Journal: ♫ ♪ When You're Hot, You're Hot; ♪ ♫ & When You're Cold, You're Cold ♫ ♪

 

These pictures just scrolled through on my screensaver – a redpoll, from the finch family.  We only get them now and then as they are migrating through.  I haven’t seen any this winter; these photos are from 2018.  The wind kept ruffling his pantaloons!

Last Monday evening, I put mystery meat, potatoes, and carrots in the Instant Pot.  

An hour later, we had supper.  The mystery meat turned out to be pork – so I had seasoned it just right, with salt, pepper, Thyme and Ultimate Steak Seasoning by Tastefully Simple Seasonings.  The steak seasoning has a variety in it that works for either beef or pork.

As I type, there are a couple of cottontail rabbits playing out in the front yard.  They run pell-mell around one of the Douglas firs, then one switches directions with a sudden about-face, making Bunny No. 2 take a vertical jump three feet straight upwards, while Bunny No. 1 runs swiftly underneath No. 2 and on around to the other side of the tree.

I once told Loren, when he was at Prairie Meadows, about a rabbit that had been hopping about in my yard, hiding under the firs, and getting startled out of several year’s-worth of growth when I took down a volunteer mulberry tree that was growing in and amongst the same tree under which the bunny had taken refuge, unbeknownst to me.

It was only a matter of minutes before Loren was telling me that he’d gone outside to get some wood (he pointed out his window to the enclosed courtyard), and when he picked up a small log, he scared a rabbit that was hiding under the logs. 

It leaped out, bit him on the finger – “Right through my gloves!” he said, showing me an unscathed finger – “and when I came running in the house to get a Band-aid” (pointing at the door of his room), “that bunny kept trying to get in my door!  I finally had to give him a good boot” (he demonstrated, with vigor) “before I could get the door shut!”

The first guy’s story always pales.

That evening, we received some sad news:  Hester had suffered a late miscarriage.  She and Andrew were on their way to Methodist in Omaha.

Andrew texted me the next morning:  “Hester woke up fine from the anesthesia and we got home during the night.  She will rest for the next day or so.”

I was relieved to hear that Hester was all right, but so sad they had lost their baby.

It was a pretty, sunshiny day, 43°, on the way up to 58°.  I ordered some groceries for Andrew and Hester and their family, then headed upstairs to continue with the photo scanning until time to pick up the groceries.  I was ready to start on the fifth album.

A little before 5:00 p.m., I got a notice saying my order was ready – followed immediately by another notice saying that there were substitutions.  

Auugghh, I dint want no s’tutions!

I looked to see what they had substituted.  It was the Panera Bread chicken noodle soup.  They substituted Marketside chicken noodle soup for it.  Boooo, hissss!

Siggghhhh...  There’s nothing really wrong with Marketside’s chicken noodle soup; it’s just that Panera Bread’s is so much better.

I finished a text conversation I was having with Hannah, writing, “Sure hope I don’t have to get out and hitchhike or sumpthin’, ’cuz I’ve got on a white denim skirt, a dusty lilac (not dust as in ‘dirt’; dusty as in ‘hue’) sweater, a purple cardigan with shawl collar, the dark purple-mauve chenille scarf you once made Loren (or Janice?), dark brown knee socks with a few mottled stripes at the top, and dark grayish-green shoes.  Mrs. Borchers to the power of ten.”

(Mrs. Borchers was a sweet elderly neighbor lady known for her colorful, mismatching get-ups.)

I told Hannah goodbye... headed off... then came back and added, “And craft glasses.  I headed out the door with craft glasses.  Changing them...  Okay, now I’m all set!”

“Joanna was talking about how it is becoming trendy to wear busy outfits,” Hannah told me in a show of solidarity and camaraderie.

“If you cause someone to have an epileptic fit, is that too busy?” I asked.  😂

Then off I went to Walmart.

Having told Andrew I would let him know when I was coming, I texted him, “I’m at Walmart now, picking up the order, but there are a lot of cars ahead of me, and more pulling in all the time.  Could be a while.”  And then, “There’s even a racecar!” with an accompanying photo.

I barely got that sent before a girl headed out the door and came straight toward the Merc.  “Oh!  She’s here with the groceries!” I texted Andrew.

I had ordered Panera Bread soups in Broccoli and Cheese and Baked Potato, and the aforementioned Chicken Noodle, for which Marketside was substituted; Sesame Seed and ‘Everything’ French breads, Sweet Hawaiian Club and Chicken in a Biskit crackers, Mott’s cinnamon applesauce, Dole Pineapple/Orange/Banana 100% juice, and Kiwi/Strawberry 100% juice.

I hoped the groceries would be enough to provide for two or three easy meals.

Hester was doing well, and everyone greeted me with their usual love and cheeriness.

Keira, 7, was playing hopscotch in the living room with some big, bright foam pieces especially marked for various indoor hopscotch games.  She had a big book showing a variety of ways to play the game, and, in typical Keira fashion, she carefully studied the book before popping back up to give a new series of hops and jumps a try.

“But what’s with the ‘stone’?” she asked me.

I offered my somewhat misty memory of hopscotch protocol.  The ‘rules’ my friends and I followed whilst playing hopscotch may very well have been totally made up as we went along.  I recall tossing enough stones onto our sidewalk chalk diagram that every square was covered, and, in our efforts to avoid those squares, we had to back away, get a run at it, and take wild flying leaps to get over them all.  I have no idea if anyone else played hopscotch that way.

Keira was intrigued.  I hope she doesn’t launch herself through the living room window, trying to follow Grandma’s directives!

Oliver, 3, then showed me his Lego navy boat.  When I asked if it could travel quickly on water, Oliver, in typical Oliver fashion, raised one eyebrow high while lowering the other.  Without a word, he turned the little boat over, looked it over carefully, then shook his head, looking back up at me slowly with a small, sideways grin.  Grandmas, tsk.  Oliver is a realist.  😂

Hester and her sweet family will be all right.  For, someday in heaven, we will see that little baby she lost; that’s what we believe.

That evening, I received a notification that Trevor’s late Christmas gift had made it to Knoxville, Tennessee.  I wrote to tell Dorcas.

“Was it the tortoise shirt?” she answered.  “If so... we got it yesterday.  He put it on immediately.  😄”

“The Japanese tracker is running as late as the package itself!” I replied.  “Yes, it was the tortoise shirt.”

“He really likes it,” said Dorcas.  “He’s kinda picky with fabrics, but he said it was really soft.”

“That’s good,” I responded.  “It would be a revoltin’ development if it wasn’t very nice, after the long wait!”

Dorcas agreed, and told of a few clothing items she’d gotten for herself, but the fabrics were so uncomfortable, she gave them to the Goodwill after trying to wear them a few times.

A couple of years ago, I got a beautiful sweater on eBay that I really, really want to wear.  But it gives me rip-roarin’ hives just looking at it from across the room!  (I nevah, evah exaggerate.)  It’s wool – but certainly not cashmere or alpaca.  

Yak, more likely.  Or maybe woolly mammoth.  Porcupine, possibly.

If we could afford Vicuña wool, the most expensive wool yardage or fabric in the world, we’d never have another itch.  It’s known as ‘the gold of the Andes,’ prized for its extreme rarity, incredible softness, and warmth, coming from wild South American camelids, with prices reaching hundreds of dollars per ounce.  I saw it being sold as 60”-wide yardage – at $5,000.00 a yard.  😮  

The Vicuña looks like a llama or an alpaca, but it’s even littler and more delicate than the alpacas.

Here’s the yarn – and here are some gloves a skillful hand-knitter made with that yarn.  She says it is so very soft, it’s difficult to work with.  She did it, though, and beautifully, too, don’t you agree?  The lady writes well, too:  Nimble Needles

At 11:30 a.m. Wednesday morning, it was a sunny 46°, on the way up to 60°.  After giving the kitchen a quick clean, I headed back upstairs to scan pictures.

I got about 250 pictures scanned before time for our midweek church service that evening.

Afterwards, we had a late supper of spiral sliced ham, Mediterranean seasoned vegetables, applesauce, and white grape-peach juice, with a big white chocolate chip/macadamia nut cookie for dessert.  I ate only half of mine, and saved the rest for the next day.

Then I made myself a mug of Thompson Irish tea and retired to my recliner.

Thursday, I scanned and cropped 98 loose photos from a box I found at Loren’s house.

This box makes me scratch my head.  At the bottom are pictures that were Norma’s, just a handful; while at the top are pictures of Loren’s boys when they were very little.  And then, just to add to the confusion, there are some of my kids when they were little, and one of my niece Susan and me from about 30 years ago.  Oh, and one of Larry and me the night he gave me my Lindy Star ring, precursor to my engagement ring.  That would’ve been Christmas of 1977.

It’s like a junk drawer, only there are pictures in it.  🤔⁉️

I would suppose that the box sat out somewhere, and first Janice, and then later, Norma, pitched pictures into it now and then as they walked past – except Norma’s pictures are on the bottom, and the ones on top are even before Janice’s time.

 Here are Loren’s two oldest boys.  Paul, three months, was born October 30, 1958; Richard, one year three months, was born November 5, 1957.  They were two and three years older than me, respectively.

Here’s Larry on Sandy, Aunt Lynn’s first horse, which came with the farm near Trinidad, Colorado.  Judging by his and his siblings’ ages in these photos, and the leaves on the trees, it was 1963, and Larry would’ve been 2 ½.

Below are Larry’s grandfather Leonard Jackson and father Lyle Jackson, working on a 1940 Buick Special Touring Sedan.  The tractor on the left also came with the farm. 

Grandpa Jackson got both the tractor and the Buick sedan running.  He often fixed up old vehicles and equipment, and then sold them once he’d gotten them working.  So now we know where Larry got that inclination!

After supper that evening, I made myself a tall mug of cranberry-lemon Celsius.  I put it in the mug I usually use for cold-brewed coffee, since the other one contained some peach herbal iced tea that I was sharing with Larry.  By the time I picked it up to get a drink, I’d forgotten I had put Celsius in it, and, expecting cold brew, startled my tastebuds out of their doldrums with that sourish cranberry-lemon Celsius.  😲

The rain that had been falling most of the day froze when the temperature dropped after dark.  I went out on the back deck to bring in the bird feeders, and discovered that the deck had gotten very slick.

Larry, meanwhile, had shot two deer that day, and was out in his building skinning and butchering them.

Here’s another of the old pictures I found in that box:  Loren with his first German Shepherd, Black Bullet, who loved to ride with him on his Yamaha.

The back deck was still slippery Friday morning when I went out to rehang the bird feeders.  It was bright and sunny by a quarter ’til nine, but it was only 22°, with a windchill of 11°.  The high would be 36°.

I was getting ready for the seniors’ dinner – that is, dinner with the kids who are seniors and will be graduating this year.  That includes our grandson Jeffrey, Teddy and Amy’s fourth child.  

Larry decided to wash a load of clothes this morning – right before I went to take a shower.  Guess what that does? 😳

We have a 120-gallon hot water tank; that’s plenty big.  The problem is that there are momentary spikes of either cold or hot, when the washing machine is running through its various cycles.  What’s the solution for that?

It’s rarely a problem, since I don’t turn it on when Larry takes a shower, and he’s usually already gone to work when I take a shower.  Now that he’s partially retired, however, he’ll be home more, and this has the potential to become a more frequent possibility.

One friend suggested a pressure tank on the well system to eliminate those spikes.  Another recommended the continuous flow (aka ‘on demand’ aka ‘tankless’) water heater.

Those methods would indeed work; but I know a cheaper way.  >> evil sniggle <<  I’ll just turn the washing machine on sometime when Larry is taking a shower!  He will then remember for a good three-to-six months.  😅

That day my cold brew flavor was Pecan Torte Jingle Java.  As usual, no additives; just black cold brew.  And it was goooood.  Jingle Java is eggnog-flavored with cinnamon and spices.

Soon it was time to head to the church, where we had a lovely meal in the Fellowship Hall.  Afterwards, we had pictures taken with Jeffrey, then with Jeffrey, Teddy, and Amy.

In some of my recently scanned old photos, I took note of how many times Caleb and Maria were side by side at school, doing things together.  Caleb is 5 ½ months older than Maria and he was a grade ahead of her in school, but in those earlier days of our school when there were less students and less teachers, sometimes two classes (or even three, at the very beginning) were in the same room.  

No wonder Caleb once said, some time after he and Maria got married, “The reason I got so tall (6’ 2”, I think) is because once I decided I liked Maria, I thought it would be nice if she wasn’t taller than me!” 

Maria is 5’ 7”?  5’ 8”?  Not sure.  Anyway, here they are on a field trip to Poppy’s Pumpkin Patch north of town in 2004 or 2005.

I was glad to find pictures of Ethan in that album, too, taken at Christmas time when he was 1 ½.  He’s 21 now.

Saturday morning when I took a shower, there was a new problem.  Something was wrong with either the water heater or the pipes, somewhere.  The water was waaaay too hot.   My first alert was when I nearly scalded a finger just brushing my teeth.  Therefore, I was verrrrry careful when taking a shower.  I had to turn the cold on full and the hot water on only a little, when usually I have the heat on full, and the cold turned down somewhat.  

Then Larry went downstairs and discovered cold water pipes either sweating profusely or actually leaking.  He said they were more likely sweating, as it nearly stopped after I finished showering, and the pipe from whence the water was coming is a main with 65 pounds of pressure, and the leaking would’ve probably continued, if indeed it had been leaking.

I said it was more likely leaking, since 1) it had never sweat like that before, 2) a lot more hot than cold was flowing through the shower head, and 3) whatever the worst scenario is, that’s usually the one that’s happening.

Larry turned a fan onto the wet area and called it good.  I didn’t go downstairs and look; but if he called it a ‘puddle’, it was more likely a ‘small pond’.

By 11:00 a.m., the temperature had risen to 34°, and the windchill was 20°.  The wind was gusting up to 23 mph.

Victoria used to take the funniest ‘selfies’ when she was little.  She also liked to take pictures of her shoes, ankles crossed and extended in front of something scenic, such as a mountain lake.  Here’s one of the pictures Victoria took of her shoes.  

She was 8, and these were the first clogs she’d ever had.  They were all leather.  We found them at a secondhand store, in like-new condition.  Victoria loved them.  The toes are damp from the dewy grass in this picture, taken at a campground in southern Colorado.  Victoria was a bit concerned over their state, but they dried all right.

She took this shot of herself, and these of me, too.  All were taken in 2005.

On the rural radio that morning, the newscaster related the following statistic:  Summer of 2025 saw 354 tickets for 100+ mph, the highest in a decade.

This brought back a memory – “I do remember my faults this day,” as Pharaoh’s chief butler (or cupbearer) said in Genesis 41:9.

I was going north on the Highway 81 four-lane on the way to Norfolk.  I had the cruise set on the speed limit.  (Well, maybe a mile or two over; but don’t tell anybody.)  There was construction in the south-going lanes, with the speed limit lowered accordingly.  I did not know they had also lowered the speed limit – down to something unimaginably slow, like 40 mph or so – for the north-going lanes, and was passing a truck where the sign was posted, so I did not see it.

Suddenly there were flashing lights in my rear-view mirror.  I pulled over.  A state trooper (who, I would later find out, had gone to school in Columbus and was in my grade, though not in any of my classes) walked up to my window, looked at me for a moment, then grinned and said, “You don’t look like a desperado.”

I laughed and assured him that I hadn’t robbed a convenience store in the recent past.

He let me go with a verbal warning, allowing as how they should’ve posted a sign with the lowered speed limit next to the median, also.

I got half of a big album scanned by midafternoon Saturday, after which I worked on cropping pictures.  

I scan an entire album page (like the one below), make as many copies of it as there are pictures on the page, label each copy, and then later go back and crop each copy to match the label.

Some time that afternoon, Larry went downstairs – and discovered the fan wasn’t doing the trick.  The pond had become a lake.

At this point, he did a little deeper investigation into the matter, and discovered that the fitting from the main water pipe to the cold water hose was rusty, and leaking quite profusely.  The coupling to the hot water hose, while not actively leaking, was also rusty.

Larry turned off the water, removed the hoses and fittings, and went to town to buy new ones.

Home again a while later, he installed the new hoses and fittings, and, once more, called it good.

For supper that evening, we had minute steak (so named because it’s sliced thin and presumably takes only a minute to cook, not because it’s minutely small).  Larry cooked the steak while I cooked corn on the cob, set the table, and got out some cottage cheese and fruit juice.

We decided that the meat is actually called ‘minute steak’ because it takes an entire minute to chew each bite.  😬 

Filet Mignon, it was not.

At least it was free – a friendly farmer at one of Walkers’ jobs gave it to Larry, along with a couple of roasts and several tubes of hamburger.  The roasts were scrumptious.

Actually, the minute steak tasted good, what with Larry’s seasonings and the Arby’s sauce I put on mine; it’s just impossible to chew, that’s all.  We gave it a valiant effort, though.

Supper over, I started filling the sink to wash the dishes.

I ran out of hot water.

Larry went downstairs to see if he could spot the trouble.  The breaker had flipped.

He flipped it back on.

Though he had a perfectly good explanation for this, I had my doubts; I really did not think this would be the end of the troubles.  But at least there was soon enough hot water to wash the dishes.

After finally throwing in the towel that evening, I poured myself a piping hot mug of Thompson’s Irish breakfast tea and headed for my recliner.  That tea is good stuff.  It rivals Barry’s Irish breakfast tea, which is generally considered Ireland’s favorite.  (If Waffle House can serve breakfast 24 hours a day, then I can drink Irish breakfast tea any time I jolly well please.)  (Besides, when it’s midnight here, it’s 6:00 a.m. in Belfast.)  (I’m not sure what that last bit has to do with it; but something, I’m sure.)  >>...slurrrrrrrrp...<<

At a quarter ’til eight Sunday morning, it was only 15° and felt like 10°; but the high was expected to be 44°.  When I rehung the bird feeders, the sun was not quite over the horizon, but the sky was bright rosy and gold, with pale blue above that.  My shower seemed alllmost normal, with enough hot water, though maybe not precisely the same temperature as usual. 

I blow-dried my hair and began putting a few curls in it, preparing for church, piping hot as usual, and glad for Java Jingle cold brew.

Larry fixed his scrumptious waffles for lunch that afternoon.

Later, knowing we would need to pick up groceries at Walmart after the evening service, I warmed up some coffee in the microwave to pour into a Thermal mug to take with us.  I ran hot water into the mug to prepare it for the hot coffee – or at least I tried.

The water was not hot.  The breaker had flipped again.

With no time to worry about it right then, I warmed the coffee a few extra seconds and poured it into the mug.

After church, we picked up our grocery order.  Larry suggested trotting into the store and getting a new heating element or two for the water heater, in case that was the trouble; I suggested not doing that, since every time he’s done that in the last several months, it turned out not being the problem.  He has kept the unneeded items ‘for spares’, as he says.

Larry believes spare engines, axles, differentials, and suchlike are vital components.

An extra box of butter or tube of toothpaste?  Totally superfluous.

He did leave the heating elements in the store, though; not because he didn’t think we needed them, but because he was hungry, and we had food in the car.

We came home and put the groceries away (except for what we planned to eat).  We ate (or chewed [and chewed]) the last two minute steaks, along with Marketside kale/pecan/cranberry salad.  The fresh raspberries I was so looking forward to eating with drinkable yogurt poured over them – were moldy.  Bah, humbug. 

I promptly requested – and received – a refund from Walmart.  But I wanted those raspberries.  In the little window where one is allowed to write a comment, I wrote, “These moldy raspberries could clearly be seen through that plastic container!”

We had peach cobbler Chobani yogurt flips for dessert instead.  But I had wanted raspberries.

This morning, Larry rummaged up his electrical thingy-checker (scientific terminology) – what is that thing called?  Ah.  It’s a voltage tester.  Anyway, he checked out the water heater and found that the elements were fine.  The thermostat was not.

So off he went to town to buy a new thermostat.

That thing very likely bit the dust as a result of the water leaking onto it.

Soon he was back again, installing the new thermostat, which cost about $30.  By this time, the water in the tank was cold, or at least a lot cooler than lukewarm; so it took a while to reheat it.

But we have hot water again, and the breaker switch has not flipped.

I had cranberry-almond oatmeal and a banana for breakfast.  The personal shopper chose good bananas for us, for once.  They were perfect.  Perfectly delicious.

At 10:30 a.m., it was 38° and felt like 50°, of all things.  The high was 57°.

The successful repair of the water heater evidently put Larry in fix-it mode, because he next cleaned the elements on one of my warm-mist vaporizers that was neither misting nor vaporizing, and now it’s percolating away beside me.  It really helps my eyes. 

He then fixed a loose, saggy railing on the back deck, after which he ate lunch.  I lost track of him for a while then, and had no idea if he was outside somewhere doing one of the gazillion things on his ‘Want To Do’ List, or if he’d gone back to work.  Wherever he was, his phone was still in the living room.  I made good use of its hotspot while it was here, saving data on my own devices.  It’s the responsible thing for a wife to do!

In the middle of the afternoon, I had a snack of a handful of nuts and a mug of Orange Celsius. 

Here are Keith, Hannah, Dorcas, Teddy, Joseph, and Hester in either 2004 or 2005.

When I was little, we had this stuffed shirt of a choir director who put voices together that, uh, wore our socks out—because we cringed and curled our toes so hard, our toenails poked holes in said socks.  There was that one man who sounded like the Liberty Bell after it had cracked, and another who sounded like a lost calf in a pasture bawling for its mother.

Some of us irreverent little girls used to get together and play ‘choir’.  I was generally the choir director.  We’d sing at the top of our voices, trying hard not to sing on tune (hard for some of my little friends, you understand, who had music in their very bones).

Then, just as we’d really get to going good, I would ‘accidentally’ clobber myself in the head with a wild gesture, and fall over ‘dead’.

This, of course, brought the entire thing to an end in the wild hilarity only little girls can generate.

One time that choir director had his own son, who was in his late teens, sing a solo.  Sonny Boy generally sang bass in the choir.

Therefore, we were all expecting a solo sounding like, oh, say, George Beverly Shea.  Tennessee Ernie Ford.  Nice, mellow, and deep.

It was deep.

It was, however, neither nice nor mellow.

The boy sang the BASS NOTES, solo, through an entire four-verse song!!!  No melody at all.  Just the bass notes such as those written in hymn books.  And that’s all, she wrote.

As it turned out, Larry spent the afternoon and evening cutting his deer meat.  He got his third and final deer a couple of days ago.  He took certain parts to Bobby, as Bobby has a good meat grinder for making hamburger.  Bobby also makes jerky and meat sticks.

Hannah sent Larry home with a loaf of sourdough bread fresh out of the oven, and a jar of Bionaturae Strawberry Jam.  Mmmmmm.

Here’s an Orchard oriole in our Buckeye tree, the picture taken from my bedroom window.

Bedtime!

,,,>^..^<,,,             Sarah Lynn             ,,,>^..^<,,,