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!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
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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