From the Cookie Jar: tasty essays to flavor the moment

By Beverly Goodman McCormick

There are no actual recipes contained in this book. Consequently, there are no calories to worry about either. In the Cookie Jar the author presents an idea or relates an experience that offers pause and perspective for the moment. The writer's concept of the cookie jar stories involves sharing more of a snack (essay) than a meal (novel).

Some content will offer smiles like the first grader who told her mommy the teacher was teaching about liquor when the lesson was actually an explanation about solids, liquids, and gases. There was the preschooler who thought the cattail plant was actually a "hotdog plant."Another time a parent donated liquid plumber when the teacher requested pipe cleaners for an art project.
Other stories reflect the perspectives of trauma and hope. There are also brief explanations of facts and discoveries the author shares.

This printed collection is simply a gathering of short essays from the writer's monthly column called, From the Cookie Jar. Characters and events are based on actual happenings. This book presents each individual essay as a week of the year, formatted by seasons. Grab something From the Cookie Jar and you're sure to enjoy some reflection of pause, perspective, and purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350901207

Book preview

Season One

Week 1:

Connecting the Dots

On the fringes of history, there are stories. Stuff happens. News informs and dreams evolve. Occasionally, a calamity forms around good intentions, humor, and mystery. Pay attention. Experience is a powerful teacher.

In July of 1998 I began sharing my voice with a very public audience. That summer I submitted a personal essay to the community paper and was invited to write a regular column. The timid origin of this communal journey has been a discovery of reserved strength. The opportunity to openly connect the dots has been a blessing. Here’s a sample of the lessons I’ve learned.

When the moments of hectic schedules intersect with crisis, those who are able to reach into the pit of determination become stronger. My crossroad came at a time when life was good, routine stress was laughable, finances were stable, and children were healthy. I had just accepted a leave of absence from my teaching job to focus on the role of a stay-at-home mom. My three children were then 10 months, two, and six years of age. It was two days before Thanksgiving when the late-night news report confirmed the crash of my husband’s plane. At 35, the label widow altered my priorities.

In spite of permanent changes that such grief brings, I survived those wounds and tended the scars. I have maintained purpose. I have even developed a few management tips:

Eat the broccoli, I say to my children. The fact that green vegetables are healthy isn’t altered by your lack of enjoyment. And even though the taste may not be your favorite, it (like many of life’s experiences) is good for you. Sometimes broccoli is on the menu.

Absence can make a heart grow fonder, but generally speaking it’s a pain in the butt. Avoid long separations from those who love you and those you love.

To acknowledge that a power greater than oneself is in control is the beginning of hope. In assuming there is no God, we limit ourselves to only finite purposes. Faith is simply a choice to believe peace is possible. It is not absolutely necessary to have complete answers, but rather to know that answers do exist. The horizon is never all there is but simply the limit of our sight.

I have learned to enter slowly into each day. Passion does not require speed when purposes are clear. I see too often the scars of hurried children, rushed marriages, and speeding cars. Temper haste with reflection.

The present is important. Don’t lose it to sadness. Depression and despair are aspects of human nature, disappointment, and cultural conflict. Recognize them as temporary visitors rather than permanent family members. The next breath holds the future and the final breath begins a legacy.

No amount of advice or wisdom is useful without vision. Revelation minus motivation isn’t always of practical assistance. My reflections have little value apart from family, friends, and God. Love is a community that reaches beyond location and circumstance. Love is eternal. The support and concern from others is like emergency surgery and my immediate survival depends on it. Sharing the message of that survival is my therapy.

Beyond this specific moment of personal crisis, life has developed to include birthday parties as well as funerals. I have faced issues and challenges: (single) parenting, debt, unemployment, relocation, lawsuits, broken arms, soccer, piano recitals, counseling, taxes, dating, remarriage, blended families, divorce, puppies, prayer, worry, parking tickets, and joy. I will define myself as a daughter, a mom, grandmother, mother-in-law, Christian, teacher, maid, writer, nurse, artist, friend, and survivor.

Finally, be encouraged. Eat the broccoli. Slow down. Avoid distancing yourself from love. Acknowledge God. Don’t despair. The future is the next breath. We all have a legacy. With the passing of each second, the present is becoming history. Share your story.

Week 2:

So Many Candles

The marathon of Christmas and the stuffing of Thanksgiving are settling into our memory banks for one more season. Time marches on. One year begins, another ends. Party hats and parades cast shadows on the countdown that marks a fresh start. Each breath is measured. Milestones are inventoried. To capture the past, make sense of the present, or influence the future, we will grace our steps with rituals. What follows is a personal example of ceremony and new beginnings.

January 1 is my birthday. There is a cake to mark the date. I have grandchildren who are learning to count. Candles are part of the tradition, so I buy five boxes of them. Accuracy is important to seven-year-old Sallie. She lines up sticks of wax like tiny soldiers and reports that 68 is an even number. Six-year-old Felix is concerned about all the holes the candles are making in the bootiful frosting. I stand amazed by the crowd of candles. The chore of lighting them ablaze causes me to visualize bandages on my fingers.

It is my very verbal youngest grandson who first announces the obvious. Too many candles! he shouts. You gonna start a fire with that, he reasons matter-of-factly. The honesty of his perspective is refreshing. I ponder that probability and locate the fire extinguisher as a precaution. From a senior citizen point of view, this ceremony of excess birthday flames may actually increase global warming.

Once the candles are lit and the familiar song is chanted by a staccato of voices, I enlist the help of family to blow them out. Next, eager grandchildren pull out the melted wax and lick the frosting. I silently notice the many pits on the surface of the cake, each hole echoing another year.

Cleanup concludes the celebration. I find myself sweeping both crumbs and memories off the countertop. On the plus side, the large amount of burning wax produces a magnificent glow. I conclude that age can create its own light and heat. Another token of insight is the strategy it took to blow out the candles. I don’t see any young child needing sunglasses and a battle plan to deal with their own birthday candles.

With each new year, another candle is added to the birthday cake. In my case, crowding sixty-eight flashpoints onto a bed of pink frosting prompted one grandchild to grab his fireman hat and scream, Wahoo, a fire! This very visual interpretation is not wasted. Next time, I plan to request a bigger cake.

Is it possible to have too many candles? Seriously, there may come a time when the public healthcare system encourages limits. In some cultures, meaningful life expectancy might be calculated by cost and quality. A disconnected formula may create margins for measuring life, disregarding the very mystery of a soul. Perhaps the issue isn’t too many candles but rather the size of the cake.

Birthdays will happen. For now, the annual tradition is secure. The marking of time is reason enough to celebrate. Rituals remain as powerful reminders of the past, the present, and the future.

As this year begins, I will consider the reflection of so many candles. The wax will melt quickly. The light will fade, but with the burst of more candles the blaze burns brighter and warmer. Celebration may create its own resolution of significance. Let us use each moment to shine. Radiance can have a powerful effect.

Plan for a happy new year. Smile like it’s your birthday! Glow on!

Week 3:

Tell Me a Story

Imagine this. A living, breathing book of life sits before you. The form is human. Bone, blood, behavior and dialogue are present. The message is powerful and the legacy eternal. A personal encounter brings purpose to the plot. Consider a human library, where genre is like a fingerprint and presence is a powerful energy.

One day my grandchild says, Tell me a story. She looks at my face, snuggles her doll, and waits. There are so many optional narratives in my head: fairy tales, rumors, the death of a puppy, the day I won a contest, the origin of grandma’s cookie recipe, or how silly I look dancing. Sharing stories is essential. It’s how we teach. It’s how we learn. More importantly it’s how we connect with one another, explain our past, and plan for a future.

Author Bruce Feiler describes his experience with something he called the Life Story Project. He shares that life is simply the story you tell yourself. Stories stitch together what we are and will be. The way they are told shapes us and the world we live in. Narrative can make us cry harder, laugh louder, validate others, grieve less, and hope longer. Experiences develop plot, conflict, goals, and conclusions. Story is how humans navigate change.

When we tell our stories our minds turn into a cavalcade. The brain synapses make shotgun connections. Neurons fire more rapidly. According to some neurobiologists, oxytocin, a natural feel-good hormone may be released in floods, whether the story is happy or sad. This doesn’t just occur when we share our own stories. It happens even when we hear the stories of others. Through listening, we can experience different lives and emotions. We can be the child riding her first bicycle, a teenager in love, the captain of a sinking ship, or the woman who survives breast cancer. Audience, victim, narrator, or hero - all have significance regardless of the role.

Here’s something worth noting. An actual Human Library Project started on June 29, 2000.