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| View from our front porch |
Most Monday afternoons find me scribbling
away on my weekly (‘scribbling’, that is, by way of a keyboard), putting out
food for the house finches, squirrels, and blue jays, extracting fuzzy spiders
from the front window, answering email, and sipping hazelnut crème coffee.
Several times during the first three or
four days of the week, I wished the cover was off of the deck umbrella, because
I would’ve liked to sit at the glass patio table while I was typing. It’s much too sunny out there in the
afternoon to see my laptop screen, and too hot besides. But I can’t get the cover off unless I stand
on a chair, and even then it’s dicey, and I feel quite a lot as though I might go
tumbling right over the railing, and the ground is one story down.
The online quilting group that moved to
a new web address last week went through great throes of frustration,
aggravation, vexation, and perplexity last week when a whole lot of people
couldn’t sign in to the new group because the Captcha wasn’t working properly –
probably bamfoozled (sort of like ‘bamboozled’, only with more foozles) the poor
ol’ app by so many people trying to sign in all at once. To make matters worse, those Captchas are
hard to see, and the audio option is hard to hear, too.
Those who joined during the night didn’t
have as much trouble, probably because not so many were trying at once. I
was still approving people at 4:30 a.m. Tuesday morning – and then I hit the
hay. I finally scrambled out of the feathers again around 10:00, feeling
like a layabout.
While I dried and curled my freshly
washed hair, I read the funnies and the news (that’s the proper order), and then
ate breakfast. Yes, yes, I know it was nearly lunchtime, but I hadn’t had
anything to eat yet, and I refuse to eat lunch when I haven’t had breakfast.
Emails were coming in galore from people who were trying to sign in to the new
quilting group. But everyone would just
have to wait a bit for my VVEH (Very Valued and Esteemed Help). heh
I sympathize with people who can’t
figure out computer stuff. After all, it was only 16 years ago that I got
my first computer, and what did I know? Why, I didn’t know my mouse from
a duck. So I do my very best to help everyone.
After curls, coffee, comics, and breakfast,
that is.
Somebody had her usual fit about ‘making
Subject Lines match subject’ and about ‘untrimmed messages’. As if everyone didn’t have enough to worry
about. The way I look at the “Change the
Subject Line!” and “Shorten Your Message!” fuss is this: It hurts a whole
lot more people’s feelings a whole lot more to bawl them out for those things
than it does to let those things go. Many will stop posting, too, as they
often don’t know how to even do such things as change subject lines and shorten
messages, especially if they have just begun using unfamiliar devices such as
smartphones and tablets, where the webpages look considerably different. These are not the important things in life
(even though it seems to be the most important thing in some people’s
lives). I’d much rather read a nice note
from a nice lady telling all about the quilt she made for her grandchild, even
if it’s attached to a mile-long email full of previous emails, sporting the
wrong subject line, than to read an email griping and complaining about wrong
subject lines and untrimmed messages from someone who thinks she’s a good group
email policeperson (even though that same person doesn’t understand her
computer worth a hoot, and misspells one word after another, to boot). (Hey,
I made a rhyme! One gold star to me.)
Hair was curled... breakfast was done
et... the livestock was fed (cats, squoirrels, boids)... and I was halfway done
with the funnies, when a big box with three quilts arrived from a customer.
I paid some bills, talked with my
brother and then Larry on the phone, and wished Larry a happy birthday.
He was 55 that day, November 3rd. It was a lovely, sunshiny day, 73°.
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| Phalaenopsis orchid |
Lawrence had surgery that day. He’s 87, and had gotten so very weak the last
couple of weeks, we were worried about how he would get through this
surgery. Norma wrote to say that he had come through it well, and was
resting comfortably. They will know in a few days if it was cancer; the doctor
thinks it most likely is. He was released
from the hospital Thursday, and is home now.
Here's a Phalaenopsis orchid that used
to be my late sister-in-law Janice’s; we gave it to her for her birthday some
years back. Loren found it barely alive
last year... overwatered it... gave up, and gave it to me. Victoria repotted it -- and now it has
finally bloomed. There are two more buds
on it.
I started slogging my way through
emails from people who needed help joining and/or writing to the new quilting
group.
I have received emails from poor lost
souls saying they didn’t know their Yahoo ID – written from their Yahoo email
address. I received messages from people
saying they couldn’t remember the new group’s web address – written as a Reply
on the very email in which they were given the new group’s web address; the
link in question was not more than an inch below their signatures.
I was sympathetic, as noted. But... but... but... (in a Jack Benny tone) Are some of these
people completely sure they are using their computers, and not their
microwaves??
Yahoo IDs... passwords... email accounts...
Done losted. The kids who helped set things up in the first place... done
losted. (Or at least grown up and moved away.) Maybe the entire computer was lost. In
fact... maybe the whole house is lost, and the people are communicating via osmosis
from a city park bench!
To make matters worse, the Yahoo Captcha
was letting very few people join; it was evidently unable to cope with the
volume of people trying to join the group all at once. So even all those who knew perfectly well how
to join a new group – couldn’t.
I helped whom I could, then let
everyone sort out things for themselves for a few hours. It was time for me to, oh, maybe drink a cup
of coffee or pet the livestock.
Someone asked me if I was frustrated.
“Naaaaaaaaa...” I replied. “Mostly,
I’ve laughed quite a lot at all sorts of funny things. And a chicken
casserole is in the oven. I like
people... I like reading their emails...”
♫ ♪ Oh, they’re coming to take me away,
♫ ♪ haha, ♫ ♪ They’re coming to take me away, ♫ ♪ hee hee ♫ ♪ (maniacal laughter ensues)
A friend wrote, “My memory is
horrible. I tell my husband the same thing several times over again, and
he keeps listening attentively. Poor
guy.”
That reminded me of a Turkish penpal I
used to have, a young woman who lived in Germany. She wrote, “I can’t
remember if before I told you this already yet. But it’s okay, twice
holds better!”
We’ve said that ever since: “Twice
holds better.” (That first sentence, I
can never remember without actually reading it.)
And then Victoria came along, and at
age 4 remarked, after doing the same thing over again three or four times, “Oh,
well! Thirce and fource is better than nunce!”
Wednesday arrived, with the quilting
group’s problems still running rampant. I
have quilts to quilt! A house (complete, with animals and people) to take
care of! I have coffee to drink! I have emails to write! I
have Quaker Raisin, Date, & Walnut oatmeal to eat!
I did what I could (which wasn’t much; mostly
I just sat back and scratched my head and wondered, Huh? and patted people on
the shoulder in a comforting way whilst saying, “There, there”), and then let everyone
fend for themselves while I got on with my own business. The world would go on turning. The
group would recover eventually; nothing would blow up. Or if it did,
there’d just be that much less stuff to worry about.
I headed off to work on appliquéd roses
until time for church.
Or… at least… I didn’t mean to.
Once upon a time, I happily husked and
cooked some corn on the cob, given us by some friends. When the timer
went off, I grabbed the tongs, put an ear on everybody’s plate (there were nine
of us then, counting new baby Lydia, though she had no interest in corn on the
cob yet). I slathered butter over the corn, and called everyone to come
eat.
It smelled good.
But… it was inedible.
I’m not even sure but what it would
have been nigh to inedible for the cattle for whom it was most probably
intended. Furthermore, we had been bequeathed with a box full of the
stuff – a box about the size of a Volkswagen bus.
Our basement freezer had enough room,
so I drug that box down the stairs and stashed it away, the ears still in their
husks. A few nights later, hoping that that corn had not really been as
bad as all that, I pulled several ears of corn out of the freezer, husked and
cooked them.
It had really been as bad as all that.
Once again, we couldn’t eat it.
But I’m nothing if not persistent
(dumb, but persistent – I just couldn’t believe someone would actually give us field
corn); so, a week later, I tried it again. And I achieved the identical
outcome: corn on the cob, unfit for human consumption. (Yes, I know
that a symptom of insanity is doing the same thing over [and over] again,
hoping for a different result. But it’s a symptom of hope and optimism,
too, so there.) I tell you, the kernels on those cobs were as tough as
old boots.
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| Cyclamen |
Finally deciding that it was the corn
rather than my cooking that was at fault, I lugged that huge box back up the
stairs and heaved it into the Suburban. Then, when supper was over, we
drove out into the country and turned on an Enter at Your Own Risk road that
took us alongside the Loup Canal. Driving to a particularly picturesque
location near an old wooden bridge, we all climbed out, and I retrieved the
box, still nearly completely full of corn on the cob.
And then didn’t the children have a
riotous time, hurling all the corncobs into the canal. The huge old catfish
that inhabit the canal came churning through the water to grab those ears of
corn, making the water roil. I made sure the children didn’t step too
near the edge, and they made sure they didn’t hit each other in the back of the
head with their corncobs. That is, they tried to. Lacking that,
they instead made sure they themselves didn’t get hit in the back of the
head. Well…most of them, anyway. Hester, in the manner of
two-year-olds everywhere, either let loose of her cob too soon, or too
late. So, if she wasn’t pitching it off entirely the wrong direction, she
was dropping the thing, ker-WHUMP!, right on her own small, cute head.
Dorcas, winding up from the shoelaces,
accidentally and unknowingly spun herself around about 45 degrees; so that when
she flung the ear of corn, it wound up smacking her elder brother right in the
head, ka-THONK. He was not amused, and Dorcas was accordingly sent to the
end of the line, where she would be less of a hazard to her siblings.
As I watched the children flinging that
corn into the water, I thought, Well, anyway, at least I thanked my friend before
we tried to eat that stuff, rather than after, when I would’ve had trouble sounding
as if I really meant it.
The same neighbor who gave us the corn is
known for growing things beyond all bounds.
Her cucumbers grow up to be sequoias, her zucchinis turn into redwoods,
and her watermelons are more like Greyhound buses than sweet, edible
gourds. I think she imagines she’s getting more for her money, if she
lets her produce grow to gargantuan dimensions.
Her cooking is like her gardening –
often inedible. And… she is a very generous soul. :-O
One time she brought us a large tray of
biscuits.
They, uh,… looked good.
She visited for a few minutes, during
which time, luckily, no one attempted to eat a biscuit.
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| Valley behind Long Pine cabin |
She left, and three-year-old Lydia
picked up a biscuit and tried to take a bite. She tried.
She pulled it from her mouth, looked at
it with a vaguely puzzled expression, and tried again.
Her small white teeth wouldn’t even dent
that thing.
Her siblings, I could see, were clearly
on the verge of dissolving into laughter. I held up a hand to keep them
still, wanting to see what the child would do next.
She trotted over to the knife drawer,
pulled it open, and then, since she was not supposed to touch the knives,
pointed out the very large bread carving knife, looked at oldest sister Hannah,
held out her biscuit, and asked, “Could you chop this?”
‘Chop this.’
That did it, everyone cracked right up.
Some time later, I heard another big
burst of laughter from the back yard. Now, mothers know they should check
on their children if a) they’re too quiet, or b) things are too funny. I
checked.
There was Teddy in golfer’s stance,
golf club in hand, just teeing off – and on the ground in front of him,
balancing on a bright red tee – was a biscuit.
Post Script: We don’t golf; we
found that club while hiking way back in the mountains. Someone down in the valley must’ve really
given that thing a fling.
About 15 years ago, my sister-in-law,
Janice, brought us a dozen ears of Daniels’ sweet corn, purchased from one of
their roadside trucks.
“Would you husk the corn?” I asked the
littles at suppertime. (We called the four youngest ‘the littles’,
separated as they were from the older five by a span of four years.)
“Oka–” Hester started to
answer, but was interrupted by her smallest sister.
“YES!!!” cried Victoria gladly,
heading off on a dead run.
By the time her elder siblings reached
the kitchen, she had an entire ear completely husked, clean as a whistle.
“There!” she announced, looking at that ear in pleased satisfaction. And
then, before anyone could say a word, CHOMP!! She took a big
bite out of it.
She chewed. Her eyes got
big. She leaned over and spit it out. “It’s not good!” she
exclaimed in total dismay. “Do we have to throw it away?!”
Hester, Lydia, and Caleb went into
peals of laughter.
“No,” I explained, taking the ear from
Victoria’s outstretched hand. “We just have to cook it first.”
Victoria sat back, a wee bit subdued,
eyes still large. “Oh,” said she.
And then she reached for another ear to
husk.
We had a houseful of kids, kids’
friends, and grandkids Wednesday night after church. And it was lots of fun, too. There were
Kurt and Victoria, his brother Jared and Victoria’s friend Robin (who happens
to be Kurt and Jared’s cousin), then along came Lydia with Jacob and Jonathan.
Larry and I had gone to the store after church and gotten a bunch of fresh
vegetables and fruit, so I cut up all colors of peppers, broccoli, cauliflower,
radishes, carrots, cucumbers, and asparagus while Victoria and Robin cooked
chicken breast filets.
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| Those shoes are... bright. |
Jonathan, who will be 2 in a couple of
months, loved the little pear-shaped red tomatoes (‘doe-MAY-doze’, he calls
them), and every time I gave him one, he smiled and said, “Think yew” so
sweetly, I wanted to hug him. I gave the little boys each a bag to take
home some of the vegetables, and then Larry found a box of blueberry/pomegranate
Greek frozen yogurt bars from Schwan’s in the freezer that I had forgotten all
about, and went to doling those out.
Mmmm, good stuff.
We saw Helen (whose husband Delmar
passed away a couple of weeks ago) at the store that night. Upon spotting me, she promptly reached into
her purse and pulled out a CD of the beautiful music that was played and sung
at the funeral and gave it to me. I loved all the music. Helen and
I have always loved the same kinds of songs.
And Helen never quits giving.
Somebody wrote a message to the quilting
group that evening: “I have not been
able to sign up. I enjoy this group, and want to be part of the new one.”
Lady #2 responded: “Hi, Bridgett! Did you know that you posted your message on
the new group?”
Hee hee... This reminds me of a story one of Larry’s
uncles tells of the time when he was in the Navy, and was required to swim a
certain distance. Never a good swimmer, this made him nervous. He
swam and swam... then, thinking he really couldn’t swim another stroke, began
thrashing around and yelling for help. When he finally stopped yelling
long enough to hear what people were saying, he realized they were telling him,
“Just stand up! Stand up!” – he was only in four feet of water.
That’s the story I think of when I see
posts from some of these poor souls, proclaiming, “Waaaaaaa! I can’t get
signed in! The world is coming to an end! We’re doomed!!!” – and
they’re writing from the very group they think they’re blocked out of, right
that very minute.
I’ve tried telling a few of them that
they are indeed members, and all is well – but I don’t receive any
response. So away I go again, babbling
incoherently.
And then there are those who get all
bent up like a pretzel because someone tells a story, and they take it oh, ever
so personally.
We know can’t discuss politics or
religion; now we know we cannot discuss nursing, either. One person tells of a bad experience; the
next person imagines her to mean, “All nurses are baaaaaaad!!! Booooooo, hisss!” and away she goes,
departing the group in a huff, ne’er to be seen no mo’, no mo’, no mo’. Come to think of it, I’ve seen ladies get
into near-arguments over quilting. Maybe we’d better not discuss quilting,
either. Maybe we could talk about the weather? Nope, not that, either. There would be a fuss over what constitutes a
deluge, versus a downpour. (siggggghhhhhh...)
Well, people can go and come as they
please. Everyone has opinions about just about everything, and they aren’t
going to be the same. We can either listen, ignore, argue, or depart in a
fit of pique. May they slam the door on their own puffed-out tails as they
go. (Old Irish blessing.)
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| Larry fishing at Keller State Park |
Isn’t it funny how, in real life,
people can seem quite normal, and then be all nasty and get-in-your-face
online... or, contrariwise, can be a complete sweetie pie online, while being a
horrid bearcat in person?
Sometimes it’s best just to sip coffee
and eat popcorn.
Late that night (or rather, very early
Thursday morning) I finished stitching down the pieces on the roses
appliqué block. I updated the pdf
file with a photo of the completed block.
I’m planning an entire quilt based on
these blocks, and the more I get done, the more pleased I am with it. I’ll
have five or six flower blocks at the bottom of the quilt... maybe a row
with three or four above that... some nearly blank blocks next, with birds and
butterflies at the top. That’s the vague picture in my mind at the
moment, anyway.
It was so pretty that day, I went out
and took some photos of the autumn colors
as seen from our front porch – and a couple of cats who were enjoying it with
me.
Speaking of cats... when I went back
inside, Tabby came ‘mee-mee-meeing’ for his soft food, so I pulled a little can
out of the box, reached for the ergonomic hook I use to open pull-tab cans—but
it had gone AWOL. “Meee!” explained
Tabby.
I pulled ineffectually at the tab. “Meee?” queried the cat.
“I can’t find the opener!” I told him.
“Meeee!!” exclaimed Tabby in amazement.
I hunted around for the tool.
(“Meeeeee-meeee,” said Tabby in a
partly mournful, partly alarmed tone.)
I fired off a couple of texts to Larry
and Victoria: “Somebody moved the thing
for opening cans, and I can’t get Tabby’s can of food open. L
”
“It’s in the knife drawer, I think,”
replied Victoria.
“I didn’t do it,” replied Larry.
I finally found it in the measuring cup
drawer, buried.
Tabby was relieved. “Meee!”
Having a WNB (Wonderful New Boyfriend)
seems to be making Victoria a bit more twitterpated than usual! This isn’t the first thing that has gone
inexplicably missing in the last few days.
That afternoon, I had a name to
embroider on a work sweatshirt for a coworker of Victoria’s. (Thanks for offering my free services, dear daughter
of mine.) (“It’ll just take you a minute,
right?”)
First, I tried removing the old name
from the sweatshirt. Ugh, that didn’t go well. I hunted in my
smallish stash for a piece of dark green that would match. I had no jersey knit, but I finally found a
piece of dark green with a narrow off-white plaid running through it. I machine-embroidered the name onto the
fabric, then appliquéd the small patch over the old name.
Victoria was quite positive management
would never approve. I thought they
probably would, on account of the fact that they are not picky about the shade
of tan the employees wear in pants, slacks, or skirts, nor are they particular
about shoes – in fact, it seems they all try to outdo each other in
knock-your-eyes-out shoe color.
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| Would you believe, that little stack of embroidery floss cost $27.50?! |
I was correct. The patch is fine and dandy, thankfully. I didn’t want to redo that thing.
Speaking of stashes, a friend (who has
a self-described stash ‘the size of Montana’) remarked, “Children always look
forward to the traditional enjoyment of cleaning out their parents’ home when
the time comes. I must not deny mine the pleasure.” Hee hee
Once the sweatshirt was done, I loaded
the first of my customer’s three quilts onto my quilting frame.
AAaaaaaaa!!! The hugest spider I’ve seen in a long time
just came sauntering across the floor, I tried to whack it with a magazine,
didn’t quite reach it well enough to disable it much – and it rushed off and escaped!
Furthermore, it was heading in the direction of my bedroom!
I wonder how much we could get for our
house if I listed it to sell quick, within a couple of hours, say? Ooooooooo... that old creepy-crawly feeling is
running up and down my back...
* * *
An hour later...
There’s the spider! There’s the
spider! Whooaaaaaaa. He’s big. Scyooozee a moment...
SMMMUSHSHSHSH
Okay. All is well again.
Yeah, yeah, I know the BHs (Bleeding
Hearts) would have me release him back into the wild. But 1) he lost all
rights of survivorship upon entrance to my territory, and 2) he would doubtless
turn around and march right straight back in after I deposited him outside, ’cuz
it’s cold out there and cozy in here. Therefore, SMUSH.
Do you look back at your days, upon
arriving at the end of them, to see what you’ve accomplished? Sometimes, I can’t tell exactly what I was
doing, but whatever it was, it sure was a time-consumer. The day after the quilting group changed to a
new site, it seems maybe I was just sitting in front of my laptop, glassy-eyed,
staring at the screen, scratching my head, rubbing my chin, and muttering, “Eh? Whozit?
Wherezit? Whyzit? Eh?” and suchlike.
Friday afternoon, I packed me glad rags
– we wuz a-goin’ to the cabin at Long Pine.
The suitcases, camera case, laptop case, and embroidery case were packed
and ready to go, and I was just starting to collect some edibles, when, of all
things, Larry came home! Wasn’t it just
last week that I was going on (and on) about his persistent (and consistent)
lateness?? What, did he read my
journal??! :-O (Or maybe he was just looking forward to
going hunting and fishing.)
He helped load the Jeep, and we were
heading north before 6:00 p.m. We stopped
at the Wal-Mart in Norfolk so Larry could get some new gloves. He got
some last week – and then gave them to our brother-in-law John H. for his
birthday.
Meanwhile, back home it was Date Night
and Victoria and her friend Robin were making homemade pizza for Kurt.
We got to the cabin at 9:30 p.m.
When the owners know we are coming, they unlock the door and leave a light on
for us. It was only 29° there that night,
and there’s only one heater in the cabin – and none in the bathroom. Good
thing the cabin’s not too awfully big.
We carried everything in, and soon I
was sitting at the pretty little round table (not King Arthur’s) eating Thompson
and red grapes and sipping Cameron’s French vanilla almond coffee. I don’t
know where those grapes were grown, but they must’ve had a humdinger of a harvest,
because one Thompson grape nearly filled my palm, and was almost too big to pop
into my mouth whole. Mmmm, they’re sweet
and good.
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| Long Pine Creek, in the valley behind our cabin |
On the other side of the table, Larry was
playing with his new Doe Bleat. I kept looking at the back patio door,
which looks out over a deep wooded valley, to make sure a big buck wasn’t about
to crash its way into the room.
What’s a ‘Doe Bleat’, you ask?
It’s a deer call – sounds like a doe in
heat, and is supposed to bring in the bucks. A foreigner in the sports
department where Larry bought it was explaining the device to another foreigner:
“I used it just for two minutes, and the
men started on a-comin’!” (He meant, ‘bucks’.) Larry was still laughing when he came out of
the store.
Back when Larry owned an auto body
shop, one of our customers owned a gas station that was a check-in point
for hunters. The man’s wife, Sandi, was manning the station one evening
when about four hunters in quick succession brought their deer
in. Sandi, as you will see, knows little about deer.
(“But I’m learning!” she informed
Larry, laughing as her husband told on her.)
“My, what long antenna your deer has!”
she remarked to the first hunter. “And they’re so curvy, too!”
To the next, having learnt ‘antenna’
wasn’t quite right, and elicited great guffaws from men in general and hunters
in particular, she observed, “My! Just look at those fangs!” which
brought an even louder response, to her chagrin.
Resolving to keep her comments to
herself, the better to mask her ignorance, she asked the following hunter in a
business-like tone, “Male or female?”
He stared incredulously, looking from
her to his enormous ten-point bull.
“Well, at least I know how to
make cookies!” Sandi countered, and she proceeded to fill a sack full for
us.
The embroidery I’d brought along was a Bucilla
cross-stitched butterfly quilt. I took
it out of the package and started on the first butterfly. Here’s what the
finished quilt will look like:
Dark and early Saturday morning, Larry
went out hunting. He saw a doe with a
young fawn – then a big buck came hurrying along, doubtless brought by the Doe
Bleat. And then Larry discovered that his
scope had gotten knocked slightly askew in the journey to Long Pine.
The buck lives on.
When he returned to the cabin, he took
the Jeep to the little village of Long Pine to get milk, butter, and bread (Sun-Maid
raisin bread! – we haven’t had that for a looong time). We ate breakfast, then climbed up the (steep!)
hill to the owners’ lovely house and gave them the Long Pine cabin wall
hanging. They were delighted with it, and the lady had already decided
where to hang it before we went back out the door. She will keep it in her house, where she can
see it every day, she said, not in the cabin, where she can’t monitor
it. The lady gave me a great big squishy hug, and the man looked like he
was about to, but then changed his mind and went to patting on my shoulder instead.
Larry said it was because I looked like this:
Then Larry had a nap while I embroidered
a little more on the butterfly quilt; now it will languish again for months,
probably. I’ve had the Bucilla butterfly kit (and the Bucilla bird
kit, too) for a couple of years, I think. Too many things on my to-do
list! But I’m keeping it handy, and I’ll be picking it up every time we
have company or are somewhere where I can’t use my sewing machine. Too bad I can’t work on it as we drive! But I’ve tried embroidering and cross-stitching
in vehicles, and the results are not good.
For starters, I can’t get the needle to go into the fabric where I want
it to, and secondly, I invariably stab myself and bleed all over the piece.
A friend, taking note of that
‘languishing quilt’ remark, promptly teased me about it: “Be still my beating heart! Sarah Lynn has a UFO!!!” (Unfinished Fabric Object)
I retorted quickly, “Cross-stitch doesn’t
count! Cross-stitch doesn’t count! (Does it?) How many stitches do I have to put in it per
week for it to be called a WIP (Work in Progress) instead of a UFO?”
Another lady joined in the fracas and
informed us, “From now on I’m not working on UFOs. I’m completing my PhD:
Projects Half Done.”
Yet another remarked, “My friends call
my affliction of never completing quilts ‘ADOS’: Attention Deficit—OH! SHINY!” (Variation:
substitute ‘squirrel’ for ‘shiny’.)
Nuthatches and chickadees were flitting
about boisterously on the trees just outside our patio door. I got a few pictures of the nuthatch, none
very good, and nary a one of the elusive chickadees.
Again, I forgot to bring bird
seed!
* * * Okay, there, I’ve
put it on my Vacation Supply List, and will remember next time. There are
a couple of feeders on a wrought iron post behind the cabin, right where I
could get perfect shots – with a lovely background – from the patio
doors.
Then
we headed north toward Keller State Park, stopping at the archery range on the
way so Larry could get the scope on his crossbow sighted in properly.
It was a pretty day at the Keller Lakes
and forest. Larry caught six rainbow
trout and kept five. He cleaned them
when we got home; they’re in the freezer now.
Someday soon we’ll have trout for supper.
We headed for home about 6:45 p.m.
It’s a three-hour drive. We made it longer by stopping in O’Neill for
supper.
We listened to the football game as we
drove – and the Huskers won the game, beating Michigan 39-38. The
post-game show came on. You know, there are only so many times coaches
and teammates can answer the same questions, posed over and over (and over)
again in only slightly different ways, without jabbering like doofuses.
We started counting how many times each one said ‘you know’.
Sarah Lynn: 1 (see above)
Coach Riley: 328,921
We walked into our house to discover
Victoria making dough for rolls for Sunday’s dinner. She’d already made pizza (for us – but we
were full, so Larry saved it for lunch Monday and Tuesday), using up the rest
of the ingredients from the previous night, and she’d baked and pureéd the rest
of the pie pumpkins. The house was nice and clean, and she finished by washing
all the dishes she’d used.
She always has been prone to
cooking/cleaning sprees, but I’m telling you, this new-boyfriend stuff is
providing new inspiration. :-D
Earlier that night, Kurt washed Victoria’s
car, and thoroughly cleaned the inside. Yep, I’d say they like each
other.
Sunday morning, Victoria started a
roast in the slow cooker and potatoes in the oven. The potatoes got done before we left for
church. I put them into the
refrigerator, warmed them when we got home, and Victoria made mashed potatoes. She made carrots and crescent rolls; I made
lettuce salad and gravy. We had grapes
for dessert.
Yes, that is too a dessert! Whatever we eat last is a dessert. Because I said so.
We had a houseful of kids after church
last night – Kurt, Victoria, her friend Robin; and Caleb and Maria and their
new little boxer puppy, whom they’ve named Sadie. I held her and had my
chin thoroughly washed by her little pink tongue.
 |
| Gone fishin' |
The kids all got here before we did,
because after church we visited first with my brother Loren, and then we took
Bobby some of our dinner’s leftovers for his lunch today. He and Hannah do that for Larry now and then,
so we returned the favor – in their very own divided, lidded bowl, heh.
We visited with Bobby and Hannah for a little while... came home – and
discovered we had more company than we’d expected!
Victoria had made pumpkin/chocolate
chip muffins with cream cheese frosting, and Maria had brought chips and some
of her yummy homemade hot, cheesy dip.
Caleb, while waiting for us to get home, cleaned out the coffee maker
with vinegar.
Upon finding him in the midst of this
task, I announced, “You’re hired!”
After they all headed for home, Victoria
sat down to play the piano, and Larry got out his tablet to look up a few
things.
This morning for breakfast, I toasted a
slice of raisin bread and put strawberry jelly from Ireland (gift from Andrew
and Hester) on it. Mmmmm, yummy.
It’s sunshiny and 63°. I just
filled the bird feeder. The house finches, blue jays, and squirrels are
trying hard not to share any seed or nuts with each other. The blue jay
out there at the moment has perfected his imitation of a red-tailed hawk,
though he’s considerably louder than a hawk.
He issues his cry as he swoops in from maple tree to feeder, and let me
tell you, even the biggest of the squirrels high-tails it (literally) right
outa there.
It’s so funny... the squirrels
skedaddle pell-mell down the deck post and dash headlong to the cottonwood
tree... run up it and try to hide in the first crotch of big branch and main
trunk... look back at the feeder... see it’s merely one o’ them thar pesky ol’
blue jays – and then don’t they go to swishing their tail around and
chattering, all peeved and piqued.
I have three customer quilts to
do! And the lady has already paid me. She made them for Christmas
gifts, so I need to get them back to her quickly.
I’m making a pot of coffee, and then
off I go. Do you want Cameron’s French Vanilla Almond, or Eight O’Clock’s
Caramel Macchiato?
Oooops!
Coffee twubbles.
I texted Caleb: “The coffee ran through so fast, my coffee
mug runneth over! (Plus, it was my big black mug, and the kitchen lights
were off, so I couldn’t see when it was full.)
Please send a large Swiffer.
“Actually, I caught it before more than
a spoonful overflowed. Tastes fine, though I can smell a slight whiff of
vinegar.
“So thanks for the KP duty!”
I’m not doing a very good job of
concentrating on what I’m writing – because Victoria is playing the piano, and
she and Robin are singing Heaven At Last, I’ve Reached the Harbor. It’s so pretty. Those girls can sing.
I love to hear them.
Upon hearing about the troubles with
the Yahoo groups, a friend wrote to ask what was causing all the problems. I replied, “So you want to know what the
trouble with Yahoo groups is, do you?? Huh huh huh huh, do you???
It’s this: They’re full of people! Bwahahaha!”
She responded, “Yes, and they’re just
so... people-y! Well, just keep in mind,
you can’t teach a fish to breathe.”
“Or a pig to sing!” I retorted. “Trying
to do so exasperates the teacher and confuses the pig.” Then, “I wish to state one more point: Important people hurt my head.”
A little later, after reading a news
article about an extremely important person – mostly, self-important – who
thinks he can sing, I decided, It would be better opting to teach pigs to fly.
That ‘people-y’ remark reminded me of the
following:
Once upon a time, I asked the kids if
they wanted to go to a certain museum not too far away. Hester, who was about 11 or 12,
declined.
 |
| Milkweed |
She considered. “Well, I just
think museums are so... museumish!” she said.
Hee hee I was actually of the
same opinion. Give me a good hiking trail any ol’ day, rather than a
museum!
For the most part, the group
switch-over is resolved. It looks like
all my favorite online-friends have finally made their way past that bothersome
Captcha app, and are in like Flynn.
There are a little over 200 people on the group, whereas nearly 3,500
were listed on the old group. However,
it’s much busier with chat than the old group was, for some reason. I suspect a good many of those 3,500 members
had quit the group without removing their names, probably some have passed
away, and others may have signed in with a new address and neglected to delete
the old.
A stupid squirrel dancing the
hootenanny dance up on the roof this morning woke me up much earlier than I
wanted to wake up. I walked out on the
deck and glared at him, and he scampered away chattering, “All right, all
right, I’m going! Good grief, can’t a
guy do a little toe-scuff-stomp without getting the ol’ evil eye?”
Dumb little rodent!
,,,>^..^<,,, Sarah Lynn,
always fair and balanced ,,,>^..^<,,,
(or at least she gives Fox News a good run for their
money)
(and when she is prejudiced, it’s always the other
guy’s fault)
(and whatever you think, I wasn’t talking about you.)
(Or if I was, you must learn to laugh at yourself. Go ahead, laugh! It’ll do you good.)
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