What A Nice Day

     The weather forecast was calling for temperatures near 70.  I was nearly beside myself waiting for the day to get here.  My plan was all laid out, it was going to be the day of the creation of the compost bin.  Not just any old humdrum compost bin, mind you, a rolling compost bin.  

     I had wanted to tackle this project for quite some time and for quite some time, I never got around to it.  Now that I'm trying to leave a smaller "footprint", aka mess, on the earth, I decided there was no better time than the present to get this accomplished.  The reason I wanted a rolling bin was because it speeds up the process.  A compost pile on the ground can take up to two years to do its thing.  At my age, I'd forget what the pile was for and try to burn it. No, I want my compost and I want it now. 

     I read several articles about a rolling compost bin and watched a few videos on how to make one.  I figured I already had most of the materials needed for this except one.  Rolling compost bins usually have a fin or two inside them, much like a clothes dryer.  This helps to mix the contents and incorporate air into the compost for faster composting.  Compost is a funny word, you can compost the compost in a composter.  Anyway, a good compost mix will eat just about anything organic that is put into it, over time.  I had come to the conclusion that if I made my fins out of some material besides wood, they should last a long time.  I could have used treated lumber but all the composting experts said it was better to keep that out of the bin because of the chemicals leaching into the compost.  One of my sons-in law had a piece of composite decking material left over and I thought that would be perfect for the fins.  

     The decking board was the only thing I didn't have to start on my project so I decided to go and retrieve it first.  It was too big to fit in the trunk of my small car, so I rolled the back windows down and stuck it all the way through.  This gave my car the appearance of being a small aircraft. 

     I "flew" back down the street and was lucky enough not to meet any traffic.  Then I began to gather the rest of the needed materials.

     My barrel.

     You will notice that my barrel did not have a lid so that was the first thing on the list to construct.  I cut out a circle of plywood on Mr. Bandsaw.

     Mr. Bandsaw is my friend.  He likes me and I like him and we get along quite nicely.  There is another bandsaw in the background and I do use it on occasion but it scares me, while Mr. Bandsaw does not.  It is always a good thing to have a bit of fear when dealing with power tools of any kind.  They deserve to be feared and respected.  Take Mr. Tablesaw, for example, I'm very scared of him and he knows it.

     Since my plywood circle was not treated lumber, I figured I would cut two circles out of a large plastic sheet and cover each side with those.  This is what Mickey Mouse would look like if he didn't color his hair.

     

     I glued the plastic to each side of the wooden circle and put a few screws in for added strength.  

     I might mention that this entire project was going to take me about 3 hours, maybe 4.  The plan was to finish this shortly after lunch and then move on to the next idea.  

     Everything was going smoothly.  I had the access hole cut in the barrel and used an old hinge to make it easy to open and shut.  Then it was time to put the fins in.  The composite board ended up not being thick enough, so I had to use short pieces of a 2x6 and I attached them to the inside of the barrel.  I can use the composite board on the next idea.

     Somewhere around this time, while I had gone back to the kitchen to refill my glass, my husband came in, opened the refrigerator door and said he believed something had died in there.  I assured him nothing had, but explained that was why it was so important for me to get the composter done.  What he could smell was the ingredients for the barrel.  I had been saving scraps for a couple of weeks and he was right, it really did smell like something had died and invited friends over for the wake.

     Next on the list was to attach the lid.  This did not go as smoothly as expected.  First it was too big, so back to Mr. Bandsaw I went.  It still wouldn't fit, no matter how hard I tried.  I beat the snot out of it with a hammer.

     Then I resorted to using this,

 a 20 pound sledge hammer.  That didn't work either and proved to be most difficult to "swing" said 20 pound sledge hammer inside of a barrel.  

     Just when I thought the whole project was just a crock of

                                               

cat,

I finally relented and went back to Mr. Bandsaw one more time.

      Once the lid was secure, I made the frame to hold the barrel and made the final assembly.

     It was 5:40 when I finished.  My 3-4 hour project had taken nearly nine.  I had just enough strength left to get the smelly bag of goodies out of the frig and load up the barrel.

     The other idea will just have to wait for another nice day.

Not Much Today

     I woke up this morning blank as a piece of fresh copy paper.  No ideas, no funny stories.  I perused the newspaper, nothing there, at least nothing that I thought was of great interest.

     Two hours later, still nothing.  I decided to just get on with the other things on my to-do list.  Then I remembered there were a couple of birthdays going on today.  I like to make silly videos of me singing a birthday tune for whomever the lucky duck candidate might be.  I pick some random tune, change the words and then post it online for all to see.  I was going to share some of my songiness with you, but alas, that seems to be too technical for me to master.  

     Everyone seemed to enjoy them and whether or not the recipients did, well that is yet to be seen.

     I have a new project to tackle this weekend.  I'm going to make a rolling compost bin.  That should be a lot of fun and I can't wait to see the look on my husband's face when I tell him to start saving his coffee grounds.  He's just got the sexiest eye roll. 

     Have a great weekend!  Be safe and hopefully I will be full of something come Monday morning.

"The Day The Music Died"

"And the three men I admire most

The Father Son and the Holy Ghost

They took the last train for the coast

The day the music died."

(Don McLean, American Pie 1971)

     The above lyrics, that you will probably have in your head for the rest of the day, you can thank me later, are from a song that commemorated three talented musical artists that died in a plane crash in 1959.  Buddy Holley, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper, Jiles Perry Richardson Jr.  They were all young, 23, 18 and 29 respectively, and when we remember their songs like,"That'll Be the Day, "Summer Time Blues" and "Chantilly Lace" we wonder, had they lived, what other music they would have created.  

     This past week, more music died.  A small school district in the county cut their band program and the position for that particular teacher.  The reasoning of the board was, since the state is making more cuts to school districts, it will save them around $30,000.

     The school board didn't stop there, they cut their Ag program, along with that teachers' position too.  They estimated this will save them another $70,000.

     Cutting an agriculture program in the heart of an agriculture community makes no sense to me.  

     There was no mention of cutting sports programs.  There also was no mention of what sport programs cost a school district.  I can assure you, just on the transportation cost side of the equation, the amounts are extremely high.

     I understand sports are important.  They are supposed to teach team work and help to build strong bodies.  Sometimes sports are the only reason a student will even give a rat's behind about getting a passing grade.  Some students, and even their parents, have a goal of playing professional sports to make a living.

     Let's take a look at those figures.  The following is taken from the Georgia Career Information Center, Georgia State University in 2006.  It says that only 1 in 16,000 high school athletes attains a professional career in sports.  The article gives percentages of student athletes from high school to college, college to pro and high school to pro.  None of the percentages are high.  Considering that

our county's population is just a tad bit more than 16,000, those are not very good odds to go pro.

     I'm not bashing sports, I understand that the percentages of someone being a professional musician are probably even lower.  I'm not blaming this particular school district for making these cuts either.  There are many more districts in the same boat because the financial state of our state is in complete shambles.  Rather than the state making cuts of useless spending and putting more dollars into the education of our children, they would rather tax the bejaybers out of the rest of us.

     But what happens to our kids when certain academics are deemed unimportant?  I've seen many a pro athlete in the news who obviously missed out big time on certain academics.   Has learning to grow a plant or how to compost to rejuvenate the soil and cut down on waste become unworthy?  How about knowing how to use a hammer, read a tape measure, cut a board, is that now considered a lowly position?  Is being able to read a piece of sheet music going to be a thing of the past?

     The answer to these questions lies somewhere, but if we are not academically smart enough to figure it out, that will indeed, be the day the music dies.

     

    

     

     

Cat's Night Out

     There is absolutely nothing special about this cat.  He's just a yellow tomcat that showed up one day, about six months ago, and refused to leave.  

     His name is Tigger and he loves to be petted.....anywhere.  He is probably most fond of having his ears scratched, folded, rubbed or pulled but he even enjoys a good belly rub and doesn't bite the crap out of me on the third rub.

     Tigger is a lover boy, but he's no warrior.  It probably stems from the queen cat traumatizing him when he first made an appearance and he avoids confrontation at all costs.  

     I started putting both cats in my garage shop when the weather was so cold and now they both prefer to spend the night in there.  I never thought it was possible to herd cats, but come dusk, if they've been outside for awhile, they are more than ready to get back under roof.  

     The other night I had a plan.  My plan was to be in bed by 8 p.m., watch a bit of TV and get some much needed sleep.  My decision to do an early morning paper route has not been one of my most brilliant ideas.  I had been in bed about an hour or so and was just on that wonderful edge that hovers just before real sleep sets in. I usually discover I'm there when my eyes are still open, watching the glowing screen of the TV and hear myself snore.  I've never been able to understand just how that happens.

     Anyway, I'm perched on the edge of La La Land and all of a sudden the silence was broken by a death curdling scream.  I bolted upright and knew exactly what it was.  I'd left Tigger outside.  

     There is a feral tomcat, hanging around the neighborhood, and he has search and destroy mission when it comes to Tigger.  He's already beat this cat up once and the fight was on again.  I jumped out of bed, grabbed my robe and headed down the stairs.

     Let me tell you about my robe.  I have had this bathrobe for several years.  I received it as a Christmas gift from my husband.  When I said I wanted a robe the visual that was in my mind was one of those thick terry cloth ones.  The kind you see in the spa advertisements, long, flowing, kind of sexy looking.  Since I did not have my telepathy in tune when I told him I wanted a robe, he let the girls pick it out.  What I ended up with was a robe that is just about as wide as it is long.  It has large blue and white vertical stripes, the sleeves are three inches longer than my arms and it hits me just about mid calf.  It has a sash that ties in the middle and when tied I also look like I'm as wide as I am tall.  There is no picture of sensuality sexiness when adorned in the robe.

     I get downstairs and flip on the outside lights.  The feral cat is sitting on the railing around the deck and he bails as soon as he hears the door unlock.  I can't see Tigger, but I know he's out there somewhere.  That is when I realize I'm still barefoot.  My shoes are upstairs, so I grab a pair of my husbands' that are right by the back door.

     Let me tell you about these shoes.  I purchased these shoes for my husband several years ago.  I don't know what I was thinking because they are undoubtedly the ugliest shoes on the planet.  They have no visual entertainment.  They are just big brown clodhoppers.  He never liked them either and only uses them if he needs to go outside briefly.  When he wears them, he doesn't bother trying to get the entire shoe on his foot and has the back part, where the heel goes, mashed down flat.  They now look like a pair of big brown clog clodhoppers.  Perhaps they were pay back for the robe.  These priceless ped adornments are also at least three sizes bigger than my feet.

     I put on the big ugly brown shoes and plod my way out onto the deck.  No Tigger.  I call him and he answers, above my head.  

     When we added on to our house, I thought the back door looked rather bare and purchased an awning to go over it.  It wasn't the square metal kind, this one was a half circle model and was covered in outdoor fabric.  After it was installed, along with a nice light fixture on each side of the door, the girls thought it looked like an entrance to a bar & grill.  It does, but I prefer to call it the bistro.  It serves the purpose of providing some shelter if it's raining and it also provides a nice shock when you go out and slam the door after a good snow storm.  If you don't wait for the snow to fall off the awning before taking another step, all the snow lands on your head and goes down the back of your neck.  It also provides Tigger a safe haven in case of attack by feral cats.

     Tigger was perched on top of the awning and was quite pleased to see me, but would not come down.  I tried my best to talk him down, but it wasn't working.  I walked to the far end of the deck and he simply followed me by jumping to the top of the pergola that is over the deck, about a foot away from the awning.  

     Even though it is officially spring time, the nights are still cold and the wind was coming out of the north.  Yes, I could have left him out there because I knew he could get down on his own, but I also knew that I'd be up again to the screaming and howling within an hour.  I had no choice but to get him down right then and there.

     I went back into the house and got my step stool.  It's the kind that allows you to get about three feet off the floor.  It has a higher top step, but it's not for standing, it's more like a shelf.  I drag the step stool out the door, unfold it and climb up to the third step.  Oh, Tigger is really happy to see me now, but he stayed just out of reach.  I tried to convince him to hop on my shoulder, but he was having none of that.  

     I wasn't near as happy as the cat, by this time and I came up with another idea.  I moved the step stool closer to the railing, climbed back up and precariously stepped onto the railing still wearing the ugly brown clodhopper three sizes too big shoes.  The wind was also whipping up under the bottom of the billowing five foot wide robe.  Tigger was estatic that I was seemingly going  to join him on high and finally made his way closer, close enough that I could grab him by the scruff of the neck.  

     So there I was, standing on the railing, 12 feet off the ground, dressed like a clown, one hand clinging to a pole and the other hand full of fur trying to pull a cat, that had turned into all claws bared and holding, off the awning.  I finally got him free of the awning and he became all claws bared and holding, upside down on my robe.  

     I managed to get him down to the railing before I let him loose.  I climbed down off the stool, Tigger walked all the way around the deck railing and met me at the top of the stairs.  He happily hopped into my arms and I took him to the garage.  As I plodded back to the house and up the steps, the clodhoppers fell off with each step.

     Needless to say, by the time I got back to bed, I was far from the edge of La La Land.  

        

I Find This Disturbing

     The internet is an amazing place.  We can find more information on just about anything our minds can imagine right under our finger tips.  We get angry when we see our children spend an unbelievable amount of time playing video games, but I would guess there are just as many adults glued to their computer screens, or phone screens, endlessly searching cyberspace.

     One online topic that is getting a lot of attention these days is the new way of teaching children in this country called Common Core. A major complaint about Common Core is the math problems.  

     Most of my readers know how I feel about math.  I've seen some pictures of the Common Core math problems and I thank my lucky stars I'm not in school anymore.  The proponents of this type of math say it is important to understand how and why 4-1=3 and not come to that conclusion mindlessly, by memory.  (mindless memory may be a new oxymoron)  

     That may be fine if someone is going to be a quantum physicists, and in my next life maybe I will be, but for now basic math skills suit me fine.  I know that if I have 4 chickens in the chicken coop at night and the next morning I only have 3 chickens, there is a hole in the coop, one satisfied fox and 3 lucky chickens....the how and the why.

     The other day while looking at some of the Common Core worksheets that were posted online, I came across one that really bothered me.  At the bottom of the page was a story about what the future would be like.  A student is transported through time and is experiencing life in this country 500 years from now, in the form of a hologram.  I'm a little vague about who was giving the student the tour, and I'll explain my vagueness in a bit.  Anyway, the tour guide is telling the student that the state of Kansas is now the east coast because the people of planet Earth didn't take care of the earth and didn't listen to the warnings about climate change/global warming.  The oceans rose and covered most of the eastern part of the country and the Rocky Mountains were called an island.  The story ended with the guide telling the student that there were not near as many people around, like there used to be, but the people finally wised up and learned to take care of what was left of the planet.

     The reason for not being able to give you more information about this particular story is I can't find it.  It's gone.  The internet is an amazing place but it's also kind of creepy.  I had the article saved and when I pulled it up to review, that part of the article had been edited.  

     Maybe it was false.  Maybe that one screen shot of some kids' Common Core homework sheet was bogus.  I certainly hope so because that was the biggest piece of political propaganda that I have ever seen.

     Kansas is going to be the east coast?  The population is a lot smaller?  Really?  What happened to the people?  Did the oceans rise overnight to the Kansas state line and drown them all?  I highly doubt that, so again, I ask, WHAT HAPPENED TO THE PEOPLE?  

     Think about that for a while.  The conclusion you may come to isn't pretty.  This is the stuff we want the future generations to learn?  

     I wrote about climate change just the other day and the facts that people ignore.  The facts, that scientists and science are proving, is that the people running around screaming that the planet is heating up are wrong.  The powers that be though, don't want you and I to listen to those facts.  

     The following is taken from an article written in 2012 titled "Sorry Global Warming Alarmist, The Earth Is Cooling" and it is about the seventh International Climate Change Conference, held in Chicago.  "The conference featured serious natural science, contrary to the self-interested political science you hear from government financed global warming alarmists seeking to justify widely expanded regulatory and taxation powers for government bodies, or government wannabees, such as the United Nations."  (underline added)

     We need to take back our children.

     I encourage you to read the entire article, you can find it here:
http://www.forbes.com/sites/peterferrara/2012/05/31/sorry-global-warming-alarmist-the-earth-is-cooling/

        

     

Cat-In-The-Box

     I did not need or want another cat.  He showed up one day and despite the Queen's efforts to "off with his head", so to speak, he stayed.  The Queen, if you are not familiar, is Pussy Cat, the 15 plus year old matriarch of the yard.

     Despite tactics used only in extreme warfare, he held his ground, or higher ground, and would not go away.  It took me about two weeks to even try to name him.  He was just a scrawny yellow kitten, so that's is what I called him, Yellow.  It didn't seem to fit his personality, so he has been dubbed Tigger.

     Tigger has been here for about six months.  The Queen doesn't like him any more now than she did when he first showed up, but since he is as big as she is now, she has quit trying to knock the snot out of him.  She merely  has to look in his direction and that is all it takes, Tigger is a true to life version of a "scardy cat".

     The plan was to get him neutered, as soon as I could afford to do so.  I am a huge advocate of spaying and neutering pets, but alas, several surrounding fellow citizens do not share this concept.  I love cats, but when your feline, or felines, have 7 or so kittens, possibly times two, and you decide not to give them away or keep them fed, please reconsider the above advocacy, because I REALLY DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER CAT. 

     Since this past winter had some rather brutal weather and I cannot have a cat in the house due to my kids' allergies, I put the cats in my shop in the garage.  It has a small heater that keeps my wood stains and finishes from freezing, so I thought that would be the humane thing to do.  My husband would say I've ruined two perfectly good cats.  Perhaps he is right.  The Queen prefers the shop now, even when it's 60 degrees outside.  I did remind him that one of them actually killed a mouse, so they haven't lost all their usefulness.  I did not mention, though, the feathers I had to clean up the other day, since I had left the door open.

     Tigger had his first cat fight a couple of weeks ago and ended up on the short end of the stick.  His opponent was yet another un-neutered older cat and he inflicted several wounds on Tiggers' tail.
Naturally, these became infected.  Then a couple of days later he began to sneeze, cough and his nose was running like a sieve.  I had no choice, he had to go to the vet.

     After making him an appointment I told Ms. Sassafrass what we would be doing the next day.  She thought this would be quite an adventure and reminded her parents some 40 times that evening what the next days' agenda had in store.  

     The next day, I retrieved the small animal carrier, set it on the sidewalk and went to get Tigger. The plan was for him to ride in the carrier in the back seat with Sassafrass.   His tail was very sore and so was his mood.  I picked him up and gently carried him to the waiting box, he was not a happy camper.  He growled and began to back peddle and when I tried to place him in the box it did not go as planned.  He got away from me and took off through the yard.

     Ms. Sassafrass and I decided to try plan B.  She would hold the box upright, with the opening to the top and I would lower the cat into the box.  This seemed like a good idea and when I was able to catch Tigger, I carried him by the scruff of the neck.  This action put him in survival mode.  

     Tigger had never been to the vet before and the last time I had the carrier out for the Queen, he jumped right in it as soon as I had set it down.  Twas not meant to be as easy this time.  Usually, carrying a cat by the scruff of the neck renders them helpless.....um, not so much.  He began to growl and writhe like a wild beast and as I approached the box I told Sassafrass to stand back, this wasn't going to be pretty.  

     It was much like trying to stick a cat in a bucket of water.  He fought and clawed onto anything he could find.  I finally managed to get him in the box and slam the gate shut just as claw bared paws came out through the small openings in the gate.  Then, all Hell broke loose.  Tigger went absolutely berserk in the box, he flopped and turned and banged himself up against the sides like a ball in a pin ball machine.  The view from outside of the box was like looking at a Mexican jumping bean gone bad.

     Ms. Sassafrass' eyes were as big as saucers and she said to me, "Whoa, Tigger weally don't like to go to the vets."  I asked her if she would rather him ride in the front seat with me and she was all for that.  I was really thinking it might be better to put him in the trunk.

     Sassafrass was right, Tigger did not like to go to the vet.  Trying to hold a terrified hurting cat on a stainless steel table also proved to be an interesting challenge.  His claws sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.  I suggested that Sassafrass might want to go back out in the lobby because I had visions of Tigger getting loose and running straight up the walls, across the ceiling and ending up on top of someones' head.  She agreed, went back out front and proceeded to tell the ladies at the desk that Tigger weally didn't like to be there. 

     One steroid shot, an antibiotic shot and $53 later, we arrived back home with a still angry cat.  I set the carrier on the ground, opened the door and Tigger shot out of there like a bullet.  

     He is much better now and has yet another appointment to be nuetered, so he can meow on a higher note.  The other night, I forgot to put him in the shop.......but I will wait to share that cataclysmic event in another blog.

     

     

Egginess At Its Finest

     Yesterday was the first day of Spring.  It is referred to as the March Equinox.

     Rather than go into some scientific jargon as to what the term equinox means, and besides I am not qualified to use such terminology, I will explain it in my own words.

     The March Equinox is the time of the year when the Earth is perfectly straight up and down on its axis.  We in the northern hemisphere look forward to this because it is now our turn to tilt closer to the sun, awaiting longer days and warmer weather.  The next equinox will happen in September, hence our southern counterparts will be looking forward to its arrival.

     For as long as I can remember, I have performed a ritual during each equinox.  It's a simple ceremony and many do not even know about it, but I feel it is part of my duty to carry this tradition on and hopefully pass it to the next generation.

     The ceremony is called, The Balancing of the Egg.  I do not recall when I learned this, but according to what I remember, the equinoxes that take place twice a year are the only time one is able to stand an egg on its end and it will stay upright.  I posted a picture of my balanced egg on Facebook and encouraged others to do the same.  It turned out to be a scramble, no pun intended, for others to join in.  Hope you enjoy the show.

     This is my first picture:

 
     Shortly after this was posted, I was eggcused of cheating, by using a napkin.


      To prove I was eggfact capable of this feat, this was the second picture:

      It wasn't long before a naysayer jumped in on the conversation stating that they had read somewhere that this is possible any day of the year. 

     I present to you evidence, taken this morning, that proves without a doubt that notion is totally uneggceptable:

     The egguberance of this eggspiriment began to catch on and the pictures were being shared.  From Central Illinois:

From sunny Florida, so eggciting!:

     From Wisconsin:

     The Wisconsin egg didn't want anyone to think it was cheating by using a tablecloth, so it took its eggyself outside:

What an eggcellent view!

     Some people thought we had gone eggsane, but most of us were just eggstatic about the whole thegg.......we held our ground and stood eggnited. 

    

21 Days

     Eva Marie had lived at the West Row apartments for nearly ten years.  She had moved there shortly after her husband had passed away.  Even though she was 80 years old when she first arrived at 400 West Row Street, she chose a second floor apartment furthest from the stairs.  

     Eva Marie had her own reasons for choosing apartment #210 and the first one was for the view.  She could see the entire grounds for West  Row, it's small park like setting to the north and the entrance from the street.  The covered terrace that protruded from the front of the building provided a front porch balcony experience, as she liked to call it.    With apartment #210 being located at the end of the building, the end of the terrace was all hers.  There was enough room for her plants and her beloved porch swing.  She also like to use the stairs, it kept her young and she considered them a good form of exercise.

     Another thing Eva Marie liked about West Row was its mixed population.  The tenants ages ranged from 2 to 90.  She could have easily afforded to live in a retirement village, full of all sorts of amenities for the elderly, but she had no desire to be around a bunch of fuddy duds, nor did she consider herself in that category.

     Every morning, Eva Marie would go out the door and walk past the other apartments towards the stairs.  Most mornings during the week, she would get the opportunity to greet some of her neighbors who were on their way to work.  She would go down the stairs and walk to the front entrance where the rows of locked mailboxes were located.  After she retrieved her morning paper, she would take the path through the small park like area then head back to her humble abode.  With a fresh cup of hot tea, she would sit on the porch swing, catch up on the daily news and watch the comings and goings of 400 West Row.

     Eva Marie had seen many tenants come and go through out the years.  Her newest next door neighbors, Jake and Gail, had been there about six months, moving in right after they were married.  When they first arrived, there was much 'love in the air', as Eva Marie would put it, but lately things seemed to be going south.

     The walls at 400 West Row were not the thickest and Eva Marie could hear the arguments, late at night, that usually ended up with a slamming door followed a few seconds later by screeching tires as Jake exited the parking lot.  The fighting didn't sound like it was physical, just a lot of yelling.

     One morning, while Eva Marie sipped her tea, she could hear another argument brewing and Jake came flying out the door, his face as red as a beet.  He glanced Eva Marie's way, his face reddening even more, grumbled a "Morning Eva" and stormed down the terrace to the stairs.  By the time he reached his car, Gail ran out the door to the railing on the terrace, her face covered in tears.  She was going to say something to Jake, but it was too late, the car door slammed shut and then he was gone.

     Gail turned to go back into her apartment and her eyes widened when she saw Eva Marie sitting on the porch swing.  Eva had strategically placed the newspaper in front of her face, but Gail knew she had been there long enough to have witnessed the mornings' mess.

     Gail managed a weak "Good morning Eva Marie."

     "Good morning to you Gail."

     "Sorry." Gail sniffled.

     Eva Marie put down her paper, "No need to be sorry, Gail.  May I offer you a nice cup of tea?" 

     Gail wasn't sure what it was about this old lady, maybe she reminded her of her own grandmother, but she didn't hesitate on the offer.  "Sure, yes, thank-you.", she answered.

     "Well, have a seat on the swing, Dear, and I'll fetch you a cup."  Eva Marie said as she opened the screen door.  When she returned with a steaming cup of orange pekoe and a box of tissues,  Gail was sitting on the swing with her long legs tucked underneath her.  

     Eva Marie smiled as she held out her offering of liquid and paper and Gail managed a smile and gladly took both items.  Eva Marie was never one to beat around the bush, she grabbed her own cup, set down next to Gail and asked, "What's the problem, Gail?"

     Gail sipped her tea, and tried hard to hold back another round of tears, but it didn't work.  "I don't know", she cried, "All we seem to do is fight!"

     Eva Marie waited while Gail blew her nose and regained some of her composure before she spoke.  "Gail, would you like to know my secret to a long and happy marriage?"  

     "Yes.", Gail answered.  "Because I don't think ours is going to be long.....it certainly isn't happy anymore."

     "My Dear", Eva Marie started, "Marriage is like a grape vine.  It starts out small and vulnerable, but as it begins to grow it discovers that in order to keep growing up, it has to anchor itself to something.  Say it's growing by a fence and as it grows it sends out small tendrils that wrap around the wire.  The only reason it does this is to simply hang on.  Sometimes the winds blow something fierce, but that one little tendril will keep it tethered and let it keep growing.  When it gets a little bigger, it comes to another wire and once again, it will wrap yet another small tendril around it for added strength.  It may branch off in different directions once in a while, but it's main focus is to make a strong foundation to hold it in place as it continues on its journey."

     Gail looked at Eva Marie and said "I understand the analogy Eva Marie, but it doesn't seem like much of a secret."

     Eva Marie laughed and said, "Oh, that's not the secret part!  The secret is something you can do, during those times when it seems the only thing to do, is hang on.  The secret is the 21 day plan."

     Gail raised an eyebrow at Eva Marie, "Ok, I'll bite.  What's the 21 day plan?"

     "When you hit a rough windy spot in your marriage, that is when to incorporate this plan.  It's a very simple concept and requires no lengthy instructions to have to memorize.  Just when you think you can't stand to look at the other half of your marriage, you pull out the secret weapon.  For twenty one days straight, you can only say something nice to your spouse."

     "That's it?  That's the secret?" Gail thought she should have just gone back inside and done some more crying.

     "Yes, dear, that's it."  Eva Marie took a long sip of her tea.  "It doesn't sound like much, but it could be the hardest, most rewarding thing you could ever do.  Kind words can have the greatest healing effect, but, when you're mad as hell, they are the hardest thing to get out of your mouth."

     "I don't think I could think of anything kind to say to Jake." 

     "It doesn't have to be much to start out with", Eva Marie went on, "Sometimes it can be a simple 'nice shirt' because that's easy to say between clenched teeth."

     Gail grinned although she didn't think something that simple was going to fix something that seemed un-fixable.

     "Now, that's just the first part of the secret."

     "I thought you said this was a simple concept."  Gail mused at her elderly neighbor.

     "Oh, it is. But the other part of the secret is, if you can't say something nice for 21 days in a row, you have to start over.

     "Start over?"  Gail gasped, "You're kidding me!"

     "Not at all.  If you have been able to do it for ten days and then call him a moron on day eleven, you have to start over, at day one."  Eva Marie smiled and then continued.  "You see, Gail, when the tendril on the grape vine is doing it's job, trying to hang on, nobody really notices how hard its working.  It's the same when trying to say something nice to someone for 21 days.  It will go unnoticed for a while, but after a few days, something magical begins to happen.  They start listening and it makes them feel good, better than they felt before and just like the old verse 'we reap what we sow', the kind words will begin to come back to you."

     "It sounds too simple.", sighed Gail.

     "Well, just give it a try.  Surely your marriage is worth 21 days."

     Gail finished her tea, thanked Eva Marie for the advice and walked back to her apartment.

     The first trial run of the 21 day plan didn't work too well, but Eva Marie was pleased that at least Gail was giving it a try.  The quarrels were getting few and far between.  By the end of the third attempt, the slamming door had ceased trying to get knocked off its hinges.

     One morning as Eva Marie set perched in her swing, reading the paper and sipping her tea, Jake came out the door for work and Gail was right behind him.  Jake turned back to Gail, took her in his arms and kissed her deeply.  As he headed down the terrace, Gail looked over at Eva Marie, winked and said, "Just call me a grapevine."

     Eva Marie returned the wink, "Hang on tight, my dear, hang on tight." 

I Bid Thee Farewell

Blogging from my desk top is ideal for me.

That being said, there are lots of things we take for granted.  A new friend of mine, from the west coast, told me how much she loves the air here.  She said it is just so clean and fresh.    I hadn't really thought about that.  I've been breathing this air for over half a century, so I will be grateful for our fresh air.

Our internet service is down and may be so for a week.  I'm blogging from my phone.  Not something I enjoy, but at least I've learned how to swipe my letters.
I'm also having to use the "hot spot" on my phone to be able to connect to the great and wonderful world wide web.  This will probably cause me to have the "big one" when my next cell phone bill arrives.

I will not take my internet connection for granted any more.  I will be ecstatic over it from now on, whenever it comes back on.

So, dear readers, I bid you farewell until the problem is fixed.  Perhaps, during the next few days, I will be able to gather many blog worthy topics.

Hopping On The Bandwagon

     The word 'sheeple' is a popular term used by conspiracy theorists to describe the masses of people, who they feel, blindly follow and believe whatever they are told.

     From religion to politics to parenting, everyone usually has their own set belief, regardless of the facts.  

     I recall a conversation I had, years ago, about taking over the counter pain medicine.  My personal theory was if the ingredients on the bottle were the same, except for quantity, one could take four 250 milligram tablets to equal one tablet of 1000 milligrams.  Math was never my strong suit, but even the calculator agrees with me on this.  One person in this conversation got extremely upset and informed me that she would never take medication in such a way.  I believed I was right and she believed she was right, even though 250 x 4=1000.

     Ever since the first utterance of the words 'global warming',
there has been a fervor of commotion on the planet.  It was given to us as an absolute truth, but I find it odd that now the term is seldom, if at all, used.  The new phrase for it is 'climate change' and no one seems to care or ask, "But, but, but.....I thought it was global warming?"  Countries around the globe are trying to come together to fix this problem, because as the facts point out, it's the fault of the human race.   

     Don't get me wrong, I'm all for saving the planet.  This orb is our home, we should take care of it.  It would be a wonderful thing to not have to pollute the air, in order for us to enjoy basic needs like heat and electricity.  Since I am a huge fan of Nikola Tesla, I believe there are other means for these basic needs that would not only help clear the air, but would save people a lot of their hard earned dollars.  But if easier, cheaper ways of doing things don't fit a selected agenda, there won't be much done about it.

     In a recent article, John R. Christy a professor of atmospheric science at the University of Alabama, gives some climate facts that we never hear about in the main stream media.  When he hears claims of extreme weather getting worse, he points to the evidence, the facts.  In the past 60 years, there has been no change in tornadoes.  In the past 120 years there has been no change in hurricanes.  Even the droughts and heat waves felt in the western United States aren't as bad as they were during the past 1,000 years.*

     That is factual evidence that a whole lot of sheeple will heed little attention to. They have jumped on an agenda wagon that is going to spend a bazillion dollars to keep that agenda rolling upfront and foremost, regardless of the facts.  

     There is a lot of turmoil in the world today.  It's too bad that bazillion dollars couldn't be spent on trying to get people to get along with each other.  Maybe then we could work together to clean up some of our messes.


* This was taken from an article titled; 'Settled science' isn't necessarily so,  by John R. Christy and appeared in the March 19th issue of the Jacksonville Journal Courier.  The paper's website is: www.myjournalcourier.com
     
     


     

This Is Funny?

     One of the most valuable lessons people can learn when it comes to dealing with others is, "saving face".  What does it mean?  Simply put, it boils down to not humiliating another human being in front of other people.  

     If we have a 'beef' with someone, have that beef in private.  It doesn't matter what role we have in society.  It could be as simple as a husband and wife or the manager who has hundreds of employees, don't read someone the riot act in front of their peers.

     The great state of Illinois seems to be above this humble rule of life.  In order to push the envelope on getting people to sign up for the mandated government healthcare, they have resorted to humiliation.  Oh yes, they call it humor, but humor at whose expense?

     The state is running satirical ads with certain comedy based websites that the younger generation of this country, ages 18 to 34, like to frequent.  The purpose of this is to get these youngsters to get health insurance, because if they don't, the whole affordable healthcare thing probably won't work in the long run. 

     One of the ads is supposed to infuse the idea that if you don't have health insurance, you could end up in financial humiliation. It shows a young man dancing in a pizza costume trying to attract customers,  Instead, he is made fun of by passing motorists.  The voice over says, "Without health insurance, you could face fines and big medical bills.  And then you'll have to dress up like a pizza."

     Just when I thought it might be impossible to come up with the next great oxymoron, the state of Illinois has succeeded at dumbing itself down.....once again.  So, it's OK to make fun of someone who has a job, even though that job may not be the most glamorous of positions.

     This would maybe be funny, if it was coming from anywhere else besides one of the most broke, financially humiliated states in the Union.  

     This state has a HUGE mess with its pension system.  It has unpaid bills that amount to billions of dollars.  It taxes its residents out the wazoo and then spends more money than it takes in. It wants to make business owners raise the minimum wage and then turns around and  makes fun of someone with a, more than likely, minimum wage paying job.

     Sigh......it's not funny, it's sad.

     Maybe the funniest part of the whole thing is the fact that this marketing campaign cost $33 million.  Someone's laughing all the way to the bank.

     I fail to see the humor in that.

       

       

  

Complete Denial

     According to a recent article, hip and knee replacement surgery is on the rise.  The most common cause for needing this kind of surgery was attributed to age.  The older we get, the more the parts wear out.  Another major factor was obesity, as the added weight puts more stress on the joints.  Many recipients of hip and knee replacement commented that they felt better than they had in years and of course that has led to the popularity of the surgery.  It seemed though, that it was a no-win situation for the baby boomer generation, the more we exercise to keep the weight off, the faster we wear out the joints.  Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

     Over the weekend I made a decision that was not in my best interest.  I knew what the consequences would be before I made it, but chose to ignore them.  

     My three grandsons, plus one of their friends, spent the day and night at our house.  Since Saturday was a lovely day weather wise, the majority of it was spent outside.  We have a very large piece of concrete in our backyard, about half the size of a full court gymnasium and of course, there is a basketball goal set on one side. Yes, I played basketball with three boys ages 6 to 14.  I do not recall how long it has been since I even picked up a basketball, but I proceeded to play like I had done so on a regular basis.

     I ran, I dribbled, I made free throw shots.  I waved my arms like a goose in flight, trying to block shots.  I even accomplished a lay-up, dazzling my young opponents.  Their friend thought I was just about the coolest grandma on the block.  His mother later confirmed this by telling me he thought I was awesome.
     
     Later, after the game, I asked this fabulous foursome if they would like to join me in the morning and help with my paper route. They were all for it but, as the evening wore on and they made plans of staying up as late as possible, they changed their mind, opting out of a 4:45 a.m. wake up call.  I didn't blame them, I wasn't looking forward to it myself.

    Years ago, my sisters, Lela and Blanche gave me a birthday card.  Since we herald from an odd sense of humor bunch, the card showed a cartoon woman wearing a bra that was obviously too small.  There was lots of  "flesh" hanging out all over the place but the woman was smiling ear to ear.  The caption on the card went something like this:  "Lucy still wears her lucky bra.....that she has had since she was 16." 

     Lela and Blanche were right back then, and still right today, I'm in complete denial when it comes to my age.  I was reminded of this blissful idioticiness when my feet hit the floor the following morning.  Awesomeness carries a heavy price tag.  My feet were so sore and stiff I could barely do the shuffle to get to the bathroom and I could hardly raise my arm to brush my teeth.  Maneuvering the staircase was a treat unto itself.

     My motley crew of ball players rose about an hour after I returned home.  I fixed them a huge breakfast, but never let on that the simple task of flipping eggs was about more than I could bear.  They were oblivious to my pain and I certainly wasn't going to admit that I may had over-done it.

     Whoever "they" are always says it's the second day, after a strenuous workout, that the muscle pain really sets in.  Well, they were wrong this time.  I don't feel too bad today, but I may shuffle down to the wood shop and cut a couple pieces of board to strap on the bottom of my feet.  If I can keep my feet from flexing the rest of the day, I just might make it through.  

     Here are a couple of pictures of the "fab four" during breakfast.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, four young boys in the house could be a priceless blog.  From left to right, grandsons ages 12, 6, 9 and the Friend.

      

     

A Dark Snark Diary Dialogue

Dear Diary,

     SERIOUSLY?  What the hell else can go wrong?

     Last week, Diary, was the week for things to break down.  First a fuel pump, then some module thing on the truck.  The part for it must be coming by covered wagon from California because it isn't here yet.  The garage door springs broke and then the computer monitor took a crap.

     This morning, eight papers into a 33 papers paper route, the car shot craps.  It didn't sputter, whine, cough, spit or sigh, it just quit.  The lights were still working and the engine would try to turn over and nothing, I got nothing.  Yes, Dear Diary, there was plenty of fuel in it.  

     This happened in the worst possible place, right at the top of a crest of a hill.  I put it in neutral and coasted backwards until I thought it would be safe from people who are late for work and take this particular street to zip around the outskirts of town, trying to make up for lost time.

     My only saving grace was the fact that I was two blocks from our old business where my husband keeps his work vehicle, which happens to be an old school bus.  The short bus.

     I grabbed my sack of papers and plodded up the hill in my knee high rubber boots and made the trek to the bus barn.  I gave some thought to finishing my route in the bus and then decided that was just too weird.  

     I headed home to get the only other mode of transportation that is still running, the Burb.  You know Diary, the 1985 poop brown Suburban that is 30 foot long and has a freakin' snow plow hooked on the front of it.  After a brief tutorial with my naked shaving husband I was able to get the snow plow lifted off the ground and away I went to finish my route, with the snow plow bobbing like a cork on a pond and clanging with every pot hole.

     My constituents were wondering what had happened to me and I politely explained my car situation.  What I really wanted to do was cry, cuss, jump up and down and scream that I'd had enough!  

     Really Diary, I don't think I can take anymore.  Is the universe totally against me or trying to tell me something?

     So Diary, if you know of anything else wicked this way coming, SHOVE IT!  Put it in your pipe and smoke it because I don't want anymore more of it!

     Have a nice freakin' day.

     

Back In The Kitchen

     In the search for the perfect low carb slice of bread, I made a second attempt at baking a loaf of coconut flour bread.  If you have been following along, coconut flour is a very healthy alternative to processed, refined and bleached wheat flour.

     The first loaf didn't fare too well.  The recipe called for it to bake for 30 minutes.  Since it wasn't any bigger, taller, than when I slid it in the oven, I left it in there a bit longer.  That was not the solution to what I thought was a problem.  This particular bread doesn't rise, for lack of yeast, and by the time I took it out of the oven it was, well, really done and really dry.

     Not to be outdone, I gathered all the ingredients and set out to conquer the beast.  This time I used my electric hand mixer, rather than my wire whisk, to blend everything together.  It looked much better than the first batch so I figured that may have been part of the problem.  

     My mind began to pilfer through its files to something most of us learn as children.  Dark things absorb more heat than light things. The only loaf pan I have is an old black metal one.  I decided that was probably why the first loaf was rather crusty/crunchy, it absorbed more heat than necessary from the black pan.  With the knowledge of that scientific fact, I concluded that the baking time could be reduced.  

     All the ingredients were blended to perfection, with no lumps, and I scraped it into the black loaf pan.  The oven was ready and after placing the pan in the oven, I set the timer for 25 minutes.  By this time I was feeling quite smug because I was determined to get it right.

     The timer went off, I opened the oven door and was pleased with what I could see.  Nice golden brown bread.  I took a knife and inserted into the top, pulled it out and it was clean, sorta kinda.  I remember the first loaf was still rather spongy on the top so I thought it would probably firm up when it cooled.  The recipe said to remove the loaf from the pan and cool it on a rack.

     My wire rack was at the ready, on top of the stove.  For some reason, I thought it best to flip the bread out of the pan upside down on the rack.  Wondering how best to accomplish this task, I decided to place the rack on top of the pan, then flip the whole kit and kaboodle.  Since the pan was still hot, I suited up with my oven mitts.  My oven mitts are older than Methuselah and don't look much better either. 

     I make the flip and the top of the loaf exploded through the wire rack all over the stove.  I'm thinking that probably wasn't the right thing to do, it needed to be right side up.  Still armed with my mitts, I carefully pick the loaf up to turn it over.  I dropped that S.O.B. ( son of bread), it hit the rack and broke into two pieces.  I think I muttered something at this point.

     On further inspection, the top of the bread wasn't done.  I placed each piece of the bread puzzle on some paper towels and tossed it in the microwave.  After a short nuke session, it still didn't look much better.  With that, I got out the aluminum foil, tore off a large sheet, slammed the bread puzzle pieces together, wrapped it up, threw it back in the oven and turned the oven off.

     In the end, it wasn't too bad.  The seam melded itself back together, but rather than take any chances with the middle still being a little moist, I put it in the frig.

     I'm much better with a hammer and nails so I'm going to hang up the oven mitts for awhile.  Besides, I don't think Martha Stewart will be calling me any time soon for a guest appearance. 

     

Where Is It?

     Think about this:  There have been more technological advances in the last 100 or so years than at any other time in human history.

     As a young girl, my mother watched her father work the fields with a horse drawn plow.  I can recall many road trips with her when she would stare out across the farm land, watching huge combines clear a field of corn or beans and she would say, " I wonder what my dad would think, if he could see the way farming is done today?"

     We've put a man on the moon, though some would beg to differ.

We have been able to successfully transplant hearts, livers and numerous other organs from one body to another.  We can carry a phone in our pocket and instant message someone on the other side of the country in seconds.  We can nuke an entire meal in a matter of minutes in a box that sits in our kitchens.  We have satellites that orbit the earth with cameras capable of reading the label in the back of our shirts, well, that might be a stretch, but they can read the licence plate on your car.

     We can do so many amazing things, things that were completely unheard of, not so many years ago, except one.

     We can't find a jet plane with a 200 foot wingspan.

     Today is day five of the search and rescue efforts for Flight MH370, the Boeing 777 jetliner that simply disappeared this past Saturday.  As of this morning, there has not been one shred of evidence as to the plane's whereabouts.

     This has me completely baffled.  Yes, I realize the ocean is a vast place and sometimes looking for something in it can be like looking for a needle in a haystack.  But someone, somewhere, had to see or hear something.  As one expert put it, "Planes at altitude cruising levels simply don't just fall out of the sky."  And if it did fall out of the sky, it fell somewhere.

     Even though the news media is referring to the efforts more as search instead of rescue, there are still 239 people unaccounted for. Each one of those people have many someones wanting to know what has happened.  Their families are growing weary of not having some kind of answer.  I cannot imagine what that kind of hopelessness feels like.

     My request for you today, is don't forget about this. This story has already been pushed to the inside pages of the daily paper. Keep these people in your thoughts and if you pray, keep them there too.  Send some good positive thought waves to the people who are actually looking for the plane.  It's out there, somewhere, and even though the majority of us can not be there physically to help, we can be there mentally.  Thoughts are powerful things, if enough of us keep focused on where the plane is, then we can, in fact, be a part of the search, and hopefully rescue, team.

     Please, be a part of the human race that has not only advanced in technology, but is advancing leaps and bounds in spirituality.

Birds, Boats, Kids & Reptiles

     It's never officially March until they get here.  They are very punctual and last year when they arrived, I wrote the date down so I could check to see if it was indeed the same date each year.  I have no idea where I wrote down this valuable piece of information.  I think I put it in my phone under the app that was called notepad.  I have changed phones since then and the new one doesn't have that particular app and if the info is in there, somewhere, I also have no idea how to retrieve it.  Anyway, it was sometime around this time......last year.  The return of the Grackles.

     Grackles are large black birds with an iridescent blue black head.  According to my handy field guide bird book, they make a complete migration to the southern states.  They arrive back here in large flocks, spread out over several days and the first wave of these feathered creatures washed into our area yesterday.  By the end of the week there will be hundreds, if not thousands, of them perched in the treetops.  

     Grackles make enough noise to wake the dead.  They spend the first week or two gathering in the trees to talk about their recent trip, or argue about who got here first, and they all talk at the same time.  The chatter they make sounds like a circus calliope that is not only out of tune, but has also been out on an all night drunk. It's not a pleasant sound and it makes it nearly impossible to hear yourself think.

     There is a large hedge of evergreen bushes that marks the border between our yard and the one next door.  These bushes get really tall and have always been a favorite landmark for the grackles.  One year I decided to thin out the grackle population, since they were literally driving me crazy, and bought a BB gun.   I set myself up in a lawn chair, took aim and began to fire away.  I didn't hit a single bird and since a BB gun doesn't make a whole lot of noise, I wasn't scaring them much either.  

     My youngest daughter, The Natural, joined me and asked if she could take a shot.  I handed her the gun and Ms. Annie Oakley took aim, fired and dropped a grackle with the first shot.  She smiled at me, handed me the gun and went back into the house.  

     This reminded me of the time I had a boat.  I had absolutely no business with a boat, but at the time, I thought it to be a splendid idea.  It was a 17 foot fish and ski and the first time The Natural and I took it out on the river, I couldn't get it back on the trailer.  I must have made ten attempts and even though there were three old ladies sitting in lawn chairs on the bank, giving me advice with each attempt, I still couldn't do it.  

     The Natural says to me, "Mom, can I try it?"

     By this time I was so exasperated I didn't care and said yes.

     I gave her some helpful hints, hints that obviously were not working for me, and got out of the boat.  What happened next has been forever seared into the video file portion of my brain.  She backed the boat up slowly and got it straightened out.  Then, being her father's child, she slammed the throttle into full speed ahead and roared downstream.  She cranked the wheel to the left, made a huge circle the width of the river and started her approach, still in full throttle mode.  Just as I thought she was going to launch completely out of the water, she killed the throttle and landed the boat perfectly on the trailer.  First time behind the wheel, first attempt to load the boat.  Sigh, a mini me, and I was loosing my touch.

     I got rid of the boat.  I did that shortly after I had taken Mother out one morning for a fishing excursion.  She waited until we were on the other side of the river to ask me if the water, that was now up over the top of her shoes, was normal.  I had forgot to put the plug back in the boat.  No, I had no business with a boat.

     The grackles will have a rude awakening tomorrow since we have another 3-4 inches of snow in the forecast, but they will begin to thin out over the next few weeks as they start to raise a new generation of noise makers.  We trimmed the hedge and that messed up their flight pattern so there will not be as many taking refuge in it as there were before.  

     The next thing on the outdoor agenda will be the great Annual Toad Toss, but that is a blog for another day.