Good morning,
It's 36° here on the prairie at 7am, and a blustery breeze is producing a wind chill of 27°, which had me out of bed very early. It's coming at us straight up from the north and it feels like quite the slap in the face after last week's remarkable temperatures in the 70's and 80's. Tonight's temps (ALERT!) are supposed to dip well into the teens, and I just am going to have to keep my fingers crossed that our many daffodils and hyacinths that are in bloom will survive. There's no way that I can cover them all, as they dot many areas on the property. I'll throw some tarps over the rock garden and at least I know that those flowers will all be safe and sound. But I wonder about the honeysuckles and lilacs and forsythias, all of which are blossoming to beat the band. There isn't a thing I can do about it, as Mother Nature rules the roost.
Tomorrow morning at this time, I'll be on my way to the airport, where I will embark on a week-long journey to the Tampa area. It's time to go check up on the Pops. Hubby is staying behind because, as he puts it, "Someone's gotta feed the world." In other words, he has to work. Once I'm in Florida, Pops and his girlfriend will take me to their club several times, I'm sure, where I will listen to more polkas than I ever thought imaginable. And mind you, it's not just ANY polka music, it's honky polka music. Did you know that they come in different flavors? I didn't.
I might not enjoy polkas, but I DO like to watch my father enjoying his music. He spent his life, from the time he was a teenager until he was ripe into his seventies, playing the drums professionally. By day he slaved in the factory, but every single weekend night would find him keeping the beat in some club or hotel. He doesn't play anymore, but that doesn't mean he still isn't carrying that drum kit around inside of him. Even if a single note isn't audible to anyone else, his brain is constantly cranking out imaginary song after song. His body sways in motion, his feet and fingers continually tap the beat to whatever melody happens to be spinning in his brain. When he actually has a live band to listen to, it's virtually impossible for him to sit still. Up he and his sweetie go, twirling 'round and 'round the dance floor. Music pulsates through his veins and as a result, he handed me my future occupation of band director on a silver platter.
I didn't grow up with my dad. He and my mother were divorced when I was very young, but I did go visit him on Sundays. It took several years, but eventually my dad and stepmother were able to save enough money to put a down payment on a very small house in the 'burbs. That tinderbox was his absolute pride and joy. When my brother and I would make our weekly visits, he would sometimes have his drum kit set up for me in the basement. I would take the transistor radio down there in the dungeon, crank up the tunes and wail away. And I remember that it was while I was in that musty cellar that on one Sunday afternoon, I decided I wanted to join the school band.
My mom signed the permission slip for me to start music lessons, and as I was halfway through the fifth grade, I was already behind the eight ball. Most of my class had already begun their musical careers during the previous year. But hey, it wasn't my fault that I wasn't thinking about band instruments in the fourth grade. I was busy imagining being kissed by Mr. Blake, one of the teachers in my elementary school and by Paul McCartney. My mind was already fully engaged and occupied.
I proudly clutched that slip of paper and trotted down to the dark recesses of the backstage in the auditorium. One could find Mr. Benware sitting behind the curtains, smoking cigarettes and teaching his students to vibrate reeds, bang on drums and pucker lips into metal mouthpieces. He was a very short, stout man and he had just a few wisps of incredibly long hair, which he combed over the top of his very bald head.
"I wanna play the drums."
These words have been uttered by more school children than you could ever imagine. You really have NO idea.
"You can't play the drums. I have more than enough of them."
"I wanna play the French horn."
To this day, I still don't understand where THAT one came from. What fifth grade kid even knows that this instrument is in existence? It must have been one of those Ralph moments. Remember the movie "The Christmas Story", where Ralphie is sitting on Santa's lap and he goes blank and asks for a football instead of his beloved Red Rider Air Rifle? That was me, deer in the headlights.
"Nope, you can't play that, either. Have enough of those, too."
"Well, what DO you have?"
And he pulled off the shelf this beat-up old case that looked like it had gone through the Civil War. Inside was the most disfigured cornet imaginable. It really did appear as if someone had set it down on the ground, bell to the floor, and an elephant had come along and sat on the thing. But from that moment on, I was smitten. Now I REALLY understood the definition of love. Silly Mr. Blake could go trotting off into the sunset. I had found music.
So thanks, Pops. I'll go to your club tomorrow night and will smile and listen to your music that's really not my cup of kielbasa and watch your feet swirl around the floor. I will be grateful for your gift, that blood of yours that pulses through my veins. But just so you know. I always felt that my brother got the short end of the stick. It's no wonder that he has still has issues, being forced to play the stupid accordion.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Undulating Waves of Brain
Good morning,
It's 43 degrees here on the prairie at 7am on a Sunday morning. I'm getting a late start today, as I was up until 4:30am, but that's another story. Yesterday was a dark eerie day, what with those undulating asperatus clouds hovering over the house all day. My friend Sandy was right- they looked just like something out of a science fiction movie. I could easily picture a spaceship falling out of the sky, landing in the backyard, and scaring the absolute hell out of the thirty-seven geese who spent their day playing in the puddles and marking their territory. I still say that they look like breasts.
Aren't these clouds just the coolest thing? Julia and Mike, two local meteorologists, helped to crack the code on the classification of the things. I knew in my heart that they weren't mammatus clouds; they were just too dang wavy. I ended up taking lots of pictures, which showed up on just about all of the television stations on the evening news. The earth is just a beautiful place to me, full of astonishing things that make my brain cells crash around in absolute amazement.
When I wasn't taking pictures of the sky, I was going spastic. I had so many things on my mind, so many things to do. I was zinging from place to place and chore to chore and really not completing anything in the process. This is the modus operandi of my husband and I gotta tell you, I would jump off of a cliff if this was the normal way that my brain processed information. It all felt very foreign to me, as alien as those clouds, and I finally decided that I needed to take a deep breath, plunk my butt, and make up some lists.
I am a list person from WAY back, and now I have four of them sitting on my country kitchen table. My to-do list helped me pay the bills, clean the house, do the laundry, make hail boards, and a host of other things that needed to get done. There's the list of seeds that I need to start looking for- I'm VERY picky about which varieties end up in our garden. I have my packing list because in two days, I take to the friendly skies to visit my father in Florida and make sure he's staying out of trouble. And because I shall be gone for a spell, there's that honey-do list, the bare-bones minimum stuff that hubby needs to do in order to keep this place merrily rolling along in my absence.
After the supper dishes were done, I sat down to watch S.U. be defeated by Ohio State in the Elite Eight. The boys just were a tad off their offensive game last night, and I guess in retrospect, they really didn't deserve to win. But gosh, those refs were hard to take with their biased slant in favor of the Buckeyes and going on and on over this Craft guy. The Orange still gave me lots of excitement throughout the season and now I can focus full attention to my Yankees.
Now as to the reason why I was up until the wee-wee hours of the morning. The problem was doo-doo, ka-ka, or whatever else you want to call it. Last year it was diagnosed, many dollars later, that one of our aging cats Lily has an acute problem with constipation. I guess as some cats age and get sluggish, so too do their colons. Things got so bad last summer that she landed in the vets for two days, having enemas. Anyway, last night, Lily was in distress. I decided to stay up with her to make sure that she remained okay as she went from litter box to litter box, attempting to do her duty. Her poor little anus was stretched right out to the max, looking just like a pointed missile. She finally managed to drop her bombs at 4:30, and which point I collapsed into bed next to my well-rested, snoring husband. As a special treat, I allowed Lily into bed with us, something I rarely do, and covered her up with a shirt. She's still on the bed, still cuddled up, and feeling much better now, thank you very much. I feel like a train wreck.
Today will be continuing on with my to-do list, hopefully crossing things off, one by one. I think I'll pack my suitcase today and unpack my new dishes and get them into the cupboard. And after going to Chinese buffet with the hubby, I'd like to shoot over to a store and look at their Ferry Morse seeds. Tonight will find me watching Harry's Law and then going to bed, leveling out those undulating waves of brain activity and snoring some major zzzzzzzzzzs. Sounds like a plan.
Have a great day.
It's 43 degrees here on the prairie at 7am on a Sunday morning. I'm getting a late start today, as I was up until 4:30am, but that's another story. Yesterday was a dark eerie day, what with those undulating asperatus clouds hovering over the house all day. My friend Sandy was right- they looked just like something out of a science fiction movie. I could easily picture a spaceship falling out of the sky, landing in the backyard, and scaring the absolute hell out of the thirty-seven geese who spent their day playing in the puddles and marking their territory. I still say that they look like breasts.
When I wasn't taking pictures of the sky, I was going spastic. I had so many things on my mind, so many things to do. I was zinging from place to place and chore to chore and really not completing anything in the process. This is the modus operandi of my husband and I gotta tell you, I would jump off of a cliff if this was the normal way that my brain processed information. It all felt very foreign to me, as alien as those clouds, and I finally decided that I needed to take a deep breath, plunk my butt, and make up some lists.
I am a list person from WAY back, and now I have four of them sitting on my country kitchen table. My to-do list helped me pay the bills, clean the house, do the laundry, make hail boards, and a host of other things that needed to get done. There's the list of seeds that I need to start looking for- I'm VERY picky about which varieties end up in our garden. I have my packing list because in two days, I take to the friendly skies to visit my father in Florida and make sure he's staying out of trouble. And because I shall be gone for a spell, there's that honey-do list, the bare-bones minimum stuff that hubby needs to do in order to keep this place merrily rolling along in my absence.
After the supper dishes were done, I sat down to watch S.U. be defeated by Ohio State in the Elite Eight. The boys just were a tad off their offensive game last night, and I guess in retrospect, they really didn't deserve to win. But gosh, those refs were hard to take with their biased slant in favor of the Buckeyes and going on and on over this Craft guy. The Orange still gave me lots of excitement throughout the season and now I can focus full attention to my Yankees.
Now as to the reason why I was up until the wee-wee hours of the morning. The problem was doo-doo, ka-ka, or whatever else you want to call it. Last year it was diagnosed, many dollars later, that one of our aging cats Lily has an acute problem with constipation. I guess as some cats age and get sluggish, so too do their colons. Things got so bad last summer that she landed in the vets for two days, having enemas. Anyway, last night, Lily was in distress. I decided to stay up with her to make sure that she remained okay as she went from litter box to litter box, attempting to do her duty. Her poor little anus was stretched right out to the max, looking just like a pointed missile. She finally managed to drop her bombs at 4:30, and which point I collapsed into bed next to my well-rested, snoring husband. As a special treat, I allowed Lily into bed with us, something I rarely do, and covered her up with a shirt. She's still on the bed, still cuddled up, and feeling much better now, thank you very much. I feel like a train wreck. Today will be continuing on with my to-do list, hopefully crossing things off, one by one. I think I'll pack my suitcase today and unpack my new dishes and get them into the cupboard. And after going to Chinese buffet with the hubby, I'd like to shoot over to a store and look at their Ferry Morse seeds. Tonight will find me watching Harry's Law and then going to bed, leveling out those undulating waves of brain activity and snoring some major zzzzzzzzzzs. Sounds like a plan.
Have a great day.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
I Have a Dream
Good morning,
It's 55 degrees at 8am on the prairie and shezam, it's dark and depressing out there. Cloudy, cloudy skies and it just seems in such stark contrast to all of that bright sunshine that beamed onto our little blip on Planet Earth throughout the entire week. The wind is from the east and so it appears that the clouds will stick around and already we are seeing light sprinkles of rain.
Those of you that know us are aware of the fact that we are gaga over nature. We do lots of activities that revolve around birds. We belong to the Audubon Society and have great fun doing the Great Backyard Bird Count. Another program we are involved in is one called Project Feederwatch, which is offered through the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Every weekend from November through April, we keep track of the largest number of each species of birds that we count in our yard and then report those figures to Cornell. And.......
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
I looked in the back this morning to begin the first count of the day. The only bird to note was a snow goose, standing there all by himself. I just figured that it was our Moses, who adopted us earlier in the week. I gotta tell you, having only one goose out there at any one time is very, very rare indeed. Usually, we are a beehive of bird activity and poop. It's a proverbial mine field out there. But the goose looked hungry and lonely so out I went, to say good morning and to fling out a scoop of corn. The snow goose promptly flew away.
"Well, now, BE that way," I muttered, and continued about with my business of filling up the bird feeders.
Off in the distance, I heard the sounds of the familiar honks and squawks and soon, landing in our yard were thirty of our nearest and dearest Canada geese friends, looking for their breakfast. With them was Moses PLUS our new little snow goose friend. We now have TWO snow geese. I repeat, OH MY GOD! Moses has found his little Zipporiah!!! That was Moses' wife in the Bible, only I will NEVER remember that name, not in a million years and thus she shall be called Zippy.Moses and Zippy, pooping in a tree, K-I-S-S........
My husband immediately put a damper on my unbridled enthusiasm, which centered around little baby snow geese, waddling around and cooing and being cute. I've never in my life seen a baby snow goose. He told me that they will not mate here and they might not even recognize that they are the same species, given the fact that Moses has already demonstrated his utter stupidity by hanging out with Canada geese. He's such a killjoy. Still, a girl can dream. Love and baby-making, happening right under my nose in the backyard pond, which happens to be the region's red light district for geese around these parts.
I'm going to go throw some rose petals out on that pond. Set a chilled bottle of champagne along its banks, toss in raw oysters and some strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. Put up a satellite dish and offer adult programming. I know I can make this happen. To heck with my husband's pragmatism. He can just K-I-S-S my grits. I shall continue to shake my snow globe and click my ruby red heels together. I can still see them a-waddling. I still have a dream.
Friday, March 23, 2012
The Air That I Breath
Good morning,
49 degrees here on the prairie, and we have ourselves an issue with fog this morning.
Yesterday was yet another gorgeous day. As the pheasant sang his plaintive squawks of desire, I slathered on the sunblock, raked rocks and hummed spirituals. I finished the entire project, I'm happy to say, and have the blister on my thumb to prove it. But it didn't matter to me in the least that my hand (and my shoulder) were a bit sore. My paltry boo-boos were far better than being tethered to a desk, either inside of a school or in the nursing home where I volunteer on such a wonderful day. I was on the good end in the bargain basement, if you ask me.
I spent the majority of my day outside, listening to the peepers and smelling the aromas of springtime, better dubbed here as "Lo, Fair Maiden of Country Air, Thine Name is Sweet Pooh." It became particularly rank as I peddled my bike closer to the neighboring barn to feed the horses their carrots. Sitting by the barn, right next to the smelly pile of fresh manure, there sits a mountain of wonderfully rich compost, the Doo-Doo Daddy of them all. In another month, this will be loaded by our Elmo the Tractor onto the trailer and will lovingly be tilled into the soil of our gardens.
With all of this incredible weather, it's tempting- to till in compost, to plant some veggies and to put in the beds of flowers. Gosh, I even saw this CRAZY man mowing his lawn. But I shall show restraint. Although the weather would speak otherwise, the calendar reminds us that this is still March and we need to remember that this isn't the Sun Belt. At the very least, we shall have frost.
Besides working the chain gang on rock patrol, I went for a long walk at the state park. Lots of people were there bob-bob-bobbin' along, jogging, pushing strollers, being yanked down the tarred path by their mutt. After, I took care of the riff-raff in our perennial garden that runs along the length of the house.
Last night was spent on the phone, working the jaw with my best friend, followed by a call to my brother and all the while watching SU push themselves into the Elite Eight against Ohio State. My brother drives me berserk, but you already know that. I will be calling him again this weekend, when he is more lucid, and we will have a serious Fireside Chat. When I taught, that's what I termed these little episodes where I sat kids down in my office and had private little discussions about the need for change. Obviously, I didn't get as good at them as I thought, as this must be about the thousandth one I've had with the bro.
Oh, in between all of this, I trotted off to Fat Ass Club, where I lost one pound. I'm back to a loss of fifty-eight pounds, with nineteen left to go. Two steps forward, one step back, slow and steady wins the race, blah, blah, blah. My life has become a reflection of silly platitudes, but that's okay by me. It's how I've been whittling away at the pounds and it seems to be working. I've been knocking away at my own personal pooh-pile of lard. Watching my portions, trying to eat healthier, exercising. Silly me. I saw in my email yesterday that Groupon was offering 63% off a pair of Weight Loss Hot Pants. It was tempting, but they don't come in my favorite color, which at the moment appears to be prison-issue orange.
Today begins with chores, followed by swimming at the pool. The entire rest of the day shall be spent in retribution of my playing hooky yesterday. I shall belong to the nursing home, where I volunteer my time in the business office. By the time I finish up there, the hubby will be home waiting for me, belly up to the trough, wondering what's for dinner. I'll set my GPS on Rue de Sweet Pooh and it shall lead me home to the air I breathe, the man I adore and to some leftover chicken.
Have a great day.
49 degrees here on the prairie, and we have ourselves an issue with fog this morning.
Yesterday was yet another gorgeous day. As the pheasant sang his plaintive squawks of desire, I slathered on the sunblock, raked rocks and hummed spirituals. I finished the entire project, I'm happy to say, and have the blister on my thumb to prove it. But it didn't matter to me in the least that my hand (and my shoulder) were a bit sore. My paltry boo-boos were far better than being tethered to a desk, either inside of a school or in the nursing home where I volunteer on such a wonderful day. I was on the good end in the bargain basement, if you ask me.
I spent the majority of my day outside, listening to the peepers and smelling the aromas of springtime, better dubbed here as "Lo, Fair Maiden of Country Air, Thine Name is Sweet Pooh." It became particularly rank as I peddled my bike closer to the neighboring barn to feed the horses their carrots. Sitting by the barn, right next to the smelly pile of fresh manure, there sits a mountain of wonderfully rich compost, the Doo-Doo Daddy of them all. In another month, this will be loaded by our Elmo the Tractor onto the trailer and will lovingly be tilled into the soil of our gardens.
With all of this incredible weather, it's tempting- to till in compost, to plant some veggies and to put in the beds of flowers. Gosh, I even saw this CRAZY man mowing his lawn. But I shall show restraint. Although the weather would speak otherwise, the calendar reminds us that this is still March and we need to remember that this isn't the Sun Belt. At the very least, we shall have frost.
Besides working the chain gang on rock patrol, I went for a long walk at the state park. Lots of people were there bob-bob-bobbin' along, jogging, pushing strollers, being yanked down the tarred path by their mutt. After, I took care of the riff-raff in our perennial garden that runs along the length of the house.
Last night was spent on the phone, working the jaw with my best friend, followed by a call to my brother and all the while watching SU push themselves into the Elite Eight against Ohio State. My brother drives me berserk, but you already know that. I will be calling him again this weekend, when he is more lucid, and we will have a serious Fireside Chat. When I taught, that's what I termed these little episodes where I sat kids down in my office and had private little discussions about the need for change. Obviously, I didn't get as good at them as I thought, as this must be about the thousandth one I've had with the bro.
Oh, in between all of this, I trotted off to Fat Ass Club, where I lost one pound. I'm back to a loss of fifty-eight pounds, with nineteen left to go. Two steps forward, one step back, slow and steady wins the race, blah, blah, blah. My life has become a reflection of silly platitudes, but that's okay by me. It's how I've been whittling away at the pounds and it seems to be working. I've been knocking away at my own personal pooh-pile of lard. Watching my portions, trying to eat healthier, exercising. Silly me. I saw in my email yesterday that Groupon was offering 63% off a pair of Weight Loss Hot Pants. It was tempting, but they don't come in my favorite color, which at the moment appears to be prison-issue orange.
Today begins with chores, followed by swimming at the pool. The entire rest of the day shall be spent in retribution of my playing hooky yesterday. I shall belong to the nursing home, where I volunteer my time in the business office. By the time I finish up there, the hubby will be home waiting for me, belly up to the trough, wondering what's for dinner. I'll set my GPS on Rue de Sweet Pooh and it shall lead me home to the air I breathe, the man I adore and to some leftover chicken.
Have a great day.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Songs of Spring
Good morning,
It's 50 degrees here this morning and there are low thin lines of ground fog, everywhere you look. Up above the fog, there are clear skies, which spells another beauty of a day. Yesterday, we broke yet another record, with the mercury hitting an incredible 81 degrees here on the prairie.
As I sit here typing, I hear that stupid ring-necked pheasant, making a huge racket. Lately he's been in the ditch across the road, and he just sits in there by the mailbox and makes endless noise. Yup, it's that time of year as he tries relentlessly to find a mate. He's crooning for all of those ring-necked babes of the female persuasion, "Come see what I have here just for you, Hot Mama." We women are fools for a man that croons and struts his stuff. Thank God, my husband never resorted into believing that he had to sit in a ditch in order to fill his dance card.
So yesterday I was gone for much of the day. Pool in the morning, and all afternoon I sat and played bridge with my friends. The cards were nasty for everyone for most of the day. It was a mighty struggle, there were precious few easy games, and the lead went back and forth. Finally, we just raised our hands up in surrender, waved the white flag and called it quits. My partner and I eked out the win, but really, we don't pay much attention to that stuff. We just play and talk. Or in yesterday's case, talk and then think about playing.
I came home and changed into my bright orange jump suit.
During the winter, my husband straps himself into Elmo the Tractor after most snowstorms, blows the snow from the driveway. Sometimes I do it, but I have learned from experience that this yet another fine example of a man strutting his stuff. There's something about a tractor (or any other big machine, for that matter) that makes a man get all full of himself. Anyway, that stupid snowblower attachment takes stones and rocks and hurls them halfway across the yard, much like a catapult. Zing, the chunks of granite fly gracefully through the air and disappear into mounds of freshly-fallen snow. Every year, I plead with my husband to please, PLEASE raise the attachment up so that it doesn't scrap the stones from the driveway. And each year, I receive the same grunt in return. "If I don't get close, the snow left in the driveway will freeze and then we'll have ourselves an ice skating rink. Is THAT what you want?" And thus it becomes my job each and every spring to transform myself into the chain gang.
I HATE raking rocks, and that is how I spent my late afternoon and early evening yesterday. Thank God I had my IPod in my pocket and was able to be interrupted, playing Words With Friends with Carol. I suppose prisoners aren't allowed to do this. Anyway, raking rocks is REALLY hard work and I would much rather be gardening or mowing or even sitting in a ditch, doing just about anything else except raking rocks.
Today, the heat continues and I just can't make myself go to my volunteer job at the nursing home. That shall wait until tomorrow, when temperatures are supposed to dip to a mere 70 degrees. Today, I shall find myself back outside, raking even more rocks, crooning "Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child" and listening to that stupid pheasant as he also wails his song, waiting in hope of hearing a response to his springtime pleas.
It's 50 degrees here this morning and there are low thin lines of ground fog, everywhere you look. Up above the fog, there are clear skies, which spells another beauty of a day. Yesterday, we broke yet another record, with the mercury hitting an incredible 81 degrees here on the prairie.
As I sit here typing, I hear that stupid ring-necked pheasant, making a huge racket. Lately he's been in the ditch across the road, and he just sits in there by the mailbox and makes endless noise. Yup, it's that time of year as he tries relentlessly to find a mate. He's crooning for all of those ring-necked babes of the female persuasion, "Come see what I have here just for you, Hot Mama." We women are fools for a man that croons and struts his stuff. Thank God, my husband never resorted into believing that he had to sit in a ditch in order to fill his dance card.
So yesterday I was gone for much of the day. Pool in the morning, and all afternoon I sat and played bridge with my friends. The cards were nasty for everyone for most of the day. It was a mighty struggle, there were precious few easy games, and the lead went back and forth. Finally, we just raised our hands up in surrender, waved the white flag and called it quits. My partner and I eked out the win, but really, we don't pay much attention to that stuff. We just play and talk. Or in yesterday's case, talk and then think about playing.
I came home and changed into my bright orange jump suit.
During the winter, my husband straps himself into Elmo the Tractor after most snowstorms, blows the snow from the driveway. Sometimes I do it, but I have learned from experience that this yet another fine example of a man strutting his stuff. There's something about a tractor (or any other big machine, for that matter) that makes a man get all full of himself. Anyway, that stupid snowblower attachment takes stones and rocks and hurls them halfway across the yard, much like a catapult. Zing, the chunks of granite fly gracefully through the air and disappear into mounds of freshly-fallen snow. Every year, I plead with my husband to please, PLEASE raise the attachment up so that it doesn't scrap the stones from the driveway. And each year, I receive the same grunt in return. "If I don't get close, the snow left in the driveway will freeze and then we'll have ourselves an ice skating rink. Is THAT what you want?" And thus it becomes my job each and every spring to transform myself into the chain gang.
I HATE raking rocks, and that is how I spent my late afternoon and early evening yesterday. Thank God I had my IPod in my pocket and was able to be interrupted, playing Words With Friends with Carol. I suppose prisoners aren't allowed to do this. Anyway, raking rocks is REALLY hard work and I would much rather be gardening or mowing or even sitting in a ditch, doing just about anything else except raking rocks.
Today, the heat continues and I just can't make myself go to my volunteer job at the nursing home. That shall wait until tomorrow, when temperatures are supposed to dip to a mere 70 degrees. Today, I shall find myself back outside, raking even more rocks, crooning "Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child" and listening to that stupid pheasant as he also wails his song, waiting in hope of hearing a response to his springtime pleas.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Deja Vu
Good morning,
48 degrees here this morning and tons of stars twinkling in the sky as the sun prepares to rise in another hour or so. Isn't this string of weather just fantastic??? Do you know that LAST year when the first day of spring arrived, one hundred and fifty-four inches of snow had fallen on the prairie? This year, a total of a mere fifty-two inches of fluff has been tabulated. It appears as if we are done, gone, kaput with snow for the season.
These eighty+ degree days have everything and everybody just bustin' out all over. Spirits are raised and smiles abound. Joy is in the air, along with pollen and mosquitoes. I not only turned off the heat in the housebut I have been sleeping for the past three nights with the window in the bedroom cranked open. Hubby has discovered that he will not freeze to death as long as he (a) wears his thermal long johns and (b) pulls his flannel sheet and his three blankies up over his head and points beyond. He also has my menopausal body laying next to him, generating enough heat to spark a forest fire. He will survive.
Speaking of the husband, I forgot to tell you- he went to the doctors. I didn't have to cajole him or make idle threats or offer up my body. He went willingly, all by himself. This is a landmark event. He has been diagnosed with a bad sinus infection and is now on an antibiotic. It's not getting him down, though, and he says he sounds far worse than he feels. He's been busy during this beautiful stretch of weather, getting some walls up on the pole barn. It looks great; he does amazingly good work.
So yesterday morning was quite a busy one. I ended up doing a mish-mash of chores. I started off on the porch, which is where I wanted to be. I could jaw with the hubby, commune with nature, swat bugs, watch Moses the Snow Goose and sand away on my birdhouse gourd. Alas, my shoulder started to bark almost immediately, telling me it needed a break, what with the weekend's kayaking and sanding. Instead, I was driven inside, forced into slave labor, mopping the kitchen floor and doing up the laundry along with this and that. And all the while that I was toiling away, the stock pot was brewing away on the stove. We finally were home for a long enough stretch that I could get around to making our corned beef and cabbage. It was super-duper delicious, probably one of the best chunks o' beast that I have had in quite a few years.
Off I trotted to art class. I guess my rainbow trout that I painted wasn't as bad as I thought, although I still wasn't thrilled with the thing. It shall be tucked away upstairs in this big folder that I keep for my spiritual rejects. I started a picture of a sunset, but that too wasn't speaking my language. It was just way too nice outside for me to focus on painting. My heart tried; really, it did. But it longed to be out on the other side of the paned glass window.
I also want it to be noted that I nor anyone else in the room suffered any ill effects from me eating cabbage immediately before attending art class. I thought of that AFTER Hubby and I had eaten our dinner. You'll have to take me at my word, as no matches were lit during art class.
Speaking of art, if you have a chance, our entire class is involved in an art show for the next couple or three weeks. Five watercolors of mine are on display at the Sherrill Public Library, along with many wonderful pieces of artwork from other members of the class. Go grab a look if you have the chance. I am amazed at the watercolors and pen & ink produced by the gang. They constantly raise my bar and I find myself wanting to aspire to their level. Check it out.
So today I shall start out at the pool, where hopefully I won't suffer hypothermia while trying to get in some exercise. And this afternoon, I reluctantly will shuffle off to play bridge with the girls. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy playing the game and I enjoy my mates. But it will be a repeat of yesterday, deja vu. Just like Groundhog's Day on television. I can tell you right now that the sun and beautiful day will scream my name loudly as I sit indoors, sipping my coffee and staring at a bunch of cards.
Have a BEAUTIFUL day. I hope you have an opportunity to be outside and enjoy at least a shred of it.
48 degrees here this morning and tons of stars twinkling in the sky as the sun prepares to rise in another hour or so. Isn't this string of weather just fantastic??? Do you know that LAST year when the first day of spring arrived, one hundred and fifty-four inches of snow had fallen on the prairie? This year, a total of a mere fifty-two inches of fluff has been tabulated. It appears as if we are done, gone, kaput with snow for the season.
These eighty+ degree days have everything and everybody just bustin' out all over. Spirits are raised and smiles abound. Joy is in the air, along with pollen and mosquitoes. I not only turned off the heat in the house
Speaking of the husband, I forgot to tell you- he went to the doctors. I didn't have to cajole him or make idle threats or offer up my body. He went willingly, all by himself. This is a landmark event. He has been diagnosed with a bad sinus infection and is now on an antibiotic. It's not getting him down, though, and he says he sounds far worse than he feels. He's been busy during this beautiful stretch of weather, getting some walls up on the pole barn. It looks great; he does amazingly good work.
So yesterday morning was quite a busy one. I ended up doing a mish-mash of chores. I started off on the porch, which is where I wanted to be. I could jaw with the hubby, commune with nature, swat bugs, watch Moses the Snow Goose and sand away on my birdhouse gourd. Alas, my shoulder started to bark almost immediately, telling me it needed a break, what with the weekend's kayaking and sanding. Instead, I was driven inside, forced into slave labor, mopping the kitchen floor and doing up the laundry along with this and that. And all the while that I was toiling away, the stock pot was brewing away on the stove. We finally were home for a long enough stretch that I could get around to making our corned beef and cabbage. It was super-duper delicious, probably one of the best chunks o' beast that I have had in quite a few years.
Off I trotted to art class. I guess my rainbow trout that I painted wasn't as bad as I thought, although I still wasn't thrilled with the thing. It shall be tucked away upstairs in this big folder that I keep for my spiritual rejects. I started a picture of a sunset, but that too wasn't speaking my language. It was just way too nice outside for me to focus on painting. My heart tried; really, it did. But it longed to be out on the other side of the paned glass window.
I also want it to be noted that I nor anyone else in the room suffered any ill effects from me eating cabbage immediately before attending art class. I thought of that AFTER Hubby and I had eaten our dinner. You'll have to take me at my word, as no matches were lit during art class.
Speaking of art, if you have a chance, our entire class is involved in an art show for the next couple or three weeks. Five watercolors of mine are on display at the Sherrill Public Library, along with many wonderful pieces of artwork from other members of the class. Go grab a look if you have the chance. I am amazed at the watercolors and pen & ink produced by the gang. They constantly raise my bar and I find myself wanting to aspire to their level. Check it out.
So today I shall start out at the pool, where hopefully I won't suffer hypothermia while trying to get in some exercise. And this afternoon, I reluctantly will shuffle off to play bridge with the girls. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy playing the game and I enjoy my mates. But it will be a repeat of yesterday, deja vu. Just like Groundhog's Day on television. I can tell you right now that the sun and beautiful day will scream my name loudly as I sit indoors, sipping my coffee and staring at a bunch of cards.
Have a BEAUTIFUL day. I hope you have an opportunity to be outside and enjoy at least a shred of it.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
HAPPY SPRING!
HAPPY SPRING!!
It's a balmy 54 degrees outside at 6:30 in the morning here on the prairie, and already we've surpassed the high average temperature by ten degrees. We have been on a string of extremely warm weather, due in part to one funky-looking jet stream. Places that are supposed to be cold are hot, and Arizona just got hammered with a huge snowstorm. Bizarre. Still, it's nice to see and feel such a beautiful stretch of sunshine.
I love springtime as well as autumn. I like the temperatures that they both offer up, which typically fall nice and comfortable between the other two seasons of extremes. I love the fall because of the colors of the leaves on the trees and the crispness that is in the air. But I think I especially love spring, with everything being reborn and starting afresh. To the plant world, it must seem like returning to the first day of school for the year, with the unblemished record, that clean blackboard that sparkles, where everything is perfect and you haven't screwed up yet.
So many signs of spring abound. Yesterday, I showed you pictures of daffodils in bloom and the buds on the lilac bush. And now we can add tree swallows to our list, swooping and darting around in the backyard, catching bugs. There's a sparrow and a starling that are attempting to build nests in the rafters of the pole barn that my husband is building. And then there's that other sure sign of spring, one which took place last night in my bathroom.
I shaved my legs.
It's really getting to the point where I ask myself why I bother shaving my legs anymore. It certainly doesn't bother me. My husband has told me repeatedly that he could care less. Really, it's senseless, as each and every year seems to bring less and less hair to shave, at least on my legs. All of the energy that my body used to put impart, growing dark clumps of curly leg hair has suddenly shifted decidedly north to the regions above my upper lip. But it's spring, and that's part of the ritual.
Yesterday I went to the pool. The water was absolutely freezing, and there were several of the gang that turned right around after dipping their big toe into the pool and went back to the locker room to abandon ship. It was THAT cold. Big Bob was in the pool, tethered to his oxygen tank, but he got out after a few minutes. All that was left was us foolhardy souls, who had to keep moving quickly in order to generate enough heat to stay reasonably warm. I know I burned a LOT of calories yesterday in that water.
I came home and spent the afternoon working on this birdhouse gourd. Last year, for the first (and last) time, I grew these things in my garden. I saved out five of the best ones, hardened them off over the winter months. And now begins the task of using steel wool to get rid of the unsightly mold that covers them. It's very difficult and tons of work to remove the unsightly spores. I tried sandpaper, but that left marks. So it's steel scrubbies and steel wool that are doing the trick. I spoke to some guy at the Philadelphia Flower Show who had a booth of finished gourds, and he said that it was a tough, laborious process. He wasn't just whistling Dixie. Anyway, the neck of my gourd is now smooth as a baby's bottom. Plucked from a pile of horse manure, covered in mold and mildew and left for dead, I hope that it will experience a springtime of its own, turning into a beautiful home to some peeping baby birds. Happy Spring, everyone!
It's a balmy 54 degrees outside at 6:30 in the morning here on the prairie, and already we've surpassed the high average temperature by ten degrees. We have been on a string of extremely warm weather, due in part to one funky-looking jet stream. Places that are supposed to be cold are hot, and Arizona just got hammered with a huge snowstorm. Bizarre. Still, it's nice to see and feel such a beautiful stretch of sunshine.
I love springtime as well as autumn. I like the temperatures that they both offer up, which typically fall nice and comfortable between the other two seasons of extremes. I love the fall because of the colors of the leaves on the trees and the crispness that is in the air. But I think I especially love spring, with everything being reborn and starting afresh. To the plant world, it must seem like returning to the first day of school for the year, with the unblemished record, that clean blackboard that sparkles, where everything is perfect and you haven't screwed up yet.
So many signs of spring abound. Yesterday, I showed you pictures of daffodils in bloom and the buds on the lilac bush. And now we can add tree swallows to our list, swooping and darting around in the backyard, catching bugs. There's a sparrow and a starling that are attempting to build nests in the rafters of the pole barn that my husband is building. And then there's that other sure sign of spring, one which took place last night in my bathroom.
I shaved my legs.
It's really getting to the point where I ask myself why I bother shaving my legs anymore. It certainly doesn't bother me. My husband has told me repeatedly that he could care less. Really, it's senseless, as each and every year seems to bring less and less hair to shave, at least on my legs. All of the energy that my body used to put impart, growing dark clumps of curly leg hair has suddenly shifted decidedly north to the regions above my upper lip. But it's spring, and that's part of the ritual.
Yesterday I went to the pool. The water was absolutely freezing, and there were several of the gang that turned right around after dipping their big toe into the pool and went back to the locker room to abandon ship. It was THAT cold. Big Bob was in the pool, tethered to his oxygen tank, but he got out after a few minutes. All that was left was us foolhardy souls, who had to keep moving quickly in order to generate enough heat to stay reasonably warm. I know I burned a LOT of calories yesterday in that water.
I came home and spent the afternoon working on this birdhouse gourd. Last year, for the first (and last) time, I grew these things in my garden. I saved out five of the best ones, hardened them off over the winter months. And now begins the task of using steel wool to get rid of the unsightly mold that covers them. It's very difficult and tons of work to remove the unsightly spores. I tried sandpaper, but that left marks. So it's steel scrubbies and steel wool that are doing the trick. I spoke to some guy at the Philadelphia Flower Show who had a booth of finished gourds, and he said that it was a tough, laborious process. He wasn't just whistling Dixie. Anyway, the neck of my gourd is now smooth as a baby's bottom. Plucked from a pile of horse manure, covered in mold and mildew and left for dead, I hope that it will experience a springtime of its own, turning into a beautiful home to some peeping baby birds. Happy Spring, everyone!
Monday, March 19, 2012
It's Just a Name
Next up was Chinese Buffet. And after we ate, I asked the husband if we could take a quick jaunt over to Aldi's so I could pick up a few groceries that were on sale. After making my selections, I was standing in line with the groceries, patiently waiting my turn to check out. Standing behind me was an elderly woman. And in the lane next to us was a mother who had her little let's-say-five-year-old kid sitting cross-legged in the cart among some pineapples.
"Hey, Mom. That's one old lady over there!" he exclaimed, pointing at the woman standing in back of me.
"You say you're sorry to her right now, young man!" the mother screeched.
So the kid, with his mournful eyes pointing at the ground, contritely mumbled, "Excuse me. I'm sorry." And he repeated this three times. That gave it away. I knew right then and there that he was well-versed in making apologies for opening up his little big mouth and letting foul things spew forth like a geyser. And it took only a few moments before he let 'er rip once again.
"Hey, Mom. Look at the woman standing in front of the old lady!. She's a LOT bigger than the old lady!" he bellowed loud enough for everyone in the store to overhear.
I looked at the mother and said, "Gee, your kid's mouth is on a roll, isn't it?"
After I checked out, I sat in the car and told my husband about what took place in the store. I told him that the words still hurt, even though they came from small lips. What would the kid have said if he had seen me inside of that store a year ago when I was fifty-seven pounds heavier? Gee.
I said to the husband, "You know, SOME day, people are going to look at me and the first thing that ISN'T going to come to mind is how freaking FAT I am." I then gave some suggestions as to what people could think as an alternative.
- "Wow, look at that genius brain just sitting there under that mop of gray hair."
- "Gee, that is one high-powered gas engine if I ever saw one." Or my last idea, which created a chuckle from the husband:
- Golly, the husband of that sex goddess is ONE lucky fella."
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Moses The Snow Goose
It's 48 degrees here on the prairie with partly cloudy skies. A very quiet start to a very beautiful day. On Thursday, I looked out in the back yard and there was a gaggle of fifty snow geese, mixing it up and gettin' jiggy with our regular herd of Canada geese. The next morning, all that remained was our usual bunch of Canadas with one exception. Hanging out with them was a lone snow goose. And he was here again yesterday and he just appeared again this morning. I like snow geese.
I always find myself wondering about that one solitary goose that I see every now and then. There it will be, all by itself in the pond. Or sometimes, you'll see one in a group and it's trying so freaking hard to be cool and to fit in, but the others won't let him play their reindeer games. And they'll chase him and peck at him relentlessly, necks stretched out all horizonal. Just like kids at the playground, there's always that one goose that everyone picks on. This poor little goosey has a bull's eye taped onto its behind which invites others to terrorize him. And I wonder why this occurs? Geese in general are born with siblings, which usually signals automatic acceptance. They look the same, act the same, poop the same and honk the same. What made this goose resort to hanging out with a gang unlike his own?
I had a student once who was always getting suspended for something or another. He really was a troubled soul, and he tried so hard to adopt the colloquialisms of the inner-city black kid. Please remember that our high school was planted in the middle of a country bumpkin corn field. The boy told me that he shopped for clothes in the 'hood shops'. He wore tons of chains, the waistband of his pants hung down at his knees and he wore his cap sideways long before any of this was considered 'in'. He spoke in inner-city dialect (I aks you sum'n?" aka "May I please ask you a question, Teacher?") and he listened to gansta rap. Maybe that's how it is for my little snow goose. Maybe he longs for life on the other side of the tracks.
Maybe this goose was sent down the creek early on in his life, stuffed into a woven wicker basket by his mommy. She wanted a life for him, a better life that she thought the Canada geese could provide. Let him be named Moses. Moses is in da hood.
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