Journal: Brunches & Autumn Colors & Weddings

 

Very late last Monday night (actually early Tuesday morning), an animal (a raccoon, most likely) went climbing up the vines right outside my kitchen window as I sat there beside said window at the table typing.  I went for a flashlight – but Larry had left my big, bright one in his pickup.  (I think he believes that if he uses it enough, it will become his, by assimilation.)  I finally found a smallish, dimmish one, shined it through the window, and could tell that, yes, it was an animal. 

I already knew that.

I need my big, bright flashlight!

The animal was trying to get into the eaves.  I hurried to the front door, walked out on the porch, and shined the light on the vines.  But I couldn’t see through them well enough with that dimmish dumbish little light to tell what kind of animal it was.  It was still trying to get into the eaves.

I grabbed a trailing vine and gave it several good yanks.  Down came the animal, slithering and scrabbling. 

PLOOOOMP 

It landed at the base of the lilac bush and went scuttle-waddling off, pell-mell.

I never did see it, really; but it sounded and behaved exactly like a raccoon.

I’ll betcha it was a ... ... ... ... ... raccoon!

Friends on a quilting group were discussing their productive days versus their less efficient days.  One lady who’s been an online friend of mine for at least 20 years, and who everyone admires for all the things she does, and does well, announced, “I have many days where I do nothing.”

Some were astonished, and some didn’t believe her. 

I told her, “If I have a day like that, I describe it in great detail:  everything I saw, everything I heard, everything I said, everything that was said to me, everything I so much as thought.  People think I got so much accomplished, they write back, ‘When do you sleep?!!’ 😂🤣 ”

That evening on the nursing home’s Facebook page, I found a picture of Loren painting decorations for Halloween.  He always seems to be happy and enjoying himself in the pictures, and when I visit, too.  The doctors, nurses, and therapists who worked with him after he broke his hip, and the nursing home staff, too, all tell me that he is always in excellent spirits.  It’s a comfort and a relief to know that.

Oh, and by the way, you know how someone made off with his nearly-new glasses, his first two pairs of leather shoes, and his suede and Sherpa slippers not long after he moved to the home? 

Well, ahem.  That hat... is not his.  Neither is the bright red fleece blanket on his bed with the big letter ‘N’.  He proudly pointed it out to me last week, running his hand over the ‘N’ and telling me, “That stands for ‘Nebraska’!”

I nodded and smiled.  I guess it makes up for the soft, soft gray and white chevron-patterned microfleece blanket I brought him from his own house, way back in... March, maybe.  Yep, it’s gone, too.

Oh, well.  I figure if those things are doing someone else some good, then... that’s all right, I guess.  Except for the glasses.  I’m sorry about those going missing; they were expensive, and almost new.  It’s possible he took them off and laid them down somewhere – and I hadn’t yet thought of writing his name on the outer edge of the lens with permanent marker, like I’ve done with his reading glasses (which, by the way, I spotted on his dresser last week).  There’s still one more pair of reading glasses to go, if he loses this second pair; I bought a three-pack.

When I pointed them out, and mentioned that he could probably read the magazines I’d brought him easier with the glasses, he made a face and moved one hand back and forth in front of him. 

I knew what he meant, and laughed.  “Yeah, reading glasses don’t work too well for walking down the hallway or going outside, do they?  You’re liable to run over several little old ladies!”

He laughed and nodded.  That’s exactly what he meant.

Fortunately, he does all right without glasses, and can even read, if the print isn’t too small.  His reading comprehension continues to drop, though.

At church I often sit beside a young boy, Benjamin, son of good friends of ours.  He’s about the same age as Levi – 10 or 11.  He’s tries hard to be ever so helpful with the communion plates, and I appreciate it.  So sometimes when he’s still in Sunday School, and his Bible case is on the pew beside me, I slip a pretty postcard or a nice roller-gel pen onto the case, and then pretend like I don’t notice a thing.

The first time I did that, it was so funny:  He didn’t notice for a little while, then picked up his Bible case.  The card slipped, and he looked quickly to see what in the world that was – and there was a postcard picturing the Colorado Rockies.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him silently hold it over for his mother to see.  I saw her eyebrows go up, and saw Benjamin shrug up one shoulder and give a tiny shake of his head.

By the second time I did it, they figured it out, and he came and thanked me after church.

So anyway, I used this photo of the antelope that I put in last week’s journal, added the caption, then printed it on good photo paper.  I slipped it to him Wednesday night at church.

That morning, I had my alarm set for a quarter ’til 8.  That’s usually early for me, when I’m not on vacation; vacations call for early hours, so as not to miss anything!  But Hester had invited me, along with her sisters (and a few uninvited babies who go everywhere with their mothers, whether they’re invited or not – and are then welcomed with open arms, reenforcing the habit) to a 10:30 a.m. birthday brunch at her house.  However, I awoke at a quarter ’til 6, and couldn’t get back to sleep.  So I got up, got ready to go, and then worked on pictures until time to leave.

I like quilting... I like photography... I like playing the piano...  These, better than cooking and cleaning and gardening.

The thing is, you dust, and before you know it, it’s dusty again.  You vacuum; the floor gets dirty again.  You cook and bake; everyone gobbles up all your labors, and then in a scant few hours they’re hungry again.  You weed the garden, and the very next day, the weeds are back.  However, when you make a quilt, it stays nicely quilted!  You take a picture, and you’ve got a Moment of Memory in Time (unless you accidentally delete it, of course).  Therefore, I prefer quilting and photography.

So I share photos on my Facebook page.  I have a gazillion people in my Friends’ and Followers’ lists, since I left my account Public in order to garner quilting customers.

I also garnered a few crackpots and a couple of old grouches.  One woman makes what she possibly supposes to be conversational comments, but she’s as abrasive as conversational commentators come.  She can’t make the simplest statement or ask a question without sounding confrontational, quarrelsome, and argumentative.  I don’t delete her from my list, because... sometimes she thinks she’s being nice.  And because I enjoy the entertainment.  😄  I don’t watch soaps, after all!  Her surname, as is often uncannily the case, fits her nicely.  And no, I won’t tell you what it is.

Here’s one of the more innocuous dialogues: 

I post a picture of a windmill out in the Nebraska Panhandle.  She writes, “You mean they still use these?  I thought they be changed and modernized by now.”

So I, providing an Educational Moment, respond, “There are thousands of them. They are efficient and necessary for water for the cattle.”

She retorts on the following picture, “Hope you didn’t run into any rattlesnakes.”  hee hee

I replied, “No rattlesnakes.  And I looked, in case any might like to have their pictures taken.”

Just for kicks, I took another look at her Facebook page.  How ’bout that.  The Bible verse that used to be in her Introduction is gone, replaced with this:  “what makes me happy...not being around people.”

Huh.  Imagine that.

A friend from New Zealand wrote, “You often mention the Platte River.  It [must be] a very big, long river, as I thought it was close to your home area.”

Yes, it flows right past our town of Columbus, Nebraska.  Here’s the North Platte River as it flows through Casper, Wyoming.

The Platte River is a major river in Nebraska.  It is about 310 miles (500 km) long; measured to its farthest source via its tributary, the North Platte River, it flows for over 1,050 miles (1,690 km).  The Platte River is a tributary of the Missouri River, which itself is a tributary of the Mississippi River which flows to the Gulf of Mexico.  The Platte over most of its length is a broad, shallow, meandering stream with a sandy bottom and many islands – a braided stream.

The Platte River is formed in western Nebraska east of the city of North Platte, Nebraska, by the confluence of the North Platte and the South Platte Rivers, which both arise from snowmelt in the eastern Rockies east of the Continental Divide.

In central north Colorado is the North Park valley, ringed by mountains of 12,000 feet (3,700 m) in height.  This is where the North Platte River originates.  The head of the North Platte River is essentially all of Jackson County; its boundaries are the Continental Divide on the west and south and the mountain drainage peaks on the east.  The north boundary is the state of Wyoming.  The nearest Colorado town is Walden, the county seat.  The rugged Rocky Mountains Continental Divide surrounding Jackson County have at least twelve peaks over 11,000 feet (3,400 m) in height.  From Jackson County, the North Platte flows north about 200 miles (320 km) out of the Routt National Forest and North Park near what is now Walden to Casper, Wyoming.  Shortly after passing Casper, the North Platte turns east-southeast and flows about 350 miles (560 km) to the city of North Platte, Nebraska.  In Colorado and Wyoming, the North Platte is narrower and much swifter-flowing than it is in Nebraska, where it becomes a slow-flowing, shallow braided stream.

By the time I had edited a few dozen photos and doled out the above information, it was time to go to Hester’s house.  So off I went.

I was standing in Hester’s kitchen when Hannah walked in with granddaughter Joanna.  I smiled at them happily and said, “See, I told people my girls would be bringing their babies!”

Everyone laughed, and Joanna said something on the order of not being old enough to stay home alone (she’s 19 ½), and I exclaimed, pointing, “That baby even talks!”

Joanna is tall, slender, elegant, ... and loads of fun to tease.

Here’s Victoria playing Hester’s beautiful grand piano.

We had a ham and cheese quiche, baked pears with granola and cranberries on top and a dollop of real whipping cream, pumpkin streusel muffins, and both Victoria’s and Lydia’s specialty coffees and expressos.  Victoria’s had the aforementioned real whipping cream on top.  Lydia’s had maple syrup and gingerbread oat milk in it.  Victoria’s wasn’t quite hot enough after she put the whipping cream on top, so she ‘fixed’ it quick (in true Victoria fashion) by throwing ice into everyone’s drinks and calling it ‘iced coffee’ – after which she lamented that she had ‘ruined’ it (though it really was quite good).

Hannah and Joanna gave me a small, handmade brass and silver butterfly on a stand that holds a slim brass pen, and there are two small brass-framed glass panels with brass clips behind them where one can slide a small photo.  Hannah purchased it from a fellow vendor at one of her events.  She gets some quite unique items at those events.

Jeremy and Lydia and family gave me lotions and bath gels and Mukluk slipper socks, and Hester’s, Lydia’s, and Victoria’s families went together to get me a beautiful mosaic bird bath on a heavy metal stand.

After a little while, Lydia had to go pick up her boys for lunch.  She brought them back to Hester’s house, where she’d popped some ham-and-cheese sandwiches into the oven for them.

They walked in, Jacob, Jonathan, and Ian, dressed in identical bright blue plaid shirts, because it was picture day at school.  Jonathan, who’s 8 ½, came in and said with a perfectly straight face, in a businesslike tone, “We’ve come to buy the house.”  (Hester and Andrew live in a large, beautifully restored house that was built in 1911.)

Hester accordingly inquired into how much money he had.

“I have twenty dollars and a 50-cent piece,” he answered confidently.

Ian, 6, turned and looked at him, one eyebrow lifted.

“Well, part of it’s Ian’s,” amended Jonathan, after a glance at his little brother.

I played with baby boys, played the grand piano, conversed with little girls, and chatted with Ian, who wondered why the cats always fled when he wanted to pet them.

“Because they take one look at you,” I answered, “and they say, ‘Run!  That boy carries cats around by their tails!’” (Ian would never do such a thing.)

He went off gigging.

Jacob, 13, walked by, and I exclaimed, “Hey, what’s the deal?!  You’re suddenly as tall as me!”  And he is.  He grinned at me and stepped from one foot to the other, because... he’s 13.

Hester sent me home with some pumpkin muffins, baked pears, and a slice of the quiche, which I saved for Larry.

After leaving her house, I stopped at the post office a couple of blocks from her house to pick up the mail that had been on hold while we were on vacation.  There I found a package from Boise, Idaho, containing the three large ribbons and rosettes I won – Best of Show, First Place, and Viewers’ Choice.  I had not known I’d won Viewers’ Choice too!

When I got home, the fabric from the Boise Quilt Crossing had arrived.

I had not purchased fabric for a couple of years.  It has gone up a dollar, sometimes 2 dollars, a yard.  I looked at the fabric on sale first, hoping to make the money go farther; but didn’t find anything I liked.  So I wound up paying anywhere from $11.99/yard to $14.99/yard.  High-priced!  When I start on the quilts for the grandchildren, I hope to find usable fabric (in clothing I can cut apart, if need be) at the Goodwill.

One of the pieces I had ordered were out of stock and didn’t come.  So there is still $4.64 on the gift card.  I decided to buy one more yard of fabric, and accordingly went to their website.

The fabric I wanted was $12.99/yard.  Shipping was almost $10.00.  One must order $125 worth of merchandise to get free shipping.

I decided I didn’t want to buy another yard of fabric, and accordingly offered the remaining balance to anyone on my quilt group who might frequent the Dubois quilt shop.

There doesn’t seem to be anybody. 

I need to go to Dubois to use the rest of my gift card.

Don’t I?

Here’s a shot of the side of a building in Alliance, Nebraska, where the Bulldog is their high school mascot.  What do you think this colorful bulldog is made of?

I couldn’t tell, from my picture, so I wrote to the Alliance Public Library, and the lady there forwarded my query to the Chamber of Commerce, and here’s the answer I got:

“Kyren Gibson, Carnegie Arts Center, and Jessica Hare, Keep Alliance Beautiful, are the ones who came up with the idea and worked on it.  The mural was projected onto three 4x8 sheets of plywood and then painted.  The community saved about 40,000 plastic bottle caps and lids for the mural.  Caps were caulked onto the mural after it was painted.  They had help from a high school recycling club, the Girl Scouts group, individuals at Bands at the Bricks, and one other group.  Kyren said they worked two days a week for about an hour or two at a time on it, and it took them three months to complete.  I think they also did a cow for the Knight Museum and Sandhills Center.”

Wednesday evening shortly before time to go to church, Larry called.  He was in Clarks, 30 miles to the southwest, and the fan on his truck had come loose.  He was trying to fix it well enough to limp home, and he didn’t have the socket wrenches he needed.  He bent one of his wrenches in order to reach the bolts.  That worked, but not very well, and he was scraping up the backs of his hands in the effort.  He would not make it home in time for church.

But he did eventually make it back to the shop with truck without the fan falling off, and without the truck overheating.

Thursday morning I opened the brand-new bag of huckleberry coffee we purchased at Broulim’s Fresh Foods in Alpine, Wyoming.  Mmmmm...  I love huckleberry coffee.  It just might be my favorite flavor (though I’m likely to say that the next time I have Christopher Bean’s French Vanilla Hazelnut, or Cameron’s Toasted Southern Pecan).

Hester sent a couple of adorable pictures of Oliver in an Irish flat cap, writing, “I might have to decide hats are worth the trouble!”  It sure looked worth the trouble to me.  😉

Here’s a little Mercedes buggy that the staff was using at the Alpine RV Park in Wyoming.  I think Larry wanted it pretty badly, just to play with.  😄

Once upon a time, way up on Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, Lydia was feeding a Least chipmunk broken bits of crackers from her hand.

A girl who looked a lot like Pippy Longstocking came marching indignantly along, pigtails bobbing righteously.  “You aren’t supposed to feed the wild animals!” she huffed at Lydia.

Lydia, who was about ten, turned around and looked her over.  The other girl was about 6 inches taller than Lydia.

Then Lydia said, said she, “But your Mama feeds you, doesn’t she?”

That girl’s face looked sooo funny. 

Lydia grinned at her and went back to feeding the chipmunks.

Another view of the Tetons.  The camera simply cannot take in what the human eye can see.  The way the Tetons rise so abruptly from the valley floor and soar to such heights – 13,775 feet – is completely awe-striking.  That’s a change in elevation of 6,320 feet.

It brings to mind this verse in Amos 4:13:  “For, lo, he that formeth the mountains, and createth the wind, and declareth unto man what is his thought, that maketh the morning darkness, and treadeth upon the high places of the earth, The Lord, The God of hosts, is his name.”

Those mountaintops look so rocky and rugged, since treeline is at 10,000 feet, putting the Grand Teton itself 3,775 feet above treeline.  From the floor of the valley, that rise above timberline looks like nothing but rock; but various grasses and moss grow everywhere, and I’ve been up there (not on the tiptop, mind you!) in the springtime when everywhere you looked, the mountainsides were covered with flowers of all colors in the rainbow.

Friday afternoon after walking outside to get a package, I wrote to a friend to our east, “Could you overnight-express my wig back, please?  The wind has suddenly picked up and is gusting near 50 mph.  I think my hairdo and my longhaired Chi-hoo-uh-hoo-uh are somewhere in southern Illinois now.”

Here’s one of the four antler arches that grace the entrance to the city park in the middle of Jackson, Wyoming.  The very first arch was constructed in 1953, and the others were completed by the late 60s.  With an elk herd of around 11,000 elk, there’s no shortage of antlers anytime some of those horns need replacing.

After I posted pictures of these famous arches, a couple of people wrote in great alarm, “Are these real antlers?  So many deer killed.  That’s very sad.”

I had not expected people to not know about antlers.  All male members of the deer family in North America shed their antlers annually, including elk, moose, all the various types of deer, reindeer, and caribou.  The Pronghorn antelope, of the Antilocapridae family (no, not deer, and no, not goats – closer to giraffes, oddly enough, though in a family of its own), also sheds its horns – and both male and female pronghorns grow horns.  Reindeer and caribou are the only deer species in which the female also grows antlers.  An antlered doe does rarely occur when there is an imbalance in the hormones that cause higher testosterone levels.

I answered my friend, “Yes, the antlers are real – but the elk were not killed for their antlers.  They shed them each year.  There is a huge elk sanctuary just east of the Tetons, where over 11,000 elk roam.  They come down from the high mountains each year to the Snake River Valley, where food and water is plentiful.  The antlers are gathered after the elk shed them.”

Each arch takes about 2,000 antlers.  They last many years before needing to be replaced.  The majority of shed antlers – of elk and all other deer species – wind up on the ground, where mice, squirrels, and porcupines will gnaw on antlers for their nutrients and to wear down their ever growing teeth.  Even bears, foxes, opossums, and otters have been known to eat antlers.

Here is more information about the arches:  Jackson Antler Arches

It’s really something to hear half a dozen bull elk bugling at once, in mating season.  And in the spring, it’s fun to see the young calves, though the cows will usually keep them hidden for a time.  Sometimes yearlings are trying to nurse at the same time as the new babies.  Pretty funny, to see that.

Painted Knob at Solitude RV Park, Dubois, Wyoming 

Somebody chose one of my posted photos at random, and commented under it, “Why do people post so many identical pictures from their vacations, which we don’t really want to see?”

I, thinking she was kidding, replied, “To irritate people, maybe?” – but then I found half a dozen similar comments, each more aggravated than the first.

Well, for cryin’ out loud.  If people knew how few pictures I’ve posted in comparison to how many I actually took, they’d at least give me credit for that!  

I decided she would have a much less stressful life without me in it, and deleted her from my friends’ list and blocked her.  She’s probably right now puttering about in the middle of the Badlands somewhere, wondering what in world happened, and if she’s on the moon, or what.

I must be getting Alzheimer's, as I do not recall ordering her to look at each and every one of my photos.

A few minutes later... 

I found the problem.  According to her Profile, she practices photo art and watercolors.  However, the photos on her multiple pages (she has five separate Facebook accounts)(?), most of which have not been updated for a few years, are shared, not her own.  And the only ‘coloring’ I have found is in her hair:  she likes to temporarily dye her normally-white hair to match her outfits – green, blue, teal, maroon, etc.  Really!  I’m not making that up.  So you see, I’m not nearly artsy enough to suit her, and evidently looking at all those photos of brilliantly-colored autumn leaves really got her goat.  (It’s probably a pink, fainting goat, whataya bet?)

She looks like a persnickety ol’ woman to me, notwithstanding the teal-green hair.  Takes some unmitigated gall to look like a clown and still be persnickety.  heh heh

Here’s another shot of the magpie who was hunting for insects along the rail fence line at the Alpine RV Park.  No, it’s not identical to the one in last week’s letter!  He’s facing the camera, in this one!  See?

Magpies are smart birds.  When Larry was growing up in Trinidad, Colorado, their neighbor had a pet magpie that could talk.  It would sit up on a high fence post and call, “Cindy! Cindeeee!” in the exact voice of its owner – and the cat, Cindy, would come running, thinking it was dinnertime.  

Then the cat, not seeing her mistress at the door, would pause, look up at the fence post, switch her tail in disgust, and go marching off in High Dudgeon.  The magpie would then make a noise suspiciously like laughter. 

That afternoon, Larry called to say he was still working, fixing the fan on his big truck.  It was no easy job, as he had to rethread bolts and bend himself into various pretzel forms in order to reach around inside the engine.  Plus, he didn’t feel well.  Too many late nights and early mornings, probably.  He wouldn’t be going with me to see Loren.  So I cleaned the kitchen and headed to Omaha.

You know, as I watch the trains go by around these parts, I’ve decided that illegal aliens aren’t all bad...  because... the very artful (and doubtless lewd) graffiti on the train cars is now in Spanish, and I can’t read it!

No more washing my eyeballs out with Lysol, ’cuz I have no idea what those words are.  ha 

(But if I ever learn Spanish... 😲)

I took Loren the Reminisce and Nebraska magazines and a couple of Messenger newspapers.

He was really pleased that I had taken pictures of the pumpkin and gourd displays – and that I knew he had helped pick out the pumpkins.  He chose the green striped gourd on the right.  He thought they had gone to Grand Island to get them.  He has absolutely no idea that that would’ve been a 130-mile drive, one way.  In truth, they went to a pumpkin farm just a little ways north of the home, which is in north Omaha. 

He looked and looked at the picture of the nursing home’s front entry, hardly able to believe that that was the very place he was in right that moment.  There is another door they might go out, but I doubt it, as there is a step down; and I know their bus (I’ll try to get a better picture of it next time) does indeed pull under that awning to load passengers.  He’s probably totally focused on stepping into the bus and finding a seat, and does not pay particular attention to the surroundings.

Loren’s friend Roslyn wasn’t friendly with me – wouldn’t really even look at me; probably because last time I was there, a nurse stepped in and suggested (in a friendly but forceful way) that Loren and I go to his room to visit.  That’s fine with me, because when Roslyn is there, all sorts of oddities get thrown into the conversation, and Loren is so distracted, it’s hard to converse.  She used to be a teacher, and she still knows many long words.  She jumbles them together into totally nonsensical sentences.  Amazingly, Loren sometimes knows just what she means, and says it back to her a little more sensibly in a questioning way, and she beams like a small child whose parent has understood said child’s jabberings.

Loren’s conversation often sounds quite normal, though he asks the same things over and over again, and thinks the people in the magazines and newspapers I take him are our relatives, and he can’t really start a topic of conversation on his own.  I regularly have to tell him the same thing many times, carefully enunciating the words, before he gets it.  He’ll remember it for a few minutes, and then it’s gone again.  If he asks, I tell the story again, as if it was the very first time I told it.

Actually, Roslyn probably can’t remember what happened last week; she likely just has a feeling that I’m horning in, and resents that.  Or maybe she was tired.  Or is declining.

Dementia is a sad disease.  I’m as friendly as possible with everyone I meet, and if they’re not friendly back, I don’t worry about it.  Sometimes a person I was friendly with one week, but who didn’t respond, acts pleased to see me the next week.  They obviously can feel kindness, even if they no longer know how to respond appropriately.  Lewy Body patients are more prone to remembering people they know than Alzheimer’s patients are.  But symptoms overlap – and I learned not long ago that patients can have both kinds of dementia, and perhaps Parkinson’s and other diseases, too.

Loren seemed well that day.  But I wondered... why is he wearing the same clothes he’s been wearing in every picture on the nursing home’s Facebook page, the last three times I’ve found pictures of him??  Coincidence, ... I hope.  He is wearing that shirt as a ‘jacket’, of sorts, over another shirt.  So there’s that.

The staff regularly washes clothes.  Loren smelled fine (and believe me, my nose would tell me if he didn’t).  That whole nursing home always smells remarkably good.  That was not the case with any of the nursing homes in our town, though the less-restrictive retirement villages were very nice.

It was a pretty drive that day, with the trees all turning color.  I drove through a small part of Fremont Lakes State Park on the way home.  

There was a pair of Canada geese on one of the lakes.  I wonder why a Greater and a Lesser Canada goose were together?  Maybe they’re members of OCSM (Only the Chin Straps Matter).

Neighbors at the bottom of the hill where we live always put this old car out, with lights here and there in and around it, for Halloween and Christmas.  For Halloween, they stick a skeleton in it.  For Christmas, Santa.

I got home in time to make creamy chicken noodle vegetable soup for supper.

Do you like pumpkin spice stuff?  I like pumpkin cream cheese streusel muffins, and I absolutely love pumpkin chiffon pie (it has to be chiffon!); but pumpkin spice coffee, not so much.

Once upon a time, I trotted into the kitchen to warm up my coffee in the microwave – and forgot that, the day before, Victoria had been ‘making candles’.  She’d poured mulberry-scented wax into a lid, along with a fat string; then she made ‘designs’ all over the top.  Then she decided that that didn’t look nice, so she melted it again – by putting it into the microwave – on high – for three minutes.

It melted, all right.  It boiled.  It splattered mulberry wax high and low.  The whole microwave reeked of mulberry.  And so did my coffee.  😜  I set her to cleaning the microwave.  Soon the wax itself was gone, but the microwave smelt mighty good, and everything we warmed up in there came out tasting vaguely perfumed of berry.  There were bright mulberry splotches all over the walls, ceiling, and floor of that microwave ’til the day it died. 

But the day wasn’t over yet.

Later, I made a new pot of coffee.  A few minutes later, tastebuds all polished up, I came to get a nice fresh mug of coffee.

Pulling the pot from the coffeemaker, I poured – not noticing that there on the spout was a heap of pumpkin pie spice.

Eh?  You’ve never had a heap of pumpkin pie spice mysteriously materialize on your coffeepot spout?

Well, then, you’ve evidently never had a spice cupboard directly over your coffeemaker, nor yet a teenage Caleb rummaging through that same cupboard.  He’d knocked out the bottle of pumpkin pie spice.  And the person who had last used said spice (not me) had neglected to screw the lid on tight.  The lid popped off… the spice spilt… and, though Caleb cleaned up what landed on the counter, he did not notice the pile of spice on the coffeepot spout.

Now, I like flavored coffee – hazelnut crème, French vanilla, Irish caramel, blueberry cobbler, . . .  but!! — I do not much care for mulberry-candlewax flavored coffee, nor yet pumpkin-pie-spice flavored coffee — especially a whole tablespoon in one small mug of coffee.

Two ruint mugs of coffee in one day are almost too much to bear.

The day we drove from Alpine RV Park to the Palisades Reservoir, we saw dozens of large nests atop high electrical poles.  Eventually we saw a nestless pole, and got a better look at the platform the raptors use on which to build their nests. 

Idaho Power has placed these platforms on their poles in an effort both to protect the birds of prey from being electrocuted, and also to keep the birds from disrupting electrical service. 

But... I have a question!  Once the workers put the platforms in place, how do the birds then know they should build their nests thereon??

Ospreys are the most common raptors that use power poles for nesting.  Red-tailed hawks, golden eagles, ferruginous hawks, and other raptors also sometimes use poles for nesting.  Here’s an excellent and interesting article about these platforms, complete with pictures:  Our Bird Story

Last night we attended the wedding of our son-in-law Jeremy’s younger brother Roy and his bride Samantha.  So... as soon as they get back from their honeymoon, Loren’s house will no longer be vacant. 

Many times when I drove by in the last several months, I’d see vehicles there.  They’ve been redoing a few things, moving furniture and belongings in, keeping the yard nice, and suchlike.  They are such a nice young couple.

Our little granddaughter Malinda (named after Jeremy and Roy’s late mother) was one of the flowergirls.  

Look at this beautiful cross-stitch piece someone (probably one of Roy’s sisters) made for them.  It was on display with many framed photos in the church foyer.

 Samantha’s twin sister Susanne is married to my great-nephew Joshua, son of my late nephew David – and they just had their first baby, a little girl named Naomi Faith, born October 3^rd.  

Joshua is that relative of mine who is 7’ tall.  Once when he was 14 years old, we were in the Fellowship Hall, standing in line to get some coffee between the Sunday School and church services.  Joshua was at that time about 6’7”.  I was right behind him, all 5’2” of me.

So I said, said I, “You shouldn’t drink coffee.  It’ll stunt your growth.”

Joshua, who didn’t really know me all that well, turned around and stared down (and down... and down) at me, wide-eyed.  I stared right back (up!) at him, trying to keep a straight face.

He decided his great-aunt must surely be teasing, and laughed.  😂

You know, I really ought to stick a silent beacon under the pew where we usually sit, and then put a homing device in my purse, so I can tell what pew I’m supposed to be in when there are no other persons there yet to serve as landmarks.  (This is only a problem when Larry is not with me, because when he is with me, we are never that early.  😏)

A lady from the nursing home called this morning to tell me Loren has tested positive for Covid.  He’s asymptomatic.  They wanted my permission to give him the antiviral medication, uh, I think she said Paxlovid.  I gave permission.  He has never had the vaccine... and he has never had Covid any worse than those who have had the vaccine.  Paxlovid won’t hurt him, I guess, and could keep him from developing symptoms.  I am generally opposed to medicating anything that doesn’t need to be medicated... but I am also in favor of not creating ripples at the nursing home.

A few hours later, I belatedly discovered an email sent to me (and all the staff and family members of their residents) from the Executive Director at the nursing home on Saturday at 7:55 p.m., telling me that they had had six residents test positive for Covid.  Therefore, they would not be allowing visitors.

I just got Loren visited in the nick of time, didn’t I?  Who knows how long this might go on.  I really hate the no-visiting rule they impose with Covid.  Not visiting the patients is much more detrimental to them than Covid itself.  This has been absolutely and positively proven time and again through these last three years – yet they continue right on in those same footsteps.

Well, it’s not the fault of the staff.  I remain in favor of not creating ripples at the nursing home.  I told the lady who called me this morning about Loren wearing that blue and beige shirt every time I’ve seen him in Facebook pictures, and again Saturday when I visited, for the last couple of weeks. 

“He might just be using it as jacket,” I told her.  She laughed when I said, “He still smells all right!” and promised to check into the matter, and make sure it gets washed.

As always, I thanked her sincerely for the care they give Loren.  It really is excellent care, and I mean it when I thank them.  I took another good, close look at the pictures I have of Loren in that shirt, and see that in at least two of them, he is indeed wearing a different shirt under the blue and beige one.

Still, I’m glad I told her, because I know from the last couple of months Loren was still living at home, he started putting clothes he had worn back into his drawers instead of in the hamper, evidently thinking they weren’t ‘dirty enough’ (or no longer remembering what to do with them).  At least, I think that must’ve been where he was putting them! – I certainly couldn’t find any dirty clothes, and when I asked, he had no idea under the sun where any such clothes might’ve gotten to.

We’ve just finished a supper of baked chicken, onions, and carrots; applesauce, and blueberry-cranberry muffins.  With cherry juice to wash it all down.

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