Mind the Gap.

 Our week in London was such fun.  The two of us are fairly familiar with the Underground, the Tube.  We had a mental list of maps and places to visit.  We knew our kids would be around the perimeters of Hyde Park, just like us.  Truly, it was a breeze.

Well.  The untraditional summer heat wave was NOT a breeze, but I won't go on about it.  Suffice to say that when I made hotel reservations back in February, I ticked the box that stated "Air Conditioning" in my search.  July is July, and I am well aware of my heat-coping capabilities (nil!), and so there ya go.

We two met up with whatever family party was near and available for whatever it was we were doing, or what they were doing.  We met for breakfasts at sidewalk cafes, coffees mid-morning, also somewhere on the sidewalk, dinners at great Asian and Lebanese spots.  Picnics at playgrounds in Hyde Park!  (We loved traveling with three under the age of six, and were tickled that they were so easy-going the entire ten days.)

One highlight, early-on, was our second day in London.  We two had moved up to Trafalgar Square, and I HEARD BROADWAY MUSIC. 

Omigoodness.  Real live, really good live BROADWAY MUSIC.  I moved as if in a trance to the source.  That Spouse o' Mine followed.  He knows me well.  There they were!  Real artists, singing really nice Broadway hits, on a concert stage in Trafalgar Square!  Wowza!  I kept moving in closer, (there were HOARDES OF PEOPLE), and finally I found someone who looked to be in charge.  I asked where one could purchase tickets. 

"Oh," he replied.  "Go on in!  It's free  for everyone!" 

What???  But we did as he suggested.  Yay, free Broadway performers!!

Come to find out from folks handing out flyers, we were the audience to the Pride of London Day.  I have to say, we were happy to have stumbled upon it.

And so we enjoyed quite a few songs by some really incredible Broadway artists, and then there was a brief intermission.  After the intermission, a group of entertainers entered the stage and began a bit of Moulin Rouge entertainment.  It was OK.  We two moved on to what we thought was the direction of Hyde Park.  But then...

I heard more music!  Omigoodness!  What a fun city this was proving to be!  

Lo and behold, it was a parade!  

I do so love me a parade!!!!   I was all atwitter when I heard the parade music!!

Our walk back to anywhere near our Hyde Park haunt - that being any Underground anywhere - was blocked by the Pride of London Parade.

And so we enjoyed it.  So many floats, music, and something we will never experience in the US:  The military of the UK: Army, Navy, and Air Force all had formations marching in the Pride of London Parade.  Including Chaplains.  

Say what you will.   

I say:
What a Day!

More to come.       

Heat Makes Me (and Others) Wackos

We two were on a flight a few weeks ago, bound for parts east.  The UK, to be precise.  Now, both of us are well-traveled, have flown a fair amount, and know our way around airports and airplanes.  In fact, decades ago, in my newlywed and early motherhood years, I was an international flight attendant, based at JFK in New York. 

I rarely make negative observations about flights.  They are what they are.  Take 'em or leave 'em.  I prefer to enjoy the miracle of flight. 

This particular trip, however, started out on the negative side of my comfort zone, before they had even closed the aircraft doors.  Boy: it was hot.  Really hot.  No movement of air, even at push back.  Even as we sat in place on the tarmac, seventh in line for take-off, for way too many minutes.  All of the passengers in our section could be seen pulling the safety card found in the seat backs in front of them and fanning themselves maniacally with them.  I mentioned to the flight attendant sitting across from us in his jump seat that the safety cards had never seen so much activity in their existence.  He laughed as he wiped the sweat off his face.  (This was after I rang my call button while sitting on the tarmac, and when he appeared at my seat, I asked him, maybe with a scowl, I don't know, "What is the cockpit saying about this heat?!"  I had sweat trickling all over the place.  This flight attendant said that the cabin would begin cooling off as soon as we started the take-off roll... blah, blah, blah, and I cut him off and said, "No.  This is not normal.  The air should be moving by now. "  And he sort of nodded and walked away from me. )

Finally we were airborn and slowly the cabin cooled.  S.L.O.W.L.Y

But then, before we were at our cruising altitude of 38,000', a man from the section in front of us bolted into one of the lavs near our seats.  He SLAMMED the door shut.  Ew, I thought.  But then, 30 seconds or so later, he SLAMMED the door opened and stomped out.  He came over to the jump seat in front of our seats.  He kept twisting, first facing us, and then turning around so we could not see his face.  He tried to wedge his tall, thin body between the jump seat and the emergency exit slide.

This was a little unsettling.

My mind went to  "He should not be trying to sit in the jump seat." to "Omigoodness, why is he wedging himself by the emergency exit door/slide?!"  I weighed whether or not to call the flight attendant (probably the same one who answered my call button heat rant before takeoff...). 

Just as suddenly as he had bolted into the lav, and as suddenly bolted out of the lav, this man bolted for parts aft in the aircraft.  When he was gone, I turned to that Spouse o' Mine and asked if he thought that passenger was having problems.  He replied that yes, there was something wrong, indeed.  The two of us discussed what action we would have taken if needs be.  Seriously?  What actions?  We're retired senior citizens.  Too old to be taking down a young(er) crazed tall guy regardless of what we have read in the news about passengers having problems inflight.

About an hour later, another passenger came and stood in front of our seats (Bulkhead seats: Yes!  Yes!  Please assume that we welcome your standing directly in front of our kneecaps while you do your TransAtlantic yoga, stand in line for the lavs, search out your partner after a lover's quarrel...)

As it turns out, the latter was exactly what had transpired.  A spat, a squabble, an argument, a break-up?  We'll never know.  But the new guy standing in front of our kneecaps was looking for the first guy.

We saw them, some five hours later as we went through UK Customs.  Neither looked at all happy.  And I am sorry for that.  But I wish that they could have contained whatever it was to their own two seats, and not have caused concern to some of their fellow passengers.

Follow a negative (OK: two negatives...) with a positive (or two):
I had a delectable inflight Asian Vegetarian Special Dinner. 
Man, oh man, getting through UK Customs and to the Heathrow Express (train) was so ding-dong easy. 

More-to-come.  

Great Balls of Fire!

 Some many, many years ago, I had chance, and then chances, to sit and spectate soccer matches which were played by very young youngsters in our extended family.  The attention span did not take, for whatever reason.

Fast-forward a couple of decades, and I had been invited to watch soccer once again, with new players, roughly the same age as the ones in my past spectating chapter.  Hmm...I have been too ignorant about the sport to really enjoy the sport, still.

A couple of months ago, I mentioned to That Spouse o' Mine that we should embrace the FIFA World Cup competition.  For me, a learning experience.  For him, something to occupy his mind before Le Tour de France.  "We can even subscribe to TV and watch it," I said.  (We don't have TV, per se.)   

And so, we did.  Who knew that s̶o̶c̶c̶e̶r futbol was so interesting and entertaining??  
I did not.  The rules seemed (to me) to mirror Alice in Wonderland's croquet game in terms of rules.  Some of them still are incomprehensible.  Case in point:

Offsides:  I have no clue what the parameters are for this rule.

A handball rule: No clue, no clue at all...

Ball kicking: Four types.  I am clueless.  I hope to attain kicking awareness...  

Goalkeepers:  I think the two goalkeepers in the Sunday World Cup Finals were the Champs!  Absolutely the athletic champs.  There are rules, I guess?  But I just embraced those two guys and their incredible ability to discern and react!  Yahoo!

Well.  If you were hoping for an in-depth analysis of World Cup Futbol on this post, you are perhaps sorely disappointed.  However!  If you, like I, were into the 2026 World Cup Futbol/Soccer month, then you came away this final week with an  appreciation of athleticism mixed with acrobatics.  I'm so glad we watched.  


    

Intros. Conclusions.

 My English teachers and professors would have a field day with this, my first paragraph.  Because I have no introduction - no hook or grab.  

I have my own thoughts and prayers, quite literally, of which I am writing today.  Of course this has to do with the sad episodes which keep on occurring under the giant, bloody umbrella of gun control - actually, the lack thereof, here in the United States.

So this week, on Wednesday, Sep 10, a political activist was gunned down in Utah during a speech he was giving at a college.  Boom.  Dead.  Leaving behind a young widow and two young children. 

According to Gun Violence Archive , there were 45 gun deaths in the USA from Sep 11 to Sep 14.  

And we have only heard about one death?  What about the other 45 poor souls, and their grieving families?  

What comes to mind for me, anytime I read or hear about gun deaths, are the poor little, innocent children, being gunned down in our public and private school systems.  I guess that's my trigger for grief when it comes to gun control.  Babies.  The deaths keep happening, and the guns keep appearing, and keep shooting, and people keep espousing "that we can have the second amendment to protect our other God-given rights". 

My English teachers and professors would have a field day with this, my last paragraph.  Because I have no conclusion.  

But wait; I do...

Time Travels

 I am a grandmother now. 

I have no idea how this happened, in terms of time travel.  In my mind's eye, I am still a late thirty-something - much like my two daughters, who have gifted us with these wee ones.

But wee ones they are, and we, that Spouse o' Mine and I, behold them as the miracles they are.  We see kith and kin in them.  I wonder about fractal dimensions and this and that and this and that with their fun and well-being and what-in-the-world- in their normal goings-on.

So much to take in.  Parenting as I know it has really been shifted to the third seat back in the Volvo Station Wagon.  No more "Hush!"  No more "Because I said so!"  I have to laugh, but when the whining gets a'goin', I bite my 65-year old tongue (most of the time), and just grimace and bear it.  Gentle parenting is an anomaly in my elder world. 

Today I was in the car with two of the three grandkids.  One was whiney.  I thought about singing, as I so often do any time in my day.  I sing classical melodies, or silly kids' songs, or old hillbilly songs, hymns, or whatever comes to mind.  Such a plethora of options in my elder repertoire. 

As I sat in the passenger seat, weighing my songbird options, I had a memory come to mind - one of my sister.  She and I would sing anytime, at the drop of the hat.  Two part harmony.  My earliest memory was at a Bachman family Christmas, when she and I sang a Jingle Bells duet.  She chastised me for "jazzing it up." I smile at that.  After she and I became mothers, we would routinely sing to our five kids.  It's what one did.

So today, I was thinking of my sweet sister Barb, and our fun years of mothering our young kiddos together. 

Wowza.  That was twenty years ago, us two.  She passed this week, twenty years ago...

She and I always laughed that we would live near each other, not unlike our great aunties Rachel & Edna.  And Lois and Alpha. 

But here I am, this week, embracing my third generation, and thinking of her generation, at a distance, and imagining.  Just imagining...       

 

     

Toe-dipping

 In my blog post titled A New Chapter, I mentioned my eagerness to dip our toes in all things urban, once we moved to Cleveland.  This month has seen us pop in & out of the Cleveland city limits, juggling the end of our Kansas Chapter, all the while starting anew, up here on the Lake Erie shore of Ohio.

This afternoon, we are in Cleveland, and I mentioned to that Spouse o' Mine that, given it is Lent, lots of churches and parishes, along with local organizations and pubs in Cleveland, all serve Friday fish fries.  That Spouse o' Mine, hailing from Australia, has gotten our entire family to calling it "Fish & Chips".   

"Should we seek out Fish & Chips tonight?", I asked.  But I already knew his answer.  Affirmative!

We looked over the offerings near our new neighborhood, and settled on:
The Slovenian National Home, "serving Fish Fry Dinners every Friday through Lent."

I Googled Slovenia before we headed out.  We now live in an urban neighborhood that is not "Fifth Generation Kansan,", or "DAR member owing to family member in Revolutionary War".  It's a neighborhood rich in families who are from, either recently or from a few generations, the Balkans and Eastern European descent.  Think pierogis and polkas.

I donned a warm pair of fleece-lined hiking pants and a flannel shirt.  Warm hiking boots.  I told that Spouse o' Mine: "It's a FISH FRY!"  He got it.

And off we went, with Google Maps leading the way to downtown Cleveland.  The neighborhood was grey and... really empty.  We parked alongside a couple of other cars, but this didn't seem like a gathering of any sort.  We got out of the car, went to the front of the Slovenian National Home, and pulled on the doors.  Locked.  Then the other set of doors.  Locked.  And finally, the third set of doors.  Locked.

BUT WE COULD SMELL A FISH FRY!

Let's walk around the corner, I said.  And so we proceeded.

Nothing.  But a stronger scent of goodness.  And so we turned yet another corner of the building (and block), and tried some more doors.  Locked, and locked.  One more corner, and we were in an alley darkening with the sunset, with no door to be seen.  But a feminine voice behind us asked, "Are you looking for the fish fry?"

Slovenian Saints be praised!  She told us to go around the next corner, through an opening, past a green car, down a short path, and around THAT corner, and we would see a sign.  (I have to say here, that our olfactory sense was on strong alert anyway; I think we could have eventually made it.)

We found a door leading down quiet stairs to a sort of basement fellowship hall.  Eerily, it felt like we were entering an early 1900 speakeasy, for when we opened the door...

...it was FILLED with people.  Happy people!  Happy Slovenians!  Happy Clevelander-non-Slovenians!  Lots of Slovenian conversations going on.  And English.  And a Slovenian band playing polkas and singing folk songs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmQVE1ghi5Y

Wowza.  If this is Lent in Slovenia, then I am all in!

We had to purchase membership cards!  We are card-carrying members of "Friends of Slovenian National Home".

And then we asked many of the people milling about, "Where is the line?"  "Where do we go?"  "How do we order?"  

There was no line, no one knew any better than us where to go, and no one knew how to order - but the food kept coming out of the kitchen and arrived at tables, every minute of every polka beat.  We were shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone in that hall.  I moved towards the bar and asked a lady, "How do we order?"  "You just tell me what you want," she answered.  As if I knew what the offerings were.  "Fried fish, baked fish, or fried shrimp," she laughed.  I ordered, and asked where to pick up the food, and when.  "Oh!  I will find you!" she laughed in her accented English. 

We spent the next fifteen minutes or so talking to the folks with whom we were rubbing shoulders - and this was probably the 17th Century sense of literally rubbing shoulders; we were so close to each other in this joy-filled, Friday night Lenten Fish Fry.  At some point I turned to the bar, and there she was: my order-taker, ready to hand me our Take-Home "fish & chips".

Our Friday Night Lenten Fish & Chips "take-home' included:
Fried Cod
Chips
Home Fries (awesome potatoes with lots of onions and garlic.)
Cole Slaw
Clam Chowder

There may have been more?  I was just totally into the Slovakian music and happy people.  Seriously a fun and happy time, one of our first Cleveland experiences in our New Chapter.

A New Chapter

The hottest summers, the coldest winters.  The most amazing, clearest star-gazing anyone will ever experience.  The warmest cycling community.  Twenty years with our church family at First Lutheran.  So many books read with Wabaunsee Book Club!  Coffee at The Shamrock Cafe.  Experiencing real Americana at the Kniebel/Downey Ranches' annual bull sales.  Meetings with the Wabaunsee Township Fire Department volunteers - we could not survive without them.  Halloween Doughnuts with our rural community, back then, at June and George Crenshaw's Shamrock Farms.  The Little Free Library at the southwest corner of the Armstrong pasture.  My painting and Paul's hanging our 8'x8' barn quilt on our ca. 1887 mortis & tenon barn.  Our horses, our ducks, the peacocks, and chickens.  Grasshoppers: whoa!  (Biblical proportions, some years.)  

Our annual Resolution Ride and Brunch!  Crewing for our kids in the DK200.  Twenty+ years of Saturday Pancake Rides. 

So many vibrant Kansas sunrises, and so many Kansas watercolor sunsets.  

We came to Kansas in the tail-end of one of our life chapters: raising our kids. After a few brief years in Wabaunsee, those three were well on their own ways, to college and beyond.  The empty nest took some adjusting to, but just like sand in an hourglass, life re-filled the space left behind, and we two embraced our new chapter.  Work, travel, fun trips, wonderful home life.  All good.    

And now, here we are, twenty years later: leaning forward, gazing toward another exciting dance in this thing we call life.  
 
Some days are filled with methodical plans and actions.  Other days, it feels like we're plummeting down the Log Ride at some amusement park, arms raised overhead and shrieking as we meet the steeper drops.   

Did our parents tell us about this?  I don't recall.  I don't think so.  Mine didn't.  They had no need to: they lived the entirety of their lives from kid #5 till death did them part, in the same town and home where they arrived, some 58 years earlier.  Paul's parents took on more of the Log Ride approach to life: selling their farm in South Dakota, loading things on a ship, and sailing for weeks to Australia, where they spent the rest of their lives. 

And we two?  We are headed right into our next chapter.  Smiling, mostly.  And, some Log Riding...

We two are bound for the shores of Lake Erie, in Cleveland, Ohio.  We've not experienced city living for decades, and are eager to dip our toes into all that urban Cleveland has to offer.  Too, we see some Lake Erie islands to explore, certainly some trails to be cycling about.  There's some mention of some giant waterfalls...Niagara? a few hours away.  We can see the lights of Canada across the night-time Lake Erie. 

Let's call this Paul & Tricia's Next Big Adventure.  (We've enjoyed many.)  We welcome all our family and friends to join us to explore our new haunts.  We hear there's music to be heard, some museums, and - whoa! Circumnavigating Lake Erie by bike!  Surely that's on our To-Do list?

Mere words cannot ever describe the emotions we two have, leaving the velvety comfort of our Kansas community and friends.  It would take a scroll fifty football fields long to name each friend, acquaintance, and humanitarian that has been in our lives and those who have blessed us simply by being part of our community.  And that is a sign of a really good life.  

Please raise your glass and cheer us on to our next destination in all that is life and adventure.

(And come visit; we have a room with your name on it.)

Blind Teddy

 It seems a lifetime ago.  

We had said goodbye to our Bouvier dog, Biserka, whom we had brought home and loved after her years at what, in retrospect, was probably a breeding bitch for a puppy mill.  She was not an easy keeper, she was neurotic, she was beautiful, and we worked with all her manic insecurities.  We loved her.  Most of the time.      

I told that Spouse o' Mine: 
"No more dogs: no more heartache."
I didn't want any more sadness of losing our amazing canine companions.  
No more heartache.

We live in a really rural setting.  Less than three months after burying noisy and rambunctious Biserka, and experiencing more and more visits closer to our house than we appreciated by raccoons, possums, and coyotes, that Spouse o' Mine said to me:

"You need to start thinking about getting another dog."

Well, that's all it took as encouragement.  Just nine words, and I was out of the starting gate.  It took a few months, but I happened onto an ad from a city SPCA group to adopt two senior dogs, a "bonded pair", one of whom was blind.

What's not to love????

I went to meet them.  I adored them from the get-go.  That Spouse o' Mine was all-in.

They were delivered to us here in rural Kansas, by two volunteers driving a really small car.  Lucy & Teddy were really large dogs.  Large Breed Dogs.  It was like a Shriner Circus Car full of canine hyperactivity!  The two elderly pups were so exuberant upon their arrival, they jumped in the front seat on top of the two SPCA volunteers and just could not contain their excitement.  I still laugh at this memory.  The two piled out of the car and immediately began exploring all our acreage.  Blind Teddy followed his Seeing Eye Dog, Lucy.  Late that evening, after dark, I heard a haunting howl emanating from our front porch.  I scrambled outside to see what was happening.  The two new members of our household were both howling, echoing  to the coyotes down a quarter-mile in the creek.  So haunting, yet so perfect.  

Six years have come and gone.  We lost Blind Teddy just a few years ago, on his own accord. 
I had gone out early one sultry summer morning, hoping to get our lawn mowed before the heat set it.  It was barely sun-up.  I looked around the yard for Blind Teddy, so that I would not startle him while I mowed.  I walked down our drive, and saw a fresh poop on the gravel.  Hmm..., I thought.  Blind Teddy was nowhere to be found, so I moved on to the barn area.  Not in the barn aisle, not in any of the stalls.  But then I saw him: asleep in what we call the Dog Yard.  It's a small fence-in area for those rare times (company's coming!) when we want the large dogs contained.  There Blind Teddy lay, fast asleep.  I walked over to give him a pat.  Pat-pat.  But...
Blind Teddy wasn't snoozing.  Blind Teddy was dead.  

How does that work?  He did a final poop on our drive, walked his blind self into the barn, through one stall, and into the Dog Yard, and then he lay down and took his final snooze.

I was so pleased that this is how Teddy's last day was.  I hope he felt as happy. 

   

Commencement!

Commencement.  

Commencing?

Commencin'

All the same.  A big deal, in a large gymnasium or football field, to embrace and then send off the graduates.  Those young adults are commencin' to become!  

High school graduation holds hopes for students looking at their immediate future in their community, be it college life, or retail, mechanical, electrical, agricultural.  These young adults are commencing to embark on a new chapter - hopefully, something that they will fondly remember some decades from now.  And hopefully, these new chapters will involve us, the community, and how we need and appreciate our new members of Manhattan society.   

I graduated from Oklahoma State University with two degrees, with grad school at UConn, none of which I followed, and yet, I flourished, somehow, through a wealth and a dearth of gainful employment.  The career path was never clear to me.  I have friends who went right from Uni to their chosen accounting corporations, never to waiver from that frame.  I have friends and family who took their diplomas and returned to their homeland, the generations-rich farms that they wholly embraced as their next chapter.  Omigoodness, all my friends and family who took their education degrees, and the bits in their mouths, and made such a difference in so many young lives.  I have friends who saw that rainbow at the end of nursing school, and med school, and have followed their path for decades. 

 And the rest of us, that seemingly meandered through education as if it were a buffet (me), who tested the waters of every potential employment creek and river.  So many of us, mainly mothers, opted for the SAHM acronym, and in my experience and opinion, WHAT A GREAT DECISION.  I have never looked back at my decision.

Too, self-employment has served many of us very well.    

It does "take a village".  Our communities, and within the boundaries, come all the wants and needs of which we expect.  I have a good physician.  I have an amazing (and patient) electrician.  I really love our librarians.  I really, REALLY appreciate our trash men.  Really.  Our farrier, our pastor, our veterinarian, our tire people, omigoodness: THE GROCERY STORE EMPLOYEES.  Our hay man!  The horticultural folks every spring, summer and fall.    

And so, commencement is here, and now.  Let's usher in all the newly grads from high school and colleges. 

January Morning

 My winter morning involves an outdoor temperature well below the frozen mark, and a fuchsia sky of pre-dawn.  A smattering of snow.  So nice.

The cacophony of snow geese on the Kansas River can be heard in the dark.  After sunrise, they will rise up in a swirling vortex, to dip and land and rise up again, from one cornfield to another, for most of the day.  Hundreds, if not thousands, of migrating geese, and not one air traffic controller.  I never, ever tire of watching them swoop and swirl in concert.  And what are they all honking about, I wonder?

There are all sorts of animal tracks out in the snow: big ol' coyote paw prints, a smaller set - most likely a fox.  The deer have made a thoroughfare through our pasture, as evidenced by the multiple hooves going back and forth from the road down to our creek.  The brush pile is trimmed with bunny tracks: hop, hop, hop! in the snow.  I think the brush pile is a warren: no burning of brush this winter!  And near every tree and bush are teeny, tiny little prints of hardy birds, scavenging for seeds and thistles for sustenance.

The north wind!  There is a Scottish term - "the wind is lazy", which means the wind will go straight through you; it is too lazy to go around.  On our north porch is a wind chime, and its one rod is very large, so that the clapper sound is much like the gong from a clock tower.  We don't hear it often; most of our wind emanates from the south or the west.  What I have been hearing the past two days, in duet with the snow geese, is the perpetual gong reminding me that the north wind is strong, and lazy, and very cold.

(An aside:  When we first moved to rural Kansas we had a standard-issue wind chime.  In a normal environment, its gentle tinkling sound could be enjoyed now and then, as a slight breeze might go past.  After I hung it outdoors in our new digs, it only took a couple of hours of constant jangling, shattering, dinging, before I took it down.  It was AWFUL.  When I found the giant wind chime, I knew it was bound for our Kansas home on the Tall Grass Prairie.)  

And so, my winter morning begins.  Time to pull on my winter gear and head out for a walk.

Mid-August, and Bearable

 What a terrific mid-August day it has been: sort-of-coolish, misty-moisty and overcast.  I observed that my Bird of Paradise plants are thriving today.  I haven't seen them look so "relaxed" all summer.  I guess this is my clue to bring them indoors until the triple digits and high-90s abate.  (Who knew??)

I went to a neighbor's for coffee this morning.  (Neighbor: 5 miles away?)  A nice gathering, which we have not done often enough during the past two years of Pandemic.  

On the tails of that, I went to a church women's Circle meeting.  I can't say that it was uplifting, at all, at all.  Too many sad and tired and trying stories.  Discussion about the aging folks in our congregation, Parkinson's, hospice, and so on.  It's difficult to try to raise the bar a bit with regards to positive conversation and interaction.  

And so, I came home to my little oasis, with happy cats and a happy German Shepherd Dog.  Happy Huz came home and we have chicken and vegetables roasting in the oven. 

THE OVEN!  Something we do not regularly use in August.  And I clipped off some rosemary from my 2022 raised garden beds, and I smell them wafting, up to the second floor here, of our rural Kansas home.  

I suppose I should take some photos of my raised garden... something that seemed folly in early Spring looks to be a success.  Ha: Right by our Jed Clampet swimming pool.  (Not cement.)  

  

Everything's Up-to-Date

Tuesday, and I am back from Kansas City.

Everything's Up to Date in Kansas City

I just love the choreography in this clip of 1955's Rogers & Hammerstein's Oklahoma.  Gene Nelson as Will Parker was terrific, and omigoodness: Charlotte Greenwood as Aunt Eller was THE BEST.  Her acting cannot be improved upon, in my opinion.

This R & H musical, Oklahoma, was based on the play Green Grow the Lilacs, written by Lynn Riggs in 1931.  Lynn Riggs was from Claremore, Oklahoma.  His play was set outside Claremore, Indian Territory, 1906.  

So was Patty Page:
Tennessee Waltz
How Much is that Doggy in the Window?

And if you were to drive through Claremore, Oklahoma this week, you could toodle down both Patty Page Boulevard, and Lynn Riggs Boulevard.

Where am I meandering?  I'm not sure.  I grew up seventeen miles from Claremore, Oklahoma. 

Ah!  I know where I am going: 
I am back from Kansas City, everything's up-to-date there, I came home to a reasonable, manageable,   temperature, I attended Masterworks Chorale rehearsal this evening, (everyone back to masking agin the Covid), and now I am enjoying the light patter of rain and thunder off in the distance.

I noticed that our Golden Campine rooster has decided to eschew moving into the chook house at sundown, and he now roosts high in out front trees.  I'm not sure how wise this is (owls??), but nature will take its course as it does here in rural Kansas. 

And that's how the last week of July looks, 2022.

Resumption: August 2022.

 Here it is, the last week of 2022's July.  I have chided myself on the lack of discipline on writing.  As have some of you, to my face.  Or to my email. 

It's been difficult to write the past few years.  As I mentioned some time ago, when I started this blog, it was sort of a note home.  News and fun.  And, somehow, the past five years have streamlined very thinly as to what might be news and fun.  I guess I should qualify that as too much news, and not nearly as much fun as I think needs be.

So, beginning in August, I will clip into the writing mode (that's sort of cycling lingo.) and commence, once again.  Discipline, discipline.  And more discipline.

In the meantime, the weather forecast says the high tomorrow is going to be raining and 76*.  I announced to That Spouse o' Mine that I am headed to Kansas City for 36-48 hours of city living.  This is a blissful vacay for someone who rusticates in rural Kansas most of her days.  Nelson Atkins, American Jazz Museum, an Ethiopian restaurant, botanical gardens, and many more options.  And I have no itinerary.  I have a swimsuit.

And as I complete this note, I hear rain.  
I smell petrichor.

This is a good re-start.

       

Our Friend Margaret

 Some years ago, I became acquainted with a fellow cyclist.  Today, I cannot recall the circumstances.  But she and I enjoyed a friendship based on conversational rides, fun and funny life stories, and our enthusiasm for cycling.  Have mercy, I cannot count the times I would hear our dog bark her one bark: "There's a friend at the gate."  

It was Margaret.  Margaret with Gail, or Karen, or Nancy, or Bill, or Toby, or Wendy, or Chris, or all the other cycling friends that counted Margaret in their posse.

I hear Margaret's voice - it's distinctive, and it is very supportive - whatever the conversation, Margaret's voice is in my mind.  She shared her grandkid stories.  Certainly, she shared her Beth stories.  She shared her career stories as an educator.  I hear her laugh, and thanks be to God, I see her smile.

Her smile.

Many have observed that Margret was a pillar of our cycling community.  She was a positive, encouraging friend to so many.  I initially titled this post My Friend Margaret.  Note that I changed it to Our Friend Margaret.  Her passing is our loss, not my loss.  

***  Margaret's natural passing was swift, and for that, perhaps we are grateful.  

Ball Game!

 Weeks and weeks ago, back when we were all fully-vaccinated and life was good, our son and daughter-in-law came to visit.  SUCH A JOY TO BEHOLD.  

Such a joy.

At some point, our son went out to our hay pasture/meadow, (we call it pasture, our hay man calls it our hay meadow, which sounds so much more poetic and peaceable.), and he mowed us a tee box.

I was not privy to what a tee box was.  Come to find out, it's a swath of dirt (or grass, in our case).  "The name derives from the tee used to elevate a golf ball before striking it to commence play."  Ha.  It's rural Kansas, you all.  

After our son mowed the tee box, his wife, (and my amazing daughter-in-law), and I went to the Goodwill in search of:  

Two drivers. 
Two putters.
Two #7s.  (Not privy to that, either.)

Guess what?!   Goodwill has a PLETHORA of drivers, putters, and #7s!!!

I mowed us a fairway: a big long strip of green, in which it is hoped our balls would land, rather than the tall grass on either side of our fairway.  Golly.  It's beginning to sound like Royal Troon, in Scotland!

And so it went.  We hit balls every morning.  Daughter-in-law & I had purchased hot pink golf balls, so as to spot them in the pasture/hay meadow.  But come to find out, that Spouse o' Mine, colorblind, cannot discern hot pink from anything else out there in the hay meadow.  (See what I am doing?  Abstaining from "pasture" in exchange for the more bucolic "meadow".)

Son and daughter-in-law went back home to their Pacific Northwest lives, and we are still in rural Kansas, whacking hot pink golf balls around the pasture.  Excuse me: Meadow.

Two weeks ago, we had a couple of gorgeous mornings in the 50º mark.  I took full advantage out in our tee box and fairway, whacking ball after ball after ball after ball into the fairway and also into the great tall grass abyss on either side (more often than not...).  Such fun!

Such fun...until the following day, Saturday, when I awoke and ambled in for morning coffee.  I mentioned to that Spouse o' Mine that my back needed a bit of a rub.  "I must have done something." I said.  After a 45-second back rub (that's all he's good for first thing in the morning and before coffee.), I declared myself healed.  And so I was for a couple of hours.  But then that niggling back pain returned, and travelled and meandered around, visiting one muscle and then triggering another.  This was not enjoyable.  I took a regular-strength Tylenol (because that's as strong as we have in our home...)  It took the edge off, and I thought I was good to go.

Well.  By late afternoon, I could not find comfort, no pain-free position to sit or lay in.  Nothing was working.  I took one, and thirty minutes later, another Tylenol. Pain edged off, for a bit.  By late afternoon, I announced that I was in serious shape, and we had to make a decision about what to do/how to proceed.  We (seriously: joint decision!) decided to watch the Olympic Marathon, and then if the pain was still REAL, he would take me in to the ER. 

Marathon over, pain is REALLY real, and so we hopped into the car for our 17-mile drive to the ER.

Three miles into our drive, I exclaim that I don't have my purse - no ID!  Go back!  Go back!  He replies that I can use his ID.  I look at him, incredulously.  How would that work, exactly?  (That was the thought bubble above my head, not the words out of my mouth.)  He finds a spot in the road to do a Uey, and we head back.  And that's when I have an epiphany:  "I should call my physician." 

Well, it is 8:00 pm on Saturday evening, so what chance is there of hearing from my physician?  I call and leave a detailed message with his answering service nevertheless.  And then that Spouse o' Mine and I discuss (#argue) about his letting our dog out into the hot evening while we venture on into town to the ER.  As we drive into town, we see the brilliant lightning filling the skies to the near west, coming our way.  Seriously??!

Segue to the ER, where he lets me off curbside, I walk in and put myself in the Saturday night queue, and return to the car to relate the Covid protocol, and suggest to him that he should return home and let poor Lucy GSD back indoors before she gets struck by lightning or hail.  He returns home,  I return, walking like Lurch, to the ER.  My physician's colleague returns my call an hour later, I tell him where I am, and he says, "That's good!  I worry that you have kidney stones.  You are just where I would suggest you be."

It was Saturday night, the university students were back, I was not "urgent care" - in fact, if it had not been for the worry that my problem was gall bladder ("Where exactly IS my gall bladder?"), kidneys, heart attack (women present differently when it comes to that fatal malady) or other...I could have gone to a "ready-care", but I was thinking about blood tests and urinalysis and lab works and surgery and....Gah!

Four ambulance arrivals later, I was seen by the attending ER physician.  I explained my travelling back pain.  He looked at my chart.  He asked pertinent questions.  He remarked that I was a "Duffer".  I told him I had no idea what that meant.  He told me it meant "golfer". 

Ha!  You Readers,  Google "Duffer".

Anyway, he asked me to show him my swing.  I did, and as I did, he touched the very part of my back that had been giving me anguish.

So, fast-forward to the "and they lived happily-ever-after" chapter.  I am alive and well and maybe this weekend I will venture out and hit not an hour's-worth of hot pink golf balls, but maybe a smidgen.  Just enough to get  - ha! - the ball rolling again.

Civics and the Far-Flung Importance of Such:

 On this long-shadowed evening, waiting for that Spouse o' Mine to return from his group ride (cycling), I have settled onto the floral linen loveseat, lines of summer sunset striping my thoughts through the plantation shades.  Through the magic of Messenger, this evening I have communicated with a former English teacher. Her huz was my former Civics and History teacher, way back when.

I began thinking about civics, and history.  Way back when I was earning demerits - though I am not sure earning is the verb I am searching for...- Ah! Acquiring! - through uncalculated inactivity in classroom and homework, I did not appreciate the importance of such.  Well.  Given the state of of our Union the past 4.5 years, I can state with confidence and ~43 years of adult life experience, that civics and history must surely share a place on the academic podium with the STEM subjects in elementary and secondary education.  It is imperative, seeing now the amazing number of U.S. citizens who do not know their elbows from asses. 

NO, no...that is unkind. 

The amazing number of US citizens who do not know the three branches of government and what they do, the electoral college, the content and definition of the U.S Constitution, and so on: have we neglected this part of our children's education in order to fulfill those STEM obligations?  What about our freedoms?  When was the last time you or I read the US Constitution?  (Actually, in the last couple of years.  But, I also read the Farm Bill.  Ha.  {The 2020 Farm Bill even talks about boll weevils.  Seriously.  Did you know that?}) 

So, Mr. Elliott, I would like to thank you kindly and most sincerely for teaching.  What did I learn?  I did not store rote facts away.  But let me tell you, that day I drove my old Datsun B210 through Flatbush, in Brooklyn, NY, I did hear your voice giving me the safety facts.  When that Spouse o' Mine and I moved to Michigan, I learned that we were moving to a township.  A township!  I knew about townships! 

Mr. Elliott, your classroom was the runway to my adult responsibility of life in a community.  Of government.  Of common sense.  You never told us that was what you were teaching. Were you aware of the impact of your lessons?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  What I learned was perhaps not what others in your classes did.  For me, your lessons were stories that I apparently stored away for another day.  (And, also apparently, NOT for Test Day.)  But in the twists and turns of living as an adult in the past decades, I still hear your voice and I can glean stock from what you did teach.  So fun to make a connection.  And so, again, I thank you, Mr. Elliott, for your time and attention as an educator who did, indeed, make a profound impression.

Acoustics and Anika

Here's a cute little wee one:

This is Granddaughter Anika. 
She is a petite ball of spice. 
Loved by all.

Her development has her making fun and funny expressions, and fun and funny sounds.  She is exploring her ability to make sounds, and she is observing all those who make expressions and sounds around her. 

Fast-forward to her mother and I taking Anika into an art museum this weekend in the hopes of lulling her to nap in her stroller a couple of hours before their flight home.  Daughter Gillian had Anika in her stroller, in a prone position, with a sheet over the stroller so as to keep visual distractions to a minimum. 

Well.

Once wee Anika discovered the marvellous acoustics of the museum's cavernous walls surrounding her, she began belting out her own little concert of echos, underneath the cover of her stroller sheet. 
First, vowel sounds:
AHHHhhhhhh!  (echo: ahhh!)  (another echo: ahhhhhhh!) 
AHHHHHHHhhhh!   (echo: ahhhhh!)   (yet another echo:  ahhhhhhh!)

And then, throwing in a consonant here and there:
WAHHHhhhhh!  WAHHHHhhhh!  (echo:  wahhh!  wahhh!) 
DADADADADAHHHHH!!!   (echo: dadadadada!!) 
MAHMAHMAHHHHH  (echo: mamamahhhhh!)
BAHBAHBAHHHHhh!  (echo: bababa!!!)  

And so went her acoustics festival concert for all the museum patrons to hear, whether they appreciated her fine talent or not.  

She never slept, and after half an hour of her fine voice regaling the museum patrons, we headed this babe to the car.  

I am not sure we were even out of the underground parking before she had fallen asleep.

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

Sunday is the Golden Clasp (written in March)

"Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.", said Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

  
These words ring true just now, this late afternoon of a rainy day, whose later hours are showing golden hues just before dusk.

The golden clasp?  

We two have accomplishments for the past week and the coming.  YESsssss!  We have both been Covid-vaccinated once.  That Spouse o' Mine will get his next jab at the end of this month.  Mine will be in early April.  Thank God for science and medicine, both a gift from above.   

I have spied both red-winged blackbirds and robins in our midst.  Spring is a'comin'.  The iris are jumping up in leaps and bounds, and I had so hoped to corral them before now. 

We two had a family Zoom with the six kids and two infant granddaughters late this afternoon.  We have a "show and tell" at these family meetings.  We saw daughter-in-law Austen's amazing PNW pottery.  Baby Lucy Grace in all her personality.  (Mother Claire says she was unhappy.  I, Pansy, think Lucy Grace is just spreading her 3-month emotional wings.)  Son Graham showed us his new airbrush paint gun for his new projects.  Son-in-law Kiran got us up-to-date on his last surgical rotations for this academic year.  Huzzah!  Baby Anika is sprouting her first two teeth.  I showed off some awesome yogurt (lebneh), and a quilt I have been working on.  And that That Spouse o' Mine got a great (in my opinion) award for work done in his scientific field.  Son-in-law Rich showed up in post-cycling workout mode, and showered and segued to Dad mode for Lucy Grace.  So much in such a short 40-minute Zoom!!!  I love each and every second.

And this coming week, prequel-led by the Golden Clasp?  This week, Sunday and Family were the clasps to bind the volume of our week.  Huzzah!

Possum Chronicles

 I went out to gather chicken eggs this afternoon - hopefully eleven eggs, because our dozenth chicken succumbed to something in the cold winter temps last month.  So: eleven chooks, and presumably eleven eggs.

What I did not anticipate was a furry body in the dark corner of the hen house, burrowed down in hay.

Dang, I thought.  What is it?  Coon?  Skunk?  Dead duck, lying belly-up?

Turns out, it was a possum.  Slumbering like he was coming off the world's longest Mardi Gras celebration.  What to do, what to do...

I knew what NOT to do, and that was to go inside and yell upstairs to That Spouse o' Mine that we had a possum in the chicken house.  Good choice on my part, because he was in a Zoom meeting with about 80 other USDA scientists.  I have unknowingly yelled fun farm facts upstairs during Zoom meetings.  It's not cool to announce to people in an Ag agency that I am bringing in another chicken into the bathroom...and the like.  I have learned restraint in twelve months of pandemic.  

Well, I tried tossing things at the possum.  I poked him.  I put a can of tasty cat food in our live trap.  Nothing worked.  I took a shovel, in hopes of scooping him up and shovelling him out.  Sleeping possums do not scoop up handily.  Finally, I took a walk around our pasture/hay meadow.  When I came back, Possum was gone.  Leave well enough alone, I thought.  My friend Lori had a better take: the old possum was just playing...Possum!  By George, she was RIGHT!!!

Possum left without killing any chickens or eating any eggs.  This is good.  Another interesting facet of the afternoon was my collection of eggs, post-possum: 

Eleven eggs, but one was laid without a shell.

Huh.

Thank you, God, for our day. 

It was really cold.  The end of my day was a sunset, -2*,  but! only a small breeze, not a wind.  Lucy German Shepherd and I got in a 2K walk in the snow (no running in this temp.) 

That Spouse o' Mine has got his call that he is on deck to get his Covid-19 Vaccination! 

It's been quite a good day.