Watching the minutes turn into days, the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months made me realize that time waits for no one. It made me realize that all the things I want to accomplish are never going to happen as long as all I do is think about doing them. It was time for a call to action.
I know myself well enough that if I jump in with guns blazing and try to tackle too many things at once, I will find myself right back at square one.....lost in thought. So I made a decision to start with something simple such as rising earlier in the morning.
I don't know why, but getting up before the crack of dawn allows me to get ten times more things done. Yes, it does add more waking hours to my day but I think it has something to do with the serenity that time of the day has to offer. I can spend the first hour standing outside listening to the world as it wakes.
So, I rose early and then made a list. A written list of things to do has some magical essence in itself. Like my own personal billboard that beckons for my attention every time I walk past it. Plus, it is a proven fact that the brain will remember something much better if it is written down. This may be a lost art because I don't think tapping letters into a cell phone counts and besides, there is something very gratifying about scratching items off of a to-do list.
Next, I decided to add a bit of exercise....some yoga. The app on my phone shows how to do all the moves and has some relaxing ocean waves sound in the background. I followed along to the best of my ability. It may not have been pretty, but I can work on the form later.
Then there is the dog. Runtly. He could hear me doing yoga. Yoga is basically stretching, holding the stretch and breathing but in my case there is the need for the occasional grunt. That grunt let him know I was in close proximity and he started whining. Adding a whining dog to the ocean waves just doesn't have the same relaxing effect.
I'm trying to teach Runtly to stay in the yard, without a leash. Since he is afraid of anything that makes a strange or loud noise and it was still dark outside, I thought this would be a perfect time for a little training.....potty training and staying in the yard training.
We went out the front door but unfortunately the neighbor had their loud truck running. Runtly was able to accomplish the first part of the potty training but after that he headed straight back to the door. After being in the house for a few minutes, I thought it would be better to take him out the back door........
Then there is the cat. Tigger was still in the garage at this time of the morning but I had forgotten his recent gift to the family. The day before, I had been away from home for most of the day. When I arrived home I discovered Tigger had left a lovely dead starling on the door mat. Starlings must not be near the culinary delight the finches are because this bird was fully intact. It probably made a much better toy than a treat. Being in a hurry, I gingerly picked the feathery carcass up by one of its feet and laid it on the railing, thinking I would deal with it later.
So.....I opened the back door and Runtly bounded out. Sometime in the night, the wind must have been blowing.......it must have been blowing at a pretty good clip because above mentioned dead birdie was laying on the deck.....again.
Let me tell you, there is no better way to get the blood pumping through your veins than trying to chase down a four legged white bullet, traveling at break neck speed, with a dead bird in its mouth. I'm thinking if I can not retrieve the bird before Runtly goes into shake mode, it's going to look like a pillow fight gone bad. I finally gave up and Runtly headed for the back door, bird in tow. He knew I was not a happy camper and tried his best to dodge my lunges (more exercises) by scrambling under the deck chairs. Prying open the mouth of a Jack Russell Terrier also helps to strengthen the hand muscles.
I think I will get the wide tipped felt marker out to scratch through items 1 & 2.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Sighs, Twits & Laces
The comic strip was true to form. It showed a young boy pointing to a land line phone and explaining to his friend that it was a device used to locate a cell phone anywhere in the house. I had to laugh, I had done that very thing a couple of days ago. I think that was the first time I had touched the land line in a month......should probably give some serious thought to letting it go....sigh.
While I was waiting on the arrival of Ms. Sassafrass, aka 4 year old granddaughter, I thought it a safe bet to say she has probably never talked on a land line phone. She can master the apps on a cell phone and swipe the screen of an ipad with ease, but she has no idea what the buttons on the land line phone are for. I wonder what she would think of a rotary dial? Would she think it was dorky, or would she be just as wowed by it as I am of new technology that is obsolete as soon as it is taken out of the box? Then, the more I thought about it, I realized her mother, our youngest, who will turn 30 this year, has never had a land line phone......sigh.
With the advance of cell phone technology came the new frontier of social media. A place to connect with family and friends without ever having to actually talk to anyone, all from the palm of your hand. I must admit, I do enjoy Facebook and after putting the app on my husband's phone and downloading my FB account, so does he. In fact, I think I have created a monster.....SIGH.
Then there is this thing called Twitter. Another social media network that uses only 140 characters, or less, to make a statement about what ever is on ones' mind. I think I need to learn to twit, or more correctly, to tweet. Growing up in an era when the only thing that tweeted was a bird, I may need some help. Also with Twitter, one needs to be clever, or creative because in order for someone to read your tweet it needs a catchy catch phrase, for lack of a better word. The catchy catch phrase then needs to have a cross hatch symbol at its beginning before sharing the tweet. A cross hatch symbol used to be the punctuation mark for a number and cross hatch was something one did whilst drawing or sketching.....sigh.
Maybe Ms. Sassafrass can help me. She is in pre-k and during our last conversation she informed me the class was on the letter 'W'. Just three more letters and she will have the alphabet and their pronunciations under her belt. By this time next year, she will be reading. With all the new information that is streaming into her young grey matter, I hope she learns to communicate with more than 140 characters at a time.
Yes, I believe she will be able to teach me a thing or two. In the mean time, she and I can work on learning to tie her shoes. That is one thing I know, and can still remember how to do.
While I was waiting on the arrival of Ms. Sassafrass, aka 4 year old granddaughter, I thought it a safe bet to say she has probably never talked on a land line phone. She can master the apps on a cell phone and swipe the screen of an ipad with ease, but she has no idea what the buttons on the land line phone are for. I wonder what she would think of a rotary dial? Would she think it was dorky, or would she be just as wowed by it as I am of new technology that is obsolete as soon as it is taken out of the box? Then, the more I thought about it, I realized her mother, our youngest, who will turn 30 this year, has never had a land line phone......sigh.
With the advance of cell phone technology came the new frontier of social media. A place to connect with family and friends without ever having to actually talk to anyone, all from the palm of your hand. I must admit, I do enjoy Facebook and after putting the app on my husband's phone and downloading my FB account, so does he. In fact, I think I have created a monster.....SIGH.
Then there is this thing called Twitter. Another social media network that uses only 140 characters, or less, to make a statement about what ever is on ones' mind. I think I need to learn to twit, or more correctly, to tweet. Growing up in an era when the only thing that tweeted was a bird, I may need some help. Also with Twitter, one needs to be clever, or creative because in order for someone to read your tweet it needs a catchy catch phrase, for lack of a better word. The catchy catch phrase then needs to have a cross hatch symbol at its beginning before sharing the tweet. A cross hatch symbol used to be the punctuation mark for a number and cross hatch was something one did whilst drawing or sketching.....sigh.
Maybe Ms. Sassafrass can help me. She is in pre-k and during our last conversation she informed me the class was on the letter 'W'. Just three more letters and she will have the alphabet and their pronunciations under her belt. By this time next year, she will be reading. With all the new information that is streaming into her young grey matter, I hope she learns to communicate with more than 140 characters at a time.
Yes, I believe she will be able to teach me a thing or two. In the mean time, she and I can work on learning to tie her shoes. That is one thing I know, and can still remember how to do.
Monday, March 23, 2015
In Search of the Perfect Chip
Way back in 1920, Fred and Ethel Ballreich had stumbled upon their own private gold mine. The couple were making potato chips in a shed with a dirt floor. The demand was high, everyone loved Fred and Ethel's chips. It wasn't long before Fred recruited his brother, Carl and his wife Emma, to help with the growing business. They lived side by side and began to produce chips on a grand scale. Their potato chip empire is still going strong.
Fast forward to the 1960's, the era of my youth. Potato chips were becoming a common household staple. There was nothing better on a sunny summer day than a bologna sandwich and a pile of chips. Mother and I used to stack the chips on top of the bologna and crush them with the top layer of bread. That produced an even better way to savor the flavor. The sandwich with the crunch built in.
Fast forward to the next century and suddenly the reality of eating all those chips begins to sink in. Body parts are just not where they used to be. Yes, gravity does play a part, but I believe the real culprit is the potato chip. It is hard to pass up those tasty, salty, loaded with bad carbs, thin crispy fried slices of the potato.
Trying to watch out for those regrettable carbohydrates has led me on a search. The search for the perfect healthy chip. I have tried to make chips with the good carb tater, the sweet potato. So far my trials and errors lean more toward the latter. They are available in the grocery store, but they're pricey and they are fried and that kind of defeats the purpose, twofold.
Then I came across kale, a leafy green vegetable that although resembles lettuce, is more closely related to cabbage. Kale is like the new super food. It is loaded with vitamins, protein, calcium and low in carbohydrates, but the real kicker......folks were making chips out of it. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! Finally, the perfect chip.
The recipe for making kale chips was surprisingly easy and I did not melt any utensils, or fill the house with smoke. I was elated and anxious to try this new alternative. Kale, fresh kale, straight out of the bag, or bunch, is not what I would consider tasty. It looks nice, all green with curly edges to the leaves, but it has a bitter flavor. I suppose the taste is one that is acquired over time, like cooked cabbage, but at this stage of the game, time is of the essence.
Kale chips are very thin....thinner than the parchment paper they were baked on. The first taste test was similar to eating air, albeit, crunchy air, even though they were seasoned with olive oil and a bit of sea salt. I came to the conclusion that in order to get the equivalent of a potato chip crunch, I would have to stuff my mouth completely full of kale chips before ever starting to chew.
Runtly, the dog, thought they were wonderful and I could not find any information that said kale was not healthy for dogs. Since I purchased a huge bag of kale, I will try again and maybe add a few more flavors such as onion and garlic. With kale being related to cabbage, most people know what happens somewhere in the digestive system after eating cabbage....if you get my drift. Runtly has proven this also happens with dogs, so it might be a good idea to add some vinegar to the next batch.
Fast forward to the 1960's, the era of my youth. Potato chips were becoming a common household staple. There was nothing better on a sunny summer day than a bologna sandwich and a pile of chips. Mother and I used to stack the chips on top of the bologna and crush them with the top layer of bread. That produced an even better way to savor the flavor. The sandwich with the crunch built in.
Fast forward to the next century and suddenly the reality of eating all those chips begins to sink in. Body parts are just not where they used to be. Yes, gravity does play a part, but I believe the real culprit is the potato chip. It is hard to pass up those tasty, salty, loaded with bad carbs, thin crispy fried slices of the potato.
Trying to watch out for those regrettable carbohydrates has led me on a search. The search for the perfect healthy chip. I have tried to make chips with the good carb tater, the sweet potato. So far my trials and errors lean more toward the latter. They are available in the grocery store, but they're pricey and they are fried and that kind of defeats the purpose, twofold.
Then I came across kale, a leafy green vegetable that although resembles lettuce, is more closely related to cabbage. Kale is like the new super food. It is loaded with vitamins, protein, calcium and low in carbohydrates, but the real kicker......folks were making chips out of it. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! Finally, the perfect chip.
The recipe for making kale chips was surprisingly easy and I did not melt any utensils, or fill the house with smoke. I was elated and anxious to try this new alternative. Kale, fresh kale, straight out of the bag, or bunch, is not what I would consider tasty. It looks nice, all green with curly edges to the leaves, but it has a bitter flavor. I suppose the taste is one that is acquired over time, like cooked cabbage, but at this stage of the game, time is of the essence.
Kale chips are very thin....thinner than the parchment paper they were baked on. The first taste test was similar to eating air, albeit, crunchy air, even though they were seasoned with olive oil and a bit of sea salt. I came to the conclusion that in order to get the equivalent of a potato chip crunch, I would have to stuff my mouth completely full of kale chips before ever starting to chew.
Runtly, the dog, thought they were wonderful and I could not find any information that said kale was not healthy for dogs. Since I purchased a huge bag of kale, I will try again and maybe add a few more flavors such as onion and garlic. With kale being related to cabbage, most people know what happens somewhere in the digestive system after eating cabbage....if you get my drift. Runtly has proven this also happens with dogs, so it might be a good idea to add some vinegar to the next batch.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Historical Bacon Bits
Of all the amenities we feel we can not live without, bacon would have to be number one on my list. Man, I do love bacon!
Bacon has been around for a long time, clear back to the Roman era. I can just see the Roman folks, lounging in their togas, enjoying a few strips of bacon. Bacon probably played a part in the ancient Romans idea of a government by the people. Discussing democracy over a bacon sandwich obviously had a good outcome.
Sometime in the 1600's, bacon became a common, cheap staple for the European peasants. I'll bet they figured out that eggs where even better when they teamed them up with a side of bacon. I read an article that a French explorer by the name of Rene-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, try to say that with a mouth full of bacon, was the first European to navigate the whole length of the Mississippi River. Back in 1687, poor Rene-Bob (for short) met his maker at the hands of mutineers in present day Texas. Too bad he didn't have some bacon fried up ahead of time, bacon can solve a multitude of problems.
Growing up in a county that prides itself as being the pork capital of the world, I thought we might hold the title for the best bacon around. But an Englishman by the name of John Harris, much easier to pronounce, holds that honor. In the 1770's he masterminded a large scale of bacon production in a town called Wittshire. To this day, they are considered the Bacon Capital of the World. Maybe I will visit there someday and bring back a bacon key chain.
Bacon has even influenced the way we speak. Who has not heard the term, "bringing home the bacon"? This figure of speech came to use in the 12th century. If a man could swear before God and the congregation that he had not had a cross word with his wife for an entire year and a day, he got a side of bacon. Any man who could "bring home the bacon" was the most respected guy in town..........I'm thinking he was probably the biggest liar in town too, but hey, when it comes to bacon, a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.
Bacon can be cooked numerous ways and I imagine everyone has their favorite. I like mine crispy but I have a grandson who prefers his on the opposite end of the scale. We call it wimpy bacon. The flavor of bacon has infused everything from ice cream and vodka, to donuts and mints. Just think about the make up kiss after the savoriness of a bacon flavored mint.....Woohoo! There is even a commercial for a pizza wrapped with over three feet of bacon. That is about as close to bacon heaven as one can get.
In this country, most bacon comes from the pork belly, but the idea of having an egg and pork belly sandwich just doesn't carry the same appeal. Neither does pork belly bits. No, I do not want any of those on my salad, but they can sure bring on the bacon.
Bacon has been around for a long time, clear back to the Roman era. I can just see the Roman folks, lounging in their togas, enjoying a few strips of bacon. Bacon probably played a part in the ancient Romans idea of a government by the people. Discussing democracy over a bacon sandwich obviously had a good outcome.
Sometime in the 1600's, bacon became a common, cheap staple for the European peasants. I'll bet they figured out that eggs where even better when they teamed them up with a side of bacon. I read an article that a French explorer by the name of Rene-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, try to say that with a mouth full of bacon, was the first European to navigate the whole length of the Mississippi River. Back in 1687, poor Rene-Bob (for short) met his maker at the hands of mutineers in present day Texas. Too bad he didn't have some bacon fried up ahead of time, bacon can solve a multitude of problems.
Growing up in a county that prides itself as being the pork capital of the world, I thought we might hold the title for the best bacon around. But an Englishman by the name of John Harris, much easier to pronounce, holds that honor. In the 1770's he masterminded a large scale of bacon production in a town called Wittshire. To this day, they are considered the Bacon Capital of the World. Maybe I will visit there someday and bring back a bacon key chain.
Bacon has even influenced the way we speak. Who has not heard the term, "bringing home the bacon"? This figure of speech came to use in the 12th century. If a man could swear before God and the congregation that he had not had a cross word with his wife for an entire year and a day, he got a side of bacon. Any man who could "bring home the bacon" was the most respected guy in town..........I'm thinking he was probably the biggest liar in town too, but hey, when it comes to bacon, a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.
Bacon can be cooked numerous ways and I imagine everyone has their favorite. I like mine crispy but I have a grandson who prefers his on the opposite end of the scale. We call it wimpy bacon. The flavor of bacon has infused everything from ice cream and vodka, to donuts and mints. Just think about the make up kiss after the savoriness of a bacon flavored mint.....Woohoo! There is even a commercial for a pizza wrapped with over three feet of bacon. That is about as close to bacon heaven as one can get.
In this country, most bacon comes from the pork belly, but the idea of having an egg and pork belly sandwich just doesn't carry the same appeal. Neither does pork belly bits. No, I do not want any of those on my salad, but they can sure bring on the bacon.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Kitchen Tales
The Voice, that lives in my head, was flying around the kitchen like a Cesna 152 Aerobat, complete with two sky writing canisters strapped to the wings. I ignored it, as usual. Good grief, it was carrots, what could possibly go wrong. I opened the back door and watched as the Voice made a sharp bank to the right and flew out the door.
This was going to be easy. Not only was it going to be easy, it was going to be different. That's what I was after, different. My creativity for meal planning was in a rut. It seemed we were eating the same boring dishes over and over again. Although carrots, especially cooked carrots, do not always get a standing O from the audience, I was willing to try it anyway. Besides, this was not the usual boiled, boring cooked carrot, this recipe was using carrots as a healthy alternative to the potato......carrot fries.....AND...they were baked, not fried.....doubly healthy and doubly easy.
The oven temperature needed to be set at 425 degrees, so while it was preheating, I gathered the ingredients. All I had to do was peel the carrots and cut them into fry-like strips, put them in a bag with some olive oil and seasoning, shake them up, spread them on a baking pan and pop them in the oven for 30 minutes. It does not get any easier than that. Why, I even got clever and lined the pan with parchment paper because I figured while I was on easy street, I might as well make clean up easy too.
When the oven was ready, I walked over to open the door and about that time the Cesna buzzed the house. The skywriting canisters were leaving a trail of smoke and as I glanced towards the window, I could have sworn I saw the letter "r" floating past. With prepared pan of carrots in hand, I opened the oven door and the Cesna began do do a nose dive.
Did I mention the skillet? The skillet that I have pampered and seasoned for many months? No? Well, I shall mention it now. Having a seasoned skillet means it rarely needs to be washed. Simply wiping the skillet out with a paper towel is usually all that is needed to clean it. Having a seasoned skillet usually means having a unique place to keep it when it is not in use. I keep mine in the oven. Luckily the skillet is entirely made of metal, including the handle.......not so much the spatula that I also leave in the skillet. There it was, the handle to my favorite spatula, lying on the bottom of the oven, no longer attached to its working part. The smell of baked plastic began to fill the kitchen and the Cesna pulled out of the nose dive just in time to buzz the house again.
At this time, I'm not a happy cooker. I'm still standing with the prepared pan of carrots in one hand and the oven door in the other. The handle looks to be all in one piece and sort of, still has its original shape. I open the oven door a little further and thought I saw the handle move. It did move. One end of the handle had landed against the backside of the door and as I opened the door the handle began to stretch, the molten plastic following the direction of the door.
Realizing that the evening meal was going to be postponed, I set the pan of carrots on the counter. I looked for some utensil that could sacrifice its usefulness by becoming a scraper of melted plastic. I have a certain attatchment to all my utensils, the choice was not going to be an easy one. I finally picked a small, short handled metal spatula that does not get used often. As luck would have it, the disfigured handle was not adhered to the bottom of the oven and came out in one piece.
I left the oven door open for a while to be sure the plastic fumes had dissipated to some other part of the house. I went to the back door and opened it just in time for the Cesna to glide in and make a perfect landing in the front room. As I shut the door, I noticed the words, "danger, danger, danger" hanging in the sky.
The carrots turned out to be very tasty with no black plastic after taste and the spatula......well, that's another story.
This was going to be easy. Not only was it going to be easy, it was going to be different. That's what I was after, different. My creativity for meal planning was in a rut. It seemed we were eating the same boring dishes over and over again. Although carrots, especially cooked carrots, do not always get a standing O from the audience, I was willing to try it anyway. Besides, this was not the usual boiled, boring cooked carrot, this recipe was using carrots as a healthy alternative to the potato......carrot fries.....AND...they were baked, not fried.....doubly healthy and doubly easy.
The oven temperature needed to be set at 425 degrees, so while it was preheating, I gathered the ingredients. All I had to do was peel the carrots and cut them into fry-like strips, put them in a bag with some olive oil and seasoning, shake them up, spread them on a baking pan and pop them in the oven for 30 minutes. It does not get any easier than that. Why, I even got clever and lined the pan with parchment paper because I figured while I was on easy street, I might as well make clean up easy too.
When the oven was ready, I walked over to open the door and about that time the Cesna buzzed the house. The skywriting canisters were leaving a trail of smoke and as I glanced towards the window, I could have sworn I saw the letter "r" floating past. With prepared pan of carrots in hand, I opened the oven door and the Cesna began do do a nose dive.
Did I mention the skillet? The skillet that I have pampered and seasoned for many months? No? Well, I shall mention it now. Having a seasoned skillet means it rarely needs to be washed. Simply wiping the skillet out with a paper towel is usually all that is needed to clean it. Having a seasoned skillet usually means having a unique place to keep it when it is not in use. I keep mine in the oven. Luckily the skillet is entirely made of metal, including the handle.......not so much the spatula that I also leave in the skillet. There it was, the handle to my favorite spatula, lying on the bottom of the oven, no longer attached to its working part. The smell of baked plastic began to fill the kitchen and the Cesna pulled out of the nose dive just in time to buzz the house again.
At this time, I'm not a happy cooker. I'm still standing with the prepared pan of carrots in one hand and the oven door in the other. The handle looks to be all in one piece and sort of, still has its original shape. I open the oven door a little further and thought I saw the handle move. It did move. One end of the handle had landed against the backside of the door and as I opened the door the handle began to stretch, the molten plastic following the direction of the door.
Realizing that the evening meal was going to be postponed, I set the pan of carrots on the counter. I looked for some utensil that could sacrifice its usefulness by becoming a scraper of melted plastic. I have a certain attatchment to all my utensils, the choice was not going to be an easy one. I finally picked a small, short handled metal spatula that does not get used often. As luck would have it, the disfigured handle was not adhered to the bottom of the oven and came out in one piece.
I left the oven door open for a while to be sure the plastic fumes had dissipated to some other part of the house. I went to the back door and opened it just in time for the Cesna to glide in and make a perfect landing in the front room. As I shut the door, I noticed the words, "danger, danger, danger" hanging in the sky.
The carrots turned out to be very tasty with no black plastic after taste and the spatula......well, that's another story.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Taking The Long Way Around
The appointment was scheduled for 3 in the afternoon and there was a whole list of errands to run before then. The initial plan was to drive to the nearest thing this area has as a city, drive through the city, and then back track to the appointment.
The more I thought about driving through all the stoplights, the more I disliked the idea. After all, I live in a county that has a total of five stoplights and they are all in the same town.....on the same street. That is when I made the decision to go about my destination with a different maneuver.
I left the house a little after noon, en route to the neighboring village with the 5 stoplights, and ran a couple of errands. From there I drove west until I crossed the state line into Missouri. The Mighty Mississippi is always a sight to behold and with the warmer temps, she was entirely free of ice. After making a couple of purchases, I headed back across the river and drove about six miles to a crossroad. There I was, at the crossroad of decision making. Go straight, and traverse the same road, or turn left?
I turned left and began a twenty mile journey along the river bottom, the road hugging close to the bluff. It was a fabulous day, the sun was shining and the temperature was unseasonably warm. I rolled the window down just a bit. I drove past farm houses of all sizes and colors and gazed across bare river bottom fields silently waiting to be planted. Every so often, a turkey buzzard would launch from the bluff to soar and glide on the warm air thermals rising from the valley.
The traffic was sparse. Maybe I met one or two cars, but I never had anyone ahead or behind me. The road was all mine. I gave thanks for the view and silently asked for a blessing on the car. If it gave up the ghost, I would be along side the road for a while. I asked for a sign, something I do a lot, to make sure my life was on the right track.
At the end of the twenty mile segment another decision needed to be made. Stay on the two lane road, or jump on the interstate. I drove across the overpass watching all the fast traffic and trailer trucks barreling down the 4 lane and never gave another thought to touching the brakes to slow for the exit ramp.
The two lane road began to climb the bluff. I smiled as I remembered the last time I was on this road. I was driving a school bus loaded with a ball team. Back then, the road was narrow and full of pot holes, but now it had been widened and resurfaced. As I reached the top of the bluff, I was thankful again for taking the road less traveled.
It just so happened that this road would take me directly to the place I needed to be at 3 o'clock. I still had plenty of time and eased off the gas pedal, again enjoying the now lofty view and the new pavement. There are two small towns on this stretch of road and I thought about how they were seemingly placed in an area that seems forgotten. Placed just far enough off the beaten path to be hidden from the masses. As more farm land rolled by I decided that being isolated was not such a bad thing after all.
The road skimmed past the first small burg and as I came upon the second town, a profound thought entered my head. This is the town where my father once lived. This is the town where he attended his first three years of high school. His father was a teacher, perhaps an administrator, and Dad had to move right before his senior year.
I wondered how hard that must have been on him. He had friends here, friends I never heard him talk about. He was just a young man, a teenager, when he walked these streets, looking ever so keen. I glanced down some of the side streets and realized that somewhere in this village there was probably still a house standing that he lived in. I thought it odd that he never talked much about his glory days. As the crow flies, the place he had to move to really was not that far from this place, maybe 20 or 30 miles, but I do not think he ever went back. But, eighty five years ago, a thirty mile trip was an all day road trip.
As I drove on, I came to the hill outside of town that begins the downward journey from the top of the river bluff. There are no curves in this part of the road, the hill is a straight shot down. The hill. That's when it hit me. There was a story Dad told from his high school days in this community. He and some friends drove out to the hill, one evening, where Dad got out of the car and strapped on a pair of roller skates. These were the old style steel roller skates that clamped onto the bottom of your shoe. After he made sure the skates were on good and tight, he held onto the back bumper of the car and down the hill they went. He always ended this tale with, "Man, were my feet hot when we got to the bottom!" I coasted down the hill, envisioning glowing red steel skate wheels.
While at my appointment I believe the sign I had early asked for revealed itself. I usually feel the need to share endless banter with this person I had to meet. But, while sitting across from her at the desk, I heard a voice tell me to "just be still". I did and the appointment was over in about five minutes.
I took the same road back through Dad's old stomping ground, wondering what other tales went with this small town and headed home. I arrived at the house at four o'clock. I had driven over three hours on two lane back roads, logged over one hundred miles and only used a quarter of a tank of gas. Taking the long way around turned out to be a 'sign' in itself.
The more I thought about driving through all the stoplights, the more I disliked the idea. After all, I live in a county that has a total of five stoplights and they are all in the same town.....on the same street. That is when I made the decision to go about my destination with a different maneuver.
I left the house a little after noon, en route to the neighboring village with the 5 stoplights, and ran a couple of errands. From there I drove west until I crossed the state line into Missouri. The Mighty Mississippi is always a sight to behold and with the warmer temps, she was entirely free of ice. After making a couple of purchases, I headed back across the river and drove about six miles to a crossroad. There I was, at the crossroad of decision making. Go straight, and traverse the same road, or turn left?
I turned left and began a twenty mile journey along the river bottom, the road hugging close to the bluff. It was a fabulous day, the sun was shining and the temperature was unseasonably warm. I rolled the window down just a bit. I drove past farm houses of all sizes and colors and gazed across bare river bottom fields silently waiting to be planted. Every so often, a turkey buzzard would launch from the bluff to soar and glide on the warm air thermals rising from the valley.
The traffic was sparse. Maybe I met one or two cars, but I never had anyone ahead or behind me. The road was all mine. I gave thanks for the view and silently asked for a blessing on the car. If it gave up the ghost, I would be along side the road for a while. I asked for a sign, something I do a lot, to make sure my life was on the right track.
At the end of the twenty mile segment another decision needed to be made. Stay on the two lane road, or jump on the interstate. I drove across the overpass watching all the fast traffic and trailer trucks barreling down the 4 lane and never gave another thought to touching the brakes to slow for the exit ramp.
The two lane road began to climb the bluff. I smiled as I remembered the last time I was on this road. I was driving a school bus loaded with a ball team. Back then, the road was narrow and full of pot holes, but now it had been widened and resurfaced. As I reached the top of the bluff, I was thankful again for taking the road less traveled.
It just so happened that this road would take me directly to the place I needed to be at 3 o'clock. I still had plenty of time and eased off the gas pedal, again enjoying the now lofty view and the new pavement. There are two small towns on this stretch of road and I thought about how they were seemingly placed in an area that seems forgotten. Placed just far enough off the beaten path to be hidden from the masses. As more farm land rolled by I decided that being isolated was not such a bad thing after all.
The road skimmed past the first small burg and as I came upon the second town, a profound thought entered my head. This is the town where my father once lived. This is the town where he attended his first three years of high school. His father was a teacher, perhaps an administrator, and Dad had to move right before his senior year.
I wondered how hard that must have been on him. He had friends here, friends I never heard him talk about. He was just a young man, a teenager, when he walked these streets, looking ever so keen. I glanced down some of the side streets and realized that somewhere in this village there was probably still a house standing that he lived in. I thought it odd that he never talked much about his glory days. As the crow flies, the place he had to move to really was not that far from this place, maybe 20 or 30 miles, but I do not think he ever went back. But, eighty five years ago, a thirty mile trip was an all day road trip.
As I drove on, I came to the hill outside of town that begins the downward journey from the top of the river bluff. There are no curves in this part of the road, the hill is a straight shot down. The hill. That's when it hit me. There was a story Dad told from his high school days in this community. He and some friends drove out to the hill, one evening, where Dad got out of the car and strapped on a pair of roller skates. These were the old style steel roller skates that clamped onto the bottom of your shoe. After he made sure the skates were on good and tight, he held onto the back bumper of the car and down the hill they went. He always ended this tale with, "Man, were my feet hot when we got to the bottom!" I coasted down the hill, envisioning glowing red steel skate wheels.
While at my appointment I believe the sign I had early asked for revealed itself. I usually feel the need to share endless banter with this person I had to meet. But, while sitting across from her at the desk, I heard a voice tell me to "just be still". I did and the appointment was over in about five minutes.
I took the same road back through Dad's old stomping ground, wondering what other tales went with this small town and headed home. I arrived at the house at four o'clock. I had driven over three hours on two lane back roads, logged over one hundred miles and only used a quarter of a tank of gas. Taking the long way around turned out to be a 'sign' in itself.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Best Laid Plans
It was going to be a lovely day. I had decided to start an indoor project, be done by noon, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon outdoors.
I set up shop in the middle of the living room. Card table, chair, then trotted down to the basement for the right tool.....the sewing machine. I got this sewing machine as my big gift for graduating high school, which means it is now an antique. Nowadays, kids get new cars......I was obviously born in the wrong time lapse.
Let's see, how long had it been since I had used this machine? I walked through the house, looking for some crafty project I had constructed that needed a stitch or two. I could not find a thing. Looking at the machine, in its carrying case, I knew it had been quite awhile from the cobwebs that had accumulated on the backside. I lugged the machine upstairs, along with its accompanying sewing goodies box, also an antique, and set up the work station. The project? Runtly needed a new pillow and matching kennel cover. Piece of cake. I had it all planned in my head and figured it would be a breeze.
As usual, I have some element in my grey matter that lets me forget how much time has actually passed since I last did, or used, something. I removed the case lid and began the threading process. I smiled to myself, just like riding a bicycle, some things you just don't forget. Within minutes, I was ready to sew.
The material I used was a large, king size quilted bedspread. I had purchased this spread a few years ago at a department store. It was just what I had been looking for, plain and simple. It was a light sky blue on one side and off white on the other. We used this quilt on our bed for about three or four months. During that time I began to have leg pains when I would wake up in the morning and my feet would hurt when I got out of bed. I was literally hobbling. Thoughts of something being terribly wrong with me were spinning in my head. One night, as I was staring at the ceiling, tucked under the quilt, I realized my feet were being pulled in a downward position from the weight of the quilt. Could this be the reason my legs and feet hurt? The next morning I yanked that sucker off the bed and within two nights sleep, I was cured. Needless to say, the quilt found a new home in the closet.
With the quilt covering the kitchen island and Runtly hanging on to one side of it, I measured and cut the pieces I needed. Back at the machine, I carefully began to feed my creation under the needle. Things seamed (no pun intended) to be going well until the thread began to bunch. I figured this had something to do with the tension on the thread. I am not an expert seamstress, I know just enough to be dangerous. Thread tension was an aspect of sewing that always eluded my understanding. Rather like my piano playing years....I never understood how to figure out what key a musical piece was played in. When confronted with these kind of situations, my eyes begin to glass over and I just wing it.
I referred to the instruction manual. The machine may be over forty years old, but I still have the instruction manual. I scanned the pages looking for the solution to bunched thread. When I put the manual down, I noticed on the back cover a picture of a Sears service man. There he was, in his Sears uniform, complete with matching cap, a bow tie and crisply creased pants......good grief, I wondered how I got so old.
I messed with the tension, a most appropriate word, and still had bunched thread. Then I noticed something, I had missed a crucial point while threading the machine.....the thing that makes the thread go up and down.
Six hours later at three in the afternoon, Runtly was the proud owner of a new designer pillow and kennel cover. He was impressed and happy and I headed out the door with a cold brewsky.
I set up shop in the middle of the living room. Card table, chair, then trotted down to the basement for the right tool.....the sewing machine. I got this sewing machine as my big gift for graduating high school, which means it is now an antique. Nowadays, kids get new cars......I was obviously born in the wrong time lapse.
Let's see, how long had it been since I had used this machine? I walked through the house, looking for some crafty project I had constructed that needed a stitch or two. I could not find a thing. Looking at the machine, in its carrying case, I knew it had been quite awhile from the cobwebs that had accumulated on the backside. I lugged the machine upstairs, along with its accompanying sewing goodies box, also an antique, and set up the work station. The project? Runtly needed a new pillow and matching kennel cover. Piece of cake. I had it all planned in my head and figured it would be a breeze.
As usual, I have some element in my grey matter that lets me forget how much time has actually passed since I last did, or used, something. I removed the case lid and began the threading process. I smiled to myself, just like riding a bicycle, some things you just don't forget. Within minutes, I was ready to sew.
The material I used was a large, king size quilted bedspread. I had purchased this spread a few years ago at a department store. It was just what I had been looking for, plain and simple. It was a light sky blue on one side and off white on the other. We used this quilt on our bed for about three or four months. During that time I began to have leg pains when I would wake up in the morning and my feet would hurt when I got out of bed. I was literally hobbling. Thoughts of something being terribly wrong with me were spinning in my head. One night, as I was staring at the ceiling, tucked under the quilt, I realized my feet were being pulled in a downward position from the weight of the quilt. Could this be the reason my legs and feet hurt? The next morning I yanked that sucker off the bed and within two nights sleep, I was cured. Needless to say, the quilt found a new home in the closet.
With the quilt covering the kitchen island and Runtly hanging on to one side of it, I measured and cut the pieces I needed. Back at the machine, I carefully began to feed my creation under the needle. Things seamed (no pun intended) to be going well until the thread began to bunch. I figured this had something to do with the tension on the thread. I am not an expert seamstress, I know just enough to be dangerous. Thread tension was an aspect of sewing that always eluded my understanding. Rather like my piano playing years....I never understood how to figure out what key a musical piece was played in. When confronted with these kind of situations, my eyes begin to glass over and I just wing it.
I referred to the instruction manual. The machine may be over forty years old, but I still have the instruction manual. I scanned the pages looking for the solution to bunched thread. When I put the manual down, I noticed on the back cover a picture of a Sears service man. There he was, in his Sears uniform, complete with matching cap, a bow tie and crisply creased pants......good grief, I wondered how I got so old.
I messed with the tension, a most appropriate word, and still had bunched thread. Then I noticed something, I had missed a crucial point while threading the machine.....the thing that makes the thread go up and down.
Six hours later at three in the afternoon, Runtly was the proud owner of a new designer pillow and kennel cover. He was impressed and happy and I headed out the door with a cold brewsky.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Trainer & Trainees
The only thing I can remember that I wanted to be, when I grew up, was a veterinarian. An occupation working with animals. Of course, at the time, the word occupation meant nothing to me, but the idea of being surrounded by critters of all kinds sounded like the best thing ever. Someone told me I could not be a veterinarian and like most small children do, I believed that. It was probably because, during that time period, that profession was held mostly by men. This same person also told me that I could not have a pick up truck.....but that is another story for another day.
Tossing out the veterinarian scenario, I decided I could be an animal trainer, and set about training what ever living creature I could find that would tolerate my presence for any length of time.
My first trainee was a monarch butterfly. I kid you not. I do not recall where I found this winged beauty, who obviously had a bum wing, but I kept it on the enclosed back porch for several days. I would feed it sugar water from a spoon and erected a trapeze. With a string stretched tight between two boards, the butterfly would traverse the length of the string. I would then turn it around and back it would go in the opposite direction. I amazed my childhood friend with this trick and had dreams of becoming the Amazing Ruthinni and having a road show.
Somewhere along the line, the butterfly bit the dust and I moved on to cats. From as far back as I can remember, I've always had a cat. Cats are not easy to train. It makes me think of the statement a gentleman, who coaches a youth league football team, made about the first year players, "It's like trying to herd cats." I did not succeed in training the cats but, I did have one that would sit on top of my head while I circumnavigated the house outdoors.
Then there was a parakeet. I was sure I could train this bird to talk and spent endless hours talking to my little yellow feathered friend. One day I came home and the cat had figured out how to open the door of the bird cage. Needless to say, it was time again to move on to the next animal.
I brought home a white rat from the biology class at school and named him Chuck. I had visions of Chuck being the Amazing Maze Running Rat. Chuck lived in a coffee can in my bedroom. Rats grow really fast. One day when I came home from school, Chuck had grown enough to chew a hole in the lid of the can and was nowhere to be found. I thought it best not to mention this to anyone.
This must have happened on a Friday because the following day sister Lela came home for a weekend visit. I confided in her that Chuck was MIA and we located him in the bedroom next to mine. Lela was not near as fond of Chuck as I was and there was much jumping and screaming as Chuck darted around the room. We finally caught him and I put him back in my room.
Chuck was quite the escape artist, an occupation that was not to his benefit, and disappeared a couple of days later. Once again, I thought it best not to mention this small snafu. The next night Mother came flying down the stairs to announce that something was in the potted plant in her bedroom and it was kicking potting soil out all over the floor. I had to come clean and admitted Chuck was on the loose. As I desperately tried to corral this speedy white rat with a box, he shot out from under the folk's bed and Dad whacked him with a shoe. That pretty much took care of the Amazing Maze Running Rat.
From that point forward I focused my training abilities to the family dogs and had some success. They could sit, lay down, roll over and one would even hide his face on command. I'm now working with the newest canine member of the family. The one trick he performs well is the pre-wash cycle when it is time to load the dishwasher. We are working on shutting the door and pressing the start button.
Tossing out the veterinarian scenario, I decided I could be an animal trainer, and set about training what ever living creature I could find that would tolerate my presence for any length of time.
My first trainee was a monarch butterfly. I kid you not. I do not recall where I found this winged beauty, who obviously had a bum wing, but I kept it on the enclosed back porch for several days. I would feed it sugar water from a spoon and erected a trapeze. With a string stretched tight between two boards, the butterfly would traverse the length of the string. I would then turn it around and back it would go in the opposite direction. I amazed my childhood friend with this trick and had dreams of becoming the Amazing Ruthinni and having a road show.
Somewhere along the line, the butterfly bit the dust and I moved on to cats. From as far back as I can remember, I've always had a cat. Cats are not easy to train. It makes me think of the statement a gentleman, who coaches a youth league football team, made about the first year players, "It's like trying to herd cats." I did not succeed in training the cats but, I did have one that would sit on top of my head while I circumnavigated the house outdoors.
Then there was a parakeet. I was sure I could train this bird to talk and spent endless hours talking to my little yellow feathered friend. One day I came home and the cat had figured out how to open the door of the bird cage. Needless to say, it was time again to move on to the next animal.
I brought home a white rat from the biology class at school and named him Chuck. I had visions of Chuck being the Amazing Maze Running Rat. Chuck lived in a coffee can in my bedroom. Rats grow really fast. One day when I came home from school, Chuck had grown enough to chew a hole in the lid of the can and was nowhere to be found. I thought it best not to mention this to anyone.
This must have happened on a Friday because the following day sister Lela came home for a weekend visit. I confided in her that Chuck was MIA and we located him in the bedroom next to mine. Lela was not near as fond of Chuck as I was and there was much jumping and screaming as Chuck darted around the room. We finally caught him and I put him back in my room.
Chuck was quite the escape artist, an occupation that was not to his benefit, and disappeared a couple of days later. Once again, I thought it best not to mention this small snafu. The next night Mother came flying down the stairs to announce that something was in the potted plant in her bedroom and it was kicking potting soil out all over the floor. I had to come clean and admitted Chuck was on the loose. As I desperately tried to corral this speedy white rat with a box, he shot out from under the folk's bed and Dad whacked him with a shoe. That pretty much took care of the Amazing Maze Running Rat.
From that point forward I focused my training abilities to the family dogs and had some success. They could sit, lay down, roll over and one would even hide his face on command. I'm now working with the newest canine member of the family. The one trick he performs well is the pre-wash cycle when it is time to load the dishwasher. We are working on shutting the door and pressing the start button.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Unproductive Busyness
There it was again, growing like some menacing creature from a deep, dark bog. The pile. The pile of papers and bills on my desk.
At least the piles were in two stacks, the cans and the can'ts. Much like the haves and the have nots. Yes, I have paid the bill.....no, I have not.
It seemed like a great time to clean the house.
Running the vacuum was first on the list. It had been awhile. Having a small white dog means having lots of small white dog hair. Having a small white dog that has a small stuffed animal in the shape of a cat, that sheds more than the dog, means having lots of fuzzy fake fur.
Runtly, the dog, is always up for a tussle with the vacuum. Anything outside that makes noise scares him to death, but bring out the vacuum and he is one big bad dog. After sweeping a couple of rooms with the dog trying to eat the machine, I decided to take a break and go outside.
I didn't need my jacket, since I had worked up a sweat and the temperatures were beginning to climb above 40 degrees, but donned my earmuffs. It has to be above sixty before I stop wearing my earmuffs. After a few minutes of solitude, except for the cat, I went back inside to resume the cleaning.....anything to keep from doing what I should have been doing......tackling the paperwork.
I finished sweeping the rest of the downstairs rooms when I discovered I was still wearing my earmuffs. No wonder the vacuum was not near as loud as it had been before. I just figured it was getting full of fur and hair and losing some of its power.
Next on the list, steam clean the floors. That would keep me even farther from the desk. The house breaking of the small white dog is getting better but let's just say we still have a way to go. The absolute best way I have found to clean hard wood floors is on my hands and knees. Wash with wet, dry with towel seems to be the only way to eliminate streaking. The last time I did that I ended up with several trips to the chiropractor, so that method was out. I brought out the steam cleaner, another equally challenging closet creature for the dog.
Although the directions for this machine says to use water only, I decided to add a bit of white vinegar. It had worked great for the hands and knees method so I'm thinking it just might help with the streaking the steam mop leaves behind. It may have helped some but the entire house smelled like I was cooking up a giant batch of pickles. So much for going 'green' for the clean.
By this time, I needed to start thinking about what to have for supper. I began to busy myself in the kitchen, happy with the fact I had dodged the bullet for yet another day.
The paper creature is still lurking, if I had a flame thrower, I'd show it who was the boss.
At least the piles were in two stacks, the cans and the can'ts. Much like the haves and the have nots. Yes, I have paid the bill.....no, I have not.
It seemed like a great time to clean the house.
Running the vacuum was first on the list. It had been awhile. Having a small white dog means having lots of small white dog hair. Having a small white dog that has a small stuffed animal in the shape of a cat, that sheds more than the dog, means having lots of fuzzy fake fur.
Runtly, the dog, is always up for a tussle with the vacuum. Anything outside that makes noise scares him to death, but bring out the vacuum and he is one big bad dog. After sweeping a couple of rooms with the dog trying to eat the machine, I decided to take a break and go outside.
I didn't need my jacket, since I had worked up a sweat and the temperatures were beginning to climb above 40 degrees, but donned my earmuffs. It has to be above sixty before I stop wearing my earmuffs. After a few minutes of solitude, except for the cat, I went back inside to resume the cleaning.....anything to keep from doing what I should have been doing......tackling the paperwork.
I finished sweeping the rest of the downstairs rooms when I discovered I was still wearing my earmuffs. No wonder the vacuum was not near as loud as it had been before. I just figured it was getting full of fur and hair and losing some of its power.
Next on the list, steam clean the floors. That would keep me even farther from the desk. The house breaking of the small white dog is getting better but let's just say we still have a way to go. The absolute best way I have found to clean hard wood floors is on my hands and knees. Wash with wet, dry with towel seems to be the only way to eliminate streaking. The last time I did that I ended up with several trips to the chiropractor, so that method was out. I brought out the steam cleaner, another equally challenging closet creature for the dog.
Although the directions for this machine says to use water only, I decided to add a bit of white vinegar. It had worked great for the hands and knees method so I'm thinking it just might help with the streaking the steam mop leaves behind. It may have helped some but the entire house smelled like I was cooking up a giant batch of pickles. So much for going 'green' for the clean.
By this time, I needed to start thinking about what to have for supper. I began to busy myself in the kitchen, happy with the fact I had dodged the bullet for yet another day.
The paper creature is still lurking, if I had a flame thrower, I'd show it who was the boss.
Monday, March 9, 2015
If I Could, I Would
The sun was shining. The weather was absolutely wonderful, with a hint of Spring in the air. Only a week before the temperatures had been in the single digits.
I was driving up the street when I saw her. A young girl, probably about 8 or 9 years old. She was walking on the sidewalk, head down, a cell phone pressed to her ear. If I could, I would have told her to put that thing away. Look around you, there is so much to see. Listen! Listen to the sounds around you. There are birds singing, dogs barking, leaves scuttling across the street, carried by a fresh warm breeze. Play a game, don't step on the cracks, maybe even hopscotch. Much easier to do when both hands are free. She walked along, head down, never noticing someone had driven by.
The advertisement on the radio was calling out to all the young high school girls in the area. Bring a friend and get a great beauty makeover for prom. A spray on tan, which I suppose should be much safer than a fake bake, a facial, make-up and false eyelashes and a hair style, all to make sure you will be beautiful on that special night. If I could, I would tell the young girls they are beautiful just the way they are. That natural skin tone is really better than false skin tone. I would tell them that false eyelashes, although they do enhance the look of the eye, are just that, false. I would tell them that walking into the restroom and discovering that one false eyelash is sticking up like a flag is not near as attractive as their real lashes. I would tell them that their long hair, swinging wildly as they dance, looks fantastic. More so than a hair-do that is caked in place with an entire can of hairspray.
I would tell them that there are few boys, or men for that matter, who enjoy wearing a tuxedo. If prom attire were left up to the boys, they would prefer blue jeans and boots. I'm sure I would get a look that spoke of "what planet did you come from", but I bet some of the boys would agree.
If I could, I would tell Taylor Swift how much I love her songs. She is such a hopeless romantic, the world needs more of them.
If I could, I would tell the world to just slow down. Things do not really make us happy. If they did, there would never be a reason to have a yard sale.
If I could, I would advise everyone to live in the now, it's the only time there is. The past is gone and the future is never really here. Enjoy the moment and make the very best of it, regardless of the circumstances.
If I could, I would do these things. Maybe I just did.
I was driving up the street when I saw her. A young girl, probably about 8 or 9 years old. She was walking on the sidewalk, head down, a cell phone pressed to her ear. If I could, I would have told her to put that thing away. Look around you, there is so much to see. Listen! Listen to the sounds around you. There are birds singing, dogs barking, leaves scuttling across the street, carried by a fresh warm breeze. Play a game, don't step on the cracks, maybe even hopscotch. Much easier to do when both hands are free. She walked along, head down, never noticing someone had driven by.
The advertisement on the radio was calling out to all the young high school girls in the area. Bring a friend and get a great beauty makeover for prom. A spray on tan, which I suppose should be much safer than a fake bake, a facial, make-up and false eyelashes and a hair style, all to make sure you will be beautiful on that special night. If I could, I would tell the young girls they are beautiful just the way they are. That natural skin tone is really better than false skin tone. I would tell them that false eyelashes, although they do enhance the look of the eye, are just that, false. I would tell them that walking into the restroom and discovering that one false eyelash is sticking up like a flag is not near as attractive as their real lashes. I would tell them that their long hair, swinging wildly as they dance, looks fantastic. More so than a hair-do that is caked in place with an entire can of hairspray.
I would tell them that there are few boys, or men for that matter, who enjoy wearing a tuxedo. If prom attire were left up to the boys, they would prefer blue jeans and boots. I'm sure I would get a look that spoke of "what planet did you come from", but I bet some of the boys would agree.
If I could, I would tell Taylor Swift how much I love her songs. She is such a hopeless romantic, the world needs more of them.
If I could, I would tell the world to just slow down. Things do not really make us happy. If they did, there would never be a reason to have a yard sale.
If I could, I would advise everyone to live in the now, it's the only time there is. The past is gone and the future is never really here. Enjoy the moment and make the very best of it, regardless of the circumstances.
If I could, I would do these things. Maybe I just did.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
The Tale of the Terrible Table
I'm not sure exactly what I did or what I wrote about before a dog entered this household. It has been several years since there was a four legged critter in the house. When that much time passes, we tend to forget certain things.
It's rather like when our children grow up and leave the nest. We begin to do things that we used to do, before children. We begin to bring things into the house, or decorate with items that do not have to be worried about getting broken. When there are no longer balls bouncing, or cheerleading squads practicing in the front room, it is then safe to bring out the fine china. This change in life must be the reason that new parents do not think their own parents have a clue about raising children.
Having a new puppy is much like having a small child in the house. There are toys strung hither and yon, feeding schedules and bed time. Then there are the things that we take for granted, things that we forgot. Things that no longer bother us, but might bother someone else, or some small animal.
Take for instance a siren. Our community's high school basketball team had won their regional competition. When this happened, the team was escorted through the town by the local fire department. A full blown escort, lights, sirens, the whole nine yards. My husband and I were informed that the procession was going to come by our house. We donned our coats, put the dog on his leash and headed out to the front porch.
We had not been out there too long before we could hear them approaching. The fire engine was followed by the school bus full of team members and cheerleaders and the bus was followed by several cars. The sirens, flashing lights, screaming kids and honking cars turned out to be stimulation/information overload for the dog. Poor Runtly was scared to death. Now, whenever there is a siren sounding in a television show, he needs to find a safe place to hide.
Runtly has been bored being in the house. The weather has been unseasonably cold for this time of year and since I have been plagued with a few joint issues, I don't like to go out either. I decided to let him out on the back deck for a while, just to get some fresh air. Even Tigger, the cat, had already retreated to the garage because of the arctic blast, so I did not plan to leave Runtly out too long. I attached his lease, opened the door and hooked the end of the leash on a hook on one of the deck posts. The leash is one of the retractable varieties and I made sure the button was in the unlocked position. Runtly seemed to enjoy this new found freedom, albeit short freedom, and cocked his head to one side, listening to a barking dog a block away.
I came back into the house and set about to do some paperwork at my desk. I had not been in the office two minutes when all matters of the gates of hell broke loose. I could hear a horrible clanking noise and then I could hear Runtly. He was yelping, non stop, almost like a scream.
As I bounded for the backdoor I discovered that when in, or sensing, danger, joint problems become obsolete. Perhaps I should be scared more often. Anyway, as I'm racing through the kitchen, listening to the yelps getting louder and louder, my mind is racing through several scenarios. What in the world was going on? Had he fallen through the railing around the deck? A picture of him hanging by the neck flashed through my brain. Had one of the large dogs that roams the neighborhood, unattended, come up on the deck and attacked him? Maybe I should grab the broom on the way.
I got to the back door, and there was Runtly in the middle of the deck, yelping to beat the band. He had obviously traversed around a small wrought iron table, winding the leash around the legs. From the looks of things, when Runtly headed back towards the door, the table did too. It was turned upside down and every time the dog tried to get away from it, the terrible table followed him.
Needless to say, it was traumatic. As soon as I got him untangled and opened the door, he shot in the house, hell bent for leather and headed straight to the basement. I guess he figured that was as far as he could go to get away from that table. He shook and shivered for nearly an hour and spent the rest of the evening in my husband's lap. No way was he even going to get close to the back door.
Since Runtly's food and water bowls are situated close to the back door, I thought we might have to position them to the other side of the kitchen. But, in the light of a new day, the terrible table has been placed upright and no longer in attack mode and the lure of a yellow cat peering in the window seems to have over ridden his fear.
It's rather like when our children grow up and leave the nest. We begin to do things that we used to do, before children. We begin to bring things into the house, or decorate with items that do not have to be worried about getting broken. When there are no longer balls bouncing, or cheerleading squads practicing in the front room, it is then safe to bring out the fine china. This change in life must be the reason that new parents do not think their own parents have a clue about raising children.
Having a new puppy is much like having a small child in the house. There are toys strung hither and yon, feeding schedules and bed time. Then there are the things that we take for granted, things that we forgot. Things that no longer bother us, but might bother someone else, or some small animal.
Take for instance a siren. Our community's high school basketball team had won their regional competition. When this happened, the team was escorted through the town by the local fire department. A full blown escort, lights, sirens, the whole nine yards. My husband and I were informed that the procession was going to come by our house. We donned our coats, put the dog on his leash and headed out to the front porch.
We had not been out there too long before we could hear them approaching. The fire engine was followed by the school bus full of team members and cheerleaders and the bus was followed by several cars. The sirens, flashing lights, screaming kids and honking cars turned out to be stimulation/information overload for the dog. Poor Runtly was scared to death. Now, whenever there is a siren sounding in a television show, he needs to find a safe place to hide.
Runtly has been bored being in the house. The weather has been unseasonably cold for this time of year and since I have been plagued with a few joint issues, I don't like to go out either. I decided to let him out on the back deck for a while, just to get some fresh air. Even Tigger, the cat, had already retreated to the garage because of the arctic blast, so I did not plan to leave Runtly out too long. I attached his lease, opened the door and hooked the end of the leash on a hook on one of the deck posts. The leash is one of the retractable varieties and I made sure the button was in the unlocked position. Runtly seemed to enjoy this new found freedom, albeit short freedom, and cocked his head to one side, listening to a barking dog a block away.
I came back into the house and set about to do some paperwork at my desk. I had not been in the office two minutes when all matters of the gates of hell broke loose. I could hear a horrible clanking noise and then I could hear Runtly. He was yelping, non stop, almost like a scream.
As I bounded for the backdoor I discovered that when in, or sensing, danger, joint problems become obsolete. Perhaps I should be scared more often. Anyway, as I'm racing through the kitchen, listening to the yelps getting louder and louder, my mind is racing through several scenarios. What in the world was going on? Had he fallen through the railing around the deck? A picture of him hanging by the neck flashed through my brain. Had one of the large dogs that roams the neighborhood, unattended, come up on the deck and attacked him? Maybe I should grab the broom on the way.
I got to the back door, and there was Runtly in the middle of the deck, yelping to beat the band. He had obviously traversed around a small wrought iron table, winding the leash around the legs. From the looks of things, when Runtly headed back towards the door, the table did too. It was turned upside down and every time the dog tried to get away from it, the terrible table followed him.
Needless to say, it was traumatic. As soon as I got him untangled and opened the door, he shot in the house, hell bent for leather and headed straight to the basement. I guess he figured that was as far as he could go to get away from that table. He shook and shivered for nearly an hour and spent the rest of the evening in my husband's lap. No way was he even going to get close to the back door.
Since Runtly's food and water bowls are situated close to the back door, I thought we might have to position them to the other side of the kitchen. But, in the light of a new day, the terrible table has been placed upright and no longer in attack mode and the lure of a yellow cat peering in the window seems to have over ridden his fear.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Act One
The setting of this play takes place in the lady of the house' kitchen. It is a large, spacious room with a mosaic tile floor. In one corner is a spiral staircase leading to the upper level of the house. Half way up the staircase is an elongated octagon window.
Main Characters: Tigger, a large yellow cat and Runtly a small white Jack Russell Terrier.
Tigger has entered the house from outdoors. He enters cautiously, looking for the dog. As soon as he hears the dog approach, he takes to the staircase, pausing to stop and lounge on the step in front of the window.
Runtly enters from stage left and immediately begins the sniff and search mission for the cat. He does not see him, but he knows he is somewhere very close.
The lady of the house has fixed a small snack for lunch and sits at the kitchen island to have her meal.
Runtly: Oh, I smell Tigger! I know he's here somewhere, I know he is! Where could he be?
The lady of the house points to the staircase. Runtly follows the direction in which she points.
Runtly: (while jumping straight up and down) There you are Tigger! Oh! I'm so happy to see you! Come down the steps! Come down the steps!
Tigger: (still lounging, his head hanging over the backside of the step) Hello Runt.
Runtly: PLEASE come down Tigger! I haven't seen you all day!
Tigger: Your days are rather short Runt. It's been at least an hour.
The lady of the house now opens a bag of chips. The noise of the rattling plastic bag diverts the dog's attention away from the cat.
Runtly: Are those chips? Are those chips? They are chips! Oh, I LOVE chips!
The lady of the house casually slides a chip off the edge of the island.
Runtly: I knew it! CHIPS! Oh! I! LOVE! Chips!
Runtly eagerly devours the chip and then begins to whine for another.
Tigger: What on earth are you doing?
Runtly: What do you mean?
Tigger: That noise you're making, why are you doing that?
Runtly: I need another chip!
Tigger: Good grief.
Runtly: Oh, but they are so good Tigger! You should try them! Do you want to try one? I could get you one! Do you want one?
Tigger: No.
Runtly: (while standing on his hind legs) You don't know what you are missing Tigger! They're wonderful!
Tigger: Now what are you doing? Why the song and dance routine?
Runtly: BECAUSE I NEED ANOTHER CHIP!
Tigger: (still lounging and cranking his head around to get a better view of the unfolding drama beneath him) Egad, you're begging.
Runtly: What?
Tigger: You are begging for food. How disgusting.
Runtly: (with chips spewing out both sides of his mouth) So? What's wrong with begging. These things are delicious! Tigger, you should really try one!
Tigger: (getting up from his lounging position, turning his back and sitting looking out the window) No thank-you.
Runtly: You don't know what you're missing Tigger! They're really really really good!
Tigger: You have a full bowl of food sitting over there under the window and yet you are acting like a clown for a disgusting thing called a chip. Stupid dog.
The lady of the house puts the chips away, cleans off the island and exits stage left.
Runtly: (standing at the bottom of the staircase) What did you call me?
Tigger: Stupid.
Runtly exits stage left and returns with a rope toy that has large knots tied in each end.
Runtly: (with the rope toy hanging out of his mouth) That's not very nice.
Tigger: Whatever.
Runtly: (while shaking rope toy) Come on down Tigger! Let's play! I want to shake you like I do this toy!
Tigger: (now facing the dog, lounging with one paw hanging precariously above the dog's head) Hmmm, not today Runt. Maybe another time.
Tigger ascends the rest of the staircase.
Runtly: (watching the cat disappear from view) OK Tigger! Maybe tomorrow? Maybe later on today? I'll be waiting!
Runtly: (walking towards his food bowl) He doesn't even like chips......stupid cat.
The stage fades to black.
Main Characters: Tigger, a large yellow cat and Runtly a small white Jack Russell Terrier.
Tigger has entered the house from outdoors. He enters cautiously, looking for the dog. As soon as he hears the dog approach, he takes to the staircase, pausing to stop and lounge on the step in front of the window.
Runtly enters from stage left and immediately begins the sniff and search mission for the cat. He does not see him, but he knows he is somewhere very close.
The lady of the house has fixed a small snack for lunch and sits at the kitchen island to have her meal.
Runtly: Oh, I smell Tigger! I know he's here somewhere, I know he is! Where could he be?
The lady of the house points to the staircase. Runtly follows the direction in which she points.
Runtly: (while jumping straight up and down) There you are Tigger! Oh! I'm so happy to see you! Come down the steps! Come down the steps!
Tigger: (still lounging, his head hanging over the backside of the step) Hello Runt.
Runtly: PLEASE come down Tigger! I haven't seen you all day!
Tigger: Your days are rather short Runt. It's been at least an hour.
The lady of the house now opens a bag of chips. The noise of the rattling plastic bag diverts the dog's attention away from the cat.
Runtly: Are those chips? Are those chips? They are chips! Oh, I LOVE chips!
The lady of the house casually slides a chip off the edge of the island.
Runtly: I knew it! CHIPS! Oh! I! LOVE! Chips!
Runtly eagerly devours the chip and then begins to whine for another.
Tigger: What on earth are you doing?
Runtly: What do you mean?
Tigger: That noise you're making, why are you doing that?
Runtly: I need another chip!
Tigger: Good grief.
Runtly: Oh, but they are so good Tigger! You should try them! Do you want to try one? I could get you one! Do you want one?
Tigger: No.
Runtly: (while standing on his hind legs) You don't know what you are missing Tigger! They're wonderful!
Tigger: Now what are you doing? Why the song and dance routine?
Runtly: BECAUSE I NEED ANOTHER CHIP!
Tigger: (still lounging and cranking his head around to get a better view of the unfolding drama beneath him) Egad, you're begging.
Runtly: What?
Tigger: You are begging for food. How disgusting.
Runtly: (with chips spewing out both sides of his mouth) So? What's wrong with begging. These things are delicious! Tigger, you should really try one!
Tigger: (getting up from his lounging position, turning his back and sitting looking out the window) No thank-you.
Runtly: You don't know what you're missing Tigger! They're really really really good!
Tigger: You have a full bowl of food sitting over there under the window and yet you are acting like a clown for a disgusting thing called a chip. Stupid dog.
The lady of the house puts the chips away, cleans off the island and exits stage left.
Runtly: (standing at the bottom of the staircase) What did you call me?
Tigger: Stupid.
Runtly exits stage left and returns with a rope toy that has large knots tied in each end.
Runtly: (with the rope toy hanging out of his mouth) That's not very nice.
Tigger: Whatever.
Runtly: (while shaking rope toy) Come on down Tigger! Let's play! I want to shake you like I do this toy!
Tigger: (now facing the dog, lounging with one paw hanging precariously above the dog's head) Hmmm, not today Runt. Maybe another time.
Tigger ascends the rest of the staircase.
Runtly: (watching the cat disappear from view) OK Tigger! Maybe tomorrow? Maybe later on today? I'll be waiting!
Runtly: (walking towards his food bowl) He doesn't even like chips......stupid cat.
The stage fades to black.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
It's A Double
Years ago, or eons depending on one's age, when I was a teenager, I was always eager to use what ever new catch phrase, or word, was used as the newest adjective. Words like cool, far out, wow man were rarely left out of a sentence. Fortunately, I was born before the era of "like".
My father would always ask me questions such as, "How cool was it?", or "How far out did you go?", anything to irritate me. I asked him once if he ever had a special word when he was young, millennia ago, and he said yes. His word was "keen". I think I told him that was about the most far out thing I had ever heard.
Then a new word came into play. Gross. If it was nasty, ugly, or just down right yucky, it was gross. Once again, my father would say it was a one forty four. What? Of course he then explained to me that a gross was actually a measure of something. If you had 144 items, you had a gross. I had obviously missed that lesson in school. I was probably being really cool at the time.
Dad and I enjoyed this particular catch phrase between ourselves and used the one forty four to describe anything we thought fit the category of gross. If it was really bad, it became a two eighty eight, double gross.
Gross seems to have stood the test of time because my four year old granddaughter uses it. Its true meaning may have been lost to the new generations.
I was standing in the kitchen, looking at the garbage disposal opening, knowing it needed a cleaning. That made me think of some of the one forty fours I had encountered during my lifetime. I've cleaned endless amount of fish. Once I lined up the heads of several catfish and had them "talk" to my oldest grandson and his friend. They were impressed. I've dressed a couple of snapping turtles. No easy task that one, and when I was done I came to the conclusion that whoever ate the first turtle must have been on the verge of starvation. I wrestled that turtle all over the backyard. I put fish eggs in a sauce pan, threw in some seasonings, heated them up and fed them to my friend's little brother......little brother's will eat almost anything. I had to scrape a dead cat off the pavement before the kids saw their beloved pet squished by a set of tires. Being a parent, I've seen numerous one forty fours in a diaper.
But, I think the top of the list is the garbage disposal opening. I never knew how much gunk gets stuck under the little black flap of plastic that lines the top of the drain hole. I discovered this when I had to stick my hand into the disposal, yes, I turned the switch off, to get some foreign object out of the blades. When I pulled my hand back up through the opening, this magically turned the black plastic flap wrong side out. The stuff that coated my hand was assuredly the grossest thing I had ever encountered. Really, I thought I was going to barf. Oh yes, barf was a good word also.
I have since discovered that an old toothbrush works wonders at cleaning the underside of the black flap and with the water running at the same time, the odor is diminished. But one thing is certain, it's definitely a two eighty eight.
My father would always ask me questions such as, "How cool was it?", or "How far out did you go?", anything to irritate me. I asked him once if he ever had a special word when he was young, millennia ago, and he said yes. His word was "keen". I think I told him that was about the most far out thing I had ever heard.
Then a new word came into play. Gross. If it was nasty, ugly, or just down right yucky, it was gross. Once again, my father would say it was a one forty four. What? Of course he then explained to me that a gross was actually a measure of something. If you had 144 items, you had a gross. I had obviously missed that lesson in school. I was probably being really cool at the time.
Dad and I enjoyed this particular catch phrase between ourselves and used the one forty four to describe anything we thought fit the category of gross. If it was really bad, it became a two eighty eight, double gross.
Gross seems to have stood the test of time because my four year old granddaughter uses it. Its true meaning may have been lost to the new generations.
I was standing in the kitchen, looking at the garbage disposal opening, knowing it needed a cleaning. That made me think of some of the one forty fours I had encountered during my lifetime. I've cleaned endless amount of fish. Once I lined up the heads of several catfish and had them "talk" to my oldest grandson and his friend. They were impressed. I've dressed a couple of snapping turtles. No easy task that one, and when I was done I came to the conclusion that whoever ate the first turtle must have been on the verge of starvation. I wrestled that turtle all over the backyard. I put fish eggs in a sauce pan, threw in some seasonings, heated them up and fed them to my friend's little brother......little brother's will eat almost anything. I had to scrape a dead cat off the pavement before the kids saw their beloved pet squished by a set of tires. Being a parent, I've seen numerous one forty fours in a diaper.
But, I think the top of the list is the garbage disposal opening. I never knew how much gunk gets stuck under the little black flap of plastic that lines the top of the drain hole. I discovered this when I had to stick my hand into the disposal, yes, I turned the switch off, to get some foreign object out of the blades. When I pulled my hand back up through the opening, this magically turned the black plastic flap wrong side out. The stuff that coated my hand was assuredly the grossest thing I had ever encountered. Really, I thought I was going to barf. Oh yes, barf was a good word also.
I have since discovered that an old toothbrush works wonders at cleaning the underside of the black flap and with the water running at the same time, the odor is diminished. But one thing is certain, it's definitely a two eighty eight.
Monday, March 2, 2015
The Case of the Missing Billfold
It was an open case, with two detectives scouring over the evidence. I had lost my billfold.
I had not been anywhere all weekend. Since I had been to the chiropractor on the past Friday, I felt as if I had been driven over by a Mack truck on Saturday and Sunday. I could barely hobble out the back door to watch my husband plowing through the eight inches of new snow that had arrived during the cover of darkness. So, I knew for sure, I had not left it somewhere over the past two days.
Come Monday morning, I had an appointment scheduled for 9:30 a.m. Not wanting to forego my unique habit of procrastination, I waited until 8:55 a.m. to gather my meager belongings and head out the door. My billfold was no where to be found.
I searched the house, high and low, and could not find it. My husband, detective #2, searched the car.....twice.... and the garage....still no billfold.
My billfold was given to me by a friend and is easy to spot. It measures about 5x7 inches and I suppose could qualify as a clutch....not the transmission kind of clutch....the purse kind. Its surface is covered with bright, colorful paisleys, flowers, hearts and rainbows on a black background. Since I rarely, according to my husband, ever put anything in the same place twice, the bright colors and patterns come in handy when I'm wondering where I may have placed it.
I was running out of time and grabbed the checkbook. Lucky for me, it has a matching cover, just like the billfold, so it too was easy to find.
When I arrived back home, I began the search mission again. Perhaps I had taken it upstairs. I don't know why I would have done that, but then again, I don't know why I do a lot of things. It was not there either.
By this time I was getting a little concerned about my missing billfold. I came to the conclusion the best thing to do would be to retrace my steps. Let's see.....Friday was the last time I knew I had it with me and since I can not remember what I had for lunch, on any given day, this was going to be a challenge.
On Friday I had convinced my husband that he needed to accompany me on a small shopping excursion. We needed a few household items and being down in the hip/back area I played upon his sympathy. I can limp really well when need be, but this time I did not have to pretend. We drove about thirty minutes, did our shopping and started for home. About two miles from home, I asked my husband if he needed to use the restroom. "No.", he told me.
I smiled and said "Good, because we are stopping at the grocery store before we get home."
"Well", he said, "Maybe I do."
Always the funny man.
Anyway, we grabbed a few items at the local market (it's always good to buy local, when you can), went home and put away all of our goods.
Detective #2 asked me if I could have left it at the store. I did not think so, they would have called me. Where else had I been?
Then I remembered we had gone out for supper with a friend on Friday evening. Had I left it at the restaurant? Even if I did, this is a place we frequent quite often, wouldn't they have called?
As I'm pressing the call button on my phone to call the eatery, another thought began to flit through my grey matter. When we were in the restaurant, a new customer of mine met us there to drop off her flowers. I make jewelry and other keepsakes out of real flowers. Yes, she had brought in this large bag of flowers.....and when I got home that evening......I put them in the refrigerator......
Just as I heard the call ringing through, I opened the frig door and sure enough, there was my billfold, its bright colorful patterns showing through the plastic bag, on the bottom shelf. I quickly hit the end call button.
I guess that's what is meant by cold, hard cash, but at least we can mark this cold case "closed".
I had not been anywhere all weekend. Since I had been to the chiropractor on the past Friday, I felt as if I had been driven over by a Mack truck on Saturday and Sunday. I could barely hobble out the back door to watch my husband plowing through the eight inches of new snow that had arrived during the cover of darkness. So, I knew for sure, I had not left it somewhere over the past two days.
Come Monday morning, I had an appointment scheduled for 9:30 a.m. Not wanting to forego my unique habit of procrastination, I waited until 8:55 a.m. to gather my meager belongings and head out the door. My billfold was no where to be found.
I searched the house, high and low, and could not find it. My husband, detective #2, searched the car.....twice.... and the garage....still no billfold.
My billfold was given to me by a friend and is easy to spot. It measures about 5x7 inches and I suppose could qualify as a clutch....not the transmission kind of clutch....the purse kind. Its surface is covered with bright, colorful paisleys, flowers, hearts and rainbows on a black background. Since I rarely, according to my husband, ever put anything in the same place twice, the bright colors and patterns come in handy when I'm wondering where I may have placed it.
I was running out of time and grabbed the checkbook. Lucky for me, it has a matching cover, just like the billfold, so it too was easy to find.
When I arrived back home, I began the search mission again. Perhaps I had taken it upstairs. I don't know why I would have done that, but then again, I don't know why I do a lot of things. It was not there either.
By this time I was getting a little concerned about my missing billfold. I came to the conclusion the best thing to do would be to retrace my steps. Let's see.....Friday was the last time I knew I had it with me and since I can not remember what I had for lunch, on any given day, this was going to be a challenge.
On Friday I had convinced my husband that he needed to accompany me on a small shopping excursion. We needed a few household items and being down in the hip/back area I played upon his sympathy. I can limp really well when need be, but this time I did not have to pretend. We drove about thirty minutes, did our shopping and started for home. About two miles from home, I asked my husband if he needed to use the restroom. "No.", he told me.
I smiled and said "Good, because we are stopping at the grocery store before we get home."
"Well", he said, "Maybe I do."
Always the funny man.
Anyway, we grabbed a few items at the local market (it's always good to buy local, when you can), went home and put away all of our goods.
Detective #2 asked me if I could have left it at the store. I did not think so, they would have called me. Where else had I been?
Then I remembered we had gone out for supper with a friend on Friday evening. Had I left it at the restaurant? Even if I did, this is a place we frequent quite often, wouldn't they have called?
As I'm pressing the call button on my phone to call the eatery, another thought began to flit through my grey matter. When we were in the restaurant, a new customer of mine met us there to drop off her flowers. I make jewelry and other keepsakes out of real flowers. Yes, she had brought in this large bag of flowers.....and when I got home that evening......I put them in the refrigerator......
Just as I heard the call ringing through, I opened the frig door and sure enough, there was my billfold, its bright colorful patterns showing through the plastic bag, on the bottom shelf. I quickly hit the end call button.
I guess that's what is meant by cold, hard cash, but at least we can mark this cold case "closed".
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