfulness and positive outlook should give us all pause to take an accounting of our own attitudes.
Tusen taak, dear Marilyn, tusen taak.
With love, Gerry and Karen
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