Last week daughter Jeana invited us to join her and her family for a couple of days of their vacation, which we were very excited about. I mean, really, how many people's kids actually *want* them to come along on vacation! We were delighted to accept, especially since it was the day on which they were going to Fossil Rim exotic animal park.
If you have never been to one of these places, it's sort of like a zoo, except that instead of the animals being in cages, they are running loose, and you drive your car through the park to see the animals. When you buy your tickets, you have the opportunity of also buying a bag of food pellets (they look like pressed cardboard, and smell vaguely like graham crackers--they taste awful--and yes, we did taste them).
As you drive through the park, you can entice many of the animals to come right up to the car, by offering them these pellets. Apparently they taste better to the animals than they do to humans.
Since there were too many of us for one car, we took two, and divided the kids between us. The girls rode with us, and we followed the car with the boys in it. A good deal of our time was taken up with the kids waving, shouting, and squealing at each other from one car to the other. This was a show in itself.
One of our first encounters was with a large ostrich. Ostriches tiptoe like giant, fluffy, feather dusters in toe-shoes. Their long, muscular legs are a sharp contrast to their dainty steps, like ballerinas on pointe.
This ostrich stood right by the road, exacting a toll from each car that passed. The girls told us to put the pellets in the groove of the window, and the ostrich would take the food from there. The girls were right.
The huge bird pecked the food from the window groove, bit by bit, and then looked for more. I reached into the paper bag for more food, but the ostrich was too impatient to wait for me to deposit it in the window groove. He stuck his whole head through the window, his huge shiny eyes intent on the bag of feed, and his huge hard bill much too close to my face.
When I reacted by screeching, waving my hands wildly about my head, and making shooing sounds, the little girls in the back seat dissolved into giggles.
Knowing that we had a couple more hours of animals to feed, we reluctantly left him waiting for the next car, and drove on.
We saw many kinds of small deer, antelope, kudu, gazelles. Many would come quite close to the car, waiting for us to throw a handful of food, which they eagerly lipped from the grass. Lolly worried about them getting bugs in their food, but as Katoushka pointed out, they probably eat a lot of bugs on the grass when no people are around to feed them.
One highlight of our drive was the giraffes. I had never seen these tall, graceful animals so close before. One, a baby, was probably only about six and a half feet tall, and was very curious about us, bending his long neck to peer at us through his amazingly long and thick eyelashes. They remind me of sunflowers, on long, slender stems.
Another was the zebra, who ate food pellets out of my husband's hand, and allowed him to pet his soft nose, just like a horse.
Just twenty feet before we saw the sign that said, "Warning. Do not feed zebras by hand. They bite."
About half way through our trip, we stopped at the gift shop/picnic area for lunch under the shade trees. Since we forgot paper plates, napkins, or paper towels, we had to make our sandwiches on our palms, and eat the chips directly from the bag.
For Big D, I think the highlight of our lunch was the grapes. He had been hungry for fruit the night before, and asked if he could eat some. Jeana told him no, the grapes were for our picnic. He asked if he could have some strawberries. Jeana said no, those are to put on Katie's birthday cake. And the bananas were for breakfast. Finally he sighed dramatically, and asked, "Is there any fruit here that I can actually eat?"
A-man, our budding naturalist, told us many facts about the various animals we had seen. Near the picnic area there were large open-air cages of birds, which were fascinating. We ate a leisurely lunch, looked at the birds in the cages and the ones flying free around the picnic tables, and toured the gift shop, which was filled with all kinds of stuff, ranging from hugely expensive wood carvings and decorated ostrich eggs to games that promised to add to our knowledge of the animals in the park. I looked at the walking sticks, and seriously considered buying one, which I thought was eminently sensible, considering my past history.
However, I just couldn't convince myself to spend that much money for what was, after all, basically a big stick.
Since we had to be back in our home town in time to pick up Frankie the Pomeranian, we had to take leave of our babies at that point, and finish the drive alone. We left the remains of our feed bag with them, so that they would have more to offer to the other animals they might encounter. We did not anticipate that either the ostrich from the beginning of our trip, or a close relative, would be waiting for us around the bend.
He was standing in the middle of the road, wings spread to make himself look even larger than he was already. The road is too narrow to drive around him, so we slowed....to a crawl.....and finally had to stop, because the ostrich clearly had the right of way.
He held his head high, making eye contact through the windshield, and obviously waiting for us to offer some food. Wick and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't have any food. So we sat there, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
He bobbed his head up and down.
He examined each headlight.
He inspected the front bumper.
He looked over every inch of the hood, the windshield, and the wiper blades.
He made the kinds of noises a large, impatient bird makes when people don't cooperate by paying their toll of food pellets.
He did not move out of the road.
We had been warned not to honk at the animals, so we couldn't honk.
We couldn't drive around.
We couldn't take another road, since there was only the one.
We waited.
And waited.
Finally, I rolled down my window and waved my hand gingerly at the ostrich.
Who assumed that I must be offering food, finally.
He stuck not only his head but his whole impossibly long neck through the window.
My previous squawking was nothing to the panicked gestures with which I tried to shoo this bird out. Finally he stepped back and allowed us to pass.
As we drove past, I could see him staring us down, and muttering to himself about people who trick birds by making them think food is being offered, and then stiffing them.
That's the first time I have ever been given the bird by a bird.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Chicken Sheriff
After I wrote about our neighbor's free-ranging chickens, I decided it was time to call in reinforcements.
I called the city where we receive our mail. I was referred to the police department.
I called the police department.
I was referred to the sheriff's office.
I called the sheriff's office.
I was put on hold.
I was transferred to another person.
I was put on hold again.
I was transferred.
Again.
Finally, someone agreed to listen to my grievance about the chickens who peck, squack, cluck, crow, and poop indiscriminately all over our neighborhood.
That person said she was not the right person to handle my problem, but she would absolutely take a message and give it to the person who *is* the right person, and she would be sure to have him call me as soon as possible. At that point, I asked if she would llike to give him my phone number. She laughed lightly and said of course, that might be helpful, just in case he, you know, wanted to call me back.
I carried my cell phone around in my hand for the next three hours, convinced that he would be calling any time now.
He didn't call.
The next day, I put on shorts with pockets, so I could carry my cell phone around, just in case he called.
He didn't call.
Five days later, when we were nearly two hundred miles from home, spending a couple of days with daughter and her family, and I had pretty much forgotten about the sheriff, he called.
I had put him so far out of my mind that I couldn't remember for a minute what it was I had called about. You know how it is...chickens out of sight, chickens out of mind.
Finally, my brain kicked in, and I explained my problem. He sighed faintly, and asked where we live.
I started explaining.
When you live on a lake, you don't just give your address. You have to explain where your house is, relative to the town where you get mail, and describe where the section is that you live in, and where your neighbor lives relative to where you live.
But as soon as I launched into my explanation, he said," I think I know who you are talking about."
I said, oh, have you had dealings with him in the past?
Another sigh, not so faint this time.
"uhm...yes, ma'am. We know your neighbor. Quite well."
This is not a good sign.
After I reiterated that I have nothing personally against chickens, but I don't want them wandering around my place, pooping and crowing, he sighed heavily.
"Well, ma'am..... there is a leash law for dogs, and a pen restriction for pigs, but chickens....chickens, now.....there just isn't a law about them."
No leash law for chickens.
Who knew?
So after this discouraging comment, I thought for a few seconds, and then asked what would happen if I ... um.... sort of accidentally shot them or ran over them with the lawn mower.
He sighed.
again.
Twice.
Then he said, "It just don't seem fair, somehow, but if you destroy the man's chickens, he...well...he has rights to his property and livestock, you know."
Property?
Livestock?
Chickens!?!?
The long and short of this story is that he doesn't have to keep his chickens penned, but if I do something that results in diminishing the chickenn population on *my* place, the said neighbor could file charges against *me*.
At this point I sighed.
Heavily.
I thanked the sheriff for his "help" and hung up.
And started this post.
Anybody have a bird dog I could borrow for a few nights?
I called the city where we receive our mail. I was referred to the police department.
I called the police department.
I was referred to the sheriff's office.
I called the sheriff's office.
I was put on hold.
I was transferred to another person.
I was put on hold again.
I was transferred.
Again.
Finally, someone agreed to listen to my grievance about the chickens who peck, squack, cluck, crow, and poop indiscriminately all over our neighborhood.
That person said she was not the right person to handle my problem, but she would absolutely take a message and give it to the person who *is* the right person, and she would be sure to have him call me as soon as possible. At that point, I asked if she would llike to give him my phone number. She laughed lightly and said of course, that might be helpful, just in case he, you know, wanted to call me back.
I carried my cell phone around in my hand for the next three hours, convinced that he would be calling any time now.
He didn't call.
The next day, I put on shorts with pockets, so I could carry my cell phone around, just in case he called.
He didn't call.
Five days later, when we were nearly two hundred miles from home, spending a couple of days with daughter and her family, and I had pretty much forgotten about the sheriff, he called.
I had put him so far out of my mind that I couldn't remember for a minute what it was I had called about. You know how it is...chickens out of sight, chickens out of mind.
Finally, my brain kicked in, and I explained my problem. He sighed faintly, and asked where we live.
I started explaining.
When you live on a lake, you don't just give your address. You have to explain where your house is, relative to the town where you get mail, and describe where the section is that you live in, and where your neighbor lives relative to where you live.
But as soon as I launched into my explanation, he said," I think I know who you are talking about."
I said, oh, have you had dealings with him in the past?
Another sigh, not so faint this time.
"uhm...yes, ma'am. We know your neighbor. Quite well."
This is not a good sign.
After I reiterated that I have nothing personally against chickens, but I don't want them wandering around my place, pooping and crowing, he sighed heavily.
"Well, ma'am..... there is a leash law for dogs, and a pen restriction for pigs, but chickens....chickens, now.....there just isn't a law about them."
No leash law for chickens.
Who knew?
So after this discouraging comment, I thought for a few seconds, and then asked what would happen if I ... um.... sort of accidentally shot them or ran over them with the lawn mower.
He sighed.
again.
Twice.
Then he said, "It just don't seem fair, somehow, but if you destroy the man's chickens, he...well...he has rights to his property and livestock, you know."
Property?
Livestock?
Chickens!?!?
The long and short of this story is that he doesn't have to keep his chickens penned, but if I do something that results in diminishing the chickenn population on *my* place, the said neighbor could file charges against *me*.
At this point I sighed.
Heavily.
I thanked the sheriff for his "help" and hung up.
And started this post.
Anybody have a bird dog I could borrow for a few nights?
Friday, June 01, 2007
A Day in the Life....
6:30 a.m. Make coffee and watch the sun coming up through the trees.
7:30 Pick up the paper from the road, drink coffee, let the dogs out, and watch the squirrels chasing each other from tree to tree.
8:00 Start frying bacon. Mix up pancake batter. Drink another cup of coffee while making pancakes.
8:30 Cook eggs to order as each sleepy boy stumbles through the door. Clean the griddle, fry some sausage, butter the pancakes as they come off the griddle onto the plate.
9:30 Empty the coffee pot, wash the last of the breakfast dishes, and cheer on Frankie as he chases chickens out of the yard.
10:00 Start the first of four loads of laundry, make up the beds, and wash up all the glasses left setting around in the yard, in the cabin where the guys are working, and the table tops.
11:30 Start second load of laundry. Strip the only bed which has not been changed this week, sort remaining laundry, fold clean laundry from the dryer.
12:00 Fix lunch for the little boys, wash dishes, have a diet coke with lots of ice, move another load of laundry from the washer to the dryer.
12:30 Fill the dogs' water bowls, clean up the remains of the second seating for lunch, start new grocery list, hang up wet towels.
1:00 Go out to the cabin to admire all that the guys have accomplished today, including walls around the staircase, and discuss various options for wall covering/paint/wallpaper/corrugated metal/barn wood. Start another load of laundry, and put away the dry load.
1:30 Check on the boys, who are either swimming, pulling drift wood out of the lake to build a fire later, or seining for minnows. Hang up wet towels.
2:00 Read and answer e-mail, clear the junk e-mail, and read Jeana's blog. Hang up wet towels.
3:00 Take a nap because my head aches.
6:00 Get up from nap to find that son is already grilling hamburgers for supper; slice tomatoes and onions; set out condiments and buns so the little guys can make their own burgers.
7:00 Wash up from supper. Sit out in the yard, watching the sun go down, the ducks paddling along the shore, the boys swimming, and drinking a wine cooler (me--not the little guys). Make up the bed I stripped earlier, with clean sheets. Fold and put away the last load of laundry, except for what is still drying in the dryer.
8:30 Realize that Gracie the pug has rolled in something dead, thus giving rise to an appalling odor, and the necessity for an immediate bath.
Watch the guys set out in the boat on their search for a crappie hole, hoping to have enough on their stringer to have a fish fry tomorrow.
10:00 Clean up the kitchen after the dog's bath. Spray deodorizer throughout the RV. Hang up wet towels--again. Sit outside for a little while, watching the moon rise and counting the stars.
10:30 Post to my blog, let the dogs out for the last time, take a deep breath of cool air scented with wild honeysuckle, and thank God we are home for the summer.
7:30 Pick up the paper from the road, drink coffee, let the dogs out, and watch the squirrels chasing each other from tree to tree.
8:00 Start frying bacon. Mix up pancake batter. Drink another cup of coffee while making pancakes.
8:30 Cook eggs to order as each sleepy boy stumbles through the door. Clean the griddle, fry some sausage, butter the pancakes as they come off the griddle onto the plate.
9:30 Empty the coffee pot, wash the last of the breakfast dishes, and cheer on Frankie as he chases chickens out of the yard.
10:00 Start the first of four loads of laundry, make up the beds, and wash up all the glasses left setting around in the yard, in the cabin where the guys are working, and the table tops.
11:30 Start second load of laundry. Strip the only bed which has not been changed this week, sort remaining laundry, fold clean laundry from the dryer.
12:00 Fix lunch for the little boys, wash dishes, have a diet coke with lots of ice, move another load of laundry from the washer to the dryer.
12:30 Fill the dogs' water bowls, clean up the remains of the second seating for lunch, start new grocery list, hang up wet towels.
1:00 Go out to the cabin to admire all that the guys have accomplished today, including walls around the staircase, and discuss various options for wall covering/paint/wallpaper/corrugated metal/barn wood. Start another load of laundry, and put away the dry load.
1:30 Check on the boys, who are either swimming, pulling drift wood out of the lake to build a fire later, or seining for minnows. Hang up wet towels.
2:00 Read and answer e-mail, clear the junk e-mail, and read Jeana's blog. Hang up wet towels.
3:00 Take a nap because my head aches.
6:00 Get up from nap to find that son is already grilling hamburgers for supper; slice tomatoes and onions; set out condiments and buns so the little guys can make their own burgers.
7:00 Wash up from supper. Sit out in the yard, watching the sun go down, the ducks paddling along the shore, the boys swimming, and drinking a wine cooler (me--not the little guys). Make up the bed I stripped earlier, with clean sheets. Fold and put away the last load of laundry, except for what is still drying in the dryer.
8:30 Realize that Gracie the pug has rolled in something dead, thus giving rise to an appalling odor, and the necessity for an immediate bath.
Watch the guys set out in the boat on their search for a crappie hole, hoping to have enough on their stringer to have a fish fry tomorrow.
10:00 Clean up the kitchen after the dog's bath. Spray deodorizer throughout the RV. Hang up wet towels--again. Sit outside for a little while, watching the moon rise and counting the stars.
10:30 Post to my blog, let the dogs out for the last time, take a deep breath of cool air scented with wild honeysuckle, and thank God we are home for the summer.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Chickened Out
We have a neighbor who is somewhat (putting it politely) eccentric.
First clue: He has a horse in his yard.
In his front yard.
Now I have nothing personally against horses. I used to ride my uncle's horses, and have always agreed with Will Rogers, who said, "Something about the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man."
However.
A horse in the front yard?
Oh people.
He fenced his front yard with wire, put an old bathtub out there for the horse to drink out of, and then wound yellow "caution" tape around the rickety fence. The horse has eaten every single blade of green, and has tromped the dirt down into the ground. He seems to spend most of his time trying without success to reach the blades of grass waving tantalizingly just out of his reach on the other side of the fence.
Occasionally, the poor horse is tethered on the other side of the road, where he gobbles great mouthfuls of weeds as fast as ever he can, meanwhile watching anxiously lest he be returned to solitary confinement in the front yard pen.
Next clue to our neighbor's eccentricity: Chickens.
Not only chickens.
Turkeys.
Guineas.
Domineckers.
Ducks.
Geese.
In the name of all that is fowl, what a mess.
He has a kind of pen, with a huge banner that says, "Fresh eggs for sale."
But obviously the pen has containment issues.
Because the chickens are wandering all over the neighborhood.
They scratch at the grass and dirt.
They peck at the flowers.
They squawk.
They cluck.
They poop.
They crow.
At all hours of the day and night.
They wander down the middle of the road, regardless of cars, golf carts, or bicycles.
Most of them have lost their tail feathers, due to the local free-ranging dogs, who chase them and bark at them incessantly, but don't ever seem to reduce the population.
Frankie, our Pomeranian, spends a considerable amount of time chasing them, but never manages to catch any. The ducks don't play fair--they run into the water, knowing that Frankie can't swim.
I told my husband if he would kill and clean them, I would make chicken and dumplings. He said he would rather pay four dollars for a chicken already cleaned, than to have to scald and pluck one.
If you have any ideas about chicken repellents, please let me know.
Because, you know, I am chickened out.
First clue: He has a horse in his yard.
In his front yard.
Now I have nothing personally against horses. I used to ride my uncle's horses, and have always agreed with Will Rogers, who said, "Something about the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man."
However.
A horse in the front yard?
Oh people.
He fenced his front yard with wire, put an old bathtub out there for the horse to drink out of, and then wound yellow "caution" tape around the rickety fence. The horse has eaten every single blade of green, and has tromped the dirt down into the ground. He seems to spend most of his time trying without success to reach the blades of grass waving tantalizingly just out of his reach on the other side of the fence.
Occasionally, the poor horse is tethered on the other side of the road, where he gobbles great mouthfuls of weeds as fast as ever he can, meanwhile watching anxiously lest he be returned to solitary confinement in the front yard pen.
Next clue to our neighbor's eccentricity: Chickens.
Not only chickens.
Turkeys.
Guineas.
Domineckers.
Ducks.
Geese.
In the name of all that is fowl, what a mess.
He has a kind of pen, with a huge banner that says, "Fresh eggs for sale."
But obviously the pen has containment issues.
Because the chickens are wandering all over the neighborhood.
They scratch at the grass and dirt.
They peck at the flowers.
They squawk.
They cluck.
They poop.
They crow.
At all hours of the day and night.
They wander down the middle of the road, regardless of cars, golf carts, or bicycles.
Most of them have lost their tail feathers, due to the local free-ranging dogs, who chase them and bark at them incessantly, but don't ever seem to reduce the population.
Frankie, our Pomeranian, spends a considerable amount of time chasing them, but never manages to catch any. The ducks don't play fair--they run into the water, knowing that Frankie can't swim.
I told my husband if he would kill and clean them, I would make chicken and dumplings. He said he would rather pay four dollars for a chicken already cleaned, than to have to scald and pluck one.
If you have any ideas about chicken repellents, please let me know.
Because, you know, I am chickened out.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Nesting
Last spring, a mama duck built her nest on our boat, up under the cover, so her nest was cozy and dry, and safe for her unborn ducklings. We checked the nest every weekend when we came home, counting the eggs, feeding the mama duck with stale bread, and waiting anxiously for the eggs to hatch. Wick wouldn't clean up the boat, or remove the cover, let alone take the boat out, because he didn't want to disturb the nesting process.
We waited patiently for the eggs to hatch.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
One weekend, the mama duck was nowhere to be seen. Her nest was abandoned. The eggs had not hatched, and were beginning to smell. The boat was full of feathers, bread crumbs, and duck poop.
But no babies.
How disappointing.
One of my favorite spring sights is watching the mama ducks swim by, followed by a wake of baby ducklings, quacking and swimming along in the reeds along the shore. We were really looking forward to those eggs hatching.
This year, Wick said if a mama duck tried to build her nest on the boat again,we would have duck eggs for breakfast.
No ducks have nested on our boat this year. We are the ones nesting. We gave up our apartment the last day of school. We have been bringing a load of stuff every weekend for weeks, and now it is all here. It's all still packed up, boxed up, stacked up, and I can't find anything, but it is all here. Scott is spending the week here, and he and his daddy had all sorts of plans for what they were going to accomplish this week.
So far, we have entertained my brother and his family with smoked brisket, potato salad, macaroni salad, coleslaw, raw veggies and dip, and my sister-in-law's orange-pineapple cake; had hamburgers with our neighbors and their kids and grandkids; fished from the dock; replaced the cigarette lighter in the boat so that we can plug in a fish light for night fishing; taken some great naps; and enjoyed the fact that on Sunday night we did not have to pack up and go back to the city, to work on Monday morning.
Like the mama duck, my "eggs" (working on the cabin) have not hatched. But we are certainly enjoying just being.
Being here.
Being home.
We waited patiently for the eggs to hatch.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
One weekend, the mama duck was nowhere to be seen. Her nest was abandoned. The eggs had not hatched, and were beginning to smell. The boat was full of feathers, bread crumbs, and duck poop.
But no babies.
How disappointing.
One of my favorite spring sights is watching the mama ducks swim by, followed by a wake of baby ducklings, quacking and swimming along in the reeds along the shore. We were really looking forward to those eggs hatching.
This year, Wick said if a mama duck tried to build her nest on the boat again,we would have duck eggs for breakfast.
No ducks have nested on our boat this year. We are the ones nesting. We gave up our apartment the last day of school. We have been bringing a load of stuff every weekend for weeks, and now it is all here. It's all still packed up, boxed up, stacked up, and I can't find anything, but it is all here. Scott is spending the week here, and he and his daddy had all sorts of plans for what they were going to accomplish this week.
So far, we have entertained my brother and his family with smoked brisket, potato salad, macaroni salad, coleslaw, raw veggies and dip, and my sister-in-law's orange-pineapple cake; had hamburgers with our neighbors and their kids and grandkids; fished from the dock; replaced the cigarette lighter in the boat so that we can plug in a fish light for night fishing; taken some great naps; and enjoyed the fact that on Sunday night we did not have to pack up and go back to the city, to work on Monday morning.
Like the mama duck, my "eggs" (working on the cabin) have not hatched. But we are certainly enjoying just being.
Being here.
Being home.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Falling Again
Last Friday I fell off the curb.
Skinned both knees.
Twisted my ankle.
I guess since the concussion, my balance and depth perception are still not quite what they should be.
At least I didn't tear holes in the knees of my pants.
Why is it that when we fall in public, we feel so embarrassed we won't admit we are hurt? Our school's dean of instruction happened to be standing nearby and ran to help me. A young man, a student, helped me get back on my feet. Both of them wanted to help me back into the building, carry my things, get me a drink of water. But I kept saying, oh no, I'm fine--even though obviously I was *not* fine. My knees hurt. My ankle was swelling rapidly. I had to lean on someone to get to the car when Wick came to pick me up. But I just would not admit that anything was wrong.
Don't we do the same thing to God? I know I do. I get depressed, sad, angry, and I won't ask for His help. I want to do it all by myself. His hand is outstretched, and I push it aside. Sometimes, He just takes hold anyway; He takes charge, straightens everything out, puts me back on my feet again when I am strong enough. And I am so thankful that He is always there. Like my friends who saw me fall, He may be laughing, but He is still helping me up, dusting me off, and carrying my burdens.
Skinned both knees.
Twisted my ankle.
I guess since the concussion, my balance and depth perception are still not quite what they should be.
At least I didn't tear holes in the knees of my pants.
Why is it that when we fall in public, we feel so embarrassed we won't admit we are hurt? Our school's dean of instruction happened to be standing nearby and ran to help me. A young man, a student, helped me get back on my feet. Both of them wanted to help me back into the building, carry my things, get me a drink of water. But I kept saying, oh no, I'm fine--even though obviously I was *not* fine. My knees hurt. My ankle was swelling rapidly. I had to lean on someone to get to the car when Wick came to pick me up. But I just would not admit that anything was wrong.
Don't we do the same thing to God? I know I do. I get depressed, sad, angry, and I won't ask for His help. I want to do it all by myself. His hand is outstretched, and I push it aside. Sometimes, He just takes hold anyway; He takes charge, straightens everything out, puts me back on my feet again when I am strong enough. And I am so thankful that He is always there. Like my friends who saw me fall, He may be laughing, but He is still helping me up, dusting me off, and carrying my burdens.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Taking the Fall
I haven't blogged in six weeks. But for once, I have a good reason. I think.
10 March--Wick and I were at our lake place, where we are building a cabin. I remember getting up that morning, dressing, going from the RV to the cabin. That's the last thing I remember, until I was on my back, looking up at a bright light, and wondering where I was and what happened.
In between, apparently, I somehow fell in the cabin. Wick, who had gone out into the yard for something, heard a loud sound as if I had dropped something. He went back into the cabin and found me face down on a pile of wood, bleeding, and incoherent. He called 991, the EMTs arrived, put me on a helicopter, and flew me to the emergency room some 15 miles away.
My first time in a helicopter, and I don't remember it. Sheeesh.
By the time my brain was functioning again, daughter Jeana had already driven 3 hours to get to my stretcher side, the ER people had x-rayed and cat scanned, and my first visual image was of Wick looking at me upside down. He was standing at my head, and to me he looked up side down, and pretty blurry.
They told me that among other things I told the EMTs that it was 1977, that I was 33, and insisted that Wick must remember to pick Jeana up from band practice--it has been quite some time since Jeana was in the high school band, since her eldest child is in fifth grade.
Jeana gently cleaned up the dried blood, held my hand, and offered to take me home with her for a few days, fearing that her daddy would get engrossed in what he was working on in the cabin and forget to take care of me. He was unwilling to let me out of his sight, so I didn't go, and it's a good thing, as it turns out. From looking like an alien, as Jeana described me, I went to looking like .... ummmm......well, like Rocky when he climbed out of the ring calling "Adrian!"
I kept saying, "I can't see. Cut me, Mick...I can't see!"
My eyes were swollen shut, the knot on my head covered most of my forehead, my whole face was black and blue, as well as a badly bruised arm and hand, and I had stitches in my nose. At least the hairline fracture didn't show. If I had gone home with Jeana, the kids would have had to lead me around by the hand, since I couldn't see. Wick hovered like a hen with a single chick, making sure I took my meds, that I ate, even if it was only soup, and frequently thanking God that it was no worse than a bad concussion.
In the five weeks since my fall, I have been having memory problems, balance and coordination, and a killer headache. But the knot is beginning to shrink, most of the bruising is improved, and I am back at work.
And now, at last, I am blogging again.
If you missed me, now you know where I have been.
10 March--Wick and I were at our lake place, where we are building a cabin. I remember getting up that morning, dressing, going from the RV to the cabin. That's the last thing I remember, until I was on my back, looking up at a bright light, and wondering where I was and what happened.
In between, apparently, I somehow fell in the cabin. Wick, who had gone out into the yard for something, heard a loud sound as if I had dropped something. He went back into the cabin and found me face down on a pile of wood, bleeding, and incoherent. He called 991, the EMTs arrived, put me on a helicopter, and flew me to the emergency room some 15 miles away.
My first time in a helicopter, and I don't remember it. Sheeesh.
By the time my brain was functioning again, daughter Jeana had already driven 3 hours to get to my stretcher side, the ER people had x-rayed and cat scanned, and my first visual image was of Wick looking at me upside down. He was standing at my head, and to me he looked up side down, and pretty blurry.
They told me that among other things I told the EMTs that it was 1977, that I was 33, and insisted that Wick must remember to pick Jeana up from band practice--it has been quite some time since Jeana was in the high school band, since her eldest child is in fifth grade.
Jeana gently cleaned up the dried blood, held my hand, and offered to take me home with her for a few days, fearing that her daddy would get engrossed in what he was working on in the cabin and forget to take care of me. He was unwilling to let me out of his sight, so I didn't go, and it's a good thing, as it turns out. From looking like an alien, as Jeana described me, I went to looking like .... ummmm......well, like Rocky when he climbed out of the ring calling "Adrian!"
I kept saying, "I can't see. Cut me, Mick...I can't see!"
My eyes were swollen shut, the knot on my head covered most of my forehead, my whole face was black and blue, as well as a badly bruised arm and hand, and I had stitches in my nose. At least the hairline fracture didn't show. If I had gone home with Jeana, the kids would have had to lead me around by the hand, since I couldn't see. Wick hovered like a hen with a single chick, making sure I took my meds, that I ate, even if it was only soup, and frequently thanking God that it was no worse than a bad concussion.
In the five weeks since my fall, I have been having memory problems, balance and coordination, and a killer headache. But the knot is beginning to shrink, most of the bruising is improved, and I am back at work.
And now, at last, I am blogging again.
If you missed me, now you know where I have been.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Another Blog
Since I am so good at keeping up with this blog, (not) I have started a second blog: Low Carb Recipes and More. http://lowcarbrecipesandmore.blogspot.com/
Wick and I have been low carbing off and on for quite a while, and I have quite a collection of recipes to share. So please visit, and feel free to copy any posted recipe, and let me know what you think of it.
Wick and I have been low carbing off and on for quite a while, and I have quite a collection of recipes to share. So please visit, and feel free to copy any posted recipe, and let me know what you think of it.
Family Wedding
My parents were married for over 40 years. After Daddy passed away, Mother seemed content to live alone--although she was seldom alone for long. With four married children and 12 grandchildren, who keep having great-grandbabies, it seemed that there was always somebody around.
We are a large, close-knit family, and we call, e-mail, and get together frequently, so most everybody knows what is going on with everybody else. That's why, when "Grandma" acquired an admirer, the news spread fast.
We were not at all surprised that a man found her beautiful, charming, sweet, giving, unselfish, and excellent company. After all, we all felt the same. Whether we call her Mother, Mama, Mom, Grandma, we love her like nobody else. However, we were all, I think, immediately interested in how this man would change her life--and ours.
She had always said that while it might be nice to have a friend to do things with, she was not interested in getting married again. She didn't want someone to come between her and her family. And what man would be willing to accommodate the controlled chaos generated by all these kids, grand kids, and babies?
This man.
He would.
He's a gentle, loving man, a strong Christian, and he appreciates what and who she is, because he has known her as a friend for many years. He still has a little trouble keeping up with who is married to whom, whose child is whose, and where we all live and work. But he is trying.
Yes, her life is changing. She will be leaving the house where she has lived for more than forty years.
And so will ours. Our family has grown too large to gather in any one's house now, and we will have to figure out where we can get together for holidays and birthdays.
She may not always be available to us, because they will be doing things together. It's going to be an adjustment for all of us.
But what a blessing for all of us. Mother has a new life partner, a husband with whom to share all that life offers.
We, her children, have a new step-father, with a kind and loving heart big enough for all of us. The babies love him too.
Dawson has already informed us that as soon as they get married, he will be calling him "Pa".
Thanks be to God, the Father of us all.
We are a large, close-knit family, and we call, e-mail, and get together frequently, so most everybody knows what is going on with everybody else. That's why, when "Grandma" acquired an admirer, the news spread fast.
We were not at all surprised that a man found her beautiful, charming, sweet, giving, unselfish, and excellent company. After all, we all felt the same. Whether we call her Mother, Mama, Mom, Grandma, we love her like nobody else. However, we were all, I think, immediately interested in how this man would change her life--and ours.
She had always said that while it might be nice to have a friend to do things with, she was not interested in getting married again. She didn't want someone to come between her and her family. And what man would be willing to accommodate the controlled chaos generated by all these kids, grand kids, and babies?
This man.
He would.
He's a gentle, loving man, a strong Christian, and he appreciates what and who she is, because he has known her as a friend for many years. He still has a little trouble keeping up with who is married to whom, whose child is whose, and where we all live and work. But he is trying.
Yes, her life is changing. She will be leaving the house where she has lived for more than forty years.
And so will ours. Our family has grown too large to gather in any one's house now, and we will have to figure out where we can get together for holidays and birthdays.
She may not always be available to us, because they will be doing things together. It's going to be an adjustment for all of us.
But what a blessing for all of us. Mother has a new life partner, a husband with whom to share all that life offers.
We, her children, have a new step-father, with a kind and loving heart big enough for all of us. The babies love him too.
Dawson has already informed us that as soon as they get married, he will be calling him "Pa".
Thanks be to God, the Father of us all.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Crochet Therapy
A Works for Me Wednesday tip.
I love to crochet. I find it calming, centering, soothing. I taught myself when I was a child, by looking at the pictures in one of those "how to" books. I have crocehted baby blankets and clothes for my own children, neices and nephews, caps, purses, vests, all kinds of things. Recently I read about the Prayer Shawl Ministry, and although I have not formally participated, I have appropriated the idea behind it.
As I crochet, I envision the person for whom I am making the article.
Before Christmas, I made scarves and shawls for all my girls. As I crocheted, I kept a picture of the person in my mind. With each stitch, I prayed for that person. I prayed for inner peace, for God's mercy and grace, I thanked Him for that person and all that she has meant in my life, and for everyone she loves.
I prayed that as she wore the scarf, she would find love in her heart for everyone she met.
I prayed that I would be a better mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, friend to her.
I prayed that I would be used in her life.
I thanked God for her.
I lifted her up for God's blessing.
I can't say how they for whom I crocheted have felt wearing these gifts of prayer.
I can say that I have been blessed in more ways than I can express by all those hours of prayer for these ones that I love.
Don't know how to knit or crochet? Wal-mart has a book to teach yourself, easy enough for anyone who can read and look at pictures.
Works for me.
I love to crochet. I find it calming, centering, soothing. I taught myself when I was a child, by looking at the pictures in one of those "how to" books. I have crocehted baby blankets and clothes for my own children, neices and nephews, caps, purses, vests, all kinds of things. Recently I read about the Prayer Shawl Ministry, and although I have not formally participated, I have appropriated the idea behind it.
As I crochet, I envision the person for whom I am making the article.
Before Christmas, I made scarves and shawls for all my girls. As I crocheted, I kept a picture of the person in my mind. With each stitch, I prayed for that person. I prayed for inner peace, for God's mercy and grace, I thanked Him for that person and all that she has meant in my life, and for everyone she loves.
I prayed that as she wore the scarf, she would find love in her heart for everyone she met.
I prayed that I would be a better mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, friend to her.
I prayed that I would be used in her life.
I thanked God for her.
I lifted her up for God's blessing.
I can't say how they for whom I crocheted have felt wearing these gifts of prayer.
I can say that I have been blessed in more ways than I can express by all those hours of prayer for these ones that I love.
Don't know how to knit or crochet? Wal-mart has a book to teach yourself, easy enough for anyone who can read and look at pictures.
Works for me.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Things I've Been Mulling Over
Mulling. Isn't that a great word? Not necessarily thinking, but ... oh, say considering, meditating on, wondering about ....
1. Why do we have to work five days, and only get 2 days for relaxation? I wish it were the other way around, don't you?
2. Would anyone find, or look for, or having looked and found, actually read a blog about low carb recipes?
3. Why does my daughter think that when she confesses something on her blog I am not going to read it, when she knows that I read every word she writes?
4. What did I ever do to be so blessed, in family, in friends, in my job, and in my marriage?
5.How can it already be almost Lent? I mean, Ash Wednesday is *next week*, y'all, and I have not given any thought at all to what I am going to do for those 40 days, during which I usually try to have more conversations with God, which actually means listening more than I talk, which is what I tend to do (keep talking instead of listening, I mean), because sometimes I don't want to hear what He is telling me.
6. Could I have gotten any more words into that last sentence without taking a breath?
7. How much longer is it going to be before we have some springtime weather?
Well, I guess that is enough of my random thoughts for now.
1. Why do we have to work five days, and only get 2 days for relaxation? I wish it were the other way around, don't you?
2. Would anyone find, or look for, or having looked and found, actually read a blog about low carb recipes?
3. Why does my daughter think that when she confesses something on her blog I am not going to read it, when she knows that I read every word she writes?
4. What did I ever do to be so blessed, in family, in friends, in my job, and in my marriage?
5.How can it already be almost Lent? I mean, Ash Wednesday is *next week*, y'all, and I have not given any thought at all to what I am going to do for those 40 days, during which I usually try to have more conversations with God, which actually means listening more than I talk, which is what I tend to do (keep talking instead of listening, I mean), because sometimes I don't want to hear what He is telling me.
6. Could I have gotten any more words into that last sentence without taking a breath?
7. How much longer is it going to be before we have some springtime weather?
Well, I guess that is enough of my random thoughts for now.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Romancing the Flame
Today is a "Works for Me Wednesday" tip, and co-incidentally Valentine's Day
Today is Valentine's Day. TV, newspapers, magazines, flyers, posters, billboards all urge us to spend lots of money (that we don't really have) to show how much we love that special someone.
Is money what it takes to say I love you?
Not really.
Oh, yeah, if you have the money, the jewelry, the dinner out, the huge box of chocolates, or the Vermont Teddy bear are all nice.
But if you don't, that does not mean the romance is gone.
Here's how to romance your darling on a non-existent budget.
First, put all the little people to bed.
Second, take a warm shower (together, if so inclined...if not, not).
Third, have warm towels (take them fresh from the dryer) for your beloved.
Fourth, clean pajamas, nightie, robe (if you have little ones who may pop out of bed).
Fifth, spread a cozy quilt on the floor and pile up plenty of pillows.
Next, light a cluster of candles, of various heights, if you don't have a fireplace.
Pour a drink for each of you--in my case, diet Coke with plenty of ice works even better than vintage wine.
Set out a small plate of cheese, a few chocolates (snag them from your school age kiddies' Valentine goodies), a bunch of grapes, a handful of crackers, some shelled nuts.
Lie on the pillows, gaze into the flames, hold each other gently, and talk.
Talk about all the stuff you used to talk about before you had kids. Remind each other why you fell in love, and why you have stayed together. Flirt. Touch. Kiss. Talk. Kiss some more.
What happens next is up to your imagination, your inclination, and your population of little folks.
No matter how long you have been married, no matter how many children you have, no matter how tired you are, keep the flame alive. Romance the one you love. Act as if you are still in that starry-eyed first stage of romantic love. And you will discover that you still are.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Works for me.
Today is Valentine's Day. TV, newspapers, magazines, flyers, posters, billboards all urge us to spend lots of money (that we don't really have) to show how much we love that special someone.
Is money what it takes to say I love you?
Not really.
Oh, yeah, if you have the money, the jewelry, the dinner out, the huge box of chocolates, or the Vermont Teddy bear are all nice.
But if you don't, that does not mean the romance is gone.
Here's how to romance your darling on a non-existent budget.
First, put all the little people to bed.
Second, take a warm shower (together, if so inclined...if not, not).
Third, have warm towels (take them fresh from the dryer) for your beloved.
Fourth, clean pajamas, nightie, robe (if you have little ones who may pop out of bed).
Fifth, spread a cozy quilt on the floor and pile up plenty of pillows.
Next, light a cluster of candles, of various heights, if you don't have a fireplace.
Pour a drink for each of you--in my case, diet Coke with plenty of ice works even better than vintage wine.
Set out a small plate of cheese, a few chocolates (snag them from your school age kiddies' Valentine goodies), a bunch of grapes, a handful of crackers, some shelled nuts.
Lie on the pillows, gaze into the flames, hold each other gently, and talk.
Talk about all the stuff you used to talk about before you had kids. Remind each other why you fell in love, and why you have stayed together. Flirt. Touch. Kiss. Talk. Kiss some more.
What happens next is up to your imagination, your inclination, and your population of little folks.
No matter how long you have been married, no matter how many children you have, no matter how tired you are, keep the flame alive. Romance the one you love. Act as if you are still in that starry-eyed first stage of romantic love. And you will discover that you still are.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Works for me.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Teacher Training, revisited
It has been brought to my attention that although I titled my last post "Teacher Training," I didn't really talk about the training--just the getting there, and about the school where it was held.
So...for those of you who really want to know about the *training* part...here it is.
I spent a whole day of my life learning how to read compositions written by students with Limited English Proficiency.
I learned that the compositions must be classified as Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced, or Advanced High, and I learned how to do that.
I also discovered that I will have to take a test on line to prove that I was actually paying attention, and did indeed learn how to do these things.
It's always been a point of interest, confusion, and irritation, that when teachers are being told how to teach, we get a lot of demands for student centered learning. Interactive learning. Hands on learning. Learning activities to appeal to all kinds of learners, not only the visual/auditory, but also the kinesthetic/tactile, the musically talented, the mathematically inclined, etc. etc. etc.
However.
When teachers are being taught how to teach, what do we get?
Lecture.
Sit there in your chair (sometimes without even a desktop space on which to prop a notepad) and listen while the overhead projector flashes slides of the handout we have in our hands, which reproduces the often fuzzy slides in type so tiny even a gnat would have trouble reading them without a magnifying glass.
I love to be read to.
I love hearing stories read or told aloud.
I hate having a set of slides read to me, if I already have a copy of the slides in my hand, and they are also posted on an overhead screen.
I get tired.
My back hurts.
I get bored.
I get thirsty.
I get hungry.
I get sleepy.
I get cranky.
All the ailments my students complain of during a 45 minute class, with at least three different planned activities, I suffer for 6-8 hours, while sitting and listening.
Fortunately, I don't have to ask for a restroom pass. I just get up and go when I feel inspired to do so, or when my sitter gets numb, or my feet go to sleep.
Usually we are allowed to bring in a drink. Rarely, we are offered some kind of stale snack, or a cup of lukewarm coffee with that powdered cream substitute gunk that reminds me of spackling.
If we are offered real food, that tastes good, that is a training to remember and recommend to friends.
Sometimes the room is cold. Sometimes it is hot and sweaty. Almost always, the chairs are hard and uncomfortable. Seldom do we find a pencil sharpener. So I dress in layers and bring a shawl. Unfortunately, although it is always possible to put on more clothing, it is not always possible to take off enough to be comfortable.
I bring several pencils, pens, and highlighters, as well as my own writing tablet, aspirin, Sucrets, bottled water, gum, and mints, as well as a brown bag lunch, just in case there is no cafeteria. In fact, I have a big tote bag that goes with me to training. Sometimes, I wish I had one of those carts on wheels, with a handle, sort of like a rolling suitcase, because I haul so much stuff with me. I've never quite worked up the nerve to bring a pillow, but have often wished I had one.
Always, I leave feeling cheated somehow. I don't mind being required to go for training. I know that I always have room to grow as a teacher. Occasionally I learn something that gets me excited, and I can't wait to get back to my classroom and my kids and share it with them. I understand why we are required to go to training.
But please, please teach the teachers the way you want us to teach our students.
So...for those of you who really want to know about the *training* part...here it is.
I spent a whole day of my life learning how to read compositions written by students with Limited English Proficiency.
I learned that the compositions must be classified as Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced, or Advanced High, and I learned how to do that.
I also discovered that I will have to take a test on line to prove that I was actually paying attention, and did indeed learn how to do these things.
It's always been a point of interest, confusion, and irritation, that when teachers are being told how to teach, we get a lot of demands for student centered learning. Interactive learning. Hands on learning. Learning activities to appeal to all kinds of learners, not only the visual/auditory, but also the kinesthetic/tactile, the musically talented, the mathematically inclined, etc. etc. etc.
However.
When teachers are being taught how to teach, what do we get?
Lecture.
Sit there in your chair (sometimes without even a desktop space on which to prop a notepad) and listen while the overhead projector flashes slides of the handout we have in our hands, which reproduces the often fuzzy slides in type so tiny even a gnat would have trouble reading them without a magnifying glass.
I love to be read to.
I love hearing stories read or told aloud.
I hate having a set of slides read to me, if I already have a copy of the slides in my hand, and they are also posted on an overhead screen.
I get tired.
My back hurts.
I get bored.
I get thirsty.
I get hungry.
I get sleepy.
I get cranky.
All the ailments my students complain of during a 45 minute class, with at least three different planned activities, I suffer for 6-8 hours, while sitting and listening.
Fortunately, I don't have to ask for a restroom pass. I just get up and go when I feel inspired to do so, or when my sitter gets numb, or my feet go to sleep.
Usually we are allowed to bring in a drink. Rarely, we are offered some kind of stale snack, or a cup of lukewarm coffee with that powdered cream substitute gunk that reminds me of spackling.
If we are offered real food, that tastes good, that is a training to remember and recommend to friends.
Sometimes the room is cold. Sometimes it is hot and sweaty. Almost always, the chairs are hard and uncomfortable. Seldom do we find a pencil sharpener. So I dress in layers and bring a shawl. Unfortunately, although it is always possible to put on more clothing, it is not always possible to take off enough to be comfortable.
I bring several pencils, pens, and highlighters, as well as my own writing tablet, aspirin, Sucrets, bottled water, gum, and mints, as well as a brown bag lunch, just in case there is no cafeteria. In fact, I have a big tote bag that goes with me to training. Sometimes, I wish I had one of those carts on wheels, with a handle, sort of like a rolling suitcase, because I haul so much stuff with me. I've never quite worked up the nerve to bring a pillow, but have often wished I had one.
Always, I leave feeling cheated somehow. I don't mind being required to go for training. I know that I always have room to grow as a teacher. Occasionally I learn something that gets me excited, and I can't wait to get back to my classroom and my kids and share it with them. I understand why we are required to go to training.
But please, please teach the teachers the way you want us to teach our students.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Teacher Training
If you are not a teacher, don't know any teachers, or never went to public school, you can skip this one.
Because it is about teachers. and training.
Yesterday I was sent to a training session in a suburb north of here for a day-long training session. Now by miles, it is only about...umm...well, about 15 miles, I guess.
But time-wise....that is a whole other story.
I left home at what I considered to be a reasonably early hour, 7 a.m., especially since I was not due at the training session until 8:00.
However, highways and traffic being what they are, it took me an hour and forty five minutes to get there.
No, I did not get lost.
Yes, I had a map.
The problem was the traffic. When I got onto the highway, traffic was rolling along at a reasonable 55 mph. Before we reached the first exit, it had slowed to a crawl. I mean, I can walk faster than we were moving.
And I am not a fast walker.
I was behind an 18 wheeler, when I noticed that he was ever so gradually drifing into the next lane. Figuring that he must know something I did not know, I followed him.
And as we rolled past at a brisk 5 miles per hour, I saw the first of our problems--a small car dead to the world, not even blinking his hazard lights.
As we crept along toward the next exit, I began to see flashing red and blue lights, so I figured we were approaching a wreck.
I saw lots of flashing lights, but no wreck. Either it was totally camoflaged, or imaginary, or already cleaned up except for the police cars, or I just missed it as I whizzed by at 15 mph.
To make a long story short (I know, too late) I spent an hour and fifteen minutes to make what should have been about a 20 minute trip.
Then I got to the school.
Oh. my. word.
For the love of all that is educationally holy.
And holy is the operative word, since the training was being offered at a private parochial school.
The kids were in uniform. All of them.
The kids were quiet.
During class time, there were no students in the hall. None.
They don't have a cafeteria. They have a dining experience. Complete with chefs in tall white hats and spotless aprons. No little old ladies in hairnets here.
The floors and walls were immaculate.
No graffiti.
Even the student work on display was in glass cases, like artwork, instead of hanging crookedly with masking tape from the edges of doorways.
It was quite an experience.
The training? Oh, no, that part was pure yawning boredom.
But the school, and its students, were a vision of what school can be.
Well....at least....if you are not teaching in the lowest performing school in the district.
Sigh.
Now at least I can dream....
Because it is about teachers. and training.
Yesterday I was sent to a training session in a suburb north of here for a day-long training session. Now by miles, it is only about...umm...well, about 15 miles, I guess.
But time-wise....that is a whole other story.
I left home at what I considered to be a reasonably early hour, 7 a.m., especially since I was not due at the training session until 8:00.
However, highways and traffic being what they are, it took me an hour and forty five minutes to get there.
No, I did not get lost.
Yes, I had a map.
The problem was the traffic. When I got onto the highway, traffic was rolling along at a reasonable 55 mph. Before we reached the first exit, it had slowed to a crawl. I mean, I can walk faster than we were moving.
And I am not a fast walker.
I was behind an 18 wheeler, when I noticed that he was ever so gradually drifing into the next lane. Figuring that he must know something I did not know, I followed him.
And as we rolled past at a brisk 5 miles per hour, I saw the first of our problems--a small car dead to the world, not even blinking his hazard lights.
As we crept along toward the next exit, I began to see flashing red and blue lights, so I figured we were approaching a wreck.
I saw lots of flashing lights, but no wreck. Either it was totally camoflaged, or imaginary, or already cleaned up except for the police cars, or I just missed it as I whizzed by at 15 mph.
To make a long story short (I know, too late) I spent an hour and fifteen minutes to make what should have been about a 20 minute trip.
Then I got to the school.
Oh. my. word.
For the love of all that is educationally holy.
And holy is the operative word, since the training was being offered at a private parochial school.
The kids were in uniform. All of them.
The kids were quiet.
During class time, there were no students in the hall. None.
They don't have a cafeteria. They have a dining experience. Complete with chefs in tall white hats and spotless aprons. No little old ladies in hairnets here.
The floors and walls were immaculate.
No graffiti.
Even the student work on display was in glass cases, like artwork, instead of hanging crookedly with masking tape from the edges of doorways.
It was quite an experience.
The training? Oh, no, that part was pure yawning boredom.
But the school, and its students, were a vision of what school can be.
Well....at least....if you are not teaching in the lowest performing school in the district.
Sigh.
Now at least I can dream....
Friday, February 02, 2007
Share the Love
Somebody likes me!
Somebody reads me!
And somebody nominated me for an award!
Of course, the Jeana Likes Me Award, my first, is incomparable, but it is nice to know that someone besides my daughter reads my blog!
If I sound a bit giddy, it's because I am. It's so exciting to know that I'm not just talking to myself here, and that someone out there not only reads, but wants to keep on reading my ranblings. Thank you!!!
Now that I have all that out of my system,
Go Vote!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Somebody in Home Depot has a screw loose!
My husband and our son Scott are building a cabin on our lake lot. Scott came down for several days between Christmas and New Year's Eve, and they were able to get all the beams and joists attached to the piers. They also started running the plumbing, and since I was going to town anyway, would I stop at Home Depot and pick up a few things for them, so they could keep working?
I said sure, I didn't mind at all, I was going anyway.
Then, when I got to Home Depot, my cell phone rang.
"Honey, while you are there, get us some screws."
Now to me a screw is a screw.
But to a builder, apparently, there are hundreds of kinds and sizes of screws.
Just to add to the complications, there are also bolts, which are different from screws.
And there are washers.
And nuts.
And hex head.
And flat head.
and slotted.
and of course non-slotted.
And let us not forget Phillips head.
In addition, each of these items comes in a wide variety of lengths and diameters.
In fact, Home Depot has an entire wall devoted to screws.
Screws in bags.
Screws in boxes.
Bolts.
Nuts.
Washers.
Oh. my. word.
Obviously, I was going to need help with this errand.
I called my darling back and asked him to tell me again the kind of screws he needed.
"Quarter twenty flat head slotted one and a quarter screws."
Now I ask you. Does that sound intelligible?
Yes, the words are in English, but what the heck does it mean?
So I asked a passing person wearing an orange vest and a preoccupied expression.
He told me he was on his way to load something for another customer, but would be right back, and to please wait for him on aisle twenty.
Well, I can do that.
So I go to aisle twenty and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, another person in an orange vest walks by. I told him what I needed. He pulled a four inch bolt from a box and handed it to me.
I said, "but I need a quarter twenty flat head slotted inch and a quarter."
He said, "Well, it has a flat head."
And kept walking.
So I waited some more. Finally, the first guy came back, this time loaded down. He glanced at me, noticed I was still patiently waiting, and said he would be right back as soon as he loaded this order.
I waited some more.
Finally I began to examine the thousands of packages of screws and bolts hanging on the wall. Each package was neatly labeled by size and description. But somehow I could not figure out the organizational pattern. Surely there was a pattern. Well, I am pretty sure there was. The problem was that I could not see it. I could not figure out what the pattern was.
Three more phone calls to my darling, thirty more minutes of waiting, watching for an orange-vested person, and I finally began at the beginning, and looked at every package.
Every single package.
Every single package of the hundreds and thousands hanging on the board.
Finally, I found it.
"Quarter twenty flat head slotted inch and a quarter."
Only it was actually inch and a half.
So I called again. He said yeah that would do, and oh by the way, he also needed washers and nuts to fit.
At that point I had a fit.
Then I noticed that the nuts were in the package. I told my darling that he would have to find his own washers, because my head was about to explode. He graciously agreed to find his own washers on his next trip to Home Depot.
By the time I left Home Depot, I was exhausted, and forgot why I had come to town in the first place.
But by golly I can tell you where to find any screw Home Depot carries.
I said sure, I didn't mind at all, I was going anyway.
Then, when I got to Home Depot, my cell phone rang.
"Honey, while you are there, get us some screws."
Now to me a screw is a screw.
But to a builder, apparently, there are hundreds of kinds and sizes of screws.
Just to add to the complications, there are also bolts, which are different from screws.
And there are washers.
And nuts.
And hex head.
And flat head.
and slotted.
and of course non-slotted.
And let us not forget Phillips head.
In addition, each of these items comes in a wide variety of lengths and diameters.
In fact, Home Depot has an entire wall devoted to screws.
Screws in bags.
Screws in boxes.
Bolts.
Nuts.
Washers.
Oh. my. word.
Obviously, I was going to need help with this errand.
I called my darling back and asked him to tell me again the kind of screws he needed.
"Quarter twenty flat head slotted one and a quarter screws."
Now I ask you. Does that sound intelligible?
Yes, the words are in English, but what the heck does it mean?
So I asked a passing person wearing an orange vest and a preoccupied expression.
He told me he was on his way to load something for another customer, but would be right back, and to please wait for him on aisle twenty.
Well, I can do that.
So I go to aisle twenty and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, another person in an orange vest walks by. I told him what I needed. He pulled a four inch bolt from a box and handed it to me.
I said, "but I need a quarter twenty flat head slotted inch and a quarter."
He said, "Well, it has a flat head."
And kept walking.
So I waited some more. Finally, the first guy came back, this time loaded down. He glanced at me, noticed I was still patiently waiting, and said he would be right back as soon as he loaded this order.
I waited some more.
Finally I began to examine the thousands of packages of screws and bolts hanging on the wall. Each package was neatly labeled by size and description. But somehow I could not figure out the organizational pattern. Surely there was a pattern. Well, I am pretty sure there was. The problem was that I could not see it. I could not figure out what the pattern was.
Three more phone calls to my darling, thirty more minutes of waiting, watching for an orange-vested person, and I finally began at the beginning, and looked at every package.
Every single package.
Every single package of the hundreds and thousands hanging on the board.
Finally, I found it.
"Quarter twenty flat head slotted inch and a quarter."
Only it was actually inch and a half.
So I called again. He said yeah that would do, and oh by the way, he also needed washers and nuts to fit.
At that point I had a fit.
Then I noticed that the nuts were in the package. I told my darling that he would have to find his own washers, because my head was about to explode. He graciously agreed to find his own washers on his next trip to Home Depot.
By the time I left Home Depot, I was exhausted, and forgot why I had come to town in the first place.
But by golly I can tell you where to find any screw Home Depot carries.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Holiday Highlights 2006
I wrote several posts about Christmas memories, so thought I would write now about things I think I will remember about this Christmas.
Of course, if I don't remember by next year, I can always come back and read this post.
Spending several days at Jeana's house, with all our kids and grandkids.
Playing Senior Moments, a gift from Jeana and family, which requires short term memory. Of which I seem to have not much.
Listening to a Christmas story read aloud, and watching the children's faces, softly lit by the Advent candles and the tree lights.
Making cornbread dressing with my daddy's mama's recipe.
Going shopping with my girls and their girls.
Buying my grandbabies yarn and crochet hooks, because they want to learn to crochet.
Watching Katoushka and Lolly sing and dance "Sisters" (from White Christmas, one of my favorite holiday movies).
Listening as Sunshine played "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on the piano.
And Big D and A-man playing "The Little Drummer Boy" as a duet on their violins.
Seeing Pie show Buddy how to crochet--she's left-handed, so teaching her is a challenge for me, but Buddy is ambidextrous, so I'm curious to see with which hand he crochets.
Devan and the other boys zooming down the zip line from the tree house, screaming with delight.
Holding hands in a family circle, praying before meals.
Having my mother and her friend join us, even if only for a few hours.
My husband singing Christmas carols softly, holding my hand, and watching the barely controlled chaos that is our family Christmas.
Spending our last Christmas Eve at my mother's house. What a bittersweet moment, knowing that this house will be sold, the house where she has lived for 40 years, the house my late daddy built. Reminding myself that she is moving on to a new and happy stage of her life, with a man we all love and respect. Realizing that with more than 50 members, we have just outgrown Christmas at anyone's house, and knowing that it won't be the same at another place, but reveling in the fact that we still want to get together, and will find another place.
Rejoicing that our two soldiers
both returned from war this year, safe and healthy.
Realizing that, as usual, I made some mistakes on the family calender, and making notes to myself to correct them next year.
Remembering past Christmases, with those who have gone home before us, and with whom we will be reunited one day.
Watching a video of our family Christmas from 25 years ago.
My parents had four kids. We are all still with our spouses, and among us produced 12 children, who in turn have married and had children--16 and counting, with another due in the spring. Our oldest grandchild will be 15 in the spring, so we are a few years from expecting great grandchildren, but oh how quickly the years go by, and how soon all our grandbabies will no longer be babes, but adults, with families and lives of their own. I pray that we will continue to share each other's lives, and to make new memories to add to those of Christmases past.
Merry Christmas, and the happiest of New Years.
Of course, if I don't remember by next year, I can always come back and read this post.
Spending several days at Jeana's house, with all our kids and grandkids.
Playing Senior Moments, a gift from Jeana and family, which requires short term memory. Of which I seem to have not much.
Listening to a Christmas story read aloud, and watching the children's faces, softly lit by the Advent candles and the tree lights.
Making cornbread dressing with my daddy's mama's recipe.
Going shopping with my girls and their girls.
Buying my grandbabies yarn and crochet hooks, because they want to learn to crochet.
Watching Katoushka and Lolly sing and dance "Sisters" (from White Christmas, one of my favorite holiday movies).
Listening as Sunshine played "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on the piano.
And Big D and A-man playing "The Little Drummer Boy" as a duet on their violins.
Seeing Pie show Buddy how to crochet--she's left-handed, so teaching her is a challenge for me, but Buddy is ambidextrous, so I'm curious to see with which hand he crochets.
Devan and the other boys zooming down the zip line from the tree house, screaming with delight.
Holding hands in a family circle, praying before meals.
Having my mother and her friend join us, even if only for a few hours.
My husband singing Christmas carols softly, holding my hand, and watching the barely controlled chaos that is our family Christmas.
Spending our last Christmas Eve at my mother's house. What a bittersweet moment, knowing that this house will be sold, the house where she has lived for 40 years, the house my late daddy built. Reminding myself that she is moving on to a new and happy stage of her life, with a man we all love and respect. Realizing that with more than 50 members, we have just outgrown Christmas at anyone's house, and knowing that it won't be the same at another place, but reveling in the fact that we still want to get together, and will find another place.
Rejoicing that our two soldiers
both returned from war this year, safe and healthy.
Realizing that, as usual, I made some mistakes on the family calender, and making notes to myself to correct them next year.
Remembering past Christmases, with those who have gone home before us, and with whom we will be reunited one day.
Watching a video of our family Christmas from 25 years ago.
My parents had four kids. We are all still with our spouses, and among us produced 12 children, who in turn have married and had children--16 and counting, with another due in the spring. Our oldest grandchild will be 15 in the spring, so we are a few years from expecting great grandchildren, but oh how quickly the years go by, and how soon all our grandbabies will no longer be babes, but adults, with families and lives of their own. I pray that we will continue to share each other's lives, and to make new memories to add to those of Christmases past.
Merry Christmas, and the happiest of New Years.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Folger's Vanilla Biscotti
An empty package of Folger's Vanilla Biscotti has been on my kitchen cabinet for quite some time. I saved it to remind me that I needed to write a product review, but I kept putting it off, mostly because when I saw it was when I was working in the kitchen, and not when I was at the computer.
However.
Folger's e-mailed me months ago and asked if I would be willing to write a product review, in exchange for receiving a free sample. I said, why sure, because I love free stuff.
So they sent it
And I drank it.
And it was good.
In fact, it was very good.
I have only been a coffee drinker for a few years. In fact, since I started low carbing. Cutting back on sugar had the strange side effect of enabling me to appreciate the flavor of coffee.
I always loved the aroma. I often said that if coffee tasted the way it smells, I would love it.
But of course it didn't.
Until now.
Folger's vanilla biscotti tastes exactly the way it smells.
A lovely rich vanilla flavor.
I drank it every day for a week, and didn't get tired of it.
I would still be drinking it, if not for the price. At forty-five cents an ounce, it's just more than I am willing to spend for my daily caffeine fix.
But for special occasions, yes indeedy. Yummy.
And by the way, if you folks at Folger's have anything else you would like to send me a free sample of, I will be happy to write any number of product reviews.
Of course, I can't guarantee that they will all be as good as this one.
At least, not unless you are going to send packets of cash in plain brown wrappers.
In that case, we can talk.
However.
Folger's e-mailed me months ago and asked if I would be willing to write a product review, in exchange for receiving a free sample. I said, why sure, because I love free stuff.
So they sent it
And I drank it.
And it was good.
In fact, it was very good.
I have only been a coffee drinker for a few years. In fact, since I started low carbing. Cutting back on sugar had the strange side effect of enabling me to appreciate the flavor of coffee.
I always loved the aroma. I often said that if coffee tasted the way it smells, I would love it.
But of course it didn't.
Until now.
Folger's vanilla biscotti tastes exactly the way it smells.
A lovely rich vanilla flavor.
I drank it every day for a week, and didn't get tired of it.
I would still be drinking it, if not for the price. At forty-five cents an ounce, it's just more than I am willing to spend for my daily caffeine fix.
But for special occasions, yes indeedy. Yummy.
And by the way, if you folks at Folger's have anything else you would like to send me a free sample of, I will be happy to write any number of product reviews.
Of course, I can't guarantee that they will all be as good as this one.
At least, not unless you are going to send packets of cash in plain brown wrappers.
In that case, we can talk.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Decorating for Christmas
Jeana's posts about Christmas got me to thinking about Christmas trees and decorating for Christmas. The trees I grew up with were real trees. My daddy nailed crossed pieces of wood to the bottom to make them stand up. We decorated with tinsel, glass balls, tons of icecicles, and lots of angel hair, which always made me itch but I loved adding it to the tree. The angel on top floated in a cloud of feathers and angel hair, and it was my favorite decoration.
The tree skirt was a layer of cotton wool sprinkled with glitter. Nearby, a block of styrofoam was the foundation for a tiny sleigh and reindeer, sliding along among a forest of miniature trees.
When Wick and I married, we started with a small tree, two boxes of blue glass balls, and blue and gold tinsel. It was the color coordinated tree pictured in store windows, and to frame it we outlined the front window of our apartment in blue lights. But somehow the tree looked sort of sad to me--sort of sterile and impersonal.
As the years passed, we added decorations we received as gifts, or found on clearance, and then came the decorations our children made. We also started the tradition of giving each child an ornament, so that when our kids married, they would have the beginnings of their own Christmas traditions.
One year I made an Advent calendar for the kids. I didn't have a pattern; I just started cutting out shapes from felt and gluing them together. I put a green tree shape on a piece of red for the background. The calendar part was outlined in gold rickrack. For each day from December first to December 25, there was a different ornament made of felt, gold paint, and glue for the tree: candy canes, fancy globes, a toy soldier, a teddy bear, a gold star, an angel. Each day we moved one ornament from the calendar at the bottom to the tree, and counted the days left until Christmas.
There were always Nativity figures, as ornaments on the tree, or sitting on a table, and always the one with the wooden stable and all the animals gathered around the manger containing the baby Jesus under the tree.
Another year I made stockings with bears on them, and a matching tree skirt. Jeana made a lap quilt from matching fabric, for my mother, and we made fabric ornaments for the tree.
One year we spent hours painting wooden cutout ornaments for the tree. I still have a few of those.
Once our kids were grown and married, I started making new stockings. For the girls, angels in crimson robes with gold sashes. For the boys, angels in red shirts and denim pants. Each one has a gold felt star with the appropriate name on it. I still fill each stocking, no matter where we have our family Christmas, with miniature candy bars, nuts, tiny toys, socks, and a small stocking gift.
When our kids were small and our pockets empty, we made most of our gifts. One year we saved pretty glass bottles and jars, soaked off the labels, spray painted the lids gold, and added some decals for decoration. I bought a big box of Epsom salts. We added a little food coloring, some perfume, stirred well, and poured the bath salts into the bottles and jars as gifts for Nanaw, Grandma, and all the aunts.
As our family grew, I started making a family calendar every year. Everyone's birthday, all the anniversaries, each new baby, the special days of our lives, laid out on the new year's calendar. One for each family unit. All year long, as I check my calendar for appointments, I also see the dates for each family member. I stop to say a prayer, try to remember to send a card, shop for a gift, or make a phone call. The family calendar keeps them always before me, always on my mind and in my heart and in my prayers.
After all, the tree, the decorations, the gifts, it's all about family. The family we came from, the family we created together, the family that has grown each year, the love we have for each other, and the blessings God has bestowed on us.
Merry Christmas. May God bless us, every one.
The tree skirt was a layer of cotton wool sprinkled with glitter. Nearby, a block of styrofoam was the foundation for a tiny sleigh and reindeer, sliding along among a forest of miniature trees.
When Wick and I married, we started with a small tree, two boxes of blue glass balls, and blue and gold tinsel. It was the color coordinated tree pictured in store windows, and to frame it we outlined the front window of our apartment in blue lights. But somehow the tree looked sort of sad to me--sort of sterile and impersonal.
As the years passed, we added decorations we received as gifts, or found on clearance, and then came the decorations our children made. We also started the tradition of giving each child an ornament, so that when our kids married, they would have the beginnings of their own Christmas traditions.
One year I made an Advent calendar for the kids. I didn't have a pattern; I just started cutting out shapes from felt and gluing them together. I put a green tree shape on a piece of red for the background. The calendar part was outlined in gold rickrack. For each day from December first to December 25, there was a different ornament made of felt, gold paint, and glue for the tree: candy canes, fancy globes, a toy soldier, a teddy bear, a gold star, an angel. Each day we moved one ornament from the calendar at the bottom to the tree, and counted the days left until Christmas.
There were always Nativity figures, as ornaments on the tree, or sitting on a table, and always the one with the wooden stable and all the animals gathered around the manger containing the baby Jesus under the tree.
Another year I made stockings with bears on them, and a matching tree skirt. Jeana made a lap quilt from matching fabric, for my mother, and we made fabric ornaments for the tree.
One year we spent hours painting wooden cutout ornaments for the tree. I still have a few of those.
Once our kids were grown and married, I started making new stockings. For the girls, angels in crimson robes with gold sashes. For the boys, angels in red shirts and denim pants. Each one has a gold felt star with the appropriate name on it. I still fill each stocking, no matter where we have our family Christmas, with miniature candy bars, nuts, tiny toys, socks, and a small stocking gift.
When our kids were small and our pockets empty, we made most of our gifts. One year we saved pretty glass bottles and jars, soaked off the labels, spray painted the lids gold, and added some decals for decoration. I bought a big box of Epsom salts. We added a little food coloring, some perfume, stirred well, and poured the bath salts into the bottles and jars as gifts for Nanaw, Grandma, and all the aunts.
As our family grew, I started making a family calendar every year. Everyone's birthday, all the anniversaries, each new baby, the special days of our lives, laid out on the new year's calendar. One for each family unit. All year long, as I check my calendar for appointments, I also see the dates for each family member. I stop to say a prayer, try to remember to send a card, shop for a gift, or make a phone call. The family calendar keeps them always before me, always on my mind and in my heart and in my prayers.
After all, the tree, the decorations, the gifts, it's all about family. The family we came from, the family we created together, the family that has grown each year, the love we have for each other, and the blessings God has bestowed on us.
Merry Christmas. May God bless us, every one.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Another Chirstmas Memory
When I was little, we lived with my grandmother (mama's mother).
On Christmas Eve, my aunts and uncles and cousins came to spend the
night.
We made pallets on the floor with piles of quilts, and at least
one year I remember sleeping at the foot of the bed, between the
grownups' feet and the wooden footboard.
Somehow during the night, rolled in layers of quilts, I slid down between the footboard and the mattress, and when I woke up, I couldn't figure out where I was, or how to get out of
the tangle of quilts.
Our house had gas heaters, and I remember Granny B warning us
little girls to be careful standing in front of the heaters in our long
flannel nightgowns, fearing that we would catch on fire.
The warm air would lift our gown tails into the air, like hot air balloons.
On Christmas Eve, we had to wait for Granny B to get home from
work before we could officially start Christmas. She worked at
Skillern's Drugstore, and often didn't get home until 10:30 or later, with
stories of men coming in just before the store closed, to buy a box of
candy for their wives or mamas, or a pipe and tobacco for their daddies.
On Christmas Eve, we opened gifts from each other, but the
presents Santa brought didn't arrive until every last child was in bed
asleep. I always tried to stay awake to hear the sleigh bells, which Uncle
Grady solemnly told us he heard every year when Santa landed on the
roof.
One year, Christmas Day came on Sunday, and of course we couldn't miss church, so Santa Claus came early that year. Late Christmas Eve night, my daddy and my uncle Jim took all of us kids to buy fireworks,
and when we got back, Santa had come!
My daddy said he started with our house that year, and that is why he came early.
With so many relatives, and so many children, the floor under
the tree was filled to overflowing with presents on Christmas morning.
Each of us had a stocking, with a whole orange or tangerine that we
didn't have to share, a whole shiny red apple, nuts in the shell, hard
candy, and some kind of toy.
One year we all got paddle balls--paddles with red rubber balls attached by rubber strings. We spent hours trying to hit the balls with the paddles. When the ball came off the string, Daddy or
Aunt Ruth would fix it by pushing a piece of matchstick into the ball
to hold the rubber string in place.
When the elastic wore out, our mamas and daddies collected the paddles so we would stop hitting each other with them, and next time somebody needed a spanking, they would use
the wooden paddle.
More than once, one of us nearly swallowed one of the
little red balls, that were just the right size to go down a little
kid's throat.
My aunt Clorine made the best divinity in the whole world,
sweet, rich, creamy,
melting on my tongue like snow flakes.
Aunt Ruth's fudge was
straight out of dreams of sugar plums.
Fruitcake, studded with sweet
pecans and jewels of candied fruit,
mama's chocolate cake with hard icing,
Granny B's chocolate and lemon merengue pies--
mmmmm.
I can still taste them in my dreams.
On Christmas Eve, my aunts and uncles and cousins came to spend the
night.
We made pallets on the floor with piles of quilts, and at least
one year I remember sleeping at the foot of the bed, between the
grownups' feet and the wooden footboard.
Somehow during the night, rolled in layers of quilts, I slid down between the footboard and the mattress, and when I woke up, I couldn't figure out where I was, or how to get out of
the tangle of quilts.
Our house had gas heaters, and I remember Granny B warning us
little girls to be careful standing in front of the heaters in our long
flannel nightgowns, fearing that we would catch on fire.
The warm air would lift our gown tails into the air, like hot air balloons.
On Christmas Eve, we had to wait for Granny B to get home from
work before we could officially start Christmas. She worked at
Skillern's Drugstore, and often didn't get home until 10:30 or later, with
stories of men coming in just before the store closed, to buy a box of
candy for their wives or mamas, or a pipe and tobacco for their daddies.
On Christmas Eve, we opened gifts from each other, but the
presents Santa brought didn't arrive until every last child was in bed
asleep. I always tried to stay awake to hear the sleigh bells, which Uncle
Grady solemnly told us he heard every year when Santa landed on the
roof.
One year, Christmas Day came on Sunday, and of course we couldn't miss church, so Santa Claus came early that year. Late Christmas Eve night, my daddy and my uncle Jim took all of us kids to buy fireworks,
and when we got back, Santa had come!
My daddy said he started with our house that year, and that is why he came early.
With so many relatives, and so many children, the floor under
the tree was filled to overflowing with presents on Christmas morning.
Each of us had a stocking, with a whole orange or tangerine that we
didn't have to share, a whole shiny red apple, nuts in the shell, hard
candy, and some kind of toy.
One year we all got paddle balls--paddles with red rubber balls attached by rubber strings. We spent hours trying to hit the balls with the paddles. When the ball came off the string, Daddy or
Aunt Ruth would fix it by pushing a piece of matchstick into the ball
to hold the rubber string in place.
When the elastic wore out, our mamas and daddies collected the paddles so we would stop hitting each other with them, and next time somebody needed a spanking, they would use
the wooden paddle.
More than once, one of us nearly swallowed one of the
little red balls, that were just the right size to go down a little
kid's throat.
My aunt Clorine made the best divinity in the whole world,
sweet, rich, creamy,
melting on my tongue like snow flakes.
Aunt Ruth's fudge was
straight out of dreams of sugar plums.
Fruitcake, studded with sweet
pecans and jewels of candied fruit,
mama's chocolate cake with hard icing,
Granny B's chocolate and lemon merengue pies--
mmmmm.
I can still taste them in my dreams.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
A Christmas Memory
This time of year I often fall asleep remembering Christmases past. The earliest Christmas memories I have are from when I was about three.
I remember the ceramic mug a friend of my mother's from church made me, a three-dimensional impression of Santa's face, with a gentle smile. I remember the smell of the Christmas tree, and the crackle of wrapping paper as Mama wrapped mysterious boxes. I remember my grandmother warning me not to go into her closet, telling me that if I did, a spider would get me. I remember riding on Daddy's shoulders through the Sears Roebuck store, to look at the biggest model train set in the world (I don't know if it really was, but that is how I remember it). I remember the tricycle Daddy had to adapt; I was too small for it, and couldn't reach the pedals if I was sitting on the seat. So he screwed blocks of wood to the pedals so that I could push them. It was thrilling, riding around the dining table, leaning forward to see over the handlebars! I remember that I got a little doctor's kit, complete with "medicine" bottles, filled with the little colored sprinkles we normally use to decorate cakes. I promptly spilled some on the hardwood floor in the dining room, and then rode my tricycle through them, grinding the sprinkles into the tire treads, where they stayed forever. I remember the sparkly icecicles, the gold and silver tinsel, the bright lights on the tree.
Most of all I remember the Nativity scene under the tree, and how Mama and Daddy crouched on the floor, holding my hands and letting me gently touch each figure as they told me the story of the baby Jesus' birth.
I love Christmas.
I remember the ceramic mug a friend of my mother's from church made me, a three-dimensional impression of Santa's face, with a gentle smile. I remember the smell of the Christmas tree, and the crackle of wrapping paper as Mama wrapped mysterious boxes. I remember my grandmother warning me not to go into her closet, telling me that if I did, a spider would get me. I remember riding on Daddy's shoulders through the Sears Roebuck store, to look at the biggest model train set in the world (I don't know if it really was, but that is how I remember it). I remember the tricycle Daddy had to adapt; I was too small for it, and couldn't reach the pedals if I was sitting on the seat. So he screwed blocks of wood to the pedals so that I could push them. It was thrilling, riding around the dining table, leaning forward to see over the handlebars! I remember that I got a little doctor's kit, complete with "medicine" bottles, filled with the little colored sprinkles we normally use to decorate cakes. I promptly spilled some on the hardwood floor in the dining room, and then rode my tricycle through them, grinding the sprinkles into the tire treads, where they stayed forever. I remember the sparkly icecicles, the gold and silver tinsel, the bright lights on the tree.
Most of all I remember the Nativity scene under the tree, and how Mama and Daddy crouched on the floor, holding my hands and letting me gently touch each figure as they told me the story of the baby Jesus' birth.
I love Christmas.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Regularly scheduled blogging will return soon
Wick and I went to Branson, MO, the weekend before Thanksgiving. We brought back a major case of food poisoning. Thanksgiving was not even a blip on the radar screen, as we took turns hanging our heads over the porcelain altar (aka the toilet). We missed Thanksgiving at my mother's, with over 50 people, all of whom are her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, for the first time in 37 years. We missed the four-day weekend at Jeana's with our kids and grandkids. We missed Black Friday shopping (which we would have experienced only vicariously, through Scott and Scott relaying their experiences camping out on the Best Buy parking lot). I even missed two days of work on the Monday and Tuesday after Thanksgiving.
Where we got the staphyloccocal infection remains a mystery.
It was, however, the "gift that keeps on giving"---headaches, joint pain, etc. etc. etc. and no I am not going into the details.
Suffice it to say that even now, my mother's cornbread dressing, complete with giblet gravy and cranberry sauce, which she carefully dished up and froze for me since we missed the festivities, still has not been claimed from her freezer.
For now, I am sticking with chicken noodle soup, jello, bananas, and Propel flavored water.
Bleaaahhh.
humbug.
Where we got the staphyloccocal infection remains a mystery.
It was, however, the "gift that keeps on giving"---headaches, joint pain, etc. etc. etc. and no I am not going into the details.
Suffice it to say that even now, my mother's cornbread dressing, complete with giblet gravy and cranberry sauce, which she carefully dished up and froze for me since we missed the festivities, still has not been claimed from her freezer.
For now, I am sticking with chicken noodle soup, jello, bananas, and Propel flavored water.
Bleaaahhh.
humbug.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Nine Weird Things About Me
HolyMama tagged me for this. At first, I thought I would have trouble thinking of nine things. Now I'm thinking....only nine?
1. The pillow I sleep on is flat--really flat, quite worn out, in fact.
2. But I can't sleep unless I have a big fat body pillow against my left side.
3. I still like to sleep with a teddy bear.
4. I want the room to be absolutely dark. As in *no* light at all. No reflections. No lights on tvs that never go off. No lighted alarm clock dials. I'm talking dark, people.
5. I like to sleep in a cold room, winter or summer, under a pure cotton sheet and a home made quilt.
6. I am not an early morning person. Do not talk to me early in the morning. Even if I sleep until 10:00, when I get up it is still early morning, until I have had two cups of coffee with cream and a significant amount of time to actually wake up. Just because my eyes are open does not mean that I am awake and fully functional.
7. During the week I eat the same breakfast every day: two slices of crisp bacon, and an ounce of cream cheese.
8. On weekends I sleep late, and eat brunch, and then only one other meal that day. Brunch is usually an omelet with cream cheese, ham or bacon, onion or chives, sometimes olives, sprinkled with grated colby cheese, topped with On the Border salsa, and two pieces of buttered toast (low carb bread, please), one with lc orange marmalade on it. Oh and coffee. At least three cups. Or two cups of coffee and a cup of cocoa.
9. I am so serious about number 6 that Jeana's kids (my grandbabies) tiptoe around giggling in the mornings, saying, "Shhhh! Quiet! Don't wake up the MiMi monster!"
Which of course wakes me up.
I'm tagging Katie for this meme.
1. The pillow I sleep on is flat--really flat, quite worn out, in fact.
2. But I can't sleep unless I have a big fat body pillow against my left side.
3. I still like to sleep with a teddy bear.
4. I want the room to be absolutely dark. As in *no* light at all. No reflections. No lights on tvs that never go off. No lighted alarm clock dials. I'm talking dark, people.
5. I like to sleep in a cold room, winter or summer, under a pure cotton sheet and a home made quilt.
6. I am not an early morning person. Do not talk to me early in the morning. Even if I sleep until 10:00, when I get up it is still early morning, until I have had two cups of coffee with cream and a significant amount of time to actually wake up. Just because my eyes are open does not mean that I am awake and fully functional.
7. During the week I eat the same breakfast every day: two slices of crisp bacon, and an ounce of cream cheese.
8. On weekends I sleep late, and eat brunch, and then only one other meal that day. Brunch is usually an omelet with cream cheese, ham or bacon, onion or chives, sometimes olives, sprinkled with grated colby cheese, topped with On the Border salsa, and two pieces of buttered toast (low carb bread, please), one with lc orange marmalade on it. Oh and coffee. At least three cups. Or two cups of coffee and a cup of cocoa.
9. I am so serious about number 6 that Jeana's kids (my grandbabies) tiptoe around giggling in the mornings, saying, "Shhhh! Quiet! Don't wake up the MiMi monster!"
Which of course wakes me up.
I'm tagging Katie for this meme.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
We Wanted to Meet
Last weekend was We Wanna Meet, in Ft. Worth. About 2 dozen bloggers got together for a couple of days of eating, laughing, shopping, and getting to know each other.
Most of us had "met" each other through our blogs, so in a sense we already knew each other. How much fun it was to match faces to names, to find out that they were all just as cute, as sweet, and as funny as I had imagined, and to share some time together.
Kelsey (Holy Mama) brought Seth, and a cuter, sweeter little dumplin' you would be hard pressed to find (Seth, not Kelsey--although she is cute, she is too tiny to be called a dumplin'). Our daughter Jeana (http://www.laughter4daystocome.blogspot.com/) graciously consented to her daddy and me coming for lunch on Saturday, mainly I think to prove that we are real, and really as smarty-pants as we appear on her blog.
Lauren (http://ahumbleheart.org/blog/ brought her adorable daughter, who has the most beautiful long hair and the sweetest smile.
Chili (http://donttrythisathome.typepad.com/justdont/) had me laughing so hard my tummy hurt.
Shannon http://rocksinmydryer.typepad.com/shannon/ is as cute as her cartoon, and I recognized her immediately.
Shalee http://shalees.blogspot.com/ is a hoot in real life, just as she is on her blog.
Minnie http://minniemoments1.blogspot.com/ is as cute as a button, and her laugh is infectious--no, not like a disease, but like something you want to catch.
GiBee http://kissesofsunshine.blogspot.com/ brought her little guy, and he is darling--sweet as his mama.
These are just a few of the dear women we met last Saturday at the Ft. Worth Botanic Garden restaurant. The whole afternoon was .....well, it was indescribable.
Meeting total strangers who we felt as if we already knew.
And not a single disappointment in the bunch.
The restaurant is by reservation only, and we had to share the space with other parties, some of whom I am sure must have wondered who we were, and why we were all laughing insanely. They were just totally missing out, not being at our tables.
There was also a wedding going on, and the person who made those arrangements must have lived to regret it. She opted for the front room, which is large and airy, but is also where everyone walks in the front door, and we kept that door swinging all afternoon.
They had the reception buffet and cakes set up in the center room, which is where we had to walk through to get to the ladies room, and we kept that path pretty well populated too.
We tried to get them to share the leftover wedding cake, but they really frowned on that, so of course we had to order our own sinfully rich, sweet, and fattening desserts. I like to think, though, that all the laughing we did worked off a few of the calories. And even if it didn't, it was sooooooo worth it!
Funny, cute, sweet, hilarious, and beautiful inside and out. That's what they are, those mommy bloggers who wanted to meet in Ft. Worth last weekend.
I can't wait to see them again.
Most of us had "met" each other through our blogs, so in a sense we already knew each other. How much fun it was to match faces to names, to find out that they were all just as cute, as sweet, and as funny as I had imagined, and to share some time together.
Kelsey (Holy Mama) brought Seth, and a cuter, sweeter little dumplin' you would be hard pressed to find (Seth, not Kelsey--although she is cute, she is too tiny to be called a dumplin'). Our daughter Jeana (http://www.laughter4daystocome.blogspot.com/) graciously consented to her daddy and me coming for lunch on Saturday, mainly I think to prove that we are real, and really as smarty-pants as we appear on her blog.
Lauren (http://ahumbleheart.org/blog/ brought her adorable daughter, who has the most beautiful long hair and the sweetest smile.
Chili (http://donttrythisathome.typepad.com/justdont/) had me laughing so hard my tummy hurt.
Shannon http://rocksinmydryer.typepad.com/shannon/ is as cute as her cartoon, and I recognized her immediately.
Shalee http://shalees.blogspot.com/ is a hoot in real life, just as she is on her blog.
Minnie http://minniemoments1.blogspot.com/ is as cute as a button, and her laugh is infectious--no, not like a disease, but like something you want to catch.
GiBee http://kissesofsunshine.blogspot.com/ brought her little guy, and he is darling--sweet as his mama.
These are just a few of the dear women we met last Saturday at the Ft. Worth Botanic Garden restaurant. The whole afternoon was .....well, it was indescribable.
Meeting total strangers who we felt as if we already knew.
And not a single disappointment in the bunch.
The restaurant is by reservation only, and we had to share the space with other parties, some of whom I am sure must have wondered who we were, and why we were all laughing insanely. They were just totally missing out, not being at our tables.
There was also a wedding going on, and the person who made those arrangements must have lived to regret it. She opted for the front room, which is large and airy, but is also where everyone walks in the front door, and we kept that door swinging all afternoon.
They had the reception buffet and cakes set up in the center room, which is where we had to walk through to get to the ladies room, and we kept that path pretty well populated too.
We tried to get them to share the leftover wedding cake, but they really frowned on that, so of course we had to order our own sinfully rich, sweet, and fattening desserts. I like to think, though, that all the laughing we did worked off a few of the calories. And even if it didn't, it was sooooooo worth it!
Funny, cute, sweet, hilarious, and beautiful inside and out. That's what they are, those mommy bloggers who wanted to meet in Ft. Worth last weekend.
I can't wait to see them again.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The Shirt Off Her Back
Thursday Wick and I were at a required teacher training session all day. One of the women was wearing the cutest t-shirt--so cute I wanted to just take it away from her.
No, I didn't.
But I wanted to.
It was black, with a pink silhouette of a woman's face in profile. Under it, in pink letters, it said, "A virtuous woman", and below that, in smaller letters, some of the attributes of the Proverbs 31 woman. Just adorable, it was.
And I didn't even want it for myself.
I wanted it for daughter Jeana.
If you read her blog, you know that its name comes from Proverbs 31:
25 "Strength and dignity are her clothing,and she can laugh at the days to come."
I even asked the lady where she got the shirt.
She said from her church.
I said, well, I need one like that, for my daughter.
By this time, she is looking around for someone to rescue her from this crazy woman who is obviously obsessed with her shirt.
She said, well, the church in in New York.
And besides, they probably don't have any more.
And when I told Jeana about the t-shirt Sat. (at the We Wanna Meet lunch at the Garden Resaurant at the Ft. Worth Botanical Gardens, a whole other blog subject), she said, oh no, she wouldn't possibly be able to wear a shirt like that, because although she certainly laughs a lot, and makes other people laugh a lot, she is not the virtuous woman described therein.
So I guess it is a good thing I did not bodily assault the poor lady and yank the shirt right off her back.
Now that I think about it, that would sort of let me out of the virtuous woman category too, wouldn't it.
No, I didn't.
But I wanted to.
It was black, with a pink silhouette of a woman's face in profile. Under it, in pink letters, it said, "A virtuous woman", and below that, in smaller letters, some of the attributes of the Proverbs 31 woman. Just adorable, it was.
And I didn't even want it for myself.
I wanted it for daughter Jeana.
If you read her blog, you know that its name comes from Proverbs 31:
25 "Strength and dignity are her clothing,and she can laugh at the days to come."
I even asked the lady where she got the shirt.
She said from her church.
I said, well, I need one like that, for my daughter.
By this time, she is looking around for someone to rescue her from this crazy woman who is obviously obsessed with her shirt.
She said, well, the church in in New York.
And besides, they probably don't have any more.
And when I told Jeana about the t-shirt Sat. (at the We Wanna Meet lunch at the Garden Resaurant at the Ft. Worth Botanical Gardens, a whole other blog subject), she said, oh no, she wouldn't possibly be able to wear a shirt like that, because although she certainly laughs a lot, and makes other people laugh a lot, she is not the virtuous woman described therein.
So I guess it is a good thing I did not bodily assault the poor lady and yank the shirt right off her back.
Now that I think about it, that would sort of let me out of the virtuous woman category too, wouldn't it.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Learning something new every day
Warning: I'm warning you that the subject matter today is "adult". I'm trying to explain what happened in a family friendly manner, but .... well.....if you are easily offended, stop reading now.
One morning half an hour before students were supposed to be in the hallways, I was coming down the stairs from a meeting, when I saw a group of boys in the hall outside the restroom. Actually, more like a mob. And it was the Girls' Restroom.
A crowd of 50 or 60 boys outside a girls' restroom can not mean anything good.
As I continued down the stairs, I realized that two or three boys at a time were going into the girls' restroom.
I flew down the remaining stairs, hustled the boys out of the girls' restroom, and then looked down at the floor.
That's when I saw it.
Oh. My. Word.
I literally had to look twice to be sure I was not imagining things.
There on the floor was a life-size replica of.....(ahem).....a male body part.
Skin colored.
Detailed.
All the details.
I mean, it looked as if someone had been bobbitized.
Except there was no blood.
And it had a strap attached.
So there I stood.
Looking at an unmentionable object.
I couldn't leave it there.
I needed an administrator, but none of the kids would leave--I guess they were hoping I would leave, so they could take another look.
I didn't have on a jacket.
Didn't have a bag.
Nothing in my hands except my daily planner.
No pockets even.
As if that object would have fitted into a pocket.
Not even any paper towels, because high school students think it is funny to plug up the facilities with paper towels.
So.......
After some thought, and meanwhile shooing out curious students while telling them that the restroom was out of order.....
I reeled off enough tissue paper to cover up the object, so I could carry it to the administrator's office.
Here I am, with this thing wrapped in tissue paper (it was even weighted, so it actually felt as if I were carrying a body part down the hall), and I have to walk through that mob of boys, down two hallways, around a corner, and two more doors to the office.
I walked in, and put the thing down on the secretary's desk, at which time the tissue paper wafted away from it, and I thought the secretary was going to have a stroke. She started hyperventilating.
We radioed for an administrator.
A couple of mornings later, at about the same time of the morning, someone threw one into the library.
This one was Barney purple. Less detailed. And minus the strap.
That afternoon, one turned up in a boys' restroom.
What the culprits seemed to have forgotten was the security cameras on all floors.
Four people were identified as being involved in the three incidents.
They will be pursuing their education at another institution this year.
I don't know where they got these objects. I don't know where the objects had been. And I really don't want to think about what possible purpose anyone could have for one.
But I have to admit......
teaching is an education for me, as well as, or perhaps more so than for my students.
I just hope next time the subject is
a) more useful
and
b) less disgusting.
One morning half an hour before students were supposed to be in the hallways, I was coming down the stairs from a meeting, when I saw a group of boys in the hall outside the restroom. Actually, more like a mob. And it was the Girls' Restroom.
A crowd of 50 or 60 boys outside a girls' restroom can not mean anything good.
As I continued down the stairs, I realized that two or three boys at a time were going into the girls' restroom.
I flew down the remaining stairs, hustled the boys out of the girls' restroom, and then looked down at the floor.
That's when I saw it.
Oh. My. Word.
I literally had to look twice to be sure I was not imagining things.
There on the floor was a life-size replica of.....(ahem).....a male body part.
Skin colored.
Detailed.
All the details.
I mean, it looked as if someone had been bobbitized.
Except there was no blood.
And it had a strap attached.
So there I stood.
Looking at an unmentionable object.
I couldn't leave it there.
I needed an administrator, but none of the kids would leave--I guess they were hoping I would leave, so they could take another look.
I didn't have on a jacket.
Didn't have a bag.
Nothing in my hands except my daily planner.
No pockets even.
As if that object would have fitted into a pocket.
Not even any paper towels, because high school students think it is funny to plug up the facilities with paper towels.
So.......
After some thought, and meanwhile shooing out curious students while telling them that the restroom was out of order.....
I reeled off enough tissue paper to cover up the object, so I could carry it to the administrator's office.
Here I am, with this thing wrapped in tissue paper (it was even weighted, so it actually felt as if I were carrying a body part down the hall), and I have to walk through that mob of boys, down two hallways, around a corner, and two more doors to the office.
I walked in, and put the thing down on the secretary's desk, at which time the tissue paper wafted away from it, and I thought the secretary was going to have a stroke. She started hyperventilating.
We radioed for an administrator.
A couple of mornings later, at about the same time of the morning, someone threw one into the library.
This one was Barney purple. Less detailed. And minus the strap.
That afternoon, one turned up in a boys' restroom.
What the culprits seemed to have forgotten was the security cameras on all floors.
Four people were identified as being involved in the three incidents.
They will be pursuing their education at another institution this year.
I don't know where they got these objects. I don't know where the objects had been. And I really don't want to think about what possible purpose anyone could have for one.
But I have to admit......
teaching is an education for me, as well as, or perhaps more so than for my students.
I just hope next time the subject is
a) more useful
and
b) less disgusting.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Trials of Our Fur Baby's Existance
Frankie, our Pomeranian, lives a very difficult life. He has trouble getting us to understand the simplest of commands.
We don't respond quickly enough when he wants to go outside.
We accuse him of barking at nothing, when he knows perfectly well that there is a child outside riding a scooter in his parking lot.
We buy him dog food that he doesn't like, and he has to go on a three day hunger strike to convince us that we must buy a different brand.
Whenever we offer him a treat of doggie jerky, he has to inspect it carefully, sniff it thoroughly, then take it off to a corner where he can examine it at his leisure, just in case we have tried to slip in a vitamin, heart worm pill, or something equally nasty.
We don't go to bed when he thinks it is bed time, so he has to bark at us and nudge us until we finally turn out the light so he can get to sleep--this, despite the fact that he has slept for a couple of hours on the couch in a brightly lit room--it is bedtime, and he needs for us to go to bed so that he can get some sleep.
Whenever we leave, he is seized with anxiety unless we take him along. He has to sit in the passenger seat so that he can be prepared to take over at any moment, if our concentration should lapse.
He is ever vigilant for 18-wheelers, which he knows harbor other dogs, and he takes it as a personal affront that they are allowed to drive on his highway.
He must also be alert for the presence of round hay bales; although you may think they are inanimate, he knows otherwise. He has seen them moving steathily along the roadway, on the back of a truck or trailer, and they might attack us at any time, with no warning. It is his job to protect us from them.
Also, once a person is allowed to enter our home, he is met with suspicious sniffs, a snort or two, and his departure must be hastened by Frankie barking at his heels all the way to the door.
He has to remake his bed every time I wash his bedding; and he has to roll around on it for several minutes to eradicate the odor of the detergent and softener.
Just when he gets comfortable on the couch, head on pillow, one of us is sure to make him move over by threatening to sit on him.
We are selfish with our bed pillows too, refusing to let him take over the whole pillow.
It's so sad.
Even after eleven years, he just can't seem to get us trained.
We don't respond quickly enough when he wants to go outside.
We accuse him of barking at nothing, when he knows perfectly well that there is a child outside riding a scooter in his parking lot.
We buy him dog food that he doesn't like, and he has to go on a three day hunger strike to convince us that we must buy a different brand.
Whenever we offer him a treat of doggie jerky, he has to inspect it carefully, sniff it thoroughly, then take it off to a corner where he can examine it at his leisure, just in case we have tried to slip in a vitamin, heart worm pill, or something equally nasty.
We don't go to bed when he thinks it is bed time, so he has to bark at us and nudge us until we finally turn out the light so he can get to sleep--this, despite the fact that he has slept for a couple of hours on the couch in a brightly lit room--it is bedtime, and he needs for us to go to bed so that he can get some sleep.
Whenever we leave, he is seized with anxiety unless we take him along. He has to sit in the passenger seat so that he can be prepared to take over at any moment, if our concentration should lapse.
He is ever vigilant for 18-wheelers, which he knows harbor other dogs, and he takes it as a personal affront that they are allowed to drive on his highway.
He must also be alert for the presence of round hay bales; although you may think they are inanimate, he knows otherwise. He has seen them moving steathily along the roadway, on the back of a truck or trailer, and they might attack us at any time, with no warning. It is his job to protect us from them.
Also, once a person is allowed to enter our home, he is met with suspicious sniffs, a snort or two, and his departure must be hastened by Frankie barking at his heels all the way to the door.
He has to remake his bed every time I wash his bedding; and he has to roll around on it for several minutes to eradicate the odor of the detergent and softener.
Just when he gets comfortable on the couch, head on pillow, one of us is sure to make him move over by threatening to sit on him.
We are selfish with our bed pillows too, refusing to let him take over the whole pillow.
It's so sad.
Even after eleven years, he just can't seem to get us trained.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Works for Me Wednesday--Dry cleaning bags
If you have stuff dry cleaned, you know those bags I'm talking about.
thin, filmy, almost insubstantial, but still potentially lethal to babies, small children, and pets.
I don't have any babies in the house at the moment, but I do have a dog, so I try to dispose of those bags safely.
Here's how I do it:
First, smooth the bag into a long strip, by running my hand down the length of it and twisting.
Then tie knots in the bag every few inches.
Tie the knotty strip into a couple more knots, just for good measure.
Then throw it away.
This way, if the bag does manage to sneak out of the trash can, it is too compressed by the knots to be a safety hazard.
Of course, if your dog (or your child) manages to swallow it, you have another problem.
But that is another post.
thin, filmy, almost insubstantial, but still potentially lethal to babies, small children, and pets.
I don't have any babies in the house at the moment, but I do have a dog, so I try to dispose of those bags safely.
Here's how I do it:
First, smooth the bag into a long strip, by running my hand down the length of it and twisting.
Then tie knots in the bag every few inches.
Tie the knotty strip into a couple more knots, just for good measure.
Then throw it away.
This way, if the bag does manage to sneak out of the trash can, it is too compressed by the knots to be a safety hazard.
Of course, if your dog (or your child) manages to swallow it, you have another problem.
But that is another post.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Going to the Dogs
When we moved into this apartment, we were asked for a picture of Frankie, our Pomeranian, and his medical records (rabies shots, etc.), and informed that the weight liimit for dogs in this complex is 30 pounds.
Since Frankie weighs about 10 pounds on a heavy day, with full fur coat (not his summer cut), we were well under the limit.
Apparently, the managers only consider the weight of the dog or puppy at the time it is aquired, however.
Yes, there are many small dogs here. Scotties, mini-pinschers, toy poodles, rat terriers, and fluffy little mutts whose looks and personality are much more important than their pedigree.
However.
There are some who apparently did not read the terms of the lease.
They have overgrown the standard, some more than others.
For example, in the apartment directly above ours is a dog who started out as a bundle of white fluff not much bigger than Frankie. I think it has turned into one of those huge white Pyrranese dogs used for herding sheep--and it sounds like a baby elephant when it runs across the floor above our heads in the middle of the night.
In the apartment next to that one, we often see a black Labrador on the balcony. He is a young dog, with the sleek shiny coat of a puppy, and he is obviously lonely, since he whines in the most pitiful way when Frankie and I walk past below him. I just hope he never decides to jump off the balcony, because he would most certainly squash Frankie if he landed on him.
Another fellow apartment dweller has three dogs on leashes when we meet early in the morning. One is a definitely legal size scottie.
The other two--well, let's just say that if you put a saddle on one of those puppies, he would be in the same league as a Shetland pony.
Once in a while, we get a glimpse of a large dark hulking shadow peering at us through a patio door-I suspect it is a Rottweiler, but it is hard to say for sure, because we never see him outdoors except after dark.
Which is why Frankie and I take our long walks in daylight hours, and after dark run to the nearest fire hydrant and then duck back into the safety of our apartment.
Frankie is our fur baby, and we love him, but as a body guard he comes up rather short.
Of course, living in an RV, and now in a tiny apartment, what we need--and what we have--is a pocket sized dog.
Obviously some of our neighbors just had no idea how big their puppies were going to get, when they adopted them.
I would have thought that the size of those paws would have been a small (or rather a large) clue.
Since Frankie weighs about 10 pounds on a heavy day, with full fur coat (not his summer cut), we were well under the limit.
Apparently, the managers only consider the weight of the dog or puppy at the time it is aquired, however.
Yes, there are many small dogs here. Scotties, mini-pinschers, toy poodles, rat terriers, and fluffy little mutts whose looks and personality are much more important than their pedigree.
However.
There are some who apparently did not read the terms of the lease.
They have overgrown the standard, some more than others.
For example, in the apartment directly above ours is a dog who started out as a bundle of white fluff not much bigger than Frankie. I think it has turned into one of those huge white Pyrranese dogs used for herding sheep--and it sounds like a baby elephant when it runs across the floor above our heads in the middle of the night.
In the apartment next to that one, we often see a black Labrador on the balcony. He is a young dog, with the sleek shiny coat of a puppy, and he is obviously lonely, since he whines in the most pitiful way when Frankie and I walk past below him. I just hope he never decides to jump off the balcony, because he would most certainly squash Frankie if he landed on him.
Another fellow apartment dweller has three dogs on leashes when we meet early in the morning. One is a definitely legal size scottie.
The other two--well, let's just say that if you put a saddle on one of those puppies, he would be in the same league as a Shetland pony.
Once in a while, we get a glimpse of a large dark hulking shadow peering at us through a patio door-I suspect it is a Rottweiler, but it is hard to say for sure, because we never see him outdoors except after dark.
Which is why Frankie and I take our long walks in daylight hours, and after dark run to the nearest fire hydrant and then duck back into the safety of our apartment.
Frankie is our fur baby, and we love him, but as a body guard he comes up rather short.
Of course, living in an RV, and now in a tiny apartment, what we need--and what we have--is a pocket sized dog.
Obviously some of our neighbors just had no idea how big their puppies were going to get, when they adopted them.
I would have thought that the size of those paws would have been a small (or rather a large) clue.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
RV Woes Update
As I may have mentioned before, a few times, we used to live in our RV. But it has been in dire straits since the last week in June.
The extended warranty company says they are not going to pay for repairs to the inverter, the refrigerator, the sleep number bed, the tvs, vcr, dvd, etc.
Our problems started the third week in June. It's been a mighty long dry spell here in Texas, and no rain fell, as far as I know, anywhere in north or east texas in June--we live in east TX, and we were camping in north TX when the problems began.
The extended warranty company says they are not going to pay for repairs. Why?
They claim that the damage was done by lightening.
Lightening.
In the middle of a drought.
The RV has been waiting since 27 July at the RV repair shop for the extended warranty man to make a decision.
We finally had to rent an apartment, until the RV gets well.
Because we had to rent an apartment, we had to buy a couch, a bed, and a washer and dryer.
Because, as I said, we used to live in the RV, and the RV had all those things, but not working, of course.
Because of the lightening.
Which somehow we missed seeing.
or hearing.
or maybe we just didn't notice.
Weren't paying attention.
Right.
Lightening hit the RV, with us in it, and we didn't notice?
So the extended warranty guy said, turn it in on your vehicle insurance.
Now I'm getting paranoid.
What if the vehicle insurance guy says no it was not caused by lightening, and the extended warranty company should pay?
But the EWC has already said no.
Then what?
I'll be posting about all this again, when we find out what the vehicle insurance guy thinks.
If you're still interested.
The extended warranty company says they are not going to pay for repairs to the inverter, the refrigerator, the sleep number bed, the tvs, vcr, dvd, etc.
Our problems started the third week in June. It's been a mighty long dry spell here in Texas, and no rain fell, as far as I know, anywhere in north or east texas in June--we live in east TX, and we were camping in north TX when the problems began.
The extended warranty company says they are not going to pay for repairs. Why?
They claim that the damage was done by lightening.
Lightening.
In the middle of a drought.
The RV has been waiting since 27 July at the RV repair shop for the extended warranty man to make a decision.
We finally had to rent an apartment, until the RV gets well.
Because we had to rent an apartment, we had to buy a couch, a bed, and a washer and dryer.
Because, as I said, we used to live in the RV, and the RV had all those things, but not working, of course.
Because of the lightening.
Which somehow we missed seeing.
or hearing.
or maybe we just didn't notice.
Weren't paying attention.
Right.
Lightening hit the RV, with us in it, and we didn't notice?
So the extended warranty guy said, turn it in on your vehicle insurance.
Now I'm getting paranoid.
What if the vehicle insurance guy says no it was not caused by lightening, and the extended warranty company should pay?
But the EWC has already said no.
Then what?
I'll be posting about all this again, when we find out what the vehicle insurance guy thinks.
If you're still interested.
Monday, September 11, 2006
9-11-2001
I was walking down the hall when my assistant principal stuck her head out the door of her office, and said, "Go turn on your tv in your room. I think we are under attack."
From her tone and the look on her face, I knew something serious was happening.
I went directly to my classroom and turned on the tv. I stood there in shock, watching the images on the screen. By the time the second plane crashed into the towers, my room was full of students.
Tears were streaming down our faces. I literally felt sick at my stomach--actually, more like someone had punched me in the stomach.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted to call all my kids and bring them home with me. Like a mother hen, I wanted to gather all my chicks together in one place.
I wanted to know if Jeana's husband was at the airport, and if he was, I wanted him to leave.
I wanted all my grandbabies in my lap, right then, so I could hold on to them, feel their soft skin and their clean scent and their soft breath.
But I had a room full of kids.
And they couldn't go home either.
So we sat there together, watching in helpless horror, as the towers fell, the air filled with debris, thefire fighters and police cried for the lost heroes, the emergency workers ministered to those who had escaped.
We hugged each other, wiped each other's tears, held hands.
It was horrible.
But we couldn't stop watching.
Every time the images of the airplanes crashing were replayed, there was a sort of collective breath-holding, as if this time it wouldn't happen. But it did. Every time.
Babies born to those fathers killed in the carnage are five years old this year. Five years without their daddies.
Men and women live with memories, instead of their spouses.
Families sit down to eat, with an empty chair at the table.
Fire fighters miss their buddies.
Police officers struggle to hold back their tears at the sound of bagpipes.
Oh Lord, creator of the universe, father of us all, help us to make sense of these events. Hold those who grieve close to your heart.
From her tone and the look on her face, I knew something serious was happening.
I went directly to my classroom and turned on the tv. I stood there in shock, watching the images on the screen. By the time the second plane crashed into the towers, my room was full of students.
Tears were streaming down our faces. I literally felt sick at my stomach--actually, more like someone had punched me in the stomach.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted to call all my kids and bring them home with me. Like a mother hen, I wanted to gather all my chicks together in one place.
I wanted to know if Jeana's husband was at the airport, and if he was, I wanted him to leave.
I wanted all my grandbabies in my lap, right then, so I could hold on to them, feel their soft skin and their clean scent and their soft breath.
But I had a room full of kids.
And they couldn't go home either.
So we sat there together, watching in helpless horror, as the towers fell, the air filled with debris, thefire fighters and police cried for the lost heroes, the emergency workers ministered to those who had escaped.
We hugged each other, wiped each other's tears, held hands.
It was horrible.
But we couldn't stop watching.
Every time the images of the airplanes crashing were replayed, there was a sort of collective breath-holding, as if this time it wouldn't happen. But it did. Every time.
Babies born to those fathers killed in the carnage are five years old this year. Five years without their daddies.
Men and women live with memories, instead of their spouses.
Families sit down to eat, with an empty chair at the table.
Fire fighters miss their buddies.
Police officers struggle to hold back their tears at the sound of bagpipes.
Oh Lord, creator of the universe, father of us all, help us to make sense of these events. Hold those who grieve close to your heart.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
A Pause for Technical Difficulties
I am not a technical type person. I can run the washing machine and the dishwasher and clean the bathtub and change the sheets.
I can not seem to master anything more complicated than my twenty year old steam iron (which has lasted so long because I hate to iron and hardly ever use it).
Wick was gone this morning, and I had several small projects in mind for my morning alone in the apartment.
First, I tried to empty the ice trays. The ice would not come out. I tried running water over the bottoms of the trays, which did indeed get the cubes out, but melted them to half their size before I could scoop them up out of the sink.
Then, after stripping the bed, gathering up all the towels, bath mat, dog bedding, and other assorted laundry, I started the first of six loads of laundry. That went well enough that I decided to try vacuuming.
We bought a spiffy new upright vac when we moved into the apartment. It has all kinds of attachments, gadgets, even a self-cleaning duster. What it does not have is instructions printed on the vacuum cleaner itself.
I started in the bedroom, where there is not much traffic, and not much dirt on the carpet. I noticed that it didn't seem to have much suction, but I kept moving it back and forth.
Then I bent over to pick up a bit of lint that didn't seem to be affected by the vac, and suddenly the end of the hose (where all the little brushes and attachments hook on, I guess) tried to suck the hair off my head.
That's when I realized that the brush part of the vac was not sucking--only the hose part was sucking. Which is how I was feeling about this whole carpet vacuuming thing.
I wiggled and jiggled every part of the vac, pushed and pulled, tweaked and twisted, and could not figure out how to get the suction to go to the spinning brush thingy instead of the hose.
The hose, however, sucked just fine.
By this time I was on the fourth load of laundry. I had cleaned the sink and countertops, loaded the dishwasher, folded, hung, or otherwise disposed of the clean laundry, and worked up quite a sweat with the vac.
So I thought I needed a little break.
I thought I would watch Animal Planet and drink a coke, and cool off, while I tried to figure out how to make the vac vacuum.
I poured the diet coke into the glass, over the pint-size cubes I had already half-melted, and turned on the tv.
It came on just fine.
The only problem was that I could not figure out how to change the channel.
We went from Dish TV to a weird cable thingy when we moved into the apartment, and while I was not fully qualified to use the Dish remote control, I could at least change the channel.
I have not yet mastered the cable remote.
I can not change the channel.
So here I am, unable to get ice out of the ice cube trays, unable to get the vacuum cleaner to suck properly, and I can't even change the channel on the tv.
And Jeana keeps asking me if I have a site meter.
Hmmmph.
Can we say technologically challenged?
I can not seem to master anything more complicated than my twenty year old steam iron (which has lasted so long because I hate to iron and hardly ever use it).
Wick was gone this morning, and I had several small projects in mind for my morning alone in the apartment.
First, I tried to empty the ice trays. The ice would not come out. I tried running water over the bottoms of the trays, which did indeed get the cubes out, but melted them to half their size before I could scoop them up out of the sink.
Then, after stripping the bed, gathering up all the towels, bath mat, dog bedding, and other assorted laundry, I started the first of six loads of laundry. That went well enough that I decided to try vacuuming.
We bought a spiffy new upright vac when we moved into the apartment. It has all kinds of attachments, gadgets, even a self-cleaning duster. What it does not have is instructions printed on the vacuum cleaner itself.
I started in the bedroom, where there is not much traffic, and not much dirt on the carpet. I noticed that it didn't seem to have much suction, but I kept moving it back and forth.
Then I bent over to pick up a bit of lint that didn't seem to be affected by the vac, and suddenly the end of the hose (where all the little brushes and attachments hook on, I guess) tried to suck the hair off my head.
That's when I realized that the brush part of the vac was not sucking--only the hose part was sucking. Which is how I was feeling about this whole carpet vacuuming thing.
I wiggled and jiggled every part of the vac, pushed and pulled, tweaked and twisted, and could not figure out how to get the suction to go to the spinning brush thingy instead of the hose.
The hose, however, sucked just fine.
By this time I was on the fourth load of laundry. I had cleaned the sink and countertops, loaded the dishwasher, folded, hung, or otherwise disposed of the clean laundry, and worked up quite a sweat with the vac.
So I thought I needed a little break.
I thought I would watch Animal Planet and drink a coke, and cool off, while I tried to figure out how to make the vac vacuum.
I poured the diet coke into the glass, over the pint-size cubes I had already half-melted, and turned on the tv.
It came on just fine.
The only problem was that I could not figure out how to change the channel.
We went from Dish TV to a weird cable thingy when we moved into the apartment, and while I was not fully qualified to use the Dish remote control, I could at least change the channel.
I have not yet mastered the cable remote.
I can not change the channel.
So here I am, unable to get ice out of the ice cube trays, unable to get the vacuum cleaner to suck properly, and I can't even change the channel on the tv.
And Jeana keeps asking me if I have a site meter.
Hmmmph.
Can we say technologically challenged?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Wednesday Works for Me--LC sweet snack
Pork rinds have all kinds of uses for those of us trying to cut down on the excess carbs. This recipe gives you a crunchy sweet treat with few carbs and not much effort.
1 package pork rinds
butter flavored no stick spray (like Pam)
cinnamon
sugar substitute (I prefer Splenda)
or a brown sugar substitute
Spread the pork rinds out on a large baking sheet. Spray lightly with butter flavored spray. Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar substitute. Bake at 350 for about 10 minutes, so that the pork rinds don't get limp from the spray, but stay crispy.
Let cool.
Sort of like cinnamon toast, but without the bread, and with more crunch.
The spray gives it that buttery flavor, and helps the cinnamon and Splenda to stick to the pork rinds.
Works for me.
Enjoy.
For more Wednesday Works for Me, check http://rocksinmydryer.typepad.com/shannon/
1 package pork rinds
butter flavored no stick spray (like Pam)
cinnamon
sugar substitute (I prefer Splenda)
or a brown sugar substitute
Spread the pork rinds out on a large baking sheet. Spray lightly with butter flavored spray. Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar substitute. Bake at 350 for about 10 minutes, so that the pork rinds don't get limp from the spray, but stay crispy.
Let cool.
Sort of like cinnamon toast, but without the bread, and with more crunch.
The spray gives it that buttery flavor, and helps the cinnamon and Splenda to stick to the pork rinds.
Works for me.
Enjoy.
For more Wednesday Works for Me, check http://rocksinmydryer.typepad.com/shannon/
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Dead Lizards and Hanging Dolls
Yesterday we went to visit daughter Jeana and family. Now, with four grandbabies, all lively, intelligent, and full of energy, maybe I shouldn't be surprised at anything that happens.
But some things....
well.
Jeana has one of those full-glass storm doors, with a solid wooden door behind it. It stays open most of the time, so perhaps one can understand how a little lizard might think of the edge of the door as a relatively safe place to perch. The lizard would be wrong. This lizard looks as if he has become permanently squashed into the grain of the wood, being caught on the edge of the door when someone slammed it shut.
Later, we were invited to see a doll bungee-jumping from the top bunk in the boys' room. What we actually witnessed, however, was a doll hanging from the ceiling fan, slow dancing in circles on the end of a long cord, with its blue yarn streaked hair streaming out in the breeze.
Dead lizards.
Hanging dolls.
I'm beginning to wonder if voodoo is in the home school curriculum.
But some things....
well.
Jeana has one of those full-glass storm doors, with a solid wooden door behind it. It stays open most of the time, so perhaps one can understand how a little lizard might think of the edge of the door as a relatively safe place to perch. The lizard would be wrong. This lizard looks as if he has become permanently squashed into the grain of the wood, being caught on the edge of the door when someone slammed it shut.
Later, we were invited to see a doll bungee-jumping from the top bunk in the boys' room. What we actually witnessed, however, was a doll hanging from the ceiling fan, slow dancing in circles on the end of a long cord, with its blue yarn streaked hair streaming out in the breeze.
Dead lizards.
Hanging dolls.
I'm beginning to wonder if voodoo is in the home school curriculum.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Wednesday Works for Me--Fauxtato Casserole
Wick and I have gotten more serious about how we eat since he got an infection from what started out as a fairly minor scrape on his leg. Blood sugar problems cause slow healing, so we feel that getting and keeping our blood sugar under control is really important. We both like baked potatoes, but since potatoes are not on our menu, we came up with this "faux" potato casserole.
Two heads of cauliflower, steamed and mashed (I use the mixer)
grated cheese
sour cream
chopped onion
chopped chives
crisp bacon, crumbled (or bacon bits)
butter
salt and pepper to taste
Add the ingredients to your taste, just as you would add to baked potatoes. Blend well. Pour mixture into a greased casserole dish. Top with more grated cheese. Bake at 375 until cheese is bubbly and beginning to brown.
Yumm. Works for us.
Two heads of cauliflower, steamed and mashed (I use the mixer)
grated cheese
sour cream
chopped onion
chopped chives
crisp bacon, crumbled (or bacon bits)
butter
salt and pepper to taste
Add the ingredients to your taste, just as you would add to baked potatoes. Blend well. Pour mixture into a greased casserole dish. Top with more grated cheese. Bake at 375 until cheese is bubbly and beginning to brown.
Yumm. Works for us.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Book Meme
Jeana tagged me for this, and although it took me a couple of days to get around to it (school just started Monday), here are my answers:
Bear in mind, though, that I have totally ignored the "one book" edict that appears in every question--how can a true book lover answer with just one?)
1. One book that changed your life: The Bible. Of course. Five Love Languages. The Purpose-driven Life. Pilgrim's Progress. Little Women. All the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
2. One book that you've read more than once: I read the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder almost every year. Usually in the winter. I guess because so much of the action takes place during the winter. I find them soothing and comforting. Jane Austen's Persuasion. And Pride and Prejudice. I've probably read these more than 30 times. I love Jane Austen. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (another winter time read). Little Women. Anything by Agatha Christie--there are so many that I forget the solutions by the time I reread the mysteries. Beowulf. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights. The Canterbury Tales. The Harry Potter books. Some of my students are diligently looking for clues as to what will happen in the last of the seven, and I have to keep checking their research. Besides that, I like them. Harry is learning that life is not only a battle between good and evil, but that each of us has a choice--each of us has to choose, ultimately, which side has our allegiance.
3. One book you'd want on a desert island: my Bible. A survival manual. How to build a boat would come in handy, I think, also how to tell edible from inedible mushrooms, and how to make salt water potable. How to make pottery. Mostly, How to get rescued.
4. One book that made you laugh: Anything by Erma Bombeck. I sure do miss her. Especially the Grass Grows Greener Over the Septic Tank. A couple that I can't remember the authors of at the moment--Raising Demons. And Please Don't Eat the Dasies.
5. One book that made you cry: Little Women. Two parts actually: when Beth dies, and when Jo ends up with her old German suitor, Professor Baehr.
6. One book that you wish had been written: anything that made more than a million dollars for the author. Then I could retire, and just write the kind of stuff I enjoy, without worrying about making a living.
7. One book you wish had never been written: The DaVinci Code. Too many people mistake fiction for reality, and many of them lack sufficient grounding in their faith to distinguish truth from balderdash.
8. One book you are currently reading: A Wizard Alone by Diane Duane. I read a lot of "young adult" fiction, because I enjoy much of it, and because I want to know what my students are reading.
9.One book you've been meaning to read: Oh my word, how can I name just one, when my list runs into the hundreds?
Bear in mind, though, that I have totally ignored the "one book" edict that appears in every question--how can a true book lover answer with just one?)
1. One book that changed your life: The Bible. Of course. Five Love Languages. The Purpose-driven Life. Pilgrim's Progress. Little Women. All the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
2. One book that you've read more than once: I read the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder almost every year. Usually in the winter. I guess because so much of the action takes place during the winter. I find them soothing and comforting. Jane Austen's Persuasion. And Pride and Prejudice. I've probably read these more than 30 times. I love Jane Austen. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (another winter time read). Little Women. Anything by Agatha Christie--there are so many that I forget the solutions by the time I reread the mysteries. Beowulf. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights. The Canterbury Tales. The Harry Potter books. Some of my students are diligently looking for clues as to what will happen in the last of the seven, and I have to keep checking their research. Besides that, I like them. Harry is learning that life is not only a battle between good and evil, but that each of us has a choice--each of us has to choose, ultimately, which side has our allegiance.
3. One book you'd want on a desert island: my Bible. A survival manual. How to build a boat would come in handy, I think, also how to tell edible from inedible mushrooms, and how to make salt water potable. How to make pottery. Mostly, How to get rescued.
4. One book that made you laugh: Anything by Erma Bombeck. I sure do miss her. Especially the Grass Grows Greener Over the Septic Tank. A couple that I can't remember the authors of at the moment--Raising Demons. And Please Don't Eat the Dasies.
5. One book that made you cry: Little Women. Two parts actually: when Beth dies, and when Jo ends up with her old German suitor, Professor Baehr.
6. One book that you wish had been written: anything that made more than a million dollars for the author. Then I could retire, and just write the kind of stuff I enjoy, without worrying about making a living.
7. One book you wish had never been written: The DaVinci Code. Too many people mistake fiction for reality, and many of them lack sufficient grounding in their faith to distinguish truth from balderdash.
8. One book you are currently reading: A Wizard Alone by Diane Duane. I read a lot of "young adult" fiction, because I enjoy much of it, and because I want to know what my students are reading.
9.One book you've been meaning to read: Oh my word, how can I name just one, when my list runs into the hundreds?
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Where I'm From--thinking
Tomorrow begins a new school year. Part of the first week of school is letting students know about me, my expectations, my standards. Part of the week is getting to know them, where they are from, what they expect from themselves and from me.
Our first writing activity will be a poem. All the poems will share the same title, "Where I'm From."
The original poem is by George Ella Lyons. I am posting the "think sheet" I give my students, so if you feel so inclined, you can write your own.
Here's the original poem.
I am from clothespins,
From Clorox and carbon tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under the bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments –
snapped before I budded –leaf-fall from the family tree.
Here's the "think sheet."
Objects play
Images
shapes
Central events
church experiences
Tastes
voices
Other people’s words
town or street names
Stories
hiding places
Smells
what grew in your yard
Relatives’ names
parents work
school
other/miscellaneous
Tomorrow I will post my own version of the poem. If you decide to play, let me know so I can come visit your site and see where you are from.
Our first writing activity will be a poem. All the poems will share the same title, "Where I'm From."
The original poem is by George Ella Lyons. I am posting the "think sheet" I give my students, so if you feel so inclined, you can write your own.
Here's the original poem.
I am from clothespins,
From Clorox and carbon tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under the bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments –
snapped before I budded –leaf-fall from the family tree.
Here's the "think sheet."
Objects play
Images
shapes
Central events
church experiences
Tastes
voices
Other people’s words
town or street names
Stories
hiding places
Smells
what grew in your yard
Relatives’ names
parents work
school
other/miscellaneous
Tomorrow I will post my own version of the poem. If you decide to play, let me know so I can come visit your site and see where you are from.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Works for Me Wednesday--Coke Can Chicken
I confess: I changed the name, since this is a family friendly blogspot. What we really call it is B.e.e.r B_tt chicken.
Here's how to make it.
You will need:
A whole chicken.
Half a can of the liquid refreshment of your choice (b.e.e.r, fruit flavored cooler ( I really like the cherry or margarita flavor), coke, fruit flavored carbonated drink, whatever).
Salt, pepper, butter or olive oil, garlic.
I sprinkle the seasoning inside and outside the chicken. Then peel the skin of the breast back enough to stuff in some pats of butter. Or rub the whole chicken with olive oil. This will make the skin crisp up and brown something lovely.
Next, sit the chicken down on the can of liquid. If you push the chicken down on the can, it should balance on its tail end. Set it on the grill and let it cook until brown and tender. Usually this takes about an hour to an hour and a half, depending on how hot the grill is.
The liquid will boil as the chicken cooks, keeping the meat juicy, and infusing it with flavor. If you use an alcoholic beverage, the alcohol will boil off, leaving the just the flavor.
It's even better than marinating or basting, and a lot easier. I always forget the marinade until I am already ready to cook the chicken. And I can never remember to come back often enough to baste.
You may want to put a little foil on the wing tips and the ends of the drumsticks so they won't burn.
Easy, delicious, and my darling is always willing to take care of the other half of the b.e.e.r, and to cook the chicken on the grill.
Works for me.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Am I in the Right Place?
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you think you are where you are supposed to be, but then suddenly you realize that you are somewhere totally different, but it still seems like where you are supposed to be, only it's not, so where are you, and where are you supposed to be?
Well. I have that kind of dream a lot. And since I started teacher training days at my new school, I am having that kind of feeling a lot, even though I am awake, not asleep and dreaming.
The building looks like a school. It has the right name on the front. The people inside are wearing name badges that say they are teachers or principals or counselors or coaches.
So....what is the problem?
Um....it's not really a problem. It's more like.....I'm afraid I'm dreaming and I'm going to wake up.
Every person I have met---
Every single person---
has been glad to see me.
Has greeted me like a long-lost friend.
Has told me what a blessing I am going to be to them, to the school, to the kids.
Has offered to help me.
Has blessed my heart.
Has demonstrated love of God, and the indwelling of His spirit.
Today, during a small group activity focusing on our hopes and expectations for our students, people were holding up their hands, praising God, and quoting Scripture.
Especially Hebrews 11:1.
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
We prayed that God would send us where He wanted us to be.
He has answered that prayer more richly than I could ever have imagined.
Well. I have that kind of dream a lot. And since I started teacher training days at my new school, I am having that kind of feeling a lot, even though I am awake, not asleep and dreaming.
The building looks like a school. It has the right name on the front. The people inside are wearing name badges that say they are teachers or principals or counselors or coaches.
So....what is the problem?
Um....it's not really a problem. It's more like.....I'm afraid I'm dreaming and I'm going to wake up.
Every person I have met---
Every single person---
has been glad to see me.
Has greeted me like a long-lost friend.
Has told me what a blessing I am going to be to them, to the school, to the kids.
Has offered to help me.
Has blessed my heart.
Has demonstrated love of God, and the indwelling of His spirit.
Today, during a small group activity focusing on our hopes and expectations for our students, people were holding up their hands, praising God, and quoting Scripture.
Especially Hebrews 11:1.
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
We prayed that God would send us where He wanted us to be.
He has answered that prayer more richly than I could ever have imagined.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Thursday Thirteen--Who's In Charge Here?
As I have been discussing for what seems like months, we have just acquired new jobs, moved into a tiny apartment, and have major problems with our RV. Here are a few of the things we have been dealing with.
1. We signed our contracts 31 July, after being offered jobs at the Job Fair on 22 July.
2. When we were signing, we asked about new teacher training.
3. We were informed that we would have had to sign by 21 July to qualify to go to new teacher training.
4. But, as I mentioned in item #1, the Job Fair was 22 July.
5. At which time we were told we would be called on Monday, 24 July, for a time to come in and sign contracts, and hand-deliver our teacher service records, official transcripts, etc.
6. But we only received an appointment after two phone calls from my husband, and four from me, over five days.
7. After signing, we were told to report to our campuses immediately, where we would be told what to do for the rest of the week.
8. But the principal would not be expecting us, since he would have assumed that we were attending new teacher training.
9. And, since we didn't sign before 21 July, and thus missed the beginning of teacher training, we will be docked a day's pay for not attending new teacher training.
10. When we arrived on our campuses, the principals were in meetings, were totally astonished to see us, and had nothing for us to do.
11. So we went to the lake to pick up a few things, such as a clock, our dinner plates, and a few other things we seem to feel necessary for living.
12. All of which, we thought, was stored in the barn, where the temperature was approximately 125 degrees, and I felt like I was having a stroke,
13. So I went to take a cold shower, while my darling persevered, finding the dinner plates, but not the clock, despite our conviction that we have at least four somewhere among all those boxes in that hot, cavernous space.
So, today we take the RV back to the service center.
Again.
And tomorrow, we report for work.
Again.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Wednesday Works for Me--Trash Can Liners
I have a small trash basket in every room. Mostly, they catch paper--bills, catalogs, kleenex, stuff like that. But occasionally someone throws away a sticky peppermint, a wad of bubble gum, or something equally messy/yucky/disgusting, that is hard to get out of the basket.
So I always try to keep some kind of liner in the basket. I've bought boxes of small trash bags, but I just hate buying something just to contain trash. I mean, I'm actually buying something, so that I can throw it away.
So I tried Wal-mart bags. We certainly have plenty of them. In fact, if we got a rebate for Wal-mart bags, we could probably retire a year sooner.
But the bags are bigger than the trash basket, and the part that drapes over the outside covers up my cute little woven basket.
Then I tried the thin plastic bags we get in the produce department to sack up fruit, vegetables, onions, etc.
Voila! Perfect. They are just the right size. They are thin and transparent, so they don't hide my cute little baskets. And just to make sure I always replace the sack when I empty the trash, whenever I unload the groceries, I stash the bags in the bottom of the basket, under the one currently lining the trash basket. So I don't have to go looking for a bag, or find that someone has thrown away my stash. They are right there, ready to replace the one being thrown away.
And best of all, they are free.
Free always works for me.
Moving Misadventures Redux
The agony of moving continues. We ordered a washer and dryer. The store advertised free delivery. However, what the ad didn't say was that it would be 3 weeks until delivery, and someone would have to take off work to be there to accept delivery.
So Wick said he would pick it up himself.
But the store said it would take a couple of days to get the washer and dryer from wherever it was stored.
So we waited.
sigh.
Then when he went to pick them up, the store still had not brought the washer and dryer down from wherever, so we waited for it to be brought down to the pick-up area.
He brought them back to the apartment, brought them inside, and discovered, once the box was removed, that the front of the washer was caved in.
So back to the store went the washer, another wait for one to be brought down to the pick-up area, and another trip to bring the washer into the apartment.
Sigh.
Next on our list of misadventures is the tv cable situation. Cable service is supposed to be included in our rent. It was supposed to be functioning when we moved in, last week.
It's not working.
So we called the office.
The manager said to call the cable company.
The cable company said this address was not on record.
We called the office again.
The manager called the cable company.
The cable company said oh, yes, that address is good, and the service is operating.
But it is not.
So we called the office again.
The manager sent a maintenance person to our apartment with a list of things for us to do:
things like, turn on the tv.
Put the tv on cable settings.
Set up the menu functions.
All the stuff we have already done.
So we called the cable company again.
They are going to send someone out right away.
Well, not right away.
In three days.
And someone has to be here, or the guy won't come in.
Sigh.
I'm beginning to think that staying in an apartment, which was supposed to make our life easier, is not such a good idea after all.
But the RV still has major problems, like no working refrigerator.
And it may be another couple of months before the RV service center has all the parts, all the permissions from all the warranty companies, and someone available to fix everything.
SIGH.
That "to-do" list seems to be getting longer, instead of shorter.
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