I am sure that everyone on the planet has seen that flash mob internet video of people in a food court somewhere singing the Hallelujah Chorus. I wish I had been there! My alto part of the Chorus is as familiar to me as the sound of my breath going in and out of my lungs.
Every year in December I participated in a community production of The Messiah for all of the years I was “forming,” in Ada, Oklahoma. The singers included the high school and the college choirs, and various church choirs, along with anyone else who wanted to participate. The orchestra was filled with people from similar talented groups around the small town.
Year after year we would begin practicing before Thanksgiving and by the time we performed we were a melodious and powerful group. It stunned the standing room only audience almost as much as it awed those of us singing. To me, it was the beginning of the magic that was Christmas. Ada, Oklahoma was a great place to spend one's formative years.
The first Christmas I spent as a married lady in Southern California, I waited for the Christmas magic to appear. It was balmy, but there were Christmas decorations in the stores. There was no Messiah. We were a struggling young couple. I realized I had to make Christmas happen in our little apartment. I remember sitting at the kitchen table making dough ornaments to hang on the tree that the elementary school where Richard worked, had given us. I sang my heart out. “All we like sheep...” “...and he shall reign for ever and ever..Hallelujah!” Alto part only. Oh, and with a smidgen of soprano thrown in now and then.
The thing about religions is they have some beautiful music.
The thing about apartments is they have some thin walls.
My new California neighbors smiled strangely at me.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Left and Right Ramblings
I am one of those people who just don't instinctively know their left and right. My sister and I share this affliction.
When we give one another driving directions – we employ the “Your Window, My Window Method” Turn left at the corner just won't work with us.
For example when instructing one another in which direction to turn. It's like this, “Just go your window at the next light and then go, quick, my window.”
It is a mild form of aphasia. We have learned to compensate, using the sister code. When there is someone else giving the directions it can get ugly. I stuck a little R and a little L on the appropriate sides of the speedometer of my Mustang. That helped, but I had to take a bit of teasing for it from my non directionally-challenged colleagues.
The Hokey Pokey? A chore.
Oh, and that little trick of making an “L” with your left hand? Well my right hand makes an “L” too. It's backwards, but my mind doesn't immediately see it as backwards. I can also read upside down, and in mirrors, which came in handy when I taught kindergarten.
When I was in School Teacher School, (which is what I called that year I spent learning educational jargon after I had my BA,) we saw a film about this very thing. I remember one part of the film very well.
It was filmed with the fish-eye lens to make it scary.
There was a child pretending to be the teacher, and he had a tea cup. He held the cup up to the teacher, who was playing the child and asked, “What is this?”
The Teacher/child answered, “It's a tea cup.”
Then the Child/teacher turned it upside down and again asked what it was.
The Teacher/child said, “A teacup?”
The Child/teacher said, “NO! Now it's something else!”
Next he turned it around so the handle was on the other side, and the frustrated Teacher/child meekly said, “A teacup?”
“NO!” Bellowed the Child/teacher.
Suddenly, I understood what children went through learning to decipher the sticks and balls of the printed word.
I suppose I had learned to read in a less precise way, as I taught myself to read by deciphering the Sunday comics, before I went to kindergarten. I probably used the “Right Brain Method.” (I probably just made that up.)
People who are dominated by the left hemisphere are practical, linear, detailed, and orderly. They process things from part to whole. They see all the details when they enter a room. They are the engineers and the scientists of the world. They also make excellent proofreaders.
Those of us who are right brained dominate are artistic and impulsive. We see the whole room. Furthermore we get a feeling from it. Color and music are always involved. We read what the writer meant instead of the actual letters and words.
Needless to say the well balanced person taps into both hemispheres. The school district that employed me gave all of us a test to discover whether we were right or left brain dominated and I came out almost totally RIGHT. Was anyone surprised?
They found that almost all of the teachers tend to be either evenly situated between the corpus callosum and if they were dominate on one side it was definitely to the left. Well. That explains a lot of things.
Like my desk, for instance.
And why I was always having my students perform.
So here's my question. How did people who see everything black and white in politics become associated with the musical, interior decorating, mural-painting, tap-dancing side of the brain?
How is it that the Don't Tell Me What To Do In My Private Life political party is in any way connected with the stoic, calculating, reasoning, “if-this-then-that” lineaar hemisphere?
My left hemisphere Googled this subject, because I am the curious type. It has nothing to do with today. It came to be back in the 1700's in France, during the revolution. People who were conservatives sat to the right of the king and the people who were more liberal sat to the left of the throne.
That's it in a nutshell. We are carrying on a French tradition. Ces't la vie.
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Day Everybody Turned Nice (Too Bad It Didn't Last)
On the day school started in 2001, Richard, myself, and another retired couple of educators drove by our schools to honk good-bye in a “Ha ha, you’re back in school and we aren’t,” sort of way.
We were headed for Vegas, then Yellowstone and on to the Black Hills to see the Presidential Heads on a Mountain. We were having a great time enjoying our newfound freedom.
On September 11, we were in Cody, Wyoming. We awoke to the terrible sights on television, along with everyone else in the nation.
Our plan had been to visit Mt. Rushmore that day. Instead we sat in our hotel rooms watching the horror with our eyes wide with fear and our hands over our mouths. I remember my skin feeling prickly and my breathing was shallow.
After some discussion and several emotional phone calls home, (Home! Suddenly we just wanted to be home!), we decided to proceed to our destination. We couldn’t help but think of the teachers we left behind and the children in their classes. What were they saying to them? How could they explain this? I remember how emotional it was in our classrooms the day the Challenger exploded. This was of a far greater scope.
With our car radio tuned to the unfolding news, we crossed into South Dakota.
.
The sky was eerily empty.
We called our loved ones again. Daughter Martie had decided to keep our granddaughter home from school. No one seemed to know what would happen next.
As we came upon the area of Mt. Rushmore, there were armed guards at the access road. (We took their picture from afar.) Upon learning that all of the monuments across the United States had been closed down, we spent the next twenty-four hours alternately planning to go on home and waiting to see what happened next.
.
When Mt. Rushmore re-opened we walked around the plaza there and then attended the evening show. I’m sure that the production is always wonderful, but that night! Oh my! It was emotionally charged with that surge of ultra-patriotism that everyone had suddenly come to enjoy. Tears washed the faces of everyone in the audience as we sang, “America,” “ The Star Spangled Banner,” and “God Bless America.”
We stayed on the road for the next week, visiting Glacier Park, Coeur d’Alene, and Seattle. There was a different feel out there. Flags popped up on cars, of course, but the people were different. There was a change in humanity. People were more gentle and friendly. Strangers were acting like old friends. Everyone was open and raw. There was a feeling of “us-ness.”
Turned out to be a good time to travel.
We were headed for Vegas, then Yellowstone and on to the Black Hills to see the Presidential Heads on a Mountain. We were having a great time enjoying our newfound freedom.
On September 11, we were in Cody, Wyoming. We awoke to the terrible sights on television, along with everyone else in the nation.
Our plan had been to visit Mt. Rushmore that day. Instead we sat in our hotel rooms watching the horror with our eyes wide with fear and our hands over our mouths. I remember my skin feeling prickly and my breathing was shallow.
After some discussion and several emotional phone calls home, (Home! Suddenly we just wanted to be home!), we decided to proceed to our destination. We couldn’t help but think of the teachers we left behind and the children in their classes. What were they saying to them? How could they explain this? I remember how emotional it was in our classrooms the day the Challenger exploded. This was of a far greater scope.
With our car radio tuned to the unfolding news, we crossed into South Dakota.
.
The sky was eerily empty.
We called our loved ones again. Daughter Martie had decided to keep our granddaughter home from school. No one seemed to know what would happen next.
As we came upon the area of Mt. Rushmore, there were armed guards at the access road. (We took their picture from afar.) Upon learning that all of the monuments across the United States had been closed down, we spent the next twenty-four hours alternately planning to go on home and waiting to see what happened next.
.
When Mt. Rushmore re-opened we walked around the plaza there and then attended the evening show. I’m sure that the production is always wonderful, but that night! Oh my! It was emotionally charged with that surge of ultra-patriotism that everyone had suddenly come to enjoy. Tears washed the faces of everyone in the audience as we sang, “America,” “ The Star Spangled Banner,” and “God Bless America.”
We stayed on the road for the next week, visiting Glacier Park, Coeur d’Alene, and Seattle. There was a different feel out there. Flags popped up on cars, of course, but the people were different. There was a change in humanity. People were more gentle and friendly. Strangers were acting like old friends. Everyone was open and raw. There was a feeling of “us-ness.”
Turned out to be a good time to travel.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Grammies 2010
Grammies 2010
…or as Steven Colbert called it,
“The show where performers exercise their most precious right; the right to congratulate each other.”
Sunday night’s show was the best Grammy show I have seen in years. (ie, not much rap displays, and lots of Agreeing With Me.)
Mr. Colbert announced the Song of the Year, (Single Ladies) by reading it from his iPad, which he pulled from inside his jacket. I have been amused by parodies of Beyonce’s video of Single Ladies, most notably by Justin Timberlake who, along with two members of the SNL cast, dressed in black tights and four-inch heels and did the Single Ladies dance. Hilarious.
Beyonce put on a Show with a capital “S!” She had about forty dancing storm troopers, and great, elaborate costumes. She sang, If I Were a Boy and then slipped in a bit of Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know,” (or as we call it in my family, “The Cross-eyed Bear Song.”) It may be the angriest song ever performed.
As an old (-er) lady, I could be Pink’s oldest fan. I also like Lady GaGa. They showed their awesome talent Sunday night.
Pink performed soaking wet acrobatics in the air, while singing, I might add!
Lady GaGa can sing! She can play the piano and sing at the same time, which never ceases to amaze me. She performed with another one of my favorite divas, Elton John, and they brought out the best in each other.
Both Pink and Lady GaGa make Cher look conservative. That’s not easy to do.
My favorite songwriter, Leonard Cohen, won a Lifetime Achievement Award. So did Loretta Lynn. I never thought I’d mention these two people in the same paragraph.
Zac Brown won the best new artist. I hadn’t heard of any of the other people they were up against. (The “Ting Tings?”)
The Black Eyed Peas performed. They do the best work out songs. Put them on your ipod and go work out. Work out for me, too, because I am busy. Other good workout tunes are Blame it on the A-A-Alcohol, Footloose, and Use Somebody. (I am good at choosing work out songs, just not at working out.)
There were great performances by Lady Antebellum, The Kings of Leon, Taylor Swift and Stevie Nicks, Andre Bocelli and Mary J. Blige. Every performance was great, but the best of the best was the Michael Jackson 3-D performance, and I didn’t even have any 3-D glasses. If you missed it, you must Google it! I don’t care what Michael (did with the Jesus Juice,) (may or may not have done,) (was accused of doing) he knew how to put on a show. That boy could sing and dance!
Stevie Nicks was not the only old rocker featured on Sunday night’s show. We got to see Jon Bon Jovi, Neil Young, Lionel Richie, Smokey Robinson, and Leon Russell. Anyone remember Mad Dogs and Englishmen? Leon lived across the street from our friends in Tulsa. What a partier!
The entire show was impressively grandiose. I loved every minute of it, even the rap performances. (Did I just write those words?)
…or as Steven Colbert called it,
“The show where performers exercise their most precious right; the right to congratulate each other.”
Sunday night’s show was the best Grammy show I have seen in years. (ie, not much rap displays, and lots of Agreeing With Me.)
Mr. Colbert announced the Song of the Year, (Single Ladies) by reading it from his iPad, which he pulled from inside his jacket. I have been amused by parodies of Beyonce’s video of Single Ladies, most notably by Justin Timberlake who, along with two members of the SNL cast, dressed in black tights and four-inch heels and did the Single Ladies dance. Hilarious.
Beyonce put on a Show with a capital “S!” She had about forty dancing storm troopers, and great, elaborate costumes. She sang, If I Were a Boy and then slipped in a bit of Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know,” (or as we call it in my family, “The Cross-eyed Bear Song.”) It may be the angriest song ever performed.
As an old (-er) lady, I could be Pink’s oldest fan. I also like Lady GaGa. They showed their awesome talent Sunday night.
Pink performed soaking wet acrobatics in the air, while singing, I might add!
Lady GaGa can sing! She can play the piano and sing at the same time, which never ceases to amaze me. She performed with another one of my favorite divas, Elton John, and they brought out the best in each other.
Both Pink and Lady GaGa make Cher look conservative. That’s not easy to do.
My favorite songwriter, Leonard Cohen, won a Lifetime Achievement Award. So did Loretta Lynn. I never thought I’d mention these two people in the same paragraph.
Zac Brown won the best new artist. I hadn’t heard of any of the other people they were up against. (The “Ting Tings?”)
The Black Eyed Peas performed. They do the best work out songs. Put them on your ipod and go work out. Work out for me, too, because I am busy. Other good workout tunes are Blame it on the A-A-Alcohol, Footloose, and Use Somebody. (I am good at choosing work out songs, just not at working out.)
There were great performances by Lady Antebellum, The Kings of Leon, Taylor Swift and Stevie Nicks, Andre Bocelli and Mary J. Blige. Every performance was great, but the best of the best was the Michael Jackson 3-D performance, and I didn’t even have any 3-D glasses. If you missed it, you must Google it! I don’t care what Michael (did with the Jesus Juice,) (may or may not have done,) (was accused of doing) he knew how to put on a show. That boy could sing and dance!
Stevie Nicks was not the only old rocker featured on Sunday night’s show. We got to see Jon Bon Jovi, Neil Young, Lionel Richie, Smokey Robinson, and Leon Russell. Anyone remember Mad Dogs and Englishmen? Leon lived across the street from our friends in Tulsa. What a partier!
The entire show was impressively grandiose. I loved every minute of it, even the rap performances. (Did I just write those words?)
Grading Science Reports
For my first good deed of 2011, I helped my sister grade her ocean life reports. First, I suggested we just give them all A's and go shopping, but she is a stickler for going by the rubric. She teaches middle school science and math. Let us have a moment of silence in her honor right now.
I sort of like helping her with this chore now and then because I always learn something new, plus middle school kids write some pretty funny stuff!
I learned two new things that I didn't know before and my sister verified to be true. For one thing I learned that the green sea turtle has non-retractible limbs. I should have known this because I happen to be somewhat of a sea turtle expert. I have stood in the sand, not three feet from a gigantic turtle as she laid and subsequently buried her eggs. Then I walked beside her as she lumbered back into the sea. It was a life changing experience.
Also, new to my vocabulary, due to the report grading event, is the grouping word “smack.” If one needs to speak of a group of jellyfish, they are called a smack. If you should ever stumble into a smack of jellyfish, believe me you will speak of the experience.
The following “facts” were taken straight from the reports. They may need to be verified, as I am not sure of their authenticity.
“The gray whale visits many different places, but the view under water doesn't change much.”
“An angler fish mates for eight days and then the male just attaches himself to the female until his whole body is absorbed by her. Now that's what I call a close relationship.”
“The hammerhead shark doesn't have much of a family life.”
“Sea lions sniff poop to see if it is their baby.”
“Sea anemones will close up its tentacles if you touch it and then it will starve to death, so if you see one you should resist the urge to touch it with your hand. Just use one or two fingers.”
“Once a bottle-nose dolphin saved a baby humpback whale and took it back to its mother.”
“A killer whale eats warm blooded animals to feel warm on the inside.”
“The crown of thorns starfish eats mollusks, which is gross to us but good to them. Also, the female gets up on her tippy-toes on a rock to lay her eggs.”
“If you are in the middle of a pod of narwal whales you will get deaf because they are so loud.”
“Male chimeras have retractable sexual appendages on their foreheads. You can give a man a fish and he might eat it for a meal, but if you show him a raw chimera, he may never eat fish for real!”
“If a shark accidentally bites down on a rock and breaks off all of his teeth they will soon grow back again.”
“Usually, reproducing is all a penguin thinks about.”
“A baby hammerhead can't swim when it is born because it's a sack.”
“Seahorses meet each morning to do the tango – seahorse style!”
Now that's something I'd like to see.
I sort of like helping her with this chore now and then because I always learn something new, plus middle school kids write some pretty funny stuff!
I learned two new things that I didn't know before and my sister verified to be true. For one thing I learned that the green sea turtle has non-retractible limbs. I should have known this because I happen to be somewhat of a sea turtle expert. I have stood in the sand, not three feet from a gigantic turtle as she laid and subsequently buried her eggs. Then I walked beside her as she lumbered back into the sea. It was a life changing experience.
Also, new to my vocabulary, due to the report grading event, is the grouping word “smack.” If one needs to speak of a group of jellyfish, they are called a smack. If you should ever stumble into a smack of jellyfish, believe me you will speak of the experience.
The following “facts” were taken straight from the reports. They may need to be verified, as I am not sure of their authenticity.
“The gray whale visits many different places, but the view under water doesn't change much.”
“An angler fish mates for eight days and then the male just attaches himself to the female until his whole body is absorbed by her. Now that's what I call a close relationship.”
“The hammerhead shark doesn't have much of a family life.”
“Sea lions sniff poop to see if it is their baby.”
“Sea anemones will close up its tentacles if you touch it and then it will starve to death, so if you see one you should resist the urge to touch it with your hand. Just use one or two fingers.”
“Once a bottle-nose dolphin saved a baby humpback whale and took it back to its mother.”
“A killer whale eats warm blooded animals to feel warm on the inside.”
“The crown of thorns starfish eats mollusks, which is gross to us but good to them. Also, the female gets up on her tippy-toes on a rock to lay her eggs.”
“If you are in the middle of a pod of narwal whales you will get deaf because they are so loud.”
“Male chimeras have retractable sexual appendages on their foreheads. You can give a man a fish and he might eat it for a meal, but if you show him a raw chimera, he may never eat fish for real!”
“If a shark accidentally bites down on a rock and breaks off all of his teeth they will soon grow back again.”
“Usually, reproducing is all a penguin thinks about.”
“A baby hammerhead can't swim when it is born because it's a sack.”
“Seahorses meet each morning to do the tango – seahorse style!”
Now that's something I'd like to see.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Flat Jack
Flat Stanley is a children’s book by Jeff Brown, which has been around for a long time. If you have ever taught elementary school you know all about Stanley. Seems a bulletin board fell on him and flattened him. After poor Stanley adjusts to his new flat self, he discovers that it isn’t all that bad to be flat. He can do things that a full-bodied kid can’t do. It isn’t long before he comes up with a little scheme to mail himself to exciting places. These circumstances make for a great plot line. Children love to think of being able to sneak into places covertly.
When my grandson, Jack was in the second grade, his teacher used this book to make a writing assignment interesting and had the children make a flat version of themselves. After they admired one another’s flat alter egos they mailed themselves to another city hoping that they would have a wonderful adventure to write about and ultimately make their own little books.
Jack mailed Flat Jack to San Francisco to visit Uncle Rob. It wasn’t long before I got a frantic phone call. “Mom! We lost Flat Jack! We can’t find him anywhere!” I spoke to Jack’s teacher, who happens to be a friend and an ex colleague. She said that she’d have him make another to add to the project when the pictures of the adventure were returned to school. Since time was short, Rob quickly fashioned a new Flat Jack, using a photograph of Jack’s face for the head. Now Flat Jack looked quite real. Flat, but real.
They took him for an airplane ride. They strapped him in the front seat of their plane, took his picture, and took off. Flat Jack got to fly over and take pictures of The Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, Alcatraz, the Bay Bridge, and other wonderful San Francisco landmarks.
Then suddenly, horror of horrors, Flat Jack got air sick. Some disgusting paper green stuff spewed forth from his flat little mouth! (Let me tell you here that green stuff spewing from someone’s mouth is prime second grade humor.) The green stuff ended the flight.
They landed and went back to Uncle Rob’s house. There, Flat Jack played with Rob’s puppies, Mellie and Butler. Puppies, being puppies, chewed poor Flat Jack to pieces. The last photo was taken of these pieces scattered all over the floor with the dogs in the background; thus documenting the demise of poor Flat Jack.
His book was a hit, because not only do second graders like to be grossed out by barf, it appears they also enjoy canine dismemberment.
When my grandson, Jack was in the second grade, his teacher used this book to make a writing assignment interesting and had the children make a flat version of themselves. After they admired one another’s flat alter egos they mailed themselves to another city hoping that they would have a wonderful adventure to write about and ultimately make their own little books.
Jack mailed Flat Jack to San Francisco to visit Uncle Rob. It wasn’t long before I got a frantic phone call. “Mom! We lost Flat Jack! We can’t find him anywhere!” I spoke to Jack’s teacher, who happens to be a friend and an ex colleague. She said that she’d have him make another to add to the project when the pictures of the adventure were returned to school. Since time was short, Rob quickly fashioned a new Flat Jack, using a photograph of Jack’s face for the head. Now Flat Jack looked quite real. Flat, but real.
They took him for an airplane ride. They strapped him in the front seat of their plane, took his picture, and took off. Flat Jack got to fly over and take pictures of The Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, Alcatraz, the Bay Bridge, and other wonderful San Francisco landmarks.
Then suddenly, horror of horrors, Flat Jack got air sick. Some disgusting paper green stuff spewed forth from his flat little mouth! (Let me tell you here that green stuff spewing from someone’s mouth is prime second grade humor.) The green stuff ended the flight.
They landed and went back to Uncle Rob’s house. There, Flat Jack played with Rob’s puppies, Mellie and Butler. Puppies, being puppies, chewed poor Flat Jack to pieces. The last photo was taken of these pieces scattered all over the floor with the dogs in the background; thus documenting the demise of poor Flat Jack.
His book was a hit, because not only do second graders like to be grossed out by barf, it appears they also enjoy canine dismemberment.
Bought the Farm
Farm Report
There is an inspection of the Shasta County property happening as I write this. Richard is pacing up and down with the phone in his hand waiting for Rob to call with the results, and, he hopes, other news.
I have put some books into boxes, only to be told the boxes are too heavy. We have taken one carload of books to the library. We will deliver one more load later. I have started six piles of stuff that I want to give to people but I haven’t made a dent. I am paralyzed. I don’t know what to do next.
During my teaching years, when it was time to go into my classroom to set it up for the new year, I always had to count on going in and spending one whole day sort of standing in the middle of the room and turning in circles wondering what to do and where to start. I suppose I am doing this now only on a grander scale.
The dynamics of this impending move are far reaching. Every day another person cries. The grandchildren are upset. Martie feels abandoned. Richard and I feel guilty, as well as burdened. We also feel that this will eventually be a good move for all of us. We will be down here often to check on things and visit. I will miss Martie’s everyday presence. She is my best friend.
The fax has come with the report on the house. Seems the cowboy who is selling has done his own electrical work. (jerry-rigged) He added the garage without a firewall. There is a container of propane under the stove (much like our barbeque). There is much to be done to this property. I have insisted on a mold inspection, which is not included in the regular inspection. I don’t think my asthma could take mold. Everyone thinks I’m a weenie. Richard could snort mold daily for weeks and never notice it.
Two days have passed since I began this entry. We now have a well water report. WELL? Just exactly how does this well thing work? What if my dogs wee-wee on the ground near this well thing? Does this mean the dog wee will seep down into the well water? Is this well lined with a thick anti-bacterial wall of cement? Does the Sparklettes Water delivery truck come out that far? I am a “City Okie”, as I have told you before.
Don’t any of you DARE plan a trip or cruise without letting us know! I’ll need connections with civilization now and then during this adventure.
It’s just a part of life’s rich pageant!!!!!
There is an inspection of the Shasta County property happening as I write this. Richard is pacing up and down with the phone in his hand waiting for Rob to call with the results, and, he hopes, other news.
I have put some books into boxes, only to be told the boxes are too heavy. We have taken one carload of books to the library. We will deliver one more load later. I have started six piles of stuff that I want to give to people but I haven’t made a dent. I am paralyzed. I don’t know what to do next.
During my teaching years, when it was time to go into my classroom to set it up for the new year, I always had to count on going in and spending one whole day sort of standing in the middle of the room and turning in circles wondering what to do and where to start. I suppose I am doing this now only on a grander scale.
The dynamics of this impending move are far reaching. Every day another person cries. The grandchildren are upset. Martie feels abandoned. Richard and I feel guilty, as well as burdened. We also feel that this will eventually be a good move for all of us. We will be down here often to check on things and visit. I will miss Martie’s everyday presence. She is my best friend.
The fax has come with the report on the house. Seems the cowboy who is selling has done his own electrical work. (jerry-rigged) He added the garage without a firewall. There is a container of propane under the stove (much like our barbeque). There is much to be done to this property. I have insisted on a mold inspection, which is not included in the regular inspection. I don’t think my asthma could take mold. Everyone thinks I’m a weenie. Richard could snort mold daily for weeks and never notice it.
Two days have passed since I began this entry. We now have a well water report. WELL? Just exactly how does this well thing work? What if my dogs wee-wee on the ground near this well thing? Does this mean the dog wee will seep down into the well water? Is this well lined with a thick anti-bacterial wall of cement? Does the Sparklettes Water delivery truck come out that far? I am a “City Okie”, as I have told you before.
Don’t any of you DARE plan a trip or cruise without letting us know! I’ll need connections with civilization now and then during this adventure.
It’s just a part of life’s rich pageant!!!!!
Mothers Day Travel Fiasco
Event in the Life of Lynn
Yesterday, Mother’s Day, I woke early, took a shower, and went to breakfast with Martie, her beau, and the kids. It was entertaining as meal events usually are with Jack and Rachel. They love a captive audience, and their ability to mimic funny lines from movies always makes me laugh.
After breakfast they took me to Long Brach Airport to hop a plane to San Francisco to spend the rest of the day with Rob and Leigh. They had sent me an e-ticket and I had printed it out, given it a glance and tucked it in my purse.
Martie dropped me off at the curb and I went in to check in and get my boarding pass. The lady behind the Jet Blue counter said, “I hope this isn’t for flight 456, because they are closing the doors right now.” (How did she know!?)
It seems I had read the arrival time as the departing time. These things happen with me.
She quickly picked up the phone and asked someone on the flight crew, “Can you take another runner?” Sadly for me the doors were closed and they were pulling away.
She placed my name on the stand-by list for the 3:00 flight, and informed me that I was the fifth name on stand-by.
Now I had to find a phone, as mine has been lost since April 24th. (I called about it and there hasn’t been any activity on it since then, so it’s probably around here somewhere, or I threw it in the recycling bin again.) Try to imagine how difficult it is to find a pay phone in this day and age! Now try to imagine how difficult it is to get someone to give you 8 quarters for $2.00.
When I had found both, I called Rob and told him my predicament. He was ever so patient. He said he’d call around and see what he could find and call me back in ten minutes. Then I had to tell him about my missing cell phone, so he told me to call him back in ten minutes.
When I called him back he said, “Grab a cab and go to LAX. There’s an 11:30 flight on United.”
One half of an hour and $46.00 later, I was at the self check-in at United, reading on the screen that the flight was closed.
Nearing hysteria, I had a conversation with the clerk that started out a bit snippy on her part, but when she looked on her computer screen she suddenly became ever so polite, and said I could proceed to gate #85.
Apparently, Rob flies with them so much that he belongs to some hoity-toity-special-business-boy-club. When I got to the gate, the clerk asked where would I like for my assigned seat to be, and I answered,
“On the plane, please.”
It’s not easy being me.
Yesterday, Mother’s Day, I woke early, took a shower, and went to breakfast with Martie, her beau, and the kids. It was entertaining as meal events usually are with Jack and Rachel. They love a captive audience, and their ability to mimic funny lines from movies always makes me laugh.
After breakfast they took me to Long Brach Airport to hop a plane to San Francisco to spend the rest of the day with Rob and Leigh. They had sent me an e-ticket and I had printed it out, given it a glance and tucked it in my purse.
Martie dropped me off at the curb and I went in to check in and get my boarding pass. The lady behind the Jet Blue counter said, “I hope this isn’t for flight 456, because they are closing the doors right now.” (How did she know!?)
It seems I had read the arrival time as the departing time. These things happen with me.
She quickly picked up the phone and asked someone on the flight crew, “Can you take another runner?” Sadly for me the doors were closed and they were pulling away.
She placed my name on the stand-by list for the 3:00 flight, and informed me that I was the fifth name on stand-by.
Now I had to find a phone, as mine has been lost since April 24th. (I called about it and there hasn’t been any activity on it since then, so it’s probably around here somewhere, or I threw it in the recycling bin again.) Try to imagine how difficult it is to find a pay phone in this day and age! Now try to imagine how difficult it is to get someone to give you 8 quarters for $2.00.
When I had found both, I called Rob and told him my predicament. He was ever so patient. He said he’d call around and see what he could find and call me back in ten minutes. Then I had to tell him about my missing cell phone, so he told me to call him back in ten minutes.
When I called him back he said, “Grab a cab and go to LAX. There’s an 11:30 flight on United.”
One half of an hour and $46.00 later, I was at the self check-in at United, reading on the screen that the flight was closed.
Nearing hysteria, I had a conversation with the clerk that started out a bit snippy on her part, but when she looked on her computer screen she suddenly became ever so polite, and said I could proceed to gate #85.
Apparently, Rob flies with them so much that he belongs to some hoity-toity-special-business-boy-club. When I got to the gate, the clerk asked where would I like for my assigned seat to be, and I answered,
“On the plane, please.”
It’s not easy being me.
Misplaced Queen Latifa
Last Saturday we lost --- well, misplaced one of our cows, Queen Latifa. Richard spent an hour and a half searching the property, looking for her. Frustrated, he made another check of the ponds to make sure that she wasn’t stuck in the mud. We couldn’t figure out where she could be. The rest of the cows were standing around eating the hay he had just put out for them. It just wasn’t like Queenie to miss a meal. Usually the sound of the ATV will cause them all to run happily, for the barn.
Just the fact that she wasn’t with the others was strange. The cows do everything together. If one cow is in the shade of a twiggy little tree the rest of them are all smushed into the same little spot of shade. There may be twenty-five trees in the pasture but it seems that cows will always gather under the same tree. (Probably to gossip.)
If Queenie ran away, they would all run away because of the afore mentioned togetherness thing. They have done this before. They escaped to the neighboring Cow Creek ranch about nine months ago. But the fence has since been repaired and reinforced, thus ending those neighborly visits.
We even thought about the possibility of something like a mountain lion attacking her. After all, it hadn’t been a year since our neighbor, Shannon, had to shoot a lion that attacked and killed her little goat. She dropped it with one shot.
But there would have been evidence of that if it had happened. A mountain lion couldn’t eat a whole cow, no matter how hungry it was.
We decided the cow had been rustled. There was no other explanation. But after more discussion we realized that wasn’t probable either. The way our property is situated, anyone coming in would be noticed. Shannon would see any unusual activity, and she’s armed and dangerous. (We feel comfortable knowing that she is there to protect us.)
So where was the danged cow?
Richard looked depressed. He even said that maybe he should just get out of the cow business. He already has one misplaced heifer. She ran off in a fit of PMS last September or so. We still haven’t been able to locate her. I guess the other cows were afraid to follow her what with her bad mood and all.
He gave up his search and came in to watch the Oklahoma Sooners play Florida for the championship. That didn’t go well for him either. He was glum.
Yesterday morning he went outside and there she was. Queenie the Cow had come home. OK! He was Rancher Richie again. He resumed being his usual jovial self.
This morning he hollered at me from the back deck to come out and see why the cow had been missing. When I looked there was a new calf, a little bitty replica of Queen Latifa was standing right beside her mama! Apparently Mama had been hussying around without our knowledge.
Richard had had her inseminated earlier last year but when she didn’t have a calf when she was supposed to we knew that hadn’t worked. We had no idea that she had taken matters of motherhood into her own hands.
We don’t know if our wanton cow broke some moral rule of cow decency or not, but we don’t really care. The calf is too cute!
Just the fact that she wasn’t with the others was strange. The cows do everything together. If one cow is in the shade of a twiggy little tree the rest of them are all smushed into the same little spot of shade. There may be twenty-five trees in the pasture but it seems that cows will always gather under the same tree. (Probably to gossip.)
If Queenie ran away, they would all run away because of the afore mentioned togetherness thing. They have done this before. They escaped to the neighboring Cow Creek ranch about nine months ago. But the fence has since been repaired and reinforced, thus ending those neighborly visits.
We even thought about the possibility of something like a mountain lion attacking her. After all, it hadn’t been a year since our neighbor, Shannon, had to shoot a lion that attacked and killed her little goat. She dropped it with one shot.
But there would have been evidence of that if it had happened. A mountain lion couldn’t eat a whole cow, no matter how hungry it was.
We decided the cow had been rustled. There was no other explanation. But after more discussion we realized that wasn’t probable either. The way our property is situated, anyone coming in would be noticed. Shannon would see any unusual activity, and she’s armed and dangerous. (We feel comfortable knowing that she is there to protect us.)
So where was the danged cow?
Richard looked depressed. He even said that maybe he should just get out of the cow business. He already has one misplaced heifer. She ran off in a fit of PMS last September or so. We still haven’t been able to locate her. I guess the other cows were afraid to follow her what with her bad mood and all.
He gave up his search and came in to watch the Oklahoma Sooners play Florida for the championship. That didn’t go well for him either. He was glum.
Yesterday morning he went outside and there she was. Queenie the Cow had come home. OK! He was Rancher Richie again. He resumed being his usual jovial self.
This morning he hollered at me from the back deck to come out and see why the cow had been missing. When I looked there was a new calf, a little bitty replica of Queen Latifa was standing right beside her mama! Apparently Mama had been hussying around without our knowledge.
Richard had had her inseminated earlier last year but when she didn’t have a calf when she was supposed to we knew that hadn’t worked. We had no idea that she had taken matters of motherhood into her own hands.
We don’t know if our wanton cow broke some moral rule of cow decency or not, but we don’t really care. The calf is too cute!
Random Letters to Random People
RANDOM LETTERS TO RANDOM PEOPLE
Dear Weather Dude,
Will you pu-leeze quit putting those big L’s up in the sky above Whitmore. Remember last week when you put that big H up there? It was all sunny and bright and made me sing, “Oh What A Beautiful Morning.” Now go. Change the L to an H. I’ll wait right here. The “L” makes the door to my studio stick.
Dear Shoplifters,
Thank you so much for adding those impossible-to-open blister packs to our lives.
Really, what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out-of-context, maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, to, tee time da wady”
Ala Eddie Murphy’s Buckwheat.
And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my blood-curdling scream?
Dear Teachers Everywhere,
Please take a lesson from your colleagues in LA. They chose the wrong people to hold up as exemplary citizens for their students during Black History Month. Apparently OJ Simpson, Dennis Rodman, and RuPaul are not appropriate role models for young people to emulate. The teachers were removed from the classroom.
(I am wondering…what’s wrong with RuPaul?)
Dear People Who Put The Bloody Shirt Belonging To Robert Kennedy and the Photograph of Marilyn Monroe on Her Death Bed On Display in Vegas,
You will need to wait for about a hundred more years to display the shirt without getting any negative feedback from the public. Abraham Lincoln’s bloody shirt is permanently on display in Washington D.C. and no one complains about it. It is there along with the bloody pillow he died on, the gun that killed him, and his bloody coat and boots.
However, you might want to rethink your idea of putting a photograph of Marilyn Monroe, dead or alive, in the same exhibit with any Kennedy. I’m just saying.
Dear Blanket Jackson,
I am so sorry. You are in for it, Sweetie. You must never go out into the world among other children. You will be ridiculed and pummeled. Other boys will not care that you are a beautiful child. They will not care that you had a famous father. They will only be interested in taunting you because your name is Blanket.
Dear Rush Limbaugh,
Did you know that your voice is being used to deter the vicious Bark Beetles that have killed twelve million trees in California’s national forests? I knew you were good for something.
Dear Teenage Girls,
Vampires aren’t real.
Dear People Who Send Me “Public Notices” That Look Like Traffic Tickets or Semester Grades or Mid-Term Reports,
Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Dear Newspaper Reporters,
A man found dead by the river with a bullet hole in his head and a knife sticking out of his chest should be classified as a little more than “suspicious.” While we’re at it here, if a person in a truck runs over a pedestrian and then turns around and runs over him again, it is not “Probably” done on purpose.
Dear Kitty Cats Who Live At My House,
The beautiful mouse guts that you leave for me so artistically arranged, on my front mat are enough for me. You don’t need to put any more dead birds in my car. I did not notice it until I was out in traffic and that can be dangerous.
Dear Flying School Using The Air Above Whitmore To Teach People How To Fly,
Please quit practicing stalls over my house.
Dear Water Pick,
I hate you.
-____________________________________
Dear governor of Texas,
I do not think your prayers for rain idea will work. However if you add some feathers and Native Americans you may just get a rainstorm or two. Then again, you can just wait until the rain cycle comes around again—which it will.
Dear People who put perfume on those folded over strips in magazines,
Stop it! It doesn’t make any difference what you call your scent it all smells the same in a magazine. You are wasting your time as well as your stinky perfume.
Dear Bug Walking On My Ceiling,
Perhaps you could go walk on the other side of the room. Even better go walk in the kitchen. There is stuff to eat in there.
Dear Weather Dude,
Will you pu-leeze quit putting those big L’s up in the sky above Whitmore. Remember last week when you put that big H up there? It was all sunny and bright and made me sing, “Oh What A Beautiful Morning.” Now go. Change the L to an H. I’ll wait right here. The “L” makes the door to my studio stick.
Dear Shoplifters,
Thank you so much for adding those impossible-to-open blister packs to our lives.
Really, what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out-of-context, maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, to, tee time da wady”
Ala Eddie Murphy’s Buckwheat.
And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my blood-curdling scream?
Dear Teachers Everywhere,
Please take a lesson from your colleagues in LA. They chose the wrong people to hold up as exemplary citizens for their students during Black History Month. Apparently OJ Simpson, Dennis Rodman, and RuPaul are not appropriate role models for young people to emulate. The teachers were removed from the classroom.
(I am wondering…what’s wrong with RuPaul?)
Dear People Who Put The Bloody Shirt Belonging To Robert Kennedy and the Photograph of Marilyn Monroe on Her Death Bed On Display in Vegas,
You will need to wait for about a hundred more years to display the shirt without getting any negative feedback from the public. Abraham Lincoln’s bloody shirt is permanently on display in Washington D.C. and no one complains about it. It is there along with the bloody pillow he died on, the gun that killed him, and his bloody coat and boots.
However, you might want to rethink your idea of putting a photograph of Marilyn Monroe, dead or alive, in the same exhibit with any Kennedy. I’m just saying.
Dear Blanket Jackson,
I am so sorry. You are in for it, Sweetie. You must never go out into the world among other children. You will be ridiculed and pummeled. Other boys will not care that you are a beautiful child. They will not care that you had a famous father. They will only be interested in taunting you because your name is Blanket.
Dear Rush Limbaugh,
Did you know that your voice is being used to deter the vicious Bark Beetles that have killed twelve million trees in California’s national forests? I knew you were good for something.
Dear Teenage Girls,
Vampires aren’t real.
Dear People Who Send Me “Public Notices” That Look Like Traffic Tickets or Semester Grades or Mid-Term Reports,
Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Dear Newspaper Reporters,
A man found dead by the river with a bullet hole in his head and a knife sticking out of his chest should be classified as a little more than “suspicious.” While we’re at it here, if a person in a truck runs over a pedestrian and then turns around and runs over him again, it is not “Probably” done on purpose.
Dear Kitty Cats Who Live At My House,
The beautiful mouse guts that you leave for me so artistically arranged, on my front mat are enough for me. You don’t need to put any more dead birds in my car. I did not notice it until I was out in traffic and that can be dangerous.
Dear Flying School Using The Air Above Whitmore To Teach People How To Fly,
Please quit practicing stalls over my house.
Dear Water Pick,
I hate you.
-____________________________________
Dear governor of Texas,
I do not think your prayers for rain idea will work. However if you add some feathers and Native Americans you may just get a rainstorm or two. Then again, you can just wait until the rain cycle comes around again—which it will.
Dear People who put perfume on those folded over strips in magazines,
Stop it! It doesn’t make any difference what you call your scent it all smells the same in a magazine. You are wasting your time as well as your stinky perfume.
Dear Bug Walking On My Ceiling,
Perhaps you could go walk on the other side of the room. Even better go walk in the kitchen. There is stuff to eat in there.
Letter to Rachel
Dear Rachel Skye,
This is your Gigi, who misses you so, so much. If Mommy ignores you when you say, “Nyet, nyet, nyet” just call me, OK? You are my precious baby and I will give you anything you want.
Here is a helpful reminder for you; If you get a stuffy nose, don’t let Mommy know or she will come after you with one of those fuzzy sticks that you hate.
Also, if they make you eat things you don’t like, just call 894-3400.
If Mommy puts that scratchy dress on you just call me and I will save you. We will sing together, and stay up late, and eat ice cream, and then go outside barefoot and look at the moon.
I will teach you how to tap dance and how to say, “It was temporary insanity” when you get into trouble. We will read a thousand books and I will let you wear all of my jewelry at once.
We are going to have a great time, you and I.
Your very own Gigi
This is your Gigi, who misses you so, so much. If Mommy ignores you when you say, “Nyet, nyet, nyet” just call me, OK? You are my precious baby and I will give you anything you want.
Here is a helpful reminder for you; If you get a stuffy nose, don’t let Mommy know or she will come after you with one of those fuzzy sticks that you hate.
Also, if they make you eat things you don’t like, just call 894-3400.
If Mommy puts that scratchy dress on you just call me and I will save you. We will sing together, and stay up late, and eat ice cream, and then go outside barefoot and look at the moon.
I will teach you how to tap dance and how to say, “It was temporary insanity” when you get into trouble. We will read a thousand books and I will let you wear all of my jewelry at once.
We are going to have a great time, you and I.
Your very own Gigi
Cows Out
Today my Northern California granddaughter and I were working diligently in my studio. She was making a scrapbook to take with her when she goes to her dads after school is out. I was making a tray to add to my wine/grape vignette on top of my china cabinet.
As we worked in companionable silence, I happened to look up to see our brown mama cow in the back yard. I squealed, probably an expletive, (sorry Haily), as I immediately thought of my garden in the front yard. Last year, every time I had it all planted and looking nice, the cows got out and ate it.
My screeches alerted our vigilant watchdogs who began barking profusely and chasing the cow, driving her ever closer to my garden. I rushed out the door screaming for Rancher Richie! My four-pound Maltese ran out with me adding to the frenzy and along with it the worry that the cow (on the way to my garden) would trample her.
Can you imagine the noise?
Rancher Richie, hearing the commotion, came running out the back door with his jeans halfway on. Seems he was in the bathroom when all this came to pass.
Haily and I ran into the front yard to redirect the cow away from my plants. As we continued on around the house, I discovered our black mama cow in the fenced in garden area feasting on the strawberries. When she heard me yelling and saw me waving my arms, she stepped across into the next raised planter and began to trample what was left of the bush beans. Rancher Richie with his trusty “cow spanker” began driving them all back toward their proper pastures.
He closed the gate he had inadvertently left open, opened the larger one and ran the mama cows back where they belonged. Now he was after the babies, who were happily dining on white roses. They ran to their escape gate, and were sorely distressed to find it closed. For some reason they wanted very badly to go back through the same gate they came out of. It took some doing on everyone’s part to convince them to go in the larger open gate.
When we had everyone back into their proper locations, we began to have a discussion about how all of this took place.
It seems that Rancher Richie was watering the doomed garden when he glanced up and saw that he had also turned on the sprinklers in the back yard, where I had earlier hung the sheets on the clothesline to dry.
They were not drying.
He became so concerned with the state of the sheets that he ran out of the garden, leaving the garden gate open. Then he ran out of the pasture, leaving that gate open as well. He came to discuss the sheets with me and promptly forgot that he had left two important gates open. I suggested we leave the sheets to re-dry. He went into the house.
As Hailey and I went back to work, I marveled at the fact that the slightest diversion from the norm will set a series of mishaps into motion out here on the ranchita.
The sheets dried again. There were no discouraging words. Just a bit of squealing, mooing, and barking.
As we worked in companionable silence, I happened to look up to see our brown mama cow in the back yard. I squealed, probably an expletive, (sorry Haily), as I immediately thought of my garden in the front yard. Last year, every time I had it all planted and looking nice, the cows got out and ate it.
My screeches alerted our vigilant watchdogs who began barking profusely and chasing the cow, driving her ever closer to my garden. I rushed out the door screaming for Rancher Richie! My four-pound Maltese ran out with me adding to the frenzy and along with it the worry that the cow (on the way to my garden) would trample her.
Can you imagine the noise?
Rancher Richie, hearing the commotion, came running out the back door with his jeans halfway on. Seems he was in the bathroom when all this came to pass.
Haily and I ran into the front yard to redirect the cow away from my plants. As we continued on around the house, I discovered our black mama cow in the fenced in garden area feasting on the strawberries. When she heard me yelling and saw me waving my arms, she stepped across into the next raised planter and began to trample what was left of the bush beans. Rancher Richie with his trusty “cow spanker” began driving them all back toward their proper pastures.
He closed the gate he had inadvertently left open, opened the larger one and ran the mama cows back where they belonged. Now he was after the babies, who were happily dining on white roses. They ran to their escape gate, and were sorely distressed to find it closed. For some reason they wanted very badly to go back through the same gate they came out of. It took some doing on everyone’s part to convince them to go in the larger open gate.
When we had everyone back into their proper locations, we began to have a discussion about how all of this took place.
It seems that Rancher Richie was watering the doomed garden when he glanced up and saw that he had also turned on the sprinklers in the back yard, where I had earlier hung the sheets on the clothesline to dry.
They were not drying.
He became so concerned with the state of the sheets that he ran out of the garden, leaving the garden gate open. Then he ran out of the pasture, leaving that gate open as well. He came to discuss the sheets with me and promptly forgot that he had left two important gates open. I suggested we leave the sheets to re-dry. He went into the house.
As Hailey and I went back to work, I marveled at the fact that the slightest diversion from the norm will set a series of mishaps into motion out here on the ranchita.
The sheets dried again. There were no discouraging words. Just a bit of squealing, mooing, and barking.
CMA 04
Did y’all watch the Country Music Awards last night? I thought they were great. Lots of performing; that’s what I like. I was late to turn it on, though. When I did, Martina McBride was singing the last line of a song I haven’t heard. She sang; “I met God’s will on Halloween night, dressed as a bag of leaves.” Hey, now, that’s what I like about country music. The lyrics.
There is none of this, “I saw you had a boyfriend, who looked like a girlfriend that I had in February of last year.” Like in pop music.
There are gut level, underbelly, “double suicide drinking songs” like “Whiskey Lullaby.”
Did you hear Allison Krause talk? How annoying. She should just sing. Like Mel Tillis.
This reminds me of a story that Mel told on a talk show once. Seems he noticed flames coming out of the barn, so he ran in to tell his father. Of course, the more excited he gets, the more he stutters, and a fire is certainly a cause for excitement, so he stood there saying, “th th th th th…!!!!!!!!” Finally his dad, seeing that whatever Mel had to say was important, yelled, “Just sing it, Mel!” So, Mel sang, “Oh, the barn’s on fire” to the tune of Amazing Grace.
So, back to the CMA’s…
My mouth just hung open when Big & Rich performed their song. Did you notice that they had a DANCING MIDGET???!
That ain’t country.
“He put the bottle to his head and pulled the trigger” is country.
“She left the suds in the Bucket and the clothes hangin’ on the line,” is country.
I love “Girls Lie, Too” Yeah them old gray sweatpants turn us on…We love to see deer heads hangin’ on the wall. Yep.
I, too, say “Hey y’all and Yee Haw!”
There is none of this, “I saw you had a boyfriend, who looked like a girlfriend that I had in February of last year.” Like in pop music.
There are gut level, underbelly, “double suicide drinking songs” like “Whiskey Lullaby.”
Did you hear Allison Krause talk? How annoying. She should just sing. Like Mel Tillis.
This reminds me of a story that Mel told on a talk show once. Seems he noticed flames coming out of the barn, so he ran in to tell his father. Of course, the more excited he gets, the more he stutters, and a fire is certainly a cause for excitement, so he stood there saying, “th th th th th…!!!!!!!!” Finally his dad, seeing that whatever Mel had to say was important, yelled, “Just sing it, Mel!” So, Mel sang, “Oh, the barn’s on fire” to the tune of Amazing Grace.
So, back to the CMA’s…
My mouth just hung open when Big & Rich performed their song. Did you notice that they had a DANCING MIDGET???!
That ain’t country.
“He put the bottle to his head and pulled the trigger” is country.
“She left the suds in the Bucket and the clothes hangin’ on the line,” is country.
I love “Girls Lie, Too” Yeah them old gray sweatpants turn us on…We love to see deer heads hangin’ on the wall. Yep.
I, too, say “Hey y’all and Yee Haw!”
CMA's o6
Lynn’s Review of the CMA Awards
Reba. Well, she had on a purty dress.
Brad Paisley opened with his trite and simplistic song “The World.” The tune is boring and the main words have been floating around on the Internet forever in those flowery-send-this-to 25-of-your-best-friends things.
“Oh, no,” I thought.
But things improved after that.
A new girl, Miranda Lambert, sang a song about her guitar. She had a guy in her band with a Mohawk! I felt Tammy Wynette spinning in her grave over that!
Brad Paisley’s “Time Well Wasted” won album of the year, with the great song, “Alcohol” on it. It “helps white people dance.”
See? He can do good songs if he wants.
Toby Keith should get an award for, “The Best Cowboy Hat Ever.” I have liked him since he went toe to toe with Peter Jennings. His band had cellos and violas in it, which I liked, but I’m sure I felt Hank Williams rolling in his grave over that! Furthermore, if Hank weren’t already dead, he would have croaked over Dirks Bentley and his cute little face and his curly hair, along with the next guy, Jason Aldean, and his earrings.
Big and Rich brought down the house with their, “ Eighth of November.” It was stunningly heart wrenching. I like them and their usually wacky, off the wall style. This was a new side of them.
Jennifer Nettles IS Sugarland and she needs to use her name, and drop that “Sugarland” business. Have you seen her sing “Who says You Can’t Go Home” with Jon Bon Jovi? That girl has got it going! Anyway, SHE won the award for best new DUO!! Who is that other guy, anyway?
Carrie Underwood, or as she is known in my home state, “Our sweet little Carrie,” wearing a princess dress, sang the winner of the best single award, “Jesus Take the Wheel.” I don’t know how that song won over the seriously strong competition, but it did.
Carrie also was the winner of the best new female vocalist, bless her heart.
Some quick musings;
“Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.” Trace really knows how to upset one’s spell checker, doesn’t he?
Did I hear correctly? The politically “Un”correct, Gretchen Wilson, chews tobacco?
Little Big Town was the only group who earned the word “BUY” in my notes this year. Great harmony in their song, “Boondocks.”
I loved it when Vince Gill (Happy Cheeks) gave his humanitarian award to the little girl who was there courtesy of the Make A Wish Foundation.
I did NOT like it when Reba made her Dixie Chick “joke.”
Singing with their foot in their mouth, indeed.
Rascal Flats won the best group prize. They sang a song with Kelly Clarkson. (Geez, why do I always think of Steve Carell when I hear her name now?) Their song was wonderful but it certainly wasn’t a country song.
The tribute to Buck Owens was good. His son looks just like him! I have thought about Buck and “Hee Haw” since we moved to Whitmore. I always want to tell people my phone number is BR549, because our whole township has the same prefix and people only have to give the last four numbers. Anyway, Dwight Yoakam, Blink 182, a guy from ZZ Top, and Brad Paisley played Buck, and I feel pretty sure I felt him spin in his grave over the drummer.
Kenny Chesney? Entertainer of the year? I think not.
Keith Urban, yes. I am always impressed by people who can play the piano and sing at the same time.
Brooks and Dunn? Yes, they had me at Neon Moon.
Toby Keith and Rascal Flats? Yes and Yes.
But, Kenny? Nah He’s a weenie beach boy.
Reba. Well, she had on a purty dress.
Brad Paisley opened with his trite and simplistic song “The World.” The tune is boring and the main words have been floating around on the Internet forever in those flowery-send-this-to 25-of-your-best-friends things.
“Oh, no,” I thought.
But things improved after that.
A new girl, Miranda Lambert, sang a song about her guitar. She had a guy in her band with a Mohawk! I felt Tammy Wynette spinning in her grave over that!
Brad Paisley’s “Time Well Wasted” won album of the year, with the great song, “Alcohol” on it. It “helps white people dance.”
See? He can do good songs if he wants.
Toby Keith should get an award for, “The Best Cowboy Hat Ever.” I have liked him since he went toe to toe with Peter Jennings. His band had cellos and violas in it, which I liked, but I’m sure I felt Hank Williams rolling in his grave over that! Furthermore, if Hank weren’t already dead, he would have croaked over Dirks Bentley and his cute little face and his curly hair, along with the next guy, Jason Aldean, and his earrings.
Big and Rich brought down the house with their, “ Eighth of November.” It was stunningly heart wrenching. I like them and their usually wacky, off the wall style. This was a new side of them.
Jennifer Nettles IS Sugarland and she needs to use her name, and drop that “Sugarland” business. Have you seen her sing “Who says You Can’t Go Home” with Jon Bon Jovi? That girl has got it going! Anyway, SHE won the award for best new DUO!! Who is that other guy, anyway?
Carrie Underwood, or as she is known in my home state, “Our sweet little Carrie,” wearing a princess dress, sang the winner of the best single award, “Jesus Take the Wheel.” I don’t know how that song won over the seriously strong competition, but it did.
Carrie also was the winner of the best new female vocalist, bless her heart.
Some quick musings;
“Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.” Trace really knows how to upset one’s spell checker, doesn’t he?
Did I hear correctly? The politically “Un”correct, Gretchen Wilson, chews tobacco?
Little Big Town was the only group who earned the word “BUY” in my notes this year. Great harmony in their song, “Boondocks.”
I loved it when Vince Gill (Happy Cheeks) gave his humanitarian award to the little girl who was there courtesy of the Make A Wish Foundation.
I did NOT like it when Reba made her Dixie Chick “joke.”
Singing with their foot in their mouth, indeed.
Rascal Flats won the best group prize. They sang a song with Kelly Clarkson. (Geez, why do I always think of Steve Carell when I hear her name now?) Their song was wonderful but it certainly wasn’t a country song.
The tribute to Buck Owens was good. His son looks just like him! I have thought about Buck and “Hee Haw” since we moved to Whitmore. I always want to tell people my phone number is BR549, because our whole township has the same prefix and people only have to give the last four numbers. Anyway, Dwight Yoakam, Blink 182, a guy from ZZ Top, and Brad Paisley played Buck, and I feel pretty sure I felt him spin in his grave over the drummer.
Kenny Chesney? Entertainer of the year? I think not.
Keith Urban, yes. I am always impressed by people who can play the piano and sing at the same time.
Brooks and Dunn? Yes, they had me at Neon Moon.
Toby Keith and Rascal Flats? Yes and Yes.
But, Kenny? Nah He’s a weenie beach boy.
Baggin' On the Country Music Show
Y’all aren’t going to believe this, but I went to a school board meeting on Tuesday. I swore I’d never attend another boring event again in my life and a school board meeting is the definition of boring. But, there I was missing the first part of the CMA’s.
Rob donated the money for a new playground at the Whitmore School in Leigh’s honor. I was there for the presentation and that’s the only thing that would get me to go.
When I could sneak out, I came home to the Award show in progress. Willie was singing a Paul Simon song about being crazy, and then Paul sang a Willie song about being crazy. Loved it!
Then. They gave the best song award. Now didn’t Whisky Lullaby win the best song last year? I’m almost sure it did. I remember a double-suicide-by-bottle recording won. There aren’t TWO of those songs, are there? I personally like “As Good As I Once Was.” And “Alcohol” (that helps white people dance.) I didn’t hear a thing about “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off”
An aside; when the family was all together last week, we heard that tequila song and I said, “There’s your song, Barb.” She said, “I thought it was Your song.” Martie said, “I thought it was MY song!” Whitney said, “Actually, I believe it’s my song.”
Like mothers: like daughters
Here comes some of my genteel, compassionate, benevolent musings, bless their hearts:
Kris Kristofferson looked like he’d been pulled through a sick cow backwards.
Who dressed Martina McBride? And who did her hair?
How did Lee Ann Womack get best album!? She’s only made one good recording in her whole life! (I Hope You Dance) and her voice is WIMPY.
George Strait is a big black hat with a nose and a mouth under it. Ditto on the one good song. (You’ll Always Be a Fire I Caint Put Out) yes caint.
Kenny Chesney is a weenie.
Dolly Parton looks like a caricature of herself. I especially liked her sock monkey mouth. I DID covet her jeans, though. I’ll bet Elton John wanted her whole outfit.
Shania Twain’s dress with that tight band around the vicinity of her knees made her walk like a two-year-old who has her panties down around her ankles as she rushes to the potty.
But of course, who am I to criticize?
Good stuff:
Keith Urban!
No wonder my niece stalks him!
Alan Jackson—still sexy after all these years. I see he wore his lucky jeans. (They must be because I know he can afford some newer ones.)
Alison Krause did a great job with her bluegrass, and she didn’t talk!
Who is that girl who sings in Sugarland! Great voice. Time to dump her back up group. Did you notice that Pat from SNL was playing the guitar? Plus, do you think something is going on with her and Jon Bon Jovi? Whew!
Vince Gill is still cute. I love a man with substance!
Faith and Tim -- Great! Their new CD is all good. Thanks, Duane! Did anyone else notice how much better and more confident Faith got when her hubby joined her?
Brooks and Dunn. Again. Can’t beat ‘em.
All in all it was a great show, however the best song of the evening didn’t even get a mention. It was the Fruit-of-the-Loom commercial, “You Can’t Over Love Your Underwear.”
Rob donated the money for a new playground at the Whitmore School in Leigh’s honor. I was there for the presentation and that’s the only thing that would get me to go.
When I could sneak out, I came home to the Award show in progress. Willie was singing a Paul Simon song about being crazy, and then Paul sang a Willie song about being crazy. Loved it!
Then. They gave the best song award. Now didn’t Whisky Lullaby win the best song last year? I’m almost sure it did. I remember a double-suicide-by-bottle recording won. There aren’t TWO of those songs, are there? I personally like “As Good As I Once Was.” And “Alcohol” (that helps white people dance.) I didn’t hear a thing about “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off”
An aside; when the family was all together last week, we heard that tequila song and I said, “There’s your song, Barb.” She said, “I thought it was Your song.” Martie said, “I thought it was MY song!” Whitney said, “Actually, I believe it’s my song.”
Like mothers: like daughters
Here comes some of my genteel, compassionate, benevolent musings, bless their hearts:
Kris Kristofferson looked like he’d been pulled through a sick cow backwards.
Who dressed Martina McBride? And who did her hair?
How did Lee Ann Womack get best album!? She’s only made one good recording in her whole life! (I Hope You Dance) and her voice is WIMPY.
George Strait is a big black hat with a nose and a mouth under it. Ditto on the one good song. (You’ll Always Be a Fire I Caint Put Out) yes caint.
Kenny Chesney is a weenie.
Dolly Parton looks like a caricature of herself. I especially liked her sock monkey mouth. I DID covet her jeans, though. I’ll bet Elton John wanted her whole outfit.
Shania Twain’s dress with that tight band around the vicinity of her knees made her walk like a two-year-old who has her panties down around her ankles as she rushes to the potty.
But of course, who am I to criticize?
Good stuff:
Keith Urban!
No wonder my niece stalks him!
Alan Jackson—still sexy after all these years. I see he wore his lucky jeans. (They must be because I know he can afford some newer ones.)
Alison Krause did a great job with her bluegrass, and she didn’t talk!
Who is that girl who sings in Sugarland! Great voice. Time to dump her back up group. Did you notice that Pat from SNL was playing the guitar? Plus, do you think something is going on with her and Jon Bon Jovi? Whew!
Vince Gill is still cute. I love a man with substance!
Faith and Tim -- Great! Their new CD is all good. Thanks, Duane! Did anyone else notice how much better and more confident Faith got when her hubby joined her?
Brooks and Dunn. Again. Can’t beat ‘em.
All in all it was a great show, however the best song of the evening didn’t even get a mention. It was the Fruit-of-the-Loom commercial, “You Can’t Over Love Your Underwear.”
Thursday, June 30, 2011
It Ain't Easy Being Me
I am having a terrible horrible no-good very bad day.
First a guy came to discuss remodeling stuff and he found mold at the base of the bay window in the front. He said the house was basically a dam for all the water heading for the creek and we must level the hill in the front yard and build a retaining wall. Then he found termites.
Then I had to go to the dentist, (since we finally found one, and we haven't been since last February.) Before I left home, I remembered to take my antibiotics, so I wouldn't die when they did the cleaning. (I used to ignore that pill-taking instruction until a guy I know who has a prolapsed valve like I do and he spent a year in the hospital trying not to die.) The pills are so big that they stuck in my esophagus and I forgot my water and the only thing I could find in the car as I sped down the freeway was a gold foil-wrapped chocolate coin to eat to try to push the pills on down. Who eats chocolate on their way to the dentist, I'd like to know. It didn't work. The pills were still giving me a lot of grief.
When it was time to turn off the freeway all I could remember of the directions was to take the Park Marina off-ramp. I did so and pulled over to see if I had remembered to bring the map that Richard had so carefully drawn for me. I had forgotten it. He was at school at his Part Time Job even though the school is still closed for Christmas break, but they are working on the bathrooms and God forbid they do something without him to boss them around. I looked for the school phone number.
He has these little business cards that say he's the boss of the world, mayor of Whitmore, president of the Men's General Store Coffee Club, and Superintendent of the three room school district, They are literally all over the place. They are on every surface in our house, garage, and automobiles. Could I find one in my time of need?
I called Rob. He said he'd look up the dentist's address for me and the calm lady could direct me there . Unfortunately I couldn't remember the guy's name. He looked up the school number and gave it to me, I called Richard, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. I did not need to see him to know this. My esophagus is, by now, on fire and I'm feeling a bit nauseated. My anxiety level is such that I am wishing I had taken Xanex instead.
THEN, and here's the good part, the dentist apparently needs a new boat or something because the report on my teeth is so dreadful that they aren't even going to clean them. NOOOO, they are going to rotor rooter them. You know the part where they stab you with that sharp stick all over your gums and say numbers to their nurse? Well, I got a bunch of fours, which isn't good and then I got a NINE on one of my bridges.
This is not fair. I floss. I have one of those Sonicare torture instruments.
I go back there tomorrow for the first of many visits. I'm thinking two Xanexs. I can remember when I wouldn't take any pills that made me dizzy. Now I check the bottle to make sure it has that little picture of the swerving car on it.
OK, Who's driving me?
First a guy came to discuss remodeling stuff and he found mold at the base of the bay window in the front. He said the house was basically a dam for all the water heading for the creek and we must level the hill in the front yard and build a retaining wall. Then he found termites.
Then I had to go to the dentist, (since we finally found one, and we haven't been since last February.) Before I left home, I remembered to take my antibiotics, so I wouldn't die when they did the cleaning. (I used to ignore that pill-taking instruction until a guy I know who has a prolapsed valve like I do and he spent a year in the hospital trying not to die.) The pills are so big that they stuck in my esophagus and I forgot my water and the only thing I could find in the car as I sped down the freeway was a gold foil-wrapped chocolate coin to eat to try to push the pills on down. Who eats chocolate on their way to the dentist, I'd like to know. It didn't work. The pills were still giving me a lot of grief.
When it was time to turn off the freeway all I could remember of the directions was to take the Park Marina off-ramp. I did so and pulled over to see if I had remembered to bring the map that Richard had so carefully drawn for me. I had forgotten it. He was at school at his Part Time Job even though the school is still closed for Christmas break, but they are working on the bathrooms and God forbid they do something without him to boss them around. I looked for the school phone number.
He has these little business cards that say he's the boss of the world, mayor of Whitmore, president of the Men's General Store Coffee Club, and Superintendent of the three room school district, They are literally all over the place. They are on every surface in our house, garage, and automobiles. Could I find one in my time of need?
I called Rob. He said he'd look up the dentist's address for me and the calm lady could direct me there . Unfortunately I couldn't remember the guy's name. He looked up the school number and gave it to me, I called Richard, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. I did not need to see him to know this. My esophagus is, by now, on fire and I'm feeling a bit nauseated. My anxiety level is such that I am wishing I had taken Xanex instead.
THEN, and here's the good part, the dentist apparently needs a new boat or something because the report on my teeth is so dreadful that they aren't even going to clean them. NOOOO, they are going to rotor rooter them. You know the part where they stab you with that sharp stick all over your gums and say numbers to their nurse? Well, I got a bunch of fours, which isn't good and then I got a NINE on one of my bridges.
This is not fair. I floss. I have one of those Sonicare torture instruments.
I go back there tomorrow for the first of many visits. I'm thinking two Xanexs. I can remember when I wouldn't take any pills that made me dizzy. Now I check the bottle to make sure it has that little picture of the swerving car on it.
OK, Who's driving me?
Dear Whoever
Dear Shoplifters,
Thank you so much for adding the impossible to open blister packs to our lives.
Really what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out of context maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, ti, tee time da wady”
Ala Buckwheat. And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my scream?
Dear People who send me “Public Notices” that look like traffic tickets or one’s grades or mid term reports. Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Thank you so much for adding the impossible to open blister packs to our lives.
Really what are these made of, anyway? This material ought to be used by the military, to reinforce tanks or something.
Dear Safeway Musac Makers,
If you must put “Three Times a Lady” in your music feed, you are just going to have to put up with my out of context maniacal laughter.
See, all I hear is “You un, ti, tee time da wady”
Ala Buckwheat. And that’s just how it is.
Dear Dr. Dentist,
When you are getting ready to do your root canal thing, surely there is a better way to test for the correct tooth than poking it with dry-ice-on-a-stick. Why did you take all those x-rays? And how am I going to get down from the ceiling? And what are you going to do now that I cleared your waiting room with my scream?
Dear People who send me “Public Notices” that look like traffic tickets or one’s grades or mid term reports. Putting “Important Documentation, Do not discard” stamped in red will not work any longer. I know it is an advertisement for hearing aids. You are wasting your stamp.
Hunting
Hunting.
It was a necessity once.
Men loved it then, I understand.
I read something about that when I was in college getting my degree in English Literature. Back when I had to read what I was told. It was about the phenomenon called, “deer fever.”
Some men love it yet today. Why? We have grocery stores. There is an abundance of meat there. It’s less expensive. Waaay less.
I went round and round with my brother-in-law, Ches; may God rest his deer killing soul.
He lectured me on, Thinning Out the Herd. He told me there wasn’t enough food for them all and they’d die anyway. He ate his kills and tried to convince everyone that it tasted delicious, when the smell of it cooking told me otherwise.
He asked me where I thought those steaks and hamburgers that I ate came from. He loved to remind me that I was eating dead chickens.
He didn’t stop with deer. He murdered rabbits, turkeys, and any other animal that had the misfortune to wander into his sites. I loved Ches, but we disagreed on this subject. I told him once, long before he got sick, that when he died, he was going to meet up with all of those animals, standing there in the “Tunnel” with their arms folded and tapping their feet, impatiently.
I’m not opposed to killing animals for food. I love hamburgers. I just don’t want to kill them myself. I don’t want to think about it. My children used to take great pleasure in asking me questions that would make me stop eating. “Mom, what did they do with the veins in this chicken?”
I could not eat an animal that I had known on the hoof, so to speak. One time I had a student, whose sister was in the 4-H program at the local high school. She was raising two pigs to sell. Richard thought it might be a good idea to invest in a pork belly. We went over to put our claim on one half of one of her pigs. I met them. Their names were Martini and Rossi. I couldn’t eat a bite of that pork. My family enjoyed it.
Once, when we were living in Tulsa, a neighbor brought us two steaks when she came back from a weekend at her father’s farm. Seems he had just slaughtered a cow and…
Richard enjoyed both of the steaks. I realize I’m unreasonable in this area. But. Still.
Ches was never able to explain it to me properly.
Can someone tell me how an otherwise sensitive, good person can derive pleasure from watching a magnificent animal drop in his sight?
Incidentally, I finally found a way to stop my children from grossing me out at the table. I told them that I had washed the potato skins they were eating with the same brush that I had used to clean the hamster cage.
It was a necessity once.
Men loved it then, I understand.
I read something about that when I was in college getting my degree in English Literature. Back when I had to read what I was told. It was about the phenomenon called, “deer fever.”
Some men love it yet today. Why? We have grocery stores. There is an abundance of meat there. It’s less expensive. Waaay less.
I went round and round with my brother-in-law, Ches; may God rest his deer killing soul.
He lectured me on, Thinning Out the Herd. He told me there wasn’t enough food for them all and they’d die anyway. He ate his kills and tried to convince everyone that it tasted delicious, when the smell of it cooking told me otherwise.
He asked me where I thought those steaks and hamburgers that I ate came from. He loved to remind me that I was eating dead chickens.
He didn’t stop with deer. He murdered rabbits, turkeys, and any other animal that had the misfortune to wander into his sites. I loved Ches, but we disagreed on this subject. I told him once, long before he got sick, that when he died, he was going to meet up with all of those animals, standing there in the “Tunnel” with their arms folded and tapping their feet, impatiently.
I’m not opposed to killing animals for food. I love hamburgers. I just don’t want to kill them myself. I don’t want to think about it. My children used to take great pleasure in asking me questions that would make me stop eating. “Mom, what did they do with the veins in this chicken?”
I could not eat an animal that I had known on the hoof, so to speak. One time I had a student, whose sister was in the 4-H program at the local high school. She was raising two pigs to sell. Richard thought it might be a good idea to invest in a pork belly. We went over to put our claim on one half of one of her pigs. I met them. Their names were Martini and Rossi. I couldn’t eat a bite of that pork. My family enjoyed it.
Once, when we were living in Tulsa, a neighbor brought us two steaks when she came back from a weekend at her father’s farm. Seems he had just slaughtered a cow and…
Richard enjoyed both of the steaks. I realize I’m unreasonable in this area. But. Still.
Ches was never able to explain it to me properly.
Can someone tell me how an otherwise sensitive, good person can derive pleasure from watching a magnificent animal drop in his sight?
Incidentally, I finally found a way to stop my children from grossing me out at the table. I told them that I had washed the potato skins they were eating with the same brush that I had used to clean the hamster cage.
Letter From Scarlet
To Rob Love, Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss:
I loved you from the minute I saw you. Remember that day when Mom brought me home from her school? She was a real nice lady and I am sure glad she took me from those people who were going to take me to the pound, but it was you I loved the most. I wanted to be by you all of the time.
I love you for putting all those papers all over your floor when I was a puppy. I love you for letting me sleep with you on your soft sheets with all those sheep on them.
I love you for coming to get me from the park down the street all of those times I got a little bit lost while I was trying to find you.
I love you for taking me to the beach so I could find my ball in the surf. The water there didn’t scare me but that water in that big hole in the back yard did. It tried to get me one time, remember?
I love you for making those little kissy sounds that I could hear from anywhere. I love you for taking me on walks so I could find special sticks to carry home when we were living in that tall house with those kitties.
I liked the kitties ok, but I loved when we found Leigh.
Thank you for getting that little boat for me and for giving me rides to the shore so I could have a little rest from the big boat.
I love you for letting me play with your socks.
I loved that you called me “Puppy” even when I wasn’t a puppy any more.
I love you for taking me with you, always.
I love you for loving me. I can feel your heart.
If you sit really still and think about me, you will feel me beside you, and some times I will visit you when you sleep.
You might have a dream that I happen to be in, but sometimes I will come to visit you.
You will be able to tell the difference.
You and me---we are special.
Love, Scarlet
I loved you from the minute I saw you. Remember that day when Mom brought me home from her school? She was a real nice lady and I am sure glad she took me from those people who were going to take me to the pound, but it was you I loved the most. I wanted to be by you all of the time.
I love you for putting all those papers all over your floor when I was a puppy. I love you for letting me sleep with you on your soft sheets with all those sheep on them.
I love you for coming to get me from the park down the street all of those times I got a little bit lost while I was trying to find you.
I love you for taking me to the beach so I could find my ball in the surf. The water there didn’t scare me but that water in that big hole in the back yard did. It tried to get me one time, remember?
I love you for making those little kissy sounds that I could hear from anywhere. I love you for taking me on walks so I could find special sticks to carry home when we were living in that tall house with those kitties.
I liked the kitties ok, but I loved when we found Leigh.
Thank you for getting that little boat for me and for giving me rides to the shore so I could have a little rest from the big boat.
I love you for letting me play with your socks.
I loved that you called me “Puppy” even when I wasn’t a puppy any more.
I love you for taking me with you, always.
I love you for loving me. I can feel your heart.
If you sit really still and think about me, you will feel me beside you, and some times I will visit you when you sleep.
You might have a dream that I happen to be in, but sometimes I will come to visit you.
You will be able to tell the difference.
You and me---we are special.
Love, Scarlet
Scummy Las Vegas
Journal Entry: Feb. 15, 2005
We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas. There was a purpose to this trip. My brother, Johnny, (forever, he will be Johnny to me) got married at noon on Valentines Day.
Las Vegas is not my favorite place, and it has to be something important to drag my cookies across the desert to that smoky, noisy place, full of obnoxious tacky people, not counting me or anyone else I care about.
Remember, I live on Planet Lynn.
This wedding was important.
I was in charge of room accommodations for Rich, Barbie, John, Whitney, and me.
For the last time. They will never let me do it again.
History.
One time when we passed through Vegas on our way to another destination, we stayed at a Days Inn that was right behind the MGM Grand. It cost $80.00 per night because we’re old. It was clean. It was fine.
Another time we stayed at the Mandalay Bay and Richard hasn’t gotten over it to this day, as the night cost almost $1,000 after tickets to Mama Mia and dinner and the room. I personally thought it was worth it because I stayed in the big Jacuzzi bathtub for over an hour, and later I LOVED Mama Mia. Some people just don’t know how to enjoy life.
So. Anyway, after hearing from Barb that they didn’t care where we stayed, I went on line and made reservations at Days Inn.
As it turned out I inadvertently chose the downtown Days Inn.
Big Mistake.
Obviously, I am not a hotel snob. However, I should have known when the parking lot was gooey and gross looking, that it was bad. When the elevator smelled a bit like pee-pee, we made futile plans to leave. In our adjoining rooms, there were barf(?) stains on the carpet, chairs were ripped and had cotton showing, the air conditioning was off and we could only heat our already warm rooms, so we had to sleep with our window open, thus risking our lives.
There was no iron, (like I would have used one anyway), and no remote for the TV. We had to actually get up and Walk Across the Room and push buttons on the television to CHANGE the Channel! Can you believe it?
THEN Richard decided that there was DNA on the blanket. Gross.
We found these things out after we had a delicious dinner at Olives at the Bellagio, and went back to our rooms to watch the rest of the Grammys. I cannot recommend Olives HIGHLY enough, here. Outstanding.
--Aside--
(On the corner by our motel, there was a guy begging. He put his hands in pleading mode and then made the sign of the cross like this:
Head,
Left shoulder,
Belt buckle,
Right shoulder.
One would think that if a person wanted to appear religious, one would learn the correct motions, wouldn’t one?
Our TV did not receive but three channels and none was the Grammy channel. We spent the rest of the night finding new accommodations for the next night.
By the time we went to sleep, thanks to John, we had a reservation at the Palace and would not have to sleep with the cooties again. The next morning, as I dressed for the wedding, I found that the intake end of the hair dryer was full of lint and schmegma. I almost hurled. There is nothing worse than schmegma in the morning. (Schmegma is synonymous with grah-doo.)
Richard and John reported that a guy with a long ponytail came into the lobby while they were getting coffee, exclaiming about the wonderful accommodations. He was especially excited over the fact that they provided a snooze alarm! I just couldn’t agree less. But then we didn’t use all of the amenities.
Like the snooze alarm.
We just got up.
I have more to say about this visit.
We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas. There was a purpose to this trip. My brother, Johnny, (forever, he will be Johnny to me) got married at noon on Valentines Day.
Las Vegas is not my favorite place, and it has to be something important to drag my cookies across the desert to that smoky, noisy place, full of obnoxious tacky people, not counting me or anyone else I care about.
Remember, I live on Planet Lynn.
This wedding was important.
I was in charge of room accommodations for Rich, Barbie, John, Whitney, and me.
For the last time. They will never let me do it again.
History.
One time when we passed through Vegas on our way to another destination, we stayed at a Days Inn that was right behind the MGM Grand. It cost $80.00 per night because we’re old. It was clean. It was fine.
Another time we stayed at the Mandalay Bay and Richard hasn’t gotten over it to this day, as the night cost almost $1,000 after tickets to Mama Mia and dinner and the room. I personally thought it was worth it because I stayed in the big Jacuzzi bathtub for over an hour, and later I LOVED Mama Mia. Some people just don’t know how to enjoy life.
So. Anyway, after hearing from Barb that they didn’t care where we stayed, I went on line and made reservations at Days Inn.
As it turned out I inadvertently chose the downtown Days Inn.
Big Mistake.
Obviously, I am not a hotel snob. However, I should have known when the parking lot was gooey and gross looking, that it was bad. When the elevator smelled a bit like pee-pee, we made futile plans to leave. In our adjoining rooms, there were barf(?) stains on the carpet, chairs were ripped and had cotton showing, the air conditioning was off and we could only heat our already warm rooms, so we had to sleep with our window open, thus risking our lives.
There was no iron, (like I would have used one anyway), and no remote for the TV. We had to actually get up and Walk Across the Room and push buttons on the television to CHANGE the Channel! Can you believe it?
THEN Richard decided that there was DNA on the blanket. Gross.
We found these things out after we had a delicious dinner at Olives at the Bellagio, and went back to our rooms to watch the rest of the Grammys. I cannot recommend Olives HIGHLY enough, here. Outstanding.
--Aside--
(On the corner by our motel, there was a guy begging. He put his hands in pleading mode and then made the sign of the cross like this:
Head,
Left shoulder,
Belt buckle,
Right shoulder.
One would think that if a person wanted to appear religious, one would learn the correct motions, wouldn’t one?
Our TV did not receive but three channels and none was the Grammy channel. We spent the rest of the night finding new accommodations for the next night.
By the time we went to sleep, thanks to John, we had a reservation at the Palace and would not have to sleep with the cooties again. The next morning, as I dressed for the wedding, I found that the intake end of the hair dryer was full of lint and schmegma. I almost hurled. There is nothing worse than schmegma in the morning. (Schmegma is synonymous with grah-doo.)
Richard and John reported that a guy with a long ponytail came into the lobby while they were getting coffee, exclaiming about the wonderful accommodations. He was especially excited over the fact that they provided a snooze alarm! I just couldn’t agree less. But then we didn’t use all of the amenities.
Like the snooze alarm.
We just got up.
I have more to say about this visit.
Moving Bubble Wrap and Letters
When we were in the process of moving from Orange County to Shasta County, we found there was more to do besides sell the house and buy a new one, oh, and pack stuff up into boxes.
We hadn’t moved in almost twenty years. One can amass a lot of cherished treasures in that time.
I had completely forgotten the magnitude of the project.
I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap. A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band/label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap was not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the unauthorized bubble wrap, which now started to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me was having trouble suppressing his laughter. I picked up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I had placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It exploded from its neat little roll, too. I decided to go to a regular checkout stand, so I shuffled over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
As the human checkout person stuffed my merchandise into a very big bag, she told me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as bubble wrap.
This was the beginning of a moving adventure that started out with,
“Do you want to take this?”
“Duh, YES! I want to take that!”
…and moved on to, “I don’t think we’ll be needing anything in this whole room.”
There were a lot of other chores to do that didn’t involve boxes, bubble wrap and tape.
Richard called the club where he played tennis to end his membership. After learning that one must submit a letter if you aren’t going to be a member anymore, he asked me to write a letter for him explaining what is going on.
I have no idea what they’d do if you didn’t write them a letter. Would they not let you quit? Would they keep sending you calendars and newsletters? Would they force you to come play tennis and golf? I don’t know. It could get sticky.
On the way upstairs to my computer, I got an impish feeling that always seems to overtake me when I am called upon to write a serious letter. These urges must be connected to the same gene that makes me laugh inappropriately.
My teaching partners and I used have occasion to write letters to parents, and we would often write a completely unacceptable letter first. We would laugh ourselves senseless and wet our pants while writing the bogus one. “Your child is being placed in this reading group because he is dumber than a box of rocks and after meeting you, we can see why.” (Hey, don’t judge me. We needed a little diversion now and then.)
Then we would write the one that was diplomatic and correct. “We feel that this plan will be a wonderful opportunity for your child to have more one-on-one time with his teacher.”
So, I wrote this letter for Richard and took it to him to sign.
“Dear Seacliff Country Club,
I am quitting your stupid pretentious country club due to the fact that all the people there are pompous blowhards, who don’t know which end of a tennis racquet to hold. I am sick of looking at all of the spastic moves you make on the tennis court. You are all old and ugly and look like cotton-pickers from spending too much time in the sun.
I will not play any longer with cheaters like you who call my serves out when they are clearly in.
Good Riddance,
I wrote a proper letter too, but took him the one above.
It was lots of fun.
There is more to this moving story. I might just tell it.
Lynn Guinn
Visit my blog at:
http://itsajulything.blogspot.com/
We hadn’t moved in almost twenty years. One can amass a lot of cherished treasures in that time.
I had completely forgotten the magnitude of the project.
I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap. A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band/label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap was not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the unauthorized bubble wrap, which now started to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me was having trouble suppressing his laughter. I picked up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I had placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It exploded from its neat little roll, too. I decided to go to a regular checkout stand, so I shuffled over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
As the human checkout person stuffed my merchandise into a very big bag, she told me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as bubble wrap.
This was the beginning of a moving adventure that started out with,
“Do you want to take this?”
“Duh, YES! I want to take that!”
…and moved on to, “I don’t think we’ll be needing anything in this whole room.”
There were a lot of other chores to do that didn’t involve boxes, bubble wrap and tape.
Richard called the club where he played tennis to end his membership. After learning that one must submit a letter if you aren’t going to be a member anymore, he asked me to write a letter for him explaining what is going on.
I have no idea what they’d do if you didn’t write them a letter. Would they not let you quit? Would they keep sending you calendars and newsletters? Would they force you to come play tennis and golf? I don’t know. It could get sticky.
On the way upstairs to my computer, I got an impish feeling that always seems to overtake me when I am called upon to write a serious letter. These urges must be connected to the same gene that makes me laugh inappropriately.
My teaching partners and I used have occasion to write letters to parents, and we would often write a completely unacceptable letter first. We would laugh ourselves senseless and wet our pants while writing the bogus one. “Your child is being placed in this reading group because he is dumber than a box of rocks and after meeting you, we can see why.” (Hey, don’t judge me. We needed a little diversion now and then.)
Then we would write the one that was diplomatic and correct. “We feel that this plan will be a wonderful opportunity for your child to have more one-on-one time with his teacher.”
So, I wrote this letter for Richard and took it to him to sign.
“Dear Seacliff Country Club,
I am quitting your stupid pretentious country club due to the fact that all the people there are pompous blowhards, who don’t know which end of a tennis racquet to hold. I am sick of looking at all of the spastic moves you make on the tennis court. You are all old and ugly and look like cotton-pickers from spending too much time in the sun.
I will not play any longer with cheaters like you who call my serves out when they are clearly in.
Good Riddance,
I wrote a proper letter too, but took him the one above.
It was lots of fun.
There is more to this moving story. I might just tell it.
Lynn Guinn
Visit my blog at:
http://itsajulything.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Trouble with Bubble Wrap
OK, so, I went to Home Depot to purchase some bubble wrap.
A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band (slash) label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap is not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the stuff, which has now decided to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me is having trouble suppressing his laughter. I pick up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It explodes from its neat little roll. I now decide to go to a person operated checkout stand so I shuffle over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
The human checkout person tells me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as the bubble wrap as she stuffs it into a bag.
Isn’t technology wonderful!?
A helpful employee directed me right to it. It was sitting there on the shelf, folded and then rolled into tidy rolls with a paper band (slash) label around each one, displaying the handy bar code. I picked up two, and headed for the checkout stand. No time for looking around at all the wonderful Home Depot stuff today! I was on a mission.
I opted for the self-checkout. Isn’t technology wonderful? I scanned one of my rolls of bubble wrap. The machine genie told me it cost $6.49 and for me to place it in the bagging area. I did so.
Silence.
Then the computer genie got a bit perturbed with me. She said for me to place my purchase in the bagging area.
“I did!” I said.
Suddenly, she declared that there were unauthorized objects in the bagging area.
I took the bubble wrap off of the bagging area. By now the bubble wrap is not looking so tidy.
“Please place purchase in the bagging area.”
“FINE!” I placed the now unraveling bubble wrap in the bagging area.
“There are unauthorized objects in the bagging area!” she declared.
I removed the stuff, which has now decided to completely explode out of the neat little package it was in. The guy behind me is having trouble suppressing his laughter. I pick up the other roll of bubble wrap from the floor where I placed it while I tried to figure out what was up. It explodes from its neat little roll. I now decide to go to a person operated checkout stand so I shuffle over dragging eight feet of bubble wrap behind me.
The human checkout person tells me laughingly that the scales find it difficult to register something as light as the bubble wrap as she stuffs it into a bag.
Isn’t technology wonderful!?
Sydney Harbor Bridge Climb
Bridge Climb
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Conversations On the Road
My sister, Barb, our mom, and my adult niece, Whitney went on a road trip to visit family members in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. We also planned to visit our brother Mike in Seattle. Then we would take Mom to the town that once pretended to be Cicely, Alaska in the filming of “Northern Exposure.” It was actually Roslyn, Washington. “Northern Exposure” is still her all-time favorite TV show.
Along the way we had quite a few “Family discussions.” As a matter of fact, after an exchange of less-than-polite words while in Seattle things got icily quiet. Our brother broke the tension by asking cheerfully, “Anyone want to sing show tunes?” I told you before that my family is strange.
I shall share a couple of our conversations while on the road:
Whitney (who is driving on a very curvy mountain road) “Look at this guy in front of us. He crosses the yellow lines on every curve and he’s going so slow!”
Barb “He’s a veggie man, selling tomatoes and corn.”
Me “It’s God.”
Them “God.”
Me “He’s saving us. He’s keeping us behind Him and won’t let us pass because He knows we’ll be killed if he doesn’t.”
Whitney “Well, wouldn’t you think God would have a better truck?”
Me “He doesn’t need a better truck.”
Barbie “You’d think God wouldn’t drive a truck with smelly exhaust. Look at how He’s crossing over into the oncoming lane!”
Me “God doesn’t want us to pass Him.”
Whit “I’m not going to pass Him. I don’t want to pass Him. If you say it’s God, I believe you. I’m backing away because I don’t want to be in the wreck when He gets hit head on while Saving Us.”
Barbie “Yeah, back away because His truck stinks.”
Me “It’s not His truck. He’s just borrowing it.
Barbie “God doesn’t drive very good.”
After we make it down the mountain, the truck pulls off the road and we consider asking Him for some tomatoes and corn, but decide it’s a bit much after He’s saved us, and all.
Later.
Me “Shouldn’t we stop here and find a place to stay?”
Barbie (who is now driving and therefore has all the
POWER) “It’s still early. Let’s go on to the next
town.”
Me “OK, but it’s not early.”
Barb “Well, it’s quite a while until sunset.”
Me “If I have to sleep in this car, it’s your ass.”
Barb “We won’t have to sleep in the car. Hummmm
There’s nothing here either. Let’s go on to the next
town.”
Me “tsssss.”
Barb “Just down the road a bit.”
Me “tssssss”
Barb “We’ll get a place. Don’t worry
Me “You are acting just like Richard. ‘Just the next town’
‘just the next town’ ‘just the next town’ and then we
finally stop at a town and there are no rooms at the inn
and we have to sleep in the car at some scary road
side rest stop and I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP IN
THIS CAR!!!!”
Barb (in her I’m-calmer-than-you-are voice) “We won’t
sleep in the car.”
Me “Says You.”
Whitney “Did you really have to sleep in the car? When?”
Me “Just every time we ever drove between California and
Oklahoma, that’s all. Every time. Even on our
Honeymoon, remember Mom? He kept putting off
stopping until 7:00 the next morning!”
Mom “I remember you called.”
Me “He kept on ‘One more towning’ me until there were
no rooms. Oh, and then when we moved back to
California from Tulsa, we were in a U-Haul with a
Two-year old and my big belly, containing Rob, and we
slept on the side of the road. He slept on the hood of
the truck and the three of us slept on the seat while
dodging the gearshift and steering wheel.”
Barb “We are not going to sleep in the car. See? Here’s a
town. Ex-cept…there doesn’t seem to be much of a
town here. Eeuuww we do NOT want to stay here.
Let’s go on.”
Me (Under my breath) “I knew it.”
Barb “We’ll get a place. I didn’t know we would be on
such a winding little road. We are in serious mountains.”
Me “nexttownnexttownnexttown. I got dibs on the hood.”
Barb “At least we have the road to ourselves”.
Me “That’s because everyone else is already in
their hotel rooms for the night.”
Barb “I knew you were going to say that.” (In her I’m the
only rational person in this car voice.) …and finally,
“Look here’s a Best Western.
Me “If they don’t have two Non-Smoking rooms, It’s your ass.”
Amazingly enough, we all still love each other!
Along the way we had quite a few “Family discussions.” As a matter of fact, after an exchange of less-than-polite words while in Seattle things got icily quiet. Our brother broke the tension by asking cheerfully, “Anyone want to sing show tunes?” I told you before that my family is strange.
I shall share a couple of our conversations while on the road:
Whitney (who is driving on a very curvy mountain road) “Look at this guy in front of us. He crosses the yellow lines on every curve and he’s going so slow!”
Barb “He’s a veggie man, selling tomatoes and corn.”
Me “It’s God.”
Them “God.”
Me “He’s saving us. He’s keeping us behind Him and won’t let us pass because He knows we’ll be killed if he doesn’t.”
Whitney “Well, wouldn’t you think God would have a better truck?”
Me “He doesn’t need a better truck.”
Barbie “You’d think God wouldn’t drive a truck with smelly exhaust. Look at how He’s crossing over into the oncoming lane!”
Me “God doesn’t want us to pass Him.”
Whit “I’m not going to pass Him. I don’t want to pass Him. If you say it’s God, I believe you. I’m backing away because I don’t want to be in the wreck when He gets hit head on while Saving Us.”
Barbie “Yeah, back away because His truck stinks.”
Me “It’s not His truck. He’s just borrowing it.
Barbie “God doesn’t drive very good.”
After we make it down the mountain, the truck pulls off the road and we consider asking Him for some tomatoes and corn, but decide it’s a bit much after He’s saved us, and all.
Later.
Me “Shouldn’t we stop here and find a place to stay?”
Barbie (who is now driving and therefore has all the
POWER) “It’s still early. Let’s go on to the next
town.”
Me “OK, but it’s not early.”
Barb “Well, it’s quite a while until sunset.”
Me “If I have to sleep in this car, it’s your ass.”
Barb “We won’t have to sleep in the car. Hummmm
There’s nothing here either. Let’s go on to the next
town.”
Me “tsssss.”
Barb “Just down the road a bit.”
Me “tssssss”
Barb “We’ll get a place. Don’t worry
Me “You are acting just like Richard. ‘Just the next town’
‘just the next town’ ‘just the next town’ and then we
finally stop at a town and there are no rooms at the inn
and we have to sleep in the car at some scary road
side rest stop and I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP IN
THIS CAR!!!!”
Barb (in her I’m-calmer-than-you-are voice) “We won’t
sleep in the car.”
Me “Says You.”
Whitney “Did you really have to sleep in the car? When?”
Me “Just every time we ever drove between California and
Oklahoma, that’s all. Every time. Even on our
Honeymoon, remember Mom? He kept putting off
stopping until 7:00 the next morning!”
Mom “I remember you called.”
Me “He kept on ‘One more towning’ me until there were
no rooms. Oh, and then when we moved back to
California from Tulsa, we were in a U-Haul with a
Two-year old and my big belly, containing Rob, and we
slept on the side of the road. He slept on the hood of
the truck and the three of us slept on the seat while
dodging the gearshift and steering wheel.”
Barb “We are not going to sleep in the car. See? Here’s a
town. Ex-cept…there doesn’t seem to be much of a
town here. Eeuuww we do NOT want to stay here.
Let’s go on.”
Me (Under my breath) “I knew it.”
Barb “We’ll get a place. I didn’t know we would be on
such a winding little road. We are in serious mountains.”
Me “nexttownnexttownnexttown. I got dibs on the hood.”
Barb “At least we have the road to ourselves”.
Me “That’s because everyone else is already in
their hotel rooms for the night.”
Barb “I knew you were going to say that.” (In her I’m the
only rational person in this car voice.) …and finally,
“Look here’s a Best Western.
Me “If they don’t have two Non-Smoking rooms, It’s your ass.”
Amazingly enough, we all still love each other!
How Not to Win the Chile Cook-Off
Paula Dean, She’s Not
(Even though she sounds like her.)
It is well known that I am not a cook. I know how to make food and some of it is even good, but as far as being a cook? no. As I have said before, Williams Sonoma is a store full of chores, and it gives me a rash to go into one. Many of their wares look like medieval torture tools. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to use them.
When I was teaching school, our PTA had a carnival each spring. They always had a silent auction for lovely themed baskets that we made up class by class. One year there was a cooking basket and they asked us for our favorite recipes. Mine was:
Campbells Chicken and Stars.
Mrs. Guinn
Open can. pour into cup and add a little water,
Microwave.
Drink on the way to school.
(The stars are less likely than noodles to end up on the front of your shirt, but I’m not promising anything.)
The Cook Basket people were not amused.
It is with this in mind I give you my secret recipe that I used when I entered the Whitmore School Chili Cook-off.
Or,
How to Not Win the Chili Cook-Off
Put chunks of stew meat from Costco into large pan.
Pour one Modelo dark beer over it.
Add one-half of a diet 7-up for depth of liquid.
Cook for 15 minutes, covered.
Open lid to stir.
Discover that the “meat diaper” somehow got into the pan.
Begin picking it out.
Find that it is a bigger mess than you thought.
Remove meat from pan, dropping a piece on the floor.
Dump liquid mixture into sink and rinse pan
Replace meat into pan, dropping another chunk upon floor.
Discuss whether having dogs negates the 5 second rule with person who sees the dropped meat on the floor.
Rinse dropped meat and add to pan not noticing that a chunk fell into the fire.
Find Coca-Cola in fridge and pour on meat.
Add other half of 7-up for depth of liquid.
Sprinkle random spices on mixture, not using any spices with Italian sounding names.
Cover and simmer.
Hear that danged smoke alarm go off (the one that always signals that you are cooking) and run back into kitchen and put out fire under pan.
Cook for as long as it takes you to shower and blow your hair dry.
Add:
4 cans of chile beans
2 cans of chopped tomatoes
1 can of tomato paste
While attempting to stir, realize that you need to divide the mixture into two pots because you made way too much for the pan you chose.
Add more random seasonings, again, none of which sound Italian.
Simmer until it is time to take it to schoolhouse.
Eat other people’s chili.
Follow these simple steps and you won’t even come in 4th.
I can’t wait till next year! Y’all are coming, aren’t you?
Next time I’ll tell you about the cake I made for the cakewalk.
(Even though she sounds like her.)
It is well known that I am not a cook. I know how to make food and some of it is even good, but as far as being a cook? no. As I have said before, Williams Sonoma is a store full of chores, and it gives me a rash to go into one. Many of their wares look like medieval torture tools. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to use them.
When I was teaching school, our PTA had a carnival each spring. They always had a silent auction for lovely themed baskets that we made up class by class. One year there was a cooking basket and they asked us for our favorite recipes. Mine was:
Campbells Chicken and Stars.
Mrs. Guinn
Open can. pour into cup and add a little water,
Microwave.
Drink on the way to school.
(The stars are less likely than noodles to end up on the front of your shirt, but I’m not promising anything.)
The Cook Basket people were not amused.
It is with this in mind I give you my secret recipe that I used when I entered the Whitmore School Chili Cook-off.
Or,
How to Not Win the Chili Cook-Off
Put chunks of stew meat from Costco into large pan.
Pour one Modelo dark beer over it.
Add one-half of a diet 7-up for depth of liquid.
Cook for 15 minutes, covered.
Open lid to stir.
Discover that the “meat diaper” somehow got into the pan.
Begin picking it out.
Find that it is a bigger mess than you thought.
Remove meat from pan, dropping a piece on the floor.
Dump liquid mixture into sink and rinse pan
Replace meat into pan, dropping another chunk upon floor.
Discuss whether having dogs negates the 5 second rule with person who sees the dropped meat on the floor.
Rinse dropped meat and add to pan not noticing that a chunk fell into the fire.
Find Coca-Cola in fridge and pour on meat.
Add other half of 7-up for depth of liquid.
Sprinkle random spices on mixture, not using any spices with Italian sounding names.
Cover and simmer.
Hear that danged smoke alarm go off (the one that always signals that you are cooking) and run back into kitchen and put out fire under pan.
Cook for as long as it takes you to shower and blow your hair dry.
Add:
4 cans of chile beans
2 cans of chopped tomatoes
1 can of tomato paste
While attempting to stir, realize that you need to divide the mixture into two pots because you made way too much for the pan you chose.
Add more random seasonings, again, none of which sound Italian.
Simmer until it is time to take it to schoolhouse.
Eat other people’s chili.
Follow these simple steps and you won’t even come in 4th.
I can’t wait till next year! Y’all are coming, aren’t you?
Next time I’ll tell you about the cake I made for the cakewalk.
Butler. Lost and Found
Early last spring Butler, the over-bred, half-feral, half crazy, (but 100% love), miniature Australian Shepherd went roaming and didn’t come home to sleep in Rob’s bed as he always did. Rob, my son, was in Utah on business. Jenny, Rob’s fiancée, called for Butler and looked for him frantically.
The next day Richard and I joined the search for him. We drove up and down Whitmore Road, checking the ditches on each side. Jenny made flyers and put them on all of the mailboxes on Whitmore Road and on the bulletin board at the General Store.
I called the near-by veterinarians’ offices and told them if someone brought him in wounded to call us and to do whatever they needed to keep him alive. Our vet’s receptionist said, “Is that the one that no one can get near?”
Yes, that would be Butler.
He was skittish, to say the least.
I called the wonderful, loving neighbors, who came to our sides when we lost Leigh, my daughter-in-law. They, like Richard and I, couldn’t stand the idea of Rob having to deal with another loss and promised to do what they could do to find the little guy.
Butler was suspicious of almost all humans. He didn’t allow anyone to pet him except the two people who raised him. After he lost his “mommy,” he slowly began to let a few people get closer to him. He came to me, across three pastures, when he heard the gunshots of hunters and skeet shooters. He would cower in my arms and vibrate in fear. Recently when he sensed that he was destined for a bath, he ran to me for salvation.
When Jenny came to live with him he easily trusted her. And when Whitney came to work with Rob, she found herself doing much of her work on the computer with Butler in her lap. Perhaps he was trying all of the females in his world to see if any of us could replace Leigh.
As the days passed we began to give up hope.
It snowed.
We almost hoped he was dead so he wouldn’t be out there in the freezing snow all lost and afraid and hungry and cold. We knew he would never let anyone catch him. We knew he would not go to anyone else’s home.
It snowed again.
We would not be seeing him any more. Something got him. We saw a mountain lion one Sunday evening. It was down by the creek. They say there are a lot of those around here. Butler thought he was big. He chased anything that ran. No, we would not see him again.
We thought.
Late one warm spring afternoon, Jenny and her son Jordan were in the garden preparing it for planting. They heard a bark from far away. They knew it was Butler. They looked at the hill across the creek and called Butler’s name. Another bark! Jenny thought she saw the white fur on his throat and chest.
“Jordan! Go get the binoculars!” Jenny said, as she kept her eyes on the tiny spot of white.
She looked through the binoculars and saw Butler. They ran to the bridge that crosses Cow Creek, and started up the mountain. Jenny sent Jordan back to call us. She had the foresight to grab a flash light, and she reasoned that if she became lost in the woods across the creek, she would shine the light to let us know where she was.
She had on sandals and cropped pants, but she knew she was not coming back without Butler. She climbed through the brush even though it was slashing her bare calves. At one point a limb stuck in her eye, leaving a red gash on her eyeball. She kept climbing. The girl is a hero.
By the time Richard and I found her, she and Jordan were coming down Whitmore Road on the ATV, and she had Butler in her arms. We wept at the sight.
He was a skeleton covered with fur and ticks, but he was alive. He had been gone for fifteen days.
We called our veterinarian, Dr. Prestley, and he said he’d wait for us at the clinic, where Butler spent the night getting nourished, pampered, and checked for any permanent abnormalities. Rob got a flight home immediately.
Butler, the Bionic Dog, is as good as new now, but he doesn’t wander the way he did before.
Heck, he doesn’t let Rob out of his sight.
The next day Richard and I joined the search for him. We drove up and down Whitmore Road, checking the ditches on each side. Jenny made flyers and put them on all of the mailboxes on Whitmore Road and on the bulletin board at the General Store.
I called the near-by veterinarians’ offices and told them if someone brought him in wounded to call us and to do whatever they needed to keep him alive. Our vet’s receptionist said, “Is that the one that no one can get near?”
Yes, that would be Butler.
He was skittish, to say the least.
I called the wonderful, loving neighbors, who came to our sides when we lost Leigh, my daughter-in-law. They, like Richard and I, couldn’t stand the idea of Rob having to deal with another loss and promised to do what they could do to find the little guy.
Butler was suspicious of almost all humans. He didn’t allow anyone to pet him except the two people who raised him. After he lost his “mommy,” he slowly began to let a few people get closer to him. He came to me, across three pastures, when he heard the gunshots of hunters and skeet shooters. He would cower in my arms and vibrate in fear. Recently when he sensed that he was destined for a bath, he ran to me for salvation.
When Jenny came to live with him he easily trusted her. And when Whitney came to work with Rob, she found herself doing much of her work on the computer with Butler in her lap. Perhaps he was trying all of the females in his world to see if any of us could replace Leigh.
As the days passed we began to give up hope.
It snowed.
We almost hoped he was dead so he wouldn’t be out there in the freezing snow all lost and afraid and hungry and cold. We knew he would never let anyone catch him. We knew he would not go to anyone else’s home.
It snowed again.
We would not be seeing him any more. Something got him. We saw a mountain lion one Sunday evening. It was down by the creek. They say there are a lot of those around here. Butler thought he was big. He chased anything that ran. No, we would not see him again.
We thought.
Late one warm spring afternoon, Jenny and her son Jordan were in the garden preparing it for planting. They heard a bark from far away. They knew it was Butler. They looked at the hill across the creek and called Butler’s name. Another bark! Jenny thought she saw the white fur on his throat and chest.
“Jordan! Go get the binoculars!” Jenny said, as she kept her eyes on the tiny spot of white.
She looked through the binoculars and saw Butler. They ran to the bridge that crosses Cow Creek, and started up the mountain. Jenny sent Jordan back to call us. She had the foresight to grab a flash light, and she reasoned that if she became lost in the woods across the creek, she would shine the light to let us know where she was.
She had on sandals and cropped pants, but she knew she was not coming back without Butler. She climbed through the brush even though it was slashing her bare calves. At one point a limb stuck in her eye, leaving a red gash on her eyeball. She kept climbing. The girl is a hero.
By the time Richard and I found her, she and Jordan were coming down Whitmore Road on the ATV, and she had Butler in her arms. We wept at the sight.
He was a skeleton covered with fur and ticks, but he was alive. He had been gone for fifteen days.
We called our veterinarian, Dr. Prestley, and he said he’d wait for us at the clinic, where Butler spent the night getting nourished, pampered, and checked for any permanent abnormalities. Rob got a flight home immediately.
Butler, the Bionic Dog, is as good as new now, but he doesn’t wander the way he did before.
Heck, he doesn’t let Rob out of his sight.
Butler and the Fake Baby
1-28-06
Journal
It’s a rainy, gloomy day.
A perfect day for reading in my cushy, reading loveseat, or, I don’t know, maybe it’s an extra large cushy, reading chair.
Whatever.
Did I mention it was cushy?
I read – nap – read, with “Law and Order” reruns making up the background noise. Did you know that one can watch “Law and Order” reruns 24-7? This makes Rich quite happy.
I am reading Teacher Man by Frank McCourt, you know, the guy who wrote Angela’s Ashes. It’s good, as you would expect.
Suddenly, Butler, Rob’s crazy miniature Australian Shepherd shows up at the door, in a frenzy and decidedly muddy. (The “frenzy” part means nothing, as Butler lives his life in a frenzy.)
I call Rob to let him know that Butler is here. Rob sees my name on the phone as it rings at his house, and answers, not with, “Hello” but with, “Don’t let him in!”
It seems that Rob, seeing Butler’s muddy condition, had decided to give him a bath.
Now, how do dogs know that they are targeted to have a bath? What signal do we, as humans, give out when we are preparing to bathe a dog? Do we emit some sort of dog bathing pheromone?
Whatever it is, Butler caught a whiff and ran to the person who usually saves him from scary things like baths and gunshot sounds. Me.
Within minutes, Rob arrives riding on the front of his ATV, which is being driven by my soon to be grandson, Jordan. Rob is carefully holding, -what? I can’t quite tell… a baby? Yes, it’s a baby.
The “baby” is one of those computerized babies, designed to convince young people that they aren’t in any way ready to own one. It cries at night and has a mouth that must be fed, and so forth. Rob and Jordan have it dressed in a specially designed garbage bag raincoat. Her name is Stephanie.
Stephanie’s head is wet. I dry it off, and then give her a “kootchie-koo” in the tummy. Now Jordan must document the “kootchie-koo” because Stephanie records everything that touches her little vinyl body. I am pretty sure that had Stephanie been a real baby she would have objected loudly at a ride on an ATV in the rain.
At any rate, there is nothing like a visit from a baby to brighten up a gloomy, rainy day.
Journal
It’s a rainy, gloomy day.
A perfect day for reading in my cushy, reading loveseat, or, I don’t know, maybe it’s an extra large cushy, reading chair.
Whatever.
Did I mention it was cushy?
I read – nap – read, with “Law and Order” reruns making up the background noise. Did you know that one can watch “Law and Order” reruns 24-7? This makes Rich quite happy.
I am reading Teacher Man by Frank McCourt, you know, the guy who wrote Angela’s Ashes. It’s good, as you would expect.
Suddenly, Butler, Rob’s crazy miniature Australian Shepherd shows up at the door, in a frenzy and decidedly muddy. (The “frenzy” part means nothing, as Butler lives his life in a frenzy.)
I call Rob to let him know that Butler is here. Rob sees my name on the phone as it rings at his house, and answers, not with, “Hello” but with, “Don’t let him in!”
It seems that Rob, seeing Butler’s muddy condition, had decided to give him a bath.
Now, how do dogs know that they are targeted to have a bath? What signal do we, as humans, give out when we are preparing to bathe a dog? Do we emit some sort of dog bathing pheromone?
Whatever it is, Butler caught a whiff and ran to the person who usually saves him from scary things like baths and gunshot sounds. Me.
Within minutes, Rob arrives riding on the front of his ATV, which is being driven by my soon to be grandson, Jordan. Rob is carefully holding, -what? I can’t quite tell… a baby? Yes, it’s a baby.
The “baby” is one of those computerized babies, designed to convince young people that they aren’t in any way ready to own one. It cries at night and has a mouth that must be fed, and so forth. Rob and Jordan have it dressed in a specially designed garbage bag raincoat. Her name is Stephanie.
Stephanie’s head is wet. I dry it off, and then give her a “kootchie-koo” in the tummy. Now Jordan must document the “kootchie-koo” because Stephanie records everything that touches her little vinyl body. I am pretty sure that had Stephanie been a real baby she would have objected loudly at a ride on an ATV in the rain.
At any rate, there is nothing like a visit from a baby to brighten up a gloomy, rainy day.
Bridge Climb
Bridge Climb
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
There is a monumental bridge in Sydney, Australia, that spans the harbor. While cruising under it one day we noticed these little “ant people” crawling over the upper girders. This looked like something we should investigate! We discovered that for a price we could climb up there also.
Being members of the lunatic fringe, my sister and brother-in-law, (Barbie and John), and I took a taxi to the bridge.
Rancher Richie, not being a member of the lunatic fringe, decided he’d rather take a nap.
Oh, I am starting to get nervous just writing these words. We entered the office and signed waivers that said we promised not to sue them if we should happen to fall off and manage, somehow, to live through it. While waiting to don the required attire, (ugly gray jumpsuits), I looked at the wall of celebrities who have participated in this activity and lived. Bruce Springsteen and the Olsen twins were pictured, but I didn’t get to notice others because I had to go put everything on my person into a locker because even something as small as a quarter could kill a person underneath, should the coin happen to escape out of one’s pocket. If any of us needed to wear glasses, they had to be strapped on. Then we had to hook this belt contraption around our waists that included a thin little chain that was attached to a little ball. This little ball was supposed to keep us attached to the bridge.
“There’s your boyfriend.” My ever-alert sister whispered in my ear. We always play the “There’s Your Boyfriend” game.
He was a doozey! He had several missing teeth and didn’t look too “with it” if you know what I mean. His ugly gray jump suit was twisted around him so he looked like a two year old who had dressed himself for the first time. I decided he should be my new best friend.
I couldn’t leave Barbie without a boyfriend, so I found her one. He had a carpet of hair growing out of his ears. I would have found John a girlfriend, but Barb and I were the only good candidates for that honor.
Then we took off to climb the bridge.
Our intuitive guide Jason positioned Barbie and I, (along with my boyfriend) in front of the line. We got the feeling he always kept the Goonies close to him so he could watch out for them. We were the Goonies.
We began our three-and-a-half-hour adventure. When we were still on step one, I looked down. We were already so high up that the people below looked like dollhouse people. I felt as if I might barf, and I wondered if the little people underneath me would appreciate that.
Let me say here, that I am not afraid of heights. I am just afraid of falling off high places, and I constantly picture of myself plummeting from them. With that said you would understand why I spent the first one hundred steps with my eyes closed while humming a light little dirge. Since I couldn’t see, I had to feel my way with each step, which took a little longer but I felt it was worth it.
As I became a bit braver, I opened my eyes but I kept them looking upward, sort of like Bernadette Peters did when Steve Martin told her not to look at her plate because there were snails on it, in the movie, “The Jerk.”
I still had to feel my way with my feet, and test for solid iron works before adding my weight. We were about a zillion feet high.
Our patient guide kept asking me if I was all right, as if I were a 58 year old pregnant woman. I began to get slightly more embarrassed than scared, so I decided to “watch where I was going” like my mother always said just after I stepped on a baby’s fingers or ran into an unsuspecting old lady.
Just as I was starting to get used to walking a mile up in the air on erector set walkways we came to several flights of, well, ladders, actually. They were arranged like a staircase in a building except that when we went from one staircase (or ladder-case?) to another, there was nothing beneath us.
Nothing. But. Air.
(And quite a bit if it.)
So, when we got to the top of one ladder, we had to hover out over Nothing and turn to get to the bottom of the next ladder.
Did I mention there was Nothing beneath us?
I was completely traumatized by this part, and just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a commuter train rumbled across the bridge causing the ladders to shake like a seven-point-oh earthquake. I could see post-traumatic stress syndrome in my future.
I remember poking my head up through a trap door in the floor of the bridge and seeing cars and trucks whizzing by, but that’s about all I recall until we were standing at the apex, looking down on the majestic Sydney Opera House. The view was spectacular, and I was happily congratulating myself for finishing the adventure. Ta-Da! I was on top of the world!
Then I realized we had to get back down to the ground.
And those ladders were still there.
Fixing up Ugly Boots
Everyone around here wears these ugly black rubber boots that you can buy at the feed store for a whopping $10.00. They are seen in the grocery store and oh, just everywhere.
It was very wet last spring.
We had just finished moving in on May 5th when we heard it was already the wettest May in all recorded history. By the 18th, I was wondering how many cubits an ark is supposed to be, and what exactly IS a cubit anyway? Everything was soggy, even on the rare event when the rain wasn’t coming down. Eventually, I caved in and I got myself a pair of those lovely boots.
Being the person I am, I decided that MY boots needed a little something. I went to Michaels and bought feathers, charms, leather strips, and fuzzy ribbon to jazz mine up a bit.
I went right to work, poking holes around the tops of the boots and stringing the leather and ribbons through and tying on the charms and feathers. The fringe hung down in various lengths. The look was Native American meets plumber. They were stunning. I immediately went out for a slog down to the creek wearing my latest fashion statement.
Right away, I noticed a slight impracticality. As I took each step and the boots passed by each other, the dangling charms and feathers grabbed on to each other and tangled up. I had two choices. I could walk with my legs spread reeeaally far apart or I could take little one-inch steps because my boots insisted upon tying themselves together. Walking with ones legs far apart is not sensible anywhere, and absurd when walking on a rocky terrain. When I returned from my walk, I gave my boots a haircut and saved the feathers and charms for something else. (My hair?)
I’m thinking puffy paint?
It was very wet last spring.
We had just finished moving in on May 5th when we heard it was already the wettest May in all recorded history. By the 18th, I was wondering how many cubits an ark is supposed to be, and what exactly IS a cubit anyway? Everything was soggy, even on the rare event when the rain wasn’t coming down. Eventually, I caved in and I got myself a pair of those lovely boots.
Being the person I am, I decided that MY boots needed a little something. I went to Michaels and bought feathers, charms, leather strips, and fuzzy ribbon to jazz mine up a bit.
I went right to work, poking holes around the tops of the boots and stringing the leather and ribbons through and tying on the charms and feathers. The fringe hung down in various lengths. The look was Native American meets plumber. They were stunning. I immediately went out for a slog down to the creek wearing my latest fashion statement.
Right away, I noticed a slight impracticality. As I took each step and the boots passed by each other, the dangling charms and feathers grabbed on to each other and tangled up. I had two choices. I could walk with my legs spread reeeaally far apart or I could take little one-inch steps because my boots insisted upon tying themselves together. Walking with ones legs far apart is not sensible anywhere, and absurd when walking on a rocky terrain. When I returned from my walk, I gave my boots a haircut and saved the feathers and charms for something else. (My hair?)
I’m thinking puffy paint?
Bobby's Story
The Oklahoma City Fire Department had to come and get him down from his stranded perch, up high in an oak tree when he was six years old. That gave us ten more years with him.
Mom gave birth to six of us. I was first and he was two-and-a-half years behind me. Mom had us in twos, a boy and a girl in each duo. I don’t know how she managed that, but she did.
My earliest memories are about his birth and homecoming, so in my mind there was never a time when he wasn’t there. He was my partner and we cavorted through our childhood together.
And I do mean cavorted.
I protected Bobby and taught him everything I knew. I taught him how to walk, how to “write” secret messages on the underside of the dining room table, and then how to “read” them.
“Bussa, bussa bussa!” I would say with great expression, as I “read” my cursive scribbling.
I taught him to ride his bicycle by riding on the back of it with him peddling furiously. It took me a while to convince him that he could do it without me because I was not touching the ground or holding him up in any way.
When I was seven we moved into a duplex at the end of a road. After the road ended there was a wide gully and then a great expanse of land. Behind the house were a steep hill, a rock wall that stood over twice as tall as we were, and an empty field. The aforementioned gigantic climbing tree was in that field.
Mama said,
“Don’t EVER go in that gully! Bad people hide in there! Some bank robbers blew up a safe in there recently and a little girl drowned in the stream down there last year! And see that big cement pipe under the dirt road?”
(It was so big that I could stand in it and put my arms up and stand on my tippy-toes and I couldn’t reach the top.)
“Well now and then, without any warning what so ever, a huge wall of water will wash through there and drown you in the blink of an eye!”
Bobby and I looked at each other with our eyebrows raised high, and our mouths in the shape of an O, barely able to contain our excitement. All of this and there was a little door that allowed us to crawl under the house! What magical place have we chanced upon!
We couldn’t wait to go in that gully! We crept down there that very day. It opened up new ways to have daring adventures. At first we hovered on the edges of the little stream that trickled out of the big cement pipe, waiting anxiously for a wall of water to spontaneously come whooshing out. We stared in amazement and awe at the stream, imagining the body of the little girl. After a few days Bobby dared me to run through to the other side of the big pipe. I ran in about five feet and then ran screaming back out, my heart pounding.
We got braver each day and soon were running all the way through, and yeah, even sitting in it when it was dry.
It was the same with the gully. Each day we ventured farther into the tangle of brush. Once we found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. This caused us to giggle uncontrollably at the prospect of someone naked in our gully. There was a rumor that a gun was found, but we figured our mother started that.
We soon had a fort/camping site built deep in the trees and bushes. It was heaven! The fact that our sister, Barbie, was born that year gave us the prolonged freedom that only a too busy mother can give.
The steep hill at the end of our driveway that led down to the field was an adventure in itself. I recall a time when I dared Bobby to ride our homemade scooter down the hill. He was afraid (or smarter than I) so I said, “OK, you sissy, I’ll ride it down!” I still have the scar from that ride.
Because of our hill, snow was both welcomed (for sledding) and dreaded. (We had to conquer it in order to get to school and then back home again.) In all weather, we had to go down this hill, cross the field, go up a small incline to a rutted dirt path, that went over the gully, to get to school. Bobby and I always walked together. It would have been scary without him.
The gully years offered up an escaped leopard, a rabid dog, and a suspected child snatcher, along with it’s smattering of small-time criminals. What more could two reckless cavorters ask for!
As we grew older, our interests began to deploy in different directions. However, we still slept together on Christmas Eve, snuggled under the covers listening to carols on the radio. There are certain times when one just needs a brother.
Later came the coming of age years when we alternately teased, argued with, and tried to ignore each other. At least I tried to ignore him.
One summer he and his friend built a radio station out in the washhouse behind the garage. Bobby sneaked upstairs to my bedroom where I was sleeping and tuned my radio in to their station and tippy-toed back down to the washhouse.
A gregarious radio voice soon brought me from a dead sleep to my feet.
“It’s a beautiful summer morning here in Ada, Oklahoma! You’re listening to WLXT. Here is a request for my sister, Lynn!” And “Twist and Shout” began to play. I thought I had slipped into some parallel universe.
That was the year that Bobby grew tall and handsome. I can still see him standing at the ironing board struggling to press his “wheat jeans.” Mom had just given birth to our brother, Mikey. Bobby couldn’t believe his good fortune to have this tiny baby to carry around and cuddle and kiss. He adored Mikey. He gravitated to him as soon as he walked in the door from school. They had serious “talks.”
I started college. Our president was soon to be assassinated. Our comfort in the sureness of life was shaken. But not as shattered as it soon would be.
That spring on the day before Easter, Bobby and his friend Dennis drove to Lake Texoma Lodge to apply for jobs for the coming summer. On their way home they were hit by a southbound Frisco freight train at an unguarded crossing. I am sure they were happy and had the radio turned up nice and loud. They got the jobs.
Two weeks later his new driver’s license came in the mail. He had lived for sixteen years and nineteen days.
Mom gave birth to six of us. I was first and he was two-and-a-half years behind me. Mom had us in twos, a boy and a girl in each duo. I don’t know how she managed that, but she did.
My earliest memories are about his birth and homecoming, so in my mind there was never a time when he wasn’t there. He was my partner and we cavorted through our childhood together.
And I do mean cavorted.
I protected Bobby and taught him everything I knew. I taught him how to walk, how to “write” secret messages on the underside of the dining room table, and then how to “read” them.
“Bussa, bussa bussa!” I would say with great expression, as I “read” my cursive scribbling.
I taught him to ride his bicycle by riding on the back of it with him peddling furiously. It took me a while to convince him that he could do it without me because I was not touching the ground or holding him up in any way.
When I was seven we moved into a duplex at the end of a road. After the road ended there was a wide gully and then a great expanse of land. Behind the house were a steep hill, a rock wall that stood over twice as tall as we were, and an empty field. The aforementioned gigantic climbing tree was in that field.
Mama said,
“Don’t EVER go in that gully! Bad people hide in there! Some bank robbers blew up a safe in there recently and a little girl drowned in the stream down there last year! And see that big cement pipe under the dirt road?”
(It was so big that I could stand in it and put my arms up and stand on my tippy-toes and I couldn’t reach the top.)
“Well now and then, without any warning what so ever, a huge wall of water will wash through there and drown you in the blink of an eye!”
Bobby and I looked at each other with our eyebrows raised high, and our mouths in the shape of an O, barely able to contain our excitement. All of this and there was a little door that allowed us to crawl under the house! What magical place have we chanced upon!
We couldn’t wait to go in that gully! We crept down there that very day. It opened up new ways to have daring adventures. At first we hovered on the edges of the little stream that trickled out of the big cement pipe, waiting anxiously for a wall of water to spontaneously come whooshing out. We stared in amazement and awe at the stream, imagining the body of the little girl. After a few days Bobby dared me to run through to the other side of the big pipe. I ran in about five feet and then ran screaming back out, my heart pounding.
We got braver each day and soon were running all the way through, and yeah, even sitting in it when it was dry.
It was the same with the gully. Each day we ventured farther into the tangle of brush. Once we found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. This caused us to giggle uncontrollably at the prospect of someone naked in our gully. There was a rumor that a gun was found, but we figured our mother started that.
We soon had a fort/camping site built deep in the trees and bushes. It was heaven! The fact that our sister, Barbie, was born that year gave us the prolonged freedom that only a too busy mother can give.
The steep hill at the end of our driveway that led down to the field was an adventure in itself. I recall a time when I dared Bobby to ride our homemade scooter down the hill. He was afraid (or smarter than I) so I said, “OK, you sissy, I’ll ride it down!” I still have the scar from that ride.
Because of our hill, snow was both welcomed (for sledding) and dreaded. (We had to conquer it in order to get to school and then back home again.) In all weather, we had to go down this hill, cross the field, go up a small incline to a rutted dirt path, that went over the gully, to get to school. Bobby and I always walked together. It would have been scary without him.
The gully years offered up an escaped leopard, a rabid dog, and a suspected child snatcher, along with it’s smattering of small-time criminals. What more could two reckless cavorters ask for!
As we grew older, our interests began to deploy in different directions. However, we still slept together on Christmas Eve, snuggled under the covers listening to carols on the radio. There are certain times when one just needs a brother.
Later came the coming of age years when we alternately teased, argued with, and tried to ignore each other. At least I tried to ignore him.
One summer he and his friend built a radio station out in the washhouse behind the garage. Bobby sneaked upstairs to my bedroom where I was sleeping and tuned my radio in to their station and tippy-toed back down to the washhouse.
A gregarious radio voice soon brought me from a dead sleep to my feet.
“It’s a beautiful summer morning here in Ada, Oklahoma! You’re listening to WLXT. Here is a request for my sister, Lynn!” And “Twist and Shout” began to play. I thought I had slipped into some parallel universe.
That was the year that Bobby grew tall and handsome. I can still see him standing at the ironing board struggling to press his “wheat jeans.” Mom had just given birth to our brother, Mikey. Bobby couldn’t believe his good fortune to have this tiny baby to carry around and cuddle and kiss. He adored Mikey. He gravitated to him as soon as he walked in the door from school. They had serious “talks.”
I started college. Our president was soon to be assassinated. Our comfort in the sureness of life was shaken. But not as shattered as it soon would be.
That spring on the day before Easter, Bobby and his friend Dennis drove to Lake Texoma Lodge to apply for jobs for the coming summer. On their way home they were hit by a southbound Frisco freight train at an unguarded crossing. I am sure they were happy and had the radio turned up nice and loud. They got the jobs.
Two weeks later his new driver’s license came in the mail. He had lived for sixteen years and nineteen days.
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