Journal: Standing Bear Lake, Selfies, Moose, & Birds

 

Last Tuesday was a pretty day, 47° by noon, on its way up to 55°.  I spent a good part of the day sewing blocks into rows for Ian’s quilt.

Wednesday, I pulled out a nice Gold Label white shirt that I had on hand.  I wanted to give it to Andrew for his birthday the next day.  Andrew wears a lot of dress shirts, as he is a CPA.  However, the shirt had long sleeves – but they were only 33”, and that wouldn’t work for anyone I know.  So I cut them off and hemmed them, using one of Larry’s good shirts as a pattern for sleeve length.  I had a hard time with those hems, because the sleeves were so tapered.  I had to make small tucks at the underarm seams; nothing else I could do about it.

“Tell Andrew he must not lift his arms,” I instructed Hester.  😅

I then carefully folded the shirt back up, replacing the cardboard and tissue, the plastic at the collar, and the little crisscross metal shirt clips that held everything in place.  Then I slid it back into the package, wondering if Andrew would be stumped over the 17/33 tag at the neck, whilst the shirt sported short sleeves.

I also got him a nice set of pliers.

One time Janice, my late sister-in-law, cut some long sleeves short for Loren.  Boy, oh boy, did she ever cut them short.  She didn’t use anything as a pattern, just guessed at it by holding the sleeve against her arm.  Her guesstimates usually worked out well.  Usually.

Loren put the shirt on one day, then came out of his room and asked in a high-pitched, girly tone, “How do I look???”

The too-short sleeves stuck out and rippled, looking like he had over-the-shoulder ruffles.

We laughed ’til we cried.

We gave Andrew his gift after church that night. 

Hester gave me a bag with two sweaters in it, one a grey cardigan, the other a blue crewneck, both ever so soft.

Thursday morning, Victoria sent pictures of the children, including one of Baby Arnold in the soft cloth diapers she likes to use.

“Every time I put these nice diaper covers on,” she remarked, “I remember you talking about those rubber pants that you had to use over cloth diapers.  Boy, am I glad we have better options now!!  These are so soft and comfy.”

“Not just diaper covers,” I told her, “but all baby clothes and little blankets are sooooo much nicer and softer than they used to be.  Any little shortie coveralls our boys might’ve had similar to the one Arnold is wearing would’ve felt like canvas from an Army Surplus tent, by comparison.

“I did make sure to buy Birds’ Eye cotton diapers (the prefolded kind), and they got softer with every wash, and lasted a lot longer than the cheaper versions.”

“That’s what I have, too!” said Victoria.  “They have new funny flat fastener things to use instead of diaper pins.  It makes it easier for tummy sleepers because it doesn’t poke them.”

Something that amazed me, back in the 80s:  there was a story, maybe in the Readers’ Digest, about a woman born without arms who grew up, married, and had a baby — and she put diapers on her baby, diaper pins and all, using her TOES!!!  😮😯 The reporter asked her if she had ever poked her baby, and she replied indignantly, “No, of course not!!”

By comparison, I could barely control the pedal for my sewing machine with my left foot, after I sprained my right ankle some years ago.  Why, I sewed three skirts before I got them cut out!

And when I tried using my left foot on the car’s pedals...   Well, I arrived at my destination before I even got the car started.

Speaking of wild driving, the following is an excerpt from an old journal:

Once upon a time when Lydia was about four years old, she was pushing a large Tonka dump truck down the hall, hands on the edges of the box, going lickety-split, full bore, as fast as her little legs could go.  She rounded the corner into the living room. 

I was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, and, seeing that she was about to plow headlong into a large Tonka road grader, I shouted, “Stop, STOP!!!  LOOK OUT!!!” 

But the dump truck was loud with its aggressive hard rubber tires against the wood floor, and she was going fast, and couldn’t at all hear me over all the noise.

ka-BLAMM!!!!!  

She smashed into the road grader.  Since it was sideways, it held its ground, bringing the dump truck to an abrupt halt. 

Lydia did not stop so fast.  She flew right over the top of dump truck and road grader both, somersaulting, and landing flat on her back on the other side. 

I was running toward her to see if she was all right, but she was already scrambling to her feet, seemingly none the worse for wear. 

She walked to the dump truck, leaned down, and peered into the front windshield.

Then, “That’s just what I thought,” she announced.  “It’s a lady driver.”

*          *          *

Lydia, 4, & Hester, 6; 1995

I filled the bird feeders, and it wasn’t long before a small flock of American goldfinches were clustered around them.

The CPA had Loren’s taxes finished, so I drove to town to sign the papers that afternoon.

I sent a picture of myself to Hester, dressed in the blue sweater she had given me, with a cat cardigan on top, writing, “Thank you for the pretty (and soft) sweaters!  I wore the blue one today.  It’s so comfortable.  Do I look utterly too-too?”

Full-length selfies in the mirror always make me look like I have a loooong head and old-fashioned-Chinese-ladies’-sized feet.  Remember how they used to wrap their feet, in order to make them stay small?  ’Course, they ruined their feet in so doing, and a whole lot of them wound up unable to walk; but at least they had small feet!  😐

By late that night, I had the first border on the Cross-Stitchin’ Gone Fishin’ quilt, and was working on the checkerboard border.  By the way, matching those skinny points was harder than I had expected!

After being a bit taken aback when Victoria gave me that layer cake several years ago (I just never would’ve chosen such fabrics in a million years), I am quite liking the combination, especially for grandson Ian.

I was sewing away when suddenly the gasket around the calcium-removal cover on my Rowenta Steam Station finally threw in the towel, after which I had to dash for a towel to mop the floor onto which the steam had exited, creating a large, warm puddle.

I will order the part I need as soon as we determine exactly which part that is.

In the meanwhile, I have ordered a new iron, because the steam/spray buttons on my old Rowenta no longer work.  It steamed gently and often, but regarded my pressing of the buttons as incidental.  And it gets way too hot for a gentle steam to be enough to prevent scorching on some fabrics.

Accordingly, I went on the search for an iron. 

I need my iron to steam like a locomotive, and get hot fast.  I wish irons didn’t have an automatic shut-off feature, but it seems they all do.  At least, any that I might want have it.  My steam station does not (and because I have it on constantly while I sew, the heat probably makes gaskets brittle quicker than usual).

Did you ever set out to purchase an item, read a tall stack of reviews – and wind up feeling like your best way of choosing said item would be to just close your eyes and stab at a list of like items??

Larry happened to be home for lunch while I was pawing through the reviews.  Unable to find a good answer, I wondered aloud, “What, exactly, is the difference between a 1700-watt and an 1800-watt iron?”

As expected, Larry had the answer:  “100 watts.”

Yeah, yeah.  Eat your grapes, Larry.

(By the way, did you know that the Cotton Candy variety of green grapes is absolutely, positively scrumptious?!)

Back to irons.  (Oh, and if I neglected to add the word ‘steam’ into my searches, I wound up with pages of golf irons.)

Anyway, steam irons.

I eventually concluded that 1800-watt irons heat faster and put out more steam.  And then I found one with a cute little computerized LED screen, and it had good reviews.

I was done researching irons; indeed, I had been done before I started!  I have things to do.  Abruptly deciding, THIS ONE!, I clicked ‘Four-Year Protection Plan’ and ‘Buy Now’ – and just like that, a PurSteam 1800-watt iron with LCD Screen, Nonstick Ceramic Soleplate, Auto Shutoff, Anti-Drip, and Self-Cleaning Feature was soon on the way, scheduled to arrive Wednesday.

In the meanwhile, I shall try to make do – and not complain (too much) – with the continuously gently steaming Rowenta.

Meanwhile, in midwestern Nebraska:  If the prairie fires had still been burning, they are surely out now, because North Platte got 18” of snow!  Once again, I80, Rte. 30, and various other roads were deemed impassable and shut down.  It didn’t stay that way for long, though, as the temperatures soon rose, and the snow began melting.

Friday, I sent another picture of myself to Hester, this time while wearing the grey cardigan she had given me.  “I was cold in my quilting room,” I told her, “and had the scarf wrapped around my neck like a noose... but undid it for the picture.  😄”

Hester replied, “😆😆😆 It’s chilly today in my house, too!  I like grey and denim together.”  And then, “I read that as ‘moose’ 🫎 instead of ‘noose’.”  😅

“I suppose a moose around your neck would be nice and warm, too,” I answered, and then of course had to find a picture of a girl with a moose wrapped around her neck.  And here she is:

I then found several more scarves with moose knitted into them, including a soft, dark grey one that I would actually like to have.  It sure is easy for me to fall down rabbit holes!

During the afternoon, the older Rowenta iron stopped giving out any steam at all.  I pulled out a good Mrs. Meyer’s spray bottle, filled it with water, and have been using that in lieu of steam.  It had a drop or two of peppermint in it, so everything is smelling quite nice now.  😏🙂

Larry took apart the Rowenta steam station that night, and determined that it was indeed a gasket that had gotten brittle and gone bad, as suspected.  I might need a brass L fitting, too.

When I quit sewing for the night, one side of the checkerboard border was ready to be sewn onto the Cross-Stitchin’ Gone Fishin’ quilt.  The other three borders were still in four-patches.  It’s fun sewing little squares together – especially after struggling to match a bunch of skinny points.

A quilting friend was talking about how her kitty likes to play Hide and Seek with her, hiding and then meowing for her to come and find him.  It reminded me of a couple of our cats that liked to pop out suddenly in front of Larry, often from some high elevation, such as a counter, a tall bureau, and suchlike, because he made such satisfying shouts of startlement, and ran in place in midair for a moment or two until gravity got the better of him.  The cats would then sashay calmly off, tails making tall, smug question marks behind them.

Below is our cat Socks, who not only liked playing Hide and Seek with us, but also with Tabby kitty.  After Socks died (we think he got poisoned), Tabby often went searching about the house, saying, “Mee?  Mee?  Mee?”  Then, getting no answer, he’d increase the volume:  “Meoww?  Meoww?”  When that produced no results, he’d squall and howl in an amazingly loud voice, for quiet little Tabby:  “MRRROOWWW!!!!”

After waiting a moment or two, and hearing no responding “Meow!” from his friend, he’d come and stand up against my leg, patting on me with his paw and saying, “Mee!  Meeee!!”

Poor little thing.  He just couldn’t understand what had become of his playmate.

This picture of Socks kitty just showed up in my ‘Facebook memories’.  This was one of my scanned photos from 2004.  I’ve often been so very glad I spent all that time scanning my old photos.

When we were deciding what to name this cat, we had almost decided on ‘Boots’ (because of his little white paws), when it occurred to me that the Clintons had a cat named Boots.  Not wanting to name our cat after theirs, we instead chose ‘Socks’.

Guess what.

(Did you guess?)

I was wrong.  The Clintons’ cat was named ‘Socks’.  However, by the time I learned of my error, our Socks knew his name!  It was too late to change it.  

The kids, as expected, thought this extremely funny.

Saturday was another pretty day, 47°, on its way up to 51°.  The sky was very blue, and not a bit smoky.  I heard a familiar bird call – that metallic “conk-la-ree!” – and quickly looked out the window.  Yep, the red-winged blackbirds are back!  One was perched on one of the new feeders Larry got me.  ‘Conk-la-ree’ – that’s how All About Birds describes the call of the red-winged blackbird, and they ought to know, right?  Actually, it does sound like that.  😄

That afternoon, I headed to Omaha to visit Loren.  Coffee, camera, and the National Geographic magazines he likes – those are the important things to remember to take with me.  On the way there, on the east side of Fremont, I was following a small caravan of Army trucks – and then met another caravan of Army trucks heading west.

I walked into the nursing home, looked around the commons, which was fairly full of people, and, not seeing Loren, I checked his room, then glanced into the TV lounging area where I sometimes find him.

I didn’t find him there, so I asked a couple of the nurses if they knew where he was.  They made a few vague gestures in opposing directions. 

I laughed.  “I’ll just go hunting for him,” I told them.

I walked all the way around the main part of the home.  No Loren.

I returned to the nursing station and reported on my failed expedition.

“Oh, he’s in the TV lounge!” one of the nurses informed me, pointing.  “Waaay back in the corner.”

Sure enough, that’s where he was.

He looked up and saw me the minute I walked in, and greeted me happily.  “Hi!  How did you know this was on?!” he asked, gesturing toward the big TV screen, on which was a picture of the St. Louis skyline, including the Arch.

“Oh, I just took a wild guess,” I answered, making him laugh.

We visited for a while, and Loren looked at the National Geographic magazines I’d brought him.  One was from 1989, and had a multi-page feature with many photos of the Yellowstone Fires of 1988.

These days, Loren believes I have taken every picture and video I show him on Instagram, and every photo in the National Geographic.  He kept going back to a picture of towering flames in the pines, with a couple of fully-suited firemen in the foreground, looking very small in front of that inferno.

“How could you stand the heat, being that close to the fire?” he asked.

“It’s not my picture; I wasn’t there,” I told him.  “But it was awfully hot for those firemen,” I added.

He nodded, looking long at the photo, a full spread on double pages.  He turned to the next page, which pictured an elk making its way through a forest that was charred black.

“Did the animals know you were there to help them?” he asked.

And so it went, until finally they began opening the glass French doors to the dining room.  It was time for their dinner.

And that’s when the elderly gentleman who’d been sitting beside Loren suddenly grasped the handles of his walker, pulled himself to his feet, and took off on a dead run (well, a dead run for him, anyway) toward one of the open doors, holding his walker up and out of the way of his running feet.

Someone in a wheelchair cut in front of him, throwing him off his stride; so he set the walker down and regrouped before rushing pell-mell on into the dining room.  If one doesn’t get a move on, all those other residents will gobble up all the food, you know, leaving one nothing but a piece of squash!  Just ask Ol’ Dan Tucker.

I stayed until they brought Loren his plate of food, and then told him goodbye and headed for home.  I stopped at Standing Bear Lake, just 1 ½ miles north of the home, to see how much of the renovations have been completed.

Early last year, the lake was drained to remove the invasive yellow bass and common carp.  It was then cleaned and allowed to refill, after which it was restocked with game fish, including largemouth bass, bluegill, channel catfish, and walleye.  Black crappie are scheduled to be stocked this year, as the lake continues to fill.

There were a lot of waterfowl on the lake:  Greater scaup, American coot, Redheads, Blue-winged teal, Bufflehead, Goldeneye, Canada geese... and probably a lot more that I did not see.  It’s already very nice, and will be a lovely place when everything is completed.

After leaving Standing Bear Lake, just for the fun of it, I cut through some residential areas on my way out of northwest Omaha.

It was hard driving home into the sun.  I turned north and went as far as possible (well, not really as far as possible; I didn’t land in Alaska, after all) before turning west, and was glad when the sun dropped below the horizon.

My eyes weren’t too awfully troublesome, but they definitely get worse when I go into a store, or into Prairie Meadows, or suchlike.  I wish they weren’t always the worst at church; it’s probably because of the airflow there.

I just go on trying to speak to people clearly and quickly and use really long words, so they at least think, ‘Wow, she’s really bright, for such an old lady’ ---------- and then I push on a door that says ‘PULL’.  Being a stubborn sort of a person, once is never enough; I draw back, give it a determined look, and PUSH!!!! – and then read the sign.

I didn’t feel so great that night after I got home, and I didn’t sleep well, either.  My alarm went off at 6:40 a.m., as usual, in case I might feel well enough to go to church.  I did not.  After resetting the alarm for 8:00 so I could wake Larry up, I finally fell asleep – and the alarm promptly went off again, reinforcing my opinion of snooze alarms.  (I hate them.)  After that, I could not go back to sleep. 

Larry had an hour and a half to get ready for church. 

He was late.  He arrived when everyone was already singing the first song.

He explains, “The clock always goes so fast, those last 15 minutes!”

Still feeling queasy last evening, I ate Campbell’s creamy chicken noodle soup for supper and drank some strawberry-watermelon juice.  I tried to eat a small cup of applesauce, but gave up after two or three bites.

I got a reminder from Eye Surgical Associates about my 11:30 a.m. Wednesday appointment.  I hope I will be able to hold my eyes open long enough by Wednesday to drive to Lincoln and back home again safely! 

Caleb recently sent us a video of Eva, 3, riding her little bicycle – one of those sorts that has no pedals – at a nearby skateboard park.  He calls this small girl of his ‘Eva Knievel’.  😂  This picture is slightly blurry, as it’s a screen grab from a low-resolution video clip.

Sitting on the bike seat, she pushed hard up the approach on the left, ran across the flat area at the top, and then, with a huge push-off, she cried, “Annnd... GO!!!”

She flew lickety-split down the other side.  As she made a circle and headed back for another go, she cried happily, “Wowww!”

When she got back to the starting point, Caleb trotting along beside her, making her laugh, he told her, “Remember, that bottom part (a metal plate) is slippery!”

Rather than slow down, she wheelied her front tire right over the top of it.  😅

Along with other shots from my drive to Omaha, I posted this one of three new trucks, red, white, and purple, being hauled piggyback on a fourth new truck in blue, writing, “Look!  The red truck is attempting to escape, stage right!”

An online friend from Tasmania who often takes note of vehicles that traverse our roadways that would never be allowed there, such as pickups with tall, wide tires, or even the height and length of Larry’s truck and pup, commented, “No way would that happen here.”

“Isn’t it funny,” I responded, “how different things are done in different places?  We are always all astonished at Australia’s road trains, and think how that would never happen here! – not just because of the laws, but because tight curves and steep hills and mountains would make it impossible.”

The black kitty that often roams around the neighborhood just let me pet him.  Seeing him strolling down our front sidewalk, I opened the front door and called to him.  Leery, he considered dashing off; but I squatted down and held out the back of my hand.  (Did you know that animals consider the back side of your hand a lot less threatening than the palm side?  Somehow they understand that a person cannot grab them with the back of their hand.  I always wonder why people cannot figure this out when they reach for the top of a dog’s head, and he ducks.)  The cat looked at me, debated – and then I do believe he remembered that I was in fact the person who let him out of our garage when he got himself trapped in there a couple of weeks ago. 

He came up the porch steps... approached... sniffed my hand --- and then rubbed the side of his cheek on it.  I told him what a nice kitty he was, turned my hand over, and gently scratched the side of his neck, right where all cats everywhere, from small domestics to big lions, like it.

He purred.  He tipped his head this way and that.  “Right there again, please... ahhhh... a little lower... that’s right... ahhhhh...”

After a minute or two, I went inside (with the cat giving serious thought to coming right on in with me) and got him a small piece of cheese as a reward.  He stood on the edge of the screen door, meowing for me to come back out (or to let him come in, one or the other).

He obviously has not been fed from a person’s hand much at all, and is mid-sighted like most cats, meaning they cannot focus well on something under a foot away from them.

Did you know that indoor cats tend to be nearsighted, while outdoor cats tend to be farsighted?

After a bit of trial and error, I put the little piece of cheese on the porch, and kept sliding it under his nose and pointing it out to him.  He finally found it, scarfed it up, and asked for more.  “Meow!”  Now and then he stood up with his paws on my leg – and he has not learned to sheath his claws!  I slid my arm under his paws, lifted them, and told him, “Ow!  That hurts!”

By the third time, he was actually trying to be a little more careful.  Cats are not dumb.

Let me rephrase that:  Most cats are not dumb.  😸

Anyway, he put prickles on my leg, fur and dander on my clothes, and made me itchy.  Therefore, I am once again glad we no longer have any cats, much as I like them.

 Whoever he belongs to is feeding him well, for he’s nice and plump.  Not too fat, just healthily plump.

Hungry for a snack a little while ago, I looked in the refrigerator and spotted a pack of three bell peppers in red, orange, and yellow.  Just the thing.  I sliced them up, arranged them on a plate, and put a little cup of dip in the middle.  The dip is G. Hughes’ sugar-free Honey Mustard.

The fact is, though, I like sweet pepper slices best without dip.

Okay, that made a good appetizer.  Now for supper.  Hmmmm... I think I’ll have roast beef, potato, and carrot stew.  With applesauce for dessert.

Larry just called; he’s in Leshara, 70 miles to our southeast, sitting in his truck (one of the older trucks), waiting for Caleb to come and get him and bring him back home.  He had finished picking up forms at the jobsite, climbed in the truck to drive home – and discovered that the truck had lost its air pressure. 

You can’t drive a truck that has airbrakes if you have no air pressure.

Tomorrow he will take an air compressor back to the job, find the leak, and fix it.

And now I shall head for my recliner.  I’d rather go upstairs and sew, but I’m still a bit under the weather.  So... the recliner it is.

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