Life With Dad

I am watching my dad out the window.  He is raking leaves.  He is 93.

First he went over the whole yard on his lawn tractor pulling some sort of leaf collecting attachment.  He has dumped several loads of the collected leaves in piles around the yard and now he has to do something with them.  So he has brought out his trusty ‘cardboard sled’ that he invented.  It is a huge piece of heavy cardboard made from a refrigerator shipping box (from his brother’s appliance store), flattened out and fitted with a board across one end with a rope handle attached to it.   He rakes the leaf piles onto the cardboard sled and then pulls the loaded sled with his tractor off toward the back of the property where they end up I don’t know where.  Then he returns to rake more piles onto the sled.   He’s very methodical.  He will do this as long as it takes.  And it’s cold out there.

 I love watching my dad do stuff like this.  Yesterday I watched him harvest his acorn squash out of his garden.  He leaves the winter squashes on the vine as long as he can, because they keep better that way, even though the vine looks dead.  Then finally when the weatherman forecasts the first frost, Dad goes out and harvests the squash.  This is a yearly ritual.  Sometimes the harvest happens in the dark of night because he hasn’t heard about the frost until the evening news, so he goes out there with flashlight and basket and rescues them just in the nick of time.  I am glad he did it in daylight this time.  He is sorely disappointed because he bought seed for butternut squash and instead it came up acorn.  Just not the same.  I love to see those butternut squash all huddled together in the wheelbarrow after he has picked them.  If you can picture these flesh-colored squash all piled up together, you will understand why he calls them his ‘bare naked babies’.  Anyway, no babies this year.  Just these dark green things.  That’s okay.  They taste good too. 

 I imagine when he’s done with his leaf project he’ll come back inside and read the paper for awhile.  He goes to the corner chair next to the window and reads until pretty soon I hear ‘crunch’………’crunch’………..’crunch’………as the paper slowly lowers into his lap and his eyelids close.  He calls this his ‘news snooze’.  But when he comes back fully awake afterward, he will do the word jumble.  He does the word jumble every day to keep his mind from going soft.  (Or words to that effect.)  And just to challenge himself a little more, he doesn’t write anything down.  He does it all in his head.  Holy moly, I gotta tell ya, if he can do THAT, his mind’s a lot firmer than mine. I always know when he’s working on the jumble because I catch him slunked way down in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, staring into space.   Thinkin’.   

 So these are just a few glimpses into life with Dad.  I admire him so much.  He does what needs doing around here, but all in good time.  What’s the rush?  Read a little paper, watch a little TV, eat a little dinner, take a little nap, play a little organ, play a little saxophone, exercise a little, take a little nap…(yeah, I know I already said that).

 I’m ashamed to admit it, but after seeing him do all that work, I think I’m ready for a nap.

Giddy-up

The Three Amigas

Well, in keeping with my new endeavor to keep busy and try new things, I went horseback riding the other day.  In truth, it’s not an entirely new thing.  I used to go riding with my friends Deb and Cindy in high school.  They had their own horses.  How cool was that?  But since I had not hoisted myself onto the back of a horse in over 40 years, it was sort of a new thing all over again.  Once again the ’60 Club’ (I call us that but I’m sure they hate it) of Carol, Chris, Betty Sue and I planned a day together.  Betty Sue had a last-minute family celebration so she couldn’t come, but Carol, Chris and I went on The Great Trail Ride Adventure. 

Okay, ‘adventure’ is not exactly the right word.  Chris’s horse “Freckles” kept falling asleep, and my horse “Dusty” stayed awake but obviously just wanted to get it over with and I swear I could hear him muttering under his breath, "Yeah, whatever."  Still, it was a glorious day and the three of us friends really enjoyed being together in the great outdoors, at one with nature and joined in spirit with our magnificent steeds. 

As you can see in the picture (that’s me on the left) we had to wear those doofy helmets.  I wanted to wear a ten gallon hat, but first of all I didn’t have one, and second of all there are safety issues to consider, as evidenced by the phone book-sized stack of release forms we had to sign prior to mounting up, including a clause (I kid you not) that says the stable is not responsible for the weather.  Yeah, apparently a few customers have actually thrown hissy fits because it rained on the day they picked to go riding, and they felt the stable was somehow responsible. 

As I look at the picture, I see that my horse looks kind of….short.  Carol, the most experienced of the riders, was assigned the tallest horse, so she looks positively regal atop her mount (Carol’s the one in the middle.)  And Carol also has her own helmet.  I was impressed.  (Kind of reminds me of when I was in college and they made me the captain of our intramural bowling team because I was the only one who had her own ball.)  And Chris looks happy and comfortable atop Freckles, who appears to be awake in this picture. 

I will boast a little though, because I was the only one who knew ALL the words to Happy Trails To You, even the middle part that nobody knows.  (Thank you Buddy for singing it at the end of every show.) 

So once again, a good time was had by all, and we parted ways with a fond farewell as Carol heads off to Florida for another season.  
 
Then after that, I went to tap dance class.  But that’s another blog. (That ‘Icy Hot’ stuff really works.)

 

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Yoga

I started taking yoga classes a couple of months ago up in New York state with a friend who had been going for a few years.  Excuse me, I think they say yoga practice.  I'm still practicing, that's for sure.  Anyway, I went the first time just to be polite, fully expecting to hate it.  Imagine my surprise when I actually liked it.  I think it was kind of a modified version of yoga, and it felt good. So I went twice a week for about three weeks.  Then I came back down here to Florida a couple weeks ago, and found that I missed it  So I get this bright idea......I know that the local Senior Friendship Center has all kinds of classes, and activities and stuff so I went to their web site and found out that sure enough, they have a yoga class once a week.  And it's only three dollars!  Yes!  Plus, I figured it was best to find a senior version of yoga since I'm still pretty new and not too flexible and still learning the 'downward facing dog'.  And after all, I am 60 now, so I qualify for the Senior Friendship Center.  So I went this morning.

The instructor is 80 and way more nimble than me.   Two of the ladies were in their  nineties. (I'm not kidding.)  And they were way more nimble than me. I left the room with my legs shaking and my hips screaming at me.  As I waited for the elevator to carry me back down to the main floor, I watched as the two 90-year-olds took the stairs.

I'm gonna go again next week.  These people have inspired me.  I have a whole new outlook.....'Hey, I'm ONLY 60!"  But don't expect me to take the stairs.

My Week In Review...Poo-Poo-Pe-Doo

Just thought I'd do a quick round-up of this week's events. 

1. I'm back in Florida and all my anxieties and fears about the trip which I stupidly suffered all of  last week are behind me and were, of course, groundless. Things went smoothly and all is well.

2. Went to the communal 60th birthday party that we had planned for two weeks earlier (I wrote about that one last time.  See "The Girls At The Lake".)  Four of us recently-turned-60 friends gathered once again at Carol's house at the lake.  Thank you Carol.  It's a really nice house and well, it's on the lake for heaven's sake so it was gorgeous.  This time all four of us came and had a grand time.  Kind of a take-two of the previous get-together.  This time clever Carol had presents for each of us.  The first gift was.....are you ready?.....a package of SPOOLIES.  And if you're reading this and don't know what Spoolies are you are way too young to be reading a baby boomer's blog.  So we each grabbed one and wound a lock of our hair around it and sat there with these pink plastic circles in our hair for the remainder.  I was given Tangee lipstick.  Oh man, haven't seen THAT in years.  And I will forgive you if you don't remember Tangee lipstick because the specific name may be throwing you off.  Here, this description from their web site should jog your memory: "The original orange lipstick that goes on clear and gradually transforms into the perfect shade for you." Huh?  Huh?  You gettin it now??   Sure enough.  The stick is orange, but I put it on and it immediately went DARK PINK.  It's freaky.  Then the next gift was a MADRAS plaid duster, or housecoat, or whatever you want to call it. Perfect. 

Well, since Carol was the one who came up with these, she didn't want us to feel bad, and think she was left out, so she gave herself a gift too.  She unwrapped the package to reveal....EMERAUDE COLOGNE.  Wow.  shades of ninth grade.  I think I alternated between Emeraude and  Ambush.  


Anyway, it was another great gathering of old friends.  And sorry but I do mean old.


3. Watched several old movies with my dad to pass the evening hours.  I actually enjoyed them more than I anticipated.  One in particular starred Fred Astaire and Red Skelton and was called "Three Little Words".  It was the story of two actual songwriters (Burt Kalmar and Harry Ruby) and their successes and feuds and such.  Lots of good dancing by Mr. Astaire so I was all up for that.  One of the songs they wrote that was featured in the movie was "I Wanna Be Loved By You".  ("I wanna be loved by you alo-ne...POO POO PE DOO"  Now you can better understand the formerly puzzling title of this post.)


4. Flew back to Florida, as I mentioned.  Was picked up at the airport by two of my wonderful angel friends who not only drove an hour each way to pick me up, but took me to their house afterward and fed me a delicious meal.  And, oh yes, THREE MARGARITAS.  Which was apparently one margarita too many because I ended up having an unplanned sleepover at their house.  Oooohh, I forgot how the bed could spin like that.  But I had a GREAT time and loved every minute.  


So here I am, settling back in at my condo.  I was wondering how I would feel coming back to an empty house,  but ya know, I'm okay.  Going out to dinner tonight with another friend and planning to curl up with a good book afterward.  


Life is good.

The Girls At The Lake

Got together with a couple of high school class of '70 girlfriends the other night for cookout and conversation.  It was supposed to be a communal 60th birthday party but one of our comrades in sagging arms couldn't make it, so we stashed the cake in the freezer for another day, and just got together to get together. 

It was great.  I mean great in the sense that I perceive it at 60.  It was great because we were totally relaxed with each other, and enjoyed each other's company, and laughed and remembered and talked about today, yesterday and tomorrow.  And had a few glasses of wine of course.  I have found that a glass of wine is an excellent accessory to conversation. After a couple of the aforementioned glasses of wine we were even inspired to get up from the dinner table on the patio and do the stroll when a stroll-worthy song came on the radio.  Well, we tried to do the stroll.  I confess I had forgotten exactly how it went and my version was somewhere between the Electric Slide and the Virginia Reel I think.

I thought about the whole affair later and smiled at the realization that maturity has its benefits when it comes to female friendships.  No adolescent competition or jealousy.  No  inward comparisons of each others' strengths and weaknesses in order to find our footing in the social order.  I felt no social order whatsoever.  It didn't matter who was popular, who was smart, who had the best clothes. Popular isn't even in our grown-up vocabulary any more.  It was just us.  Three friends, still friends.  Survivors of youthful foibles, failed relationships, successes, defeats, jobs, love and loss.  Three friends sitting outside on a balmy evening at the lake, just talking, just enjoying.  It was just nice. 

And that's what really made it great. 

The Lines On My Face

So recently I've been noticing a couple of new crease lines on my cheek.  What the heck?  They're not crows feet, I've got those a little higher up next to my eyes.  At first I thought it was just pillow lines, but I was noticing them lo-n-g  after I got out of bed.  What the...I never saw anyone with lines like these.  Oh well, I'm almost 60, so I guess it's just old age. Figured I'd just have to find some new kind of makeup that would fill them in, like spackle.  Yuck.  Another age thing.

But wait.  One day I was talking on my iPhone and after I got off I looked in the mirror for some reason.  The creases!!  They were really prominent.

DUH!  I've been using only my iPhone recently because I'm travelling and have all my calls forwarded.  It's not old age creases. 

It's iPhace!

P.S. Tomorrow is my 60th birthday. Glad I could make myself laugh. 

Facebook Caper

This is a good one.  I was reading the newspaper the other day and there was an article COMPLETE WITH PHOTO about a young guy who got caught for robbery because he posted a photo of himself on Facebook holding a big wad of cash.  This, after recently posting that he was flat broke and out of work. 

Now, meanwhile, a Dollar General store VERY close to this guy's house had been robbed.   Of a big bunch of cash and some other stuff. 

His own Facebook photo showed him grinning away with this wad of cash in his fist, and also visible in the photo were a few items identifiable from the Dollar General robbery. 

Apparently  the police are now using Facebook as an evidence-gathering resource and they couldn't help but notice the stupid idiot with the cash.  So they arrested him, and sure enough, he did the robbery.

Well, my late husband, who just never could understand the big deal with Facebook, always said somebody should start an Assbook.  I think we just found our first member.

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The Elephant in the Room

Well, I think I only have two options here:  either scrap this blog altogether and shut it down, or acknowledge the elephant in the room and write about it.  So here goes.

My husband died last month on February 25th.  My joined-at-the-hip best friend husband.  He had been feeling poorly but I really thought he'd go to the doctor, find out what was going on, and get it fixed.  But no.  It was cancer.  Again. And this time it attacked with a vengeance and took him fast.  One week in the hospital, that's all.  Of course, I must quickly add that this is exactly the way he would have wanted it.  In fact he said it many times.  When a friend died last year and we were told that he had been feeling perfectly all right, then felt bad, then went into the hospital on a Friday and died the next Friday, Buddy said "He's my hero."  In other words, no hanging on with tubes and treatments, just shuffle on out of here.  And that's the exact thing that happened to Buddy.  We performed a show on a Tuesday, he went in the hospital that Friday, and died the next Friday.   My hero.

God was very good to him.  Merciful.  Took him Home quickly.  Although that hell-week in the hospital seemed like an eternity to me, it was really just the blink of an eye.  So thank you God.  And I mean that.

So for a little over a month I have been living day to day in a new reality.  Friends, neighbors and family are absolutely wonderful to me.  And they are keeping my head above water.  Of course I must add to this that I am lifted up in a most miraculous way by the Presence of God.  Even in my worst pain and my biggest ugly cry, I know He is here with me, holding me.  I admit I can't always feel it.  But still I know it.  And this is the meaning of faith.  "Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."  God is here, and miracles are everywhere.

I have been talking on the phone with my old college roomie (sorry about the 'old'), who also lost her husband to cancer just a little over six months ago.  This is kind of crazy.  The two of us both lost our husbands within six months of each other.  How did we go from talking about our wild and crazy sworn-to-secrecy college days, to talking about how we're coping without our husbands?  I think there may be a novel or a movie in there, but that's for another time.

So I just had to get it out there.  I had to write that it happened.  I won't always write about it, but probably will write about it sometimes.  Maybe the 'Widows Club' is another whole blog. I don't know. 

But I do know that I will also still write about things that strike me funny, or stuff that strikes me as odd or ironic.  Because I'm still me, and I still laugh, and I still like to write, and I still find humor in life. 

And I still know that God is good, and this life isn't the end of it all.  So why not poke fun at it. 
Hey, you gotta laugh.

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Recycle, Re-use and Don't Stub Your Toe

Don't you just love finding a use for something you would have thrown away or stashed in the back of the closet?  And don't you just love when you figure out how to solve a problem using that thing you were going to throw or stash? 

So here's my story.
Part One:  Several years ago my sister-in-law gave me a pair of Bugs Bunny slippers.  Mostly as a joke because she knew I kind of accumulated bunnies of all types.  I hesitate to say collected because it was mostly unintentional, this accumulation of bunnies.  (Or "fuzzy Americans" as my husband called them.)  Anyhow, I actually wore the slippers for awhile because they were really soft and cushy under my feet.  But we live in Florida, and I hit menopause, and that pretty much put a stop to wearing anything - even on my feet - that might cause me to sweat.  So I retired the slippers to the back of the aforementioned closet.

Part Two:  Buddy and I both had a painful habit of stubbing our toes (more like ramming them full on) on the leg of our bed.  Much hopping around.  Many bad words. 

The Solution:  Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words.....

YOU JUST KNOW THERE'S A LEG UNDER THERE WAITING IN AMBUSH FOR INNOCENT TOES.

AM I A GENIUS OR WHAT????

No more painful toes.  And Bugs looks so happy.

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The Target

"Squadron, this is Wing Leader.  How y'all doing out there?"

 "A-OK, Wing Leader, we're holding formation, awaiting your orders Sir."

 "Good.  Now listen men,  I want you to keep a tight formation as we approach the target."

"Roger Wing Leader, we're with you."

 "Roger that.  Now heads up everyone.  Target dead ahead, twelve o'clock."

"Roger that, Wing Leader.  Locked on target."

 "All right men, this is it.   Bombs away!"

 *

*

*

*

*

 (As I write this, Buddy's already at the car wash.)

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The Anniversary Dinner

Monday was our 18th wedding anniversary.  It's a little embarrassing to say this, but now we have finally been married for as many years as we lived together before we were married. Can anyone say "commitment issues?"  Anyway, we have now been together for 36 years and we've never been happier together. And it makes me happy to say that.

We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner.  We chose our anniversary restaurant with utmost care.  Which means that in true Florida geezer tradition, we chose the restaurant we had a gift certificate for.  A nice little Italian restaurant nearby.  That's the other Florida geezer rule of thumb.... find a restaurant nearby where you don't have to drive far to get back home afterward.  We did, however, make one exception to the geezer code;  we opted NOT to go for the early bird.  In fact, it was actually almost dark when we entered the restaurant. 

We were greeted by somebody's mother, wearing an apron and a poker face.  As she led us to our table, we immediately noticed that they had "entertainment" in the dining room. There was a man playing the piano and singing, very nicely dressed and somewhere between eighty and a hundred years old.  It was hard to tell.  As we entered the dining room he gave us a friendly wave as he pumped out the last few strains of "My Blue Heaven."  Thankfully we were seated as far away from him as was geographically possible.  But make no mistake, we were still able to enjoy his rendition of "Piano Roll Blues" and several other songs from the post Civil War era.   His playing was sprinkled throughout with the occasional sour note,  or as we say in the vernacular of the music business, clam.  We settled into our seats as they dimmed the lights and Mr. Piano began crooning, "All of me... why not (clam) take all of me.."   It was delightful.

We had a really nice waittress who took very good care of us. She brought us glasses of wine, we ordered appetizers, and we settled in for a fine evening of dining on our anniversary.  As we sat and talked and enjoyed our wine, we must have passed through a time zone of some sort during which Mr. Piano shifted from his cocktail set into his lively numbers.  When he launched into "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" it took me so completely by surprise, I thought my Pinot Grigio would come out through my nose.  Oh man, he was really rockin' -  in a dixieland swing kind of way.  The clams came fast and furious then, and I'm not talking about our appetizers.

Well, the evening was lovely, actually.  The food was good, the service was good, and of course there was the gift certificate.  Near the end of our meal, my husband excused himself to use the men's room, and when he came back he told me about this stuff they had in there, some kind of scented scrub, that you work into your hands and then rinse off.  He said it was in a bowl next to the sink, with a spoon in it to scoop some out.  He offered his hand for me to smell.  It smelled of mint.  He said the sign called the stuff "salts of the sea" or something, and today's scent was mint.  Nice.  He insisted that I be sure and go to the ladies room so I could experience this new thing.  So I did.  In the ladies room the scent of the day was pomegranate.  There was the bowl of this orange colored sherbet-looking stuff with the spoon and the sign.  All I could think was I sure hoped no one went in there really drunk and ate a spoonful of the stuff, cause it actually looked kind of appetizing.  Anyway, I used it and it smelled nice. I reported back to him and offered my fruity hand for him to smell.  We were having a grand time.

So we finished our meal, paid the check, tipped the waittress and my husband made a point of walking over and leaving a nice tip in Mr. Piano's tip jar.  After all, that could be us in a few short years. Mr. Piano thanked him and asked if we had a favorite song we'd like to hear.  "Oh no no, thanks, we're just leaving!" he said cheerfully.  We hurried toward the door and out into the night air. 

When we got in the car we agreed what a nice evening it was.  After a few moments he said, boy that mint smell is really strong, huh?  And I said I couldn't tell, all I could smell was pomegranate.  The smell seemed to intensify as we drove home and soon the whole car smelled of pomegranate mint.  Unique.  I finally sat on my hands until we could get home where I tried washing it off.  Uh uh.  Still there.  That's okay, we knew it would go away eventually.

So end of story, we had a really nice anniversary.  We always enjoy each other's company, and that's just the greatest thing. Maybe next year we'll try a different restaurant.  One with a soap dispenser.

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It's Officially a Non-Day

It's January 1st, but I have decided to postpone the new year.  I've decided 2012 will begin tomorrow.

Look, today is just not the day to start a new year.  First of all, it's a holiday - New Year's Day - and it's the day after whoop-dee-doo New Year's Eve.  (Which for me is not nearly as much whoop as it used to be, by the way. Instead of my usual one glass of wine with dinner last night, I had an extra half glass.  Oohhhhh  Whoop.)  But on top of that, it's Sunday.  A day of rest.  I'm sorry, but all those new year's resolutions and eager self-improvement ideas in my head are just going to have to wait a day. I can't pull it off today.  I'm taking the day off.  Suspending time for just a bit. 

Tomorrow, that's when I will begin 2012.  Tomorrow I will start writing that novel.  Tomorrow I will begin taking daily walks.  Tomorrow I will go grocery shopping and fill my cart with healthy food.  Tomorrow I will.....wait a minute.  If today is New Year's Day and it's Sunday, then tomorrow is the legal holiday.  It's another day off. 

Cool.  I guess I'm going to begin 2012 on Tuesday. 

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Vacuum Update

Okay, I did it.  I vacuumed, and I mean with the "real" vacuum this time.  The big, bulky, heavy, behemoth, domestic T-Rex version.

Sure enough, I scarred some more furniture, stubbed my toe on the thing, caught the on-board tools on a wire shelf  in the office and turned it over, missed three phone calls and a neighbor's knock on the door because of the Boeing 747 decibel roar of the damn thing. 

Did I mention that I hate vacuuming?

Oh, and really I have no excuse.  Our condo is barely 1100 square feet, and I only have to plug the monster in one spot to clean the whole place.  Well, now I'm a little ashamed. Nevertheless, the bathroom is just going to have to wait.  I'm all sweaty and I have to bandage my toe.

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Housekeeping My Way

I am not a great housekeeper.  I was going to say I'm a terrible housekeeper, but that's a little overstated.  I mean, my house is orderly, I'm not a hoarder or anything.  I don't have piles and piles of accumulated trash all over the house with a dead flat cat at the bottom of it all.  (I actually saw that on TV.  And by the way, when did a "horribly dirty messy person"  become a "hoarder"?  Probably about the same time a "brat" became "A.D.D.".  But I digress.) 

Anyway, because I use one of those lightweight rechargeable carpet sweepers every day or so to police the littered landscape of visible crumbs and assorted nuts around our couch (the detritus of our nightly TV snacking frenzy), I literally cannot remember the last time I actually vacuumed.  I mean beater-brush Hoover kind of vacuuming. I cannot remember.

I absolutely hate "real" vacuuming. I am not good at it.  I bump into furniture with the stupid thing, I knock stuff over, I get mad and yank the dining room chairs out of the way, flinging them headlong into more unsuspecting furniture, I just hate it. I pretty much hate anything requiring "elbow grease".  For instance, I also hate mopping, like with a bucket and everything.  So I use the Swiffer wet mop method on the kitchen floor.  Easy peasy. 

Actually, I have several "methods" of housekeeping to trick myself into at least attempting to clean.  Which, as I mentioned, I hate. One such method is the very reliable "Kleenex method" of bathroom cleaning, taught to me by my late mother-in-law, whereby you simply grab a few Kleenex from the tissue box nearby, and deftly wipe up the unsightly water spots and schmutz around your bathroom sink and toilet.  Voila! And lest you think this is a wasteful practice, let me assure you that Kleenex are a completely renewable resource.  There are LOTS more boxes of them at the store. 

Other "methods" include the scatter-shot method, where I bounce from mess to mess with no plan nor forethought.  ("Oh look, there's a smudge on that mirror.  Better wipe that off.  Ooh, there's a spot on the rug over there, better spot clean that with the spray cleaner.  Oops, there's makeup on the dresser, better wipe that off."  Etcetera.)  Also the "do one thing today" method, because it's all I can handle.  Like the aforementioned vacuuming.  And of course, the "one room at a time" method.  I just finished one of these in our bedroom.  I did a fairly thorough top to bottom cleaning, (how do the baseboards get like that?) taking my time and stretching it out throughout the day. Of course, now I'm so traumatized by the herculean effort, I'm not sure when I'll get to the next room.  Maybe by December sometime.

Oddly, I do not hate doing laundry, although I simply "forget" to do it until the hamper begins to bulge and vibrate and spit sleeves and socks out its mouth. And someday I'll tell you about my patented "magic fold" of bedsheets, that allows you to place the clean folded sheet back on the bed in such a way that you casually pull back the folds and replace your sheet perfectly without all the wild flapping and running laps around the mattress.  Got your interest, haven't I?

Well, now that I have cleansed my soul, and confessed my domestic shortcomings, I think I'll take a nap.  The bed's all made and it's the only room in the house that's clean.

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Bran Power

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I make these bran muffins.  They are, well... therapeutic... as well as quite delicious.  I have tried various recipes over the years, beginning with a recipe that used regular bran flakes cereal as the main ingredient.  They were nice muffins.  But my current version, uses the kind of bran cereal that contains FOURTEEN grams of fiber per half cup serving.  They are little sticks of dynamite in a box.  I call the new resulting muffins my WMD's. 

One day, back when I first started making these muffins, our air conditioning guy (who is also a friend of ours)  happened to be here, so I gave him a couple to take home.  He called me two days later to tell me, in his quiet and slow deliberate voice, "Those muffins were not only delicious, they had an excellent result."  (His exact words.)  From that day forward, whenever we referred him to a new customer, or he ran into anyone who knows us he would regale them with tales of my very effective muffins.  Strange but true. I guess you never know what someone will remember you for.  Perhaps my epitaph should be "Her muffins were delicious and they had an excellent result." 

Anyway, in keeping with the Fall harvest season upon us, I have recently been adding pumpkin to my muffin recipe.  Oh boy.  More fiber.  

So, I guess I just wanted to say....oops.  Gotta go.

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Ten Years Ago 9/11

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For my generation and older, it's been said that you never forget where you were when you heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot. I was sitting on a school bus in the parking lot of my grammar school, waiting for our driver to pull out and take us home at the end of our school day. But before we drove anywhere, a teacher boarded the bus and told us the terrible news.


At least that's the way I remember it. But I was a kid, and my childhood memories are always part fact and part fill-in-the-blank. So who knows whether that's exactly how it went?

But ten years ago, on September 11, I was a grown-up, and I do remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when the news of an airplane crashing into the World Trade Center hit the airwaves. Buddy and I were taking showers, shaving, getting dressed and putting on make-up, getting ready to perform a matinee show for a group of senior citizens who were coming by bus to see us at Tillman's Village Inn in Albion, NY.

At first it seemed that the first plane may have been a horrible accident. Then it became clear: No accident. Terrorist attack. The scenes on TV, so sickeningly familiar now, were unbelievable at the time. In a daze, we just kept getting ready to do our show, because we knew that the busload of people, from a town three hours away, were already on their way to see us when it all happened. We didn't even know if they knew. They were just on a fun day trip, going to see some entertainment, have lunch, and enjoy the rural scenery.

So we went to the Village Inn, and waited for the bus to arrive. We were all dressed up, our PA equipment was turned on and ready to go. The staff, the owners, the chef, and us, all wandering around in a fog, wondering if we should go ahead with the meal and the show. Would the people even want to, once they found out? Was it the right thing to do? Put on a show and smile and sing and entertain, while this horror was unfolding in our country?

The bus pulled into the parking lot and Buddy and I went out to meet them. This time, I was the one boarding the bus with the terrible news. But it turned out they already knew. Someone had called the driver on his cell phone, and he had relayed the news to them.

So Buddy said, "Well, what do you want to do? We'll do whatever you decide. Do you want to cancel the show?"

One gentleman in the back said, "We've been through this before. We went through World War II and one thing we know is, we're not gonna let them ruin our way of life. On with the show!"

The whole busload loudly agreed, and we all went inside and carried on with the day we had planned.

We gave them a show. We sang, we entertained, and we even managed to laugh a little. But instead of ending the show with our usual "Happy Trails to You", we sang "Proud to Be An American", and "God Bless America". During that last song, as everyone stood, clasped hands with each other and raised them high above their heads, singing their hearts out, I realized that this was the tower they couldn't bring down; a shining tower of American strength, faith, and determination.

"We will never forget."

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YES! Pantyhose are back!

Funny how things happen.  The last few days I SWEAR I've been thinking of blogging about how I miss seeing stockings on women's legs.  How I just think bare legs look awful sticking out under a dressy dress.  Not to mention the bare feet stuffed into those long pointy toe high heels.  AND WOULDN'T YOU KNOW, just last night I saw an article on Yahoo! News (and as we all  know, Yahoo! News is our most trusted source in global news, followed closely only by the Associated Press and Reuters) proclaiming that Kate Middleton, Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Cambridge herself, has put an end to the bare leg trend by wearing pantyhose!  Hooray!

Of course I, for one, never stopped wearing them.  And in fact, only noticed recently that I seem to be the only hold-out.  When did pantyhose go OUT anyway?  Which fashionista fart-head declared the ban?  I slowly began to notice that NOBODY was wearing them anymore.  Apparently it was 'SO EIGHTIES' to wear them.  So 'last millenium'.  On the two or three occasions that I have actually worn a dress in the last decade, I could feel the pity and scorn as people glanced at my hosed legs and quickly looked away. 

Well that's all over now!!  Thank you Kate for bringing reason and civility back to our appendages.  PLUS you may have noticed that her bra straps do not show.  Thank you!!  And Prince William keeps his boxers discreetly hidden beneath his trousers, which by the way seem to sit elegantly at his waist, not his crotch.  Thank you!!

So it seems the royal family has a purpose after all.  Keep up the good work, Your Highnesses. 

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Sunrise Service

6:55 AM.  I am sitting on the lanai, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the sunrise.  It's already light out, but the sun has not yet risen over the trees.  I'm waiting to see that first shaft of orange sunlight wash across the rooftops. 

I'm having my own Sunrise Service this Easter morning.  Waiting.  Listening. 
A joyful-sounding mockingbird is my church choir, along with assorted other birds singing their own songs. 
(I can see the mockingbird perched on the peak of the roof next door.  A constant stream of ever-changing notes, nuances, and rhythm patterns fill the air with crystal clarity.  An impressive string of vocalizations, all unique and totally different from each other, emanate from this little bird. How does he do that?  Why does he do that? One of God's many delightful mysteries.) 

Just now I got a sweet scent of flowers coming from the bush just outside the screen.   My incense.

I can hear the faint sound of traffic on the nearby interstate.  Occasionally the distinctive sound of a trailer truck downshifting, or a motorcycle speeding up, reaches my ears and I think, "Someone is driving that truck and I am connected to him.  Someone is riding that motorcycle and I am connected to him."  I ask God to bless them and keep them safe today.  I can see the white trail of a jet plane flying overhead - way up high - and I ask God to bless and protect all the people inside that tiny dot in the sky. 

Oh, a couple of Sandhill Cranes, with their clattery, metallic voices, have just joined the choir, and the sweet floral scent just intensified a bit.  This is a great service so far. 

A single phrase has been repeating itself in my head ever since I woke up:  "The stone is rolled away."  I sit quietly and let the phrase repeat as the morning grows ever brighter.  And there it is...that first shaft of sunlight shining on the rooftops.  I love it.

Another Sandhill Crane flies overhead.  It's a huge bird.  It's so big one wonders how could it possibly fly?

One wonders.  Jesus was so dead, how could he possibly live?  But he did. And he does. 

"The stone is rolled away."  Hallelujah!  The Son has risen!

Happy Easter Everyone

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My Mother's Shaver

I've never been a razor person when it comes to shaving my legs.  My mother always used an electric shaver, so that's what I did too when I began to sprout leg hair in the mid-sixties.  In fact, I used hers until I moved out and went to college.  Since then I've had several shavers that were adequate for keeping my legs sufficiently mowed,  but none were ever quite as good as Mom's Lady Remington.  Whenever I would come home for a visit, I'd always grab Mom's shaver out of the dresser drawer where it lived and indulge in a really close, smooth shave. 

After my mother died in 1991, sure enough, I found my old friend, Lady Remington, still in the same dresser drawer, still in the original box, and still fully operational.  No one objected when I claimed it for myself.  You guessed it.   I'm still using it. 

Since it's still in its original 1960's box, the instruction book is also still there, along with the little brush that Mom taught me to clean it with after every use.  The shaver still lives in its original container, inside the original cardboard box.  You can see its clever design in the photo.  (Yes, I just took that photo yesterday.)  The top swivels away to reveal the first chamber with electrical cord and brush, then that chamber swivels away to reveal the Lady Remington herself nestled in the bottom chamber.  Genius.  All the swivels still work, of course.  I also mentioned that the instruction manual is still in the box with it, albeit crumpled a bit.  I couldn't resist showing you the pages instructing you how to shave first your legs, then your armpits.  Glad they cleared that up.

You know you can't even find a woman's shaver with an electrical cord anymore?  And I love the little switches on either side of the shaver that change the heads from "legs" to "arms" position.  The detail!
And I believe it was actually made in the USA.  I know the booklet says "printed in the USA" on the back.  Even that's unusual these days.   (Most instruction manuals nowadays have instructions like "you must to attach tab in shlot in to thee back". Probably not printed in the USA.)

Anyway, I'm proud to still be using my Mom's Lady Remington.  It's still the best shaver ever.  I'd put it up against a stone cold razor any day.  Who wants to challenge me?  Anyone?

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Spider

I was going through my past blog posts and discovered a few that I apparently started years ago, and saved as drafts, but never finished, and never posted.  So since we're getting ready to make one of our trips up North in a few weeks, and stay with Dad, I thought I'd just go ahead and post this old one.  It's just such a typical day at Dad's.

(From September 24, 2006)

We're visiting here "up North", where we spend several months each year staying with my dad. So yesterday morning I was downstairs making coffee, talking with Dad as he made his breakfast, and he said, "Oh by the way, did you happen to look out the dining room window?" No, I said. "Go take a look," he said. So I did and what I saw was a spider the size of a small frog resting comfortably in the middle of a gigantic web strung on the outside of the window. Whoa. Big fella. Well we both admired the workmanship of the web, with its perfect spoke design and all, but mostly I was grossed out by the size, form and up-closeness of Spider Kong. I don't like bugs, especially spiders. But even though it gave me the heebie jeebies, I admit I was fascinated. While we watched, he pushed off from his perch, repelled downward on a tiny thread from his butt, hastily repaired a flaw in the web, and ascended back up the thread to his resting spot. Smooth and efficient. So I called upstairs to my husband. "Hey, Honey, you gotta come down here and see this spider. It's huge!" "Just a minute", he said. In a few moments he appeared, holding two cans of insect spray, one in each hand like six-shooters. "Where is it?" he demanded.
"No, no, it's outside," I said, "Look here". He looked, but was unimpressed with our admiration. He kept insisting he could go outside and blast him to kingdom come with one shot. I admit that would normally be my own reaction, but I had too much respect for this guy. And besides, I was comforted by the fact that this particular spider was actually too big to get in through any cracks he might find.

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