January -- What Bringeth You?

 

You Want Me to Touch What?

I can't think of a single moment in my life, when I've been okay with spiders. Adding a single "pinch" of spiders to my imagination--whether via a news story or someone's spider tale--and the between the shoulder blades shivers start. Yet, over the years of working in a classroom, when a teacher requested, I would take a big breath, dutifully scoop up that spider and (usually) transport it back outside. 

Way, way, back, when I first started with the wee folk in Roseburg, The second teacher, I worked with, brought in a mouse for the class. I cannot remember if it was the classroom pet or if the mouse was for some type of classroom project, because I have a vague recollection of problem solving a maze of blocks in a box with the students. That mouse, was another critter (after the rabbit), I was asked to tend to the feeding and care of, along with fellow IA, Shirley. {shiver}

Imagine, I could've gone my entire life, staying at arm's length from the spiders, mice, rabbits, walking sticks, but once I was asked, I was able to gird my loins (eventually, I assume there was considerable whining to friends) and tend to the task. Maybe that's how we all get over ourselves? Someone asking, needing, wanting, and we're at their elbow, wanting to help, but ... it's something new or something long creeped out by. Yet, there we are, making a teeny tiny step towards getting over ourselves. It's a daily battle. 

Love, K

Critical Thinking or Browsing for Confirmation

While doing my daily Nextdoor duties, I had the unfortunate opportunity, to read a local, looney, school board loser's flawed thoughts about everything covid--amongst other things. And then she added some links to the YouTube sites that indoctrinated her, saying that she wasn't a sheep--she was a critical thinker. I hear you, school board loser. I too, in my youth, thought I was a critical thinker. 

When many of my school buds, were experimenting with drugs, I was researching their effects. Which, to be honest, wasn't easy in the seventies. My buds were dropping acid, adding PCP to joints, doing speed and snorting coke. I was happy with alcohol and weed and shrooms. But .. eventually, my curiosity raised its head and I began to "research" cocaine. 

I don't remember what I read or where I found the information I read--remember, this was the seventies. But cocaine, came off as the drug to try--to see what it might offer you. Thanks, Freud. My "rockstar" boyfriend, at the time, had access to drugs. Which is how I ended up snorting cocaine via a rolled up Benjamin Franklin. 

Afterwards, driving down a twisty, twinny, country road, while under the influence of cocaine, was all it took for me to swear it off for the rest of my life. I broke out in a sweat, as I gripped the steering wheel and uber focused on the curves in front of me, convinced that I'd never make it home alive. So much anxiety, at 10 mph. 

What I experienced was NOT critical thinking. I dove into my so called research, only looking for what agreed with my thinking. That is what is referred to as cherry picking--only selecting the most delectable, alluring fruit--leaving everything that did not agree, on the branch. 

I'm glad I eventually saw the light. Not everyone does. They stay in the dark, where it's most comfortable and surround themselves with only people who are too weak to disagree or those who have fully consumed that KoolAid. 

You're better than that. Don't go out and seek "the truth" you desire. That's always the lie that sucks you under and divides you from the people who truly care about you. All they want is your allegiance and your money. Your family and friends, on the other hand, want you to be okay and sane.

Be more sane. Love, K.

On Gratitude

THE DOG'S WET AND LIFE IS WONDERFUL

By Donna Britt June 16, 1995

"Chances are that so far, you've had a normal day. I have. This morning, I glared at my 13-year-old as he dozed, dawdled and procrastinated before kicking into overdrive to leave the house on time. I called cheerfully upstairs to awaken my 9-year-old -- who ignored me until my ear-shattering screech, "Get up now!" not only routed him but blasted from the window to frighten passersby. There was not a slice of bread in the house for school lunch sandwiches.

Normal day.

I'm learning to appreciate normal days. To savor, between glares and screeches, their magnificent mediocrity.

Most of life is normal days, so to be in love with them is to be in love with life. However much we await their arrival, it can be a long time between epiphanies and perfect vacations, between true-love sightings and our ships coming in.

And a long time between tragedies.

How many of us pass our lives in anticipation? Of the larger homes, smaller bodies and fattened bank accounts of our dreams; of the losses and disasters of our nightmares? We're so focused on what we pray will happen or on what we hope never will happen that we're blind to what is.

What is, for most people, is normal days.

Days when you're aware of being neither particularly sick nor well. When your relatives, friends and partners waver between buoying you up and sitting on your nerves; when you're too busy to notice much of anything -- except that you're too busy. Days when people ask, "So what happened today?" and you pause, think and come up with squat.

Those are days worth loving.

Most of us can't see that. Ours is a culture of complaint, which is ironic coming from a columnist, someone whose job might be described as "professional griper." But more and more, I'm appreciating those who appreciate. Or who at least hesitate to whine.

The other day, I jumped into a taxi and met Mamoun, a cabdriver who 12 years ago came to the United States from Ethiopia, which was for years torn by war. When I asked what's most striking about Americans, he smiled.

"People here complain a lot, don't they?" he said. "I think it's the freedom."

Mamoun's past taught him that wanting things to be better is natural, even necessary. But failing to acknowledge what you have is dumb.

I once knew a woman of 70 who was pretty and youthful-looking, in good health and living close to loved ones, but who never stopped complaining because she was, after all, 70 -- old and fading in a youth-worshiping world. I knew another woman of 70 in similar circumstances who seemed happy all the time because she was, well, 70 -- imagine having lasted so well, so long!

What I'm talking about, I think, is gratitude. I don't know when so many of us lost the gift for it, when it became fashionable to overlook how amazing it is to have food on the table, family members who love you, friends who make you laugh when you need to. When we stopped understanding that whether our breakneck lives have us breathing too fast, or our stagnation has us sucking air in slow motion, it is a blessing to be breathing at all.

But the best reason to treasure normal days is that when they're gone, they're exactly what you wish you had back.

Most of us have lived through periods of tragedy or loss when all we wanted was to feel okay again. Not to feel great, or terrific, but just okay. When my brother died years ago, I walked around in so much pain that feeling fine seemed like an oasis of impossibility. Boredom, it seemed, would be heaven.

The pain passed. But I haven't felt bored since.

Recently, I was leafing through a favorite book, "A Grateful Heart -- Daily Blessings for the Evening Meal from Buddha to the Beatles," a volume filled with gratitude-inducers, and found this prayer by Mary Jean Iron:

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you. . . . Let me not pass by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. "One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow . . . and want, more than all the world, your return."

I'd quote more, but my awful dog is downstairs yapping, flinging himself against the door. When I let him out, he will once again dive into the local creek, roll around in the creek bed and cover himself with mud. I get to capture him, hold him down and get doused, hosing him off.

Wonderful, normal day."

This Bod was Made for Walking

I have a vague (aren't they all vague, K?), early, childhood memory, of going camping with my folks, and the possible stops along the way to hike--if the trail invited. And by "invited" I mean due to either by its name, the promised site and/or the length. Plus, it seemed that nearly every childhood activity included a walk. Whether it was the uphill (seems like it was often uphill) walk to G'ma and G'pa Curley's house to run an errand, heading to a neighbor's house to play, or babysitting for the family with five sons. 

When I reached adolescence, a friend who lived in town and I, would start walking to each other at the same time. We'd meet in the middle and then head to either my house or hers. I can remember Mom getting concerned about me walking alone. And a classmate's mother stopped one day and tried to give me a ride. Didn't they remember that adolescent feeling of invincibility? 

I will admit to a shady encounter on a walk back home from my friend's house once. And there were probably consequences when I shared with Mom afterwards--though that particular friendship was always a "bone of contention" between me and my parents. My folks were usually open minded people, but they did have their opinions about how some people lived their lives. 

After high school, there were a few classmates who had stayed in town. We started getting together to go on a hike to a favorite waterfall on our days off. It was an unmarked trail that few used--which was probably part of the draw. We could take a small grill and steaks and have a little cook-out, while sitting at the top of that lovely little waterfall. 

Later on, after N and I met and married, we camped and hiked together, sharing our favorite places with each other. When I was pregnant with our first, I'd meet up with my sister-in-law, and we'd walk the "beach road" most days. Sometimes we'd join up with my Mom's walking group, though Mom always made it clear that they went fast and wouldn't wait for pregnant slow pokes. 

Sitting here writing, I've realized that the three years we lived near the coast, I did not walk much at all. There were visits to the beach, but it was different with a toddler. We'd play tag with the waves, look at the shells and play fetch with our Shiloh. 

Roseburg, was a different story. Another house, another hill ... PLUS a neighbor who wanted a walking partner. I have no idea of the length of that road. M and I, would go uphill, then turn, head back down to the bottom and back up again. And any poor soul, who happened to visit, would be persuaded to trek that hill along with me. Yes, even Mom. Neighbor D, drove past Mom and I, walking one day and couldn't help but comment on how our gaits were identical. 

When we finally arrived in Salem, the neighborhood didn't have anyone knocking at the door to welcome us or ask for a walking partner. This "big" city cowed me in the beginning. Eventually, we bought an exercise bicycle that was set up at the end of the couch in the living room. I'd hop on every weekday morning, before the rest of the house woke up, hook up my headphones to the VCR and pedal to All My Children, taped the day before. 

When the bicycle died, we bought our first treadmill. I honestly can't remember if we're on our second or third now. So many miles! Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy the occasional walk with a friend at a local park or joining N on a dog walk. My favorite, is still a long walk at the beach, but I like the consistency and benefits of a daily walk. And now? Now I'm digging these long walks, three days a week, with my cousin on a video call. Today, we walked for eighty minutes, but it felt like twenty. Time flies when you're chatting.

Love, K

Telling a Story on Myself aka "Blogging"

When N and I, were first joining forces with one another, he was also taking care of the end of his prior relationship. It ended, over a year before we met, but he hadn't finalized anything. He'd been stuck with his big feelings, over the disappointment that the person he had formed an early union with, had changed, since they both had graduated from college. End result: So much sorting of stuff and deciding who would get what--even the recipes. 

One of those recipes, has been a long time favorite in the meal rotation, but the funny thing is ... I read the recipe's title wrong the first time and ... it stuck. In the beginning, it was called, "Costless Rice", but I (mistakenly) read it wrong and began calling it Costa Rican Rice ... and it stuck. 

In our early frugal years, this recipe worked well. The discount bacon ends and ground beef (divided into half pound packages to help stretch that dime) bought at the local market, were joined with garlic, onion, tomato sauce, and bacon, to create a tasty, rib sticking meal, for the four of us. And still today, a tasty meal for two that lasts more than one night.

*Update: decided to search for that recipe, by its original name. This is what popped up: https://www.emorycottage.net/recipes/vegetables/costlessrican_rice.html

That's it. That's the story. Now ... here's that recipe:

Costa Rican Rice

2 Tbsp oil

1/2 diced onion

2 cloves diced garlic

1 cup of raw rice

2 8oz cans of tomato sauce

2 cups hot water

4 strips of bacon 

1/2 - 1 lb of ground beef or turkey

Heat oil and cook bacon until half way done, add ground beef/turkey. Stir to separate. Once bacon and turkey are nearly done, add chopped onion. When onion turns transparent, add raw rice. Saute until grains turn white. Add diced garlic, stir for 20-30 seconds, add tomato sauce and hot water. Stir to combine. Bring to low boil, cover and reduce heat and simmer for 20-30 minutes. 

Love, K 

Something Smells Delicious ...

I need to browse this cookbook more often. Currently cooking in the oven and making the house smell delicious. Thank you, chiles rellenos casserole!

 In real life ...

Turning Turkey into Enchiladas

 I've been making this, about twice a year, ever since we lived in Roseburg, though the recipe book was a part of N's collection, when we married forty-three years ago today.

It's possible that the first couple of times I made it, I added more turkey and cream cheese than was asked for. And then there were the years of reducing the fat via low-fat sour cream and Neufchatel cream cheese. Now, I pay attention to the quantities used, as well as minding our portions. Which means more dinners. Winner, winner, leftover, tasty dinner!

Love, K

December Has Landed

 Which means ... one day away from our 43rd. 

Nature: My Life as a Turkey

My apologies.

The video was moved. 

Here's the link: My Life as a Turkey

COVID Rollercoaster

 

Entwined with the Seasons

What is it about this time of year, that finds me wanting to amp up my texts to friends and family? Perhaps, it has to do with the double holiday season or less daylight? I have no clue, but I am starting to see the "process". 

I start out the darker days, making an effort to communicate more to most folks I know. And then I begin to see my pattern and I pull way way back. Which brings on a case of the sads. Every single time. Blergh. 

And now I've typed it out, to see if it sparks a solution, because I already have the awareness. {sigh} Maybe just the simple task of keeping it in mind, will offer some ... relief (?). Yes, I see you Autumn and Winter. Let's do this ... one way or another.

Love, K

Another Decade, Another Strata?

Recently, I began thinking about the strata (breakfast casserole), that I usually make (once or twice) around the holiday season. And then a memory of older sis, sharing how well rye bread toast goes with over easy eggs, popped into my head. The flavor wheels in my brain began to spin and then I did a search and found a recipe. {cue trumpeting sound} 

At first glance, the recipe looked like a winner, similar to what I was imagining in my food brain. But when it came time to make a list of needed ingredients, I noticed the first problem--"a loaf of rye bread". And, "what size of loaf are they referring to?", irritated me wondered. There were a few other problematic things, but I soldiered on.

"Breakfast Strata Recipe with Rye Bread and Sausage"

(inspired by Today's Creative Life)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees

Ingredients

Glass baking dish approximately 10x15--buttered

1 loaf rye bread, cut into cubes, toasted (my loaf was 24 ounces and was more than needed)

1 lb of breakfast sausage (I used 2 Jimmy Dean sausage rolls--one hot and one regular)

3 Tbsp of Dijon mustard

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp pepper

2 cups whole milk

10 eggs

2 cups of spinach (I cut mine into 1/4-1/2" strips)

1 small red onion, thinly sliced

2 cups of Swiss cheese, grated

Instructions

1. Set your oven to 400 degrees

2. Brown sausage with sliced red onion, drain and set aside

3. In medium bowl, whisk eggs, milk, mustard, salt, pepper, spinach, and half the cheese

4. Evenly and loosely, distribute the toasted bread cubes to the baking dish, do not overfill or strata will be too dry.

5. Evenly crumble the cooked sausage and onion over bread cubes

6. Pour egg mixture over the bread, sausage and onion

7. Add other half of shredded cheese over the top

8. Cover with foil and let sit in refrigerator for 2-12 hours

9. Remove from refrigerator, while oven heats to 400 degrees

10. Bake for 50-60 minutes and let rest for 5-10 minutes

11. Cut into desired pieces, serve and enjoy

12. Let me know what I missed--seriously

Love, K

What to Pair with Rye Bread ...

Who knows how one's own brain works. Not I. I only ponder, because sometimes my brain is powered by my stomach. Usually when I'm searching for a recipe. Makes sense to me. You? 

And, a day or two ago, I began to ponder if there were any recipes for breakfast strata, using rye bread. Way back when, one diner morning, my older sis, suggested I order rye toast with my breakfast,  I didn't hesitate. She's also an aficionado of over easy eggs and their golden gifts. My review? Rye is well suited and paired with egg yolk. Thanks, Sissy.

So ... I've learned, thanks to internet searches, there are strata recipes using rye bread. But now I'm doubting their usage of Swiss cheese as a companion. What type of cheese would you pair with rye bread and eggs. Inquiring minds wish to know. 

Love, K

Creamy Caramelized Onion Chicken Thighs

Creamy Caramelized Onion Chicken Thighs

I never tire of searching for certain food combinations, when looking for a recipe. It's amusing to me, at how rarely I'll receive the same search results. I guess google knows how to keep things interesting? Or it's a sign of how many folks are out there posting recipes. Yeah, probably that.

The recipe above, is one of those results that was new to me. Onions, mushrooms and chicken, will often make this belly happy. I had a couple of ideas on what to change up in this recipe, but decided to make it as written the first time. I was already planning on the next version, when N suggested that perhaps I make a couple of those changes with the leftovers tonight. See why I keep him around? 

So, tonight we'll be eating this again, but with a dab of dijon mustard and a splash of sherry. Let me know how you'd change it up. Love, K

Electile Disfunction

 

Oven Baked Pineapple Chicken Thighs

When my older sis was in high school home economics class, she brought home a couple of soon to be favorite recipes. The ink on my old recipe card has faded in several important places, so I often head out for online recipe reassurance. Monday was one of those days. Lucky me, found a baked version, without breading. I lengthened the baking time, because I like fall off the bone chicken thighs. Enjoy, Love, K

Oven Baked Pineapple Chicken Thighs

(slightly altered from Real House Moms)

--Ingredients

8 ounces pineapple (crushed or tidbits) (1 can)

1/2 cup chicken stock

1 tablespoons soy sauce

1 tablespoons sesame oil

1 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1 tablespoon olive oil

1/2 small yellow onion peeled and diced

I red pepper chopped

I smallish carrot diced

4-6 (depending on size) boneless skinless chicken thighs

Salt and pepper to taste

Fresh parsley chopped, for garnish

Green onions thinly sliced, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

In a large bowl, stir together the pineapple, chicken stock, soy sauce, sesame oil, brown sugar, cornstarch, and garlic powder until well combined. Set aside.

Season both sides of the chicken thighs with salt and pepper.

Place an ovenproof skillet or dutch oven over medium heat. Then add the oil. Sear the chicken thighs for about 3-4 minutes on each side, or until the chicken has a golden brown color. 

Remove chicken thighs. Deglaze pan with vermouth, if needed. 

Add more oil (if needed). Add onion, red pepper, carrot. Cook and stir, until onion is transparent, And return chicken thighs to pan.

Pour the pineapple sauce over the chicken thighs. 

Then bake for 45-35 minutes, or until chicken is cooked through and sauce is bubbly and thickened.

Remove the skillet/dutch oven from the oven and allow the chicken to sit 5 minutes before serving. The sauce will thicken up as it cools.

Serve warm with rice. Add chopped green onions and parsley on top, if desired.

Notes

If you don’t have an ovenproof skillet, transfer the chicken and onions to a baking dish before pouring the sauce on top. Then bake as directed.

"What Are You?"

Was reading this shared article today. Struck a chord with me. How about you?

 

Yes, You're a ....

 From Carolyn Hax's column today. Thanks, Nick Galifianakis

Making Butter

I have few memories that include my older sisters still living at home. That age gap, combined with whatever, has removed much of my childhood from the grey cells, but mainly--it's all about that 13 year gap. I often hope the two of them will sit down and put some of their favorite, brightest, moments on paper to share. I'm curious as to what the family constellation was like when they were small and the changes they experienced along the way.

I'm sure I've shared one of those moments (when I was either dust in the wind or too small to remember), when my oldest Sis fell onto the shards of the gallon jar and the loose gravel that caused the fall, as she watched the day's worth of milk, flowing down the road. It's a bit of family lore that usually brings a memory bubbling up: all seven of us, sitting around the living room, watching television and making butter.

Those daily gallon jars of milk, were freshly squeezed, from one of G'ma and G'pa Curly's cows, before being transported by adolescent, down the short hill from their small farm. Mom (?) would scoop off the cream, before adding milk to all those bowls of oatmeal. I don't know if it was the usual routine, but I can remember all seven of us, sitting around the living room, watching television, passing that jar of cream around, agitating it into butter. Golden butter and golden moment. Love, K

Waiting and Waiting and ...

I don't know about you, but once I put something, anything, out on the web, I can feel the weight. Upon my psyche, my shoulders, my mood. So, when I put up a bag of jigsaw puzzles on "Trash Nothing", to give away, and the first to respond, didn't arrive when they said, I began to feel the weight. The weight of not knowing what to expect or what's coming next or ...?

And then there are the communications, to find out if they want what you're offering or if they've changed their minds or if they need something more from you that they aren't sharing. The guessing, the wondering, the effort of it all, sigh. Did I give enough information? Should I share this? Or that? Especially when there's someone else waiting to find out if they're going to be the beneficiary, instead of the first lucky message.

I feel fortunate, that this time the torture was relatively short. Coulda been worse, I tell myself, because myself knows from prior experience. 

Love, K

November

Another Something Something to Stream

Last night, we dipped our tv toes, into the new Netflix series on and from Colin Kaepernick. We're only one episode in, but it got us talking as we watched--like a good show or book ought to do. Have you turned it on yet? Just curious. Love, K

That Was a Hoot

Last night, as N and I watched TV, a cousin (who lives in another state) sent a text asking if I wanted to go for a walk in the morning. Naturally, I immediately assumed cousin Larie meant to text one of her local friends, instead of me. So, I answered, "Of course!!😂", thinking that might make her pause and realize what she'd done, but no. She knew exactly what she was doing.

We decided on a time and agreed to meet up the next morning . . . each of us in our own homes on our own treadmills, chatting away on a video call. And now, after we've experienced our first walk "together", we've agreed to make it a regular date. Larie has a good point. We've enjoyed many good long video calls during the pandemic, but we've sat on our butts for all of them. Now we'll benefit from a warm conversation AND a good brisk walk. Thanks, Larie. Love ya always 💓 

Love, K

Repeat Ear Worm Mystery Solved

I finally realized why the song verse, "put the lime in the coconut", has been playing in my head off and on for the past year. All due to the proverbial light bulb lighting up over my head, on the treadmill today, when I heard Dr Bailey on Grey's Anatomy say (once again), "now let me get this straight...".

Love, K 

"Brudder bought a coconut, he bought it for a dime

His sister had anudder one, she paid it for de lime
She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up
She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up
She put de lime in de coconut, she drank 'em bot' up
She put de lime in de coconut, she called de doctor, woke 'im up

And said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"
I said "Doctor, to relieve this bellyache?"
I said "Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?"
I said "Doctor, to relieve this bellyache?"

Now, lemme get this straight
You put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up
Put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up
Put de lime in de coconut, you drank 'em bot' up
Put de lime in de coconut, you called your doctor, woke 'im up""

~Harry Edward Nilsson 

Cause and Effect: First, They Reduced Our ...

In my lifetime, I've heard GOP members (whatever their position in whatever office), talk about reducing government--using all their catchy phraseology, meant to grab our ears and minds. 

My first memory, is of Reagan, talking about slashing taxes, etc. And then there were the groups, that would go exert their views, in individual states. The end result--instead of people complaining so much about taxes, they began to rant about the state of their roads and how long it takes to get a government employee on the telephone.

And all of those tax reductions, what the anti-taxers promised, did not get rid of what they claimed was waste, they got rid of people manning the phones and doing the necessary jobs. Particularly, the state workers who were posted in the less populated parts of the state--reducing the availability of getting any kind of assistance to the rural folks AND taking away the paychecks, that were once spent in those rural communities. 

People in rural counties are angry? Why weren't they paying attention? Why were they drinking the anti-tax Kool Aid? It's not government, people, it's the people who want to strangle the government--they're your enemies. They're your BIG business owners--not wanting to pay workers and not wanting to pay their way. So . . . they make the government the enemy. And, those of us who were listening in school, the government IS the people. 

Stop listening to the folks guarding their stacks of dollars. Listen to each other AND listen to reputable news. Love, K

Welp . . .

I guess the hairy experiment is over. It was "fun" and it gave me the chance to revisit the issues I'd forgotten along the way. Like . . . how long it takes to dry my thick hair when it's longer and how much I hate having hair in my face. Is that all, K? And all those products! Seems like more, much more to recall. K reminds self, that she CAN edit later. 

My L, gave me a great cut, back in early July. When I began to beg for a second, I discovered that once was enough for them. So . . . off I went--back to the place I used to frequent, before I discovered Karyn-who-used-to-cut-the-hair. 

Mandy, massaged this bumpy, lumpy, head, trimmed, layered, compared, and then more soothing with the diffuser. And now, I'm left with what I used to enjoy--a shorter, layered bob, that dries quicker, but sucks at keeping the sleeping cap on. 

And after all of this, as I sit and muse--if my hair is back to normal, can that possibly mean that the world is not far behind? Clicking my ruby slippers together, just in case. How about you? 

Love, K

Tonight's Theme Song

 

"This Be the Verse" ~ Philip Larkin

Happened across this poem, while reading Ty Burr's review of the recent season of Ted Lasso. New to me. How about you?  Love, K

 

Moments to Savor

Thanks to a recent cousin chat, I've been savoring an old memory this afternoon. 

My Mother's older sister, lived in the Tacoma area, with her husband and five children (eventually six). They would drive down to visit us and we'd drive up to spend a day with them. I have no idea of how often it occurred. Maybe one visit a month? I can remember Mom's mood brightening, when Aunt would make the phone call saying they were on their way. 

Such a tiny house, our family of seven lived in, incredible what you can make do with, when that's all you have. Our dining room table expanded to it's maximum, with its three leaves, adding to the length for dinner. A board, spanned from one chair to another, provided needed seating for the youngest, with a Sears or Monty Wards catalog added, in case one of us littles wasn't quite tall enough to reach the table. 

When we'd drive up to see their family, by the time I came along, only my older brother and me would be in the backseat. (I wonder what those three teens left at home were up to? Something that just popped into my head.) My brother, probably enjoyed being "the oldest", on these drives. Probably why he was territorial, when it came to where I was allowed sit and squirm. 

The drive back, from what my faulty memory tells me, was usually in the dark. Perhaps it was to avoid being teased and prodded by older brother, or perhaps it was soothing, since I was exhausted from a full day. Whatever the reason, I'd curl up in the foot well, on my side of the backseat. The vibrations from the tires rumbling on the seamed concrete highway, the trusty thumb in my mouth, would send me into deep sleep, all the way home.

Love, K

Cravings ...

 

"Winter is an Etching ..."

October ... Weren't You Just Here?

 

Babybel Cheese as a Classroom Soother

Sometime during these many months of our "current situation", I began to enjoy Babybel cheese or PacMan cheese, if you're me. 😁The cheese seems to be what my late afternoon stomach needs. I guess those cheesemakers were onto something. 

Then, our L began to come over to visit on a regular schedule. We'd visit, L might garden, and we might play games. Then I began to include L in my late afternoon PacMan snack. Instead of immediately smushing up and tossing the cheese debris, like me, L began to create. The first, that I can recall, were a trio of small fish. 

Who knows why, but my brain began to imagine a kindergarten classroom enjoying a quiet snack, after recess--especially with the creative possibilities to explore. A quiet snack, while smushing the soft, warm wax, into the idea in our head. Yeah, like that. 

Are you listening Babybel?

Love, K

Song Currently Playing Inside My Head

 

Preposterous

It's been awhile, but when I was a young person, I can recall hearing adults use the phrase, "you're lying to yourself...". 

"Preposterous!", I'd think, "Absolutely ridiculous! How can it be possible to lie to oneself?"

And now that I'm on the backside of young, that old reaction amuses me. We start lying to ourselves, from the time we open our eyes in the morning, and continue until we go back to sleep. Hopefully, dreams have only illusions, without the lies. Hopefully.

Huh, I wonder what actions we lie about most? 

• What or how much we eat and drink? 
• Whether we owe an apology?
• Or minimizing our responsibility regarding a problem?

I imagine, one could continue to add to that list--refining, defining, getting into the weedy details. What would you add? I'd like to know.

Love, K

Personal Struggles and Household Chores

Early on in my childhood, back in the sixties, I struggled hard against what I saw as a sexist division of chores. 
"Why do I ... ?"
"Why can't I ... ?

"This is stupid!"

Why oh why, would I want to be stuck inside, washing dishes, cooking, vacuuming or dusting? And then, there was a brief moment in my early adolescence, where my Dad allowed me to help/observe, while he worked on the family vehicles and when he helped (I mostly observed tbh) me to make a small foot stool. Which is probably one of the reasons, besides the folks being so done with parenting, I never learned to do laundry. Sorry about those sacrificed shirts, N. 

When I landed my first job at Sizzler, the struggle began again. I did manage to push all the way into my assistant manager training, but then the owners pulled the rug out from under me--saying I could only complete my training by learning to cook and manage the grill ... but not allowing me to use the grill. So I soon skedaddled. I heard, years later, from a younger co-worker, that she decided to pick up where I was left stranded, and was able to become an assistant manager. While I was happy for her, I was disappointed. Guess I was a few years too soon. 

When N and I, joined forces, that old struggle was still niggling at me. The day, I replaced a burnt out blinker bulb, with the incorrect bulb, and the brake lights went goofy on a long trip, was a moment. And when I tried to move a large, rolled rug by myself, and N came home to find me on the floor, unable to get my back muscles to cooperate, was another. I backed way off, until one summer, when our offspring were older, I decided I'd be doing N a favor, by mowing the lawn, every week. I mean ... I had summers off, so I wanted to gift him some free time.

His reaction confused me, until he spelled it out--I wasn't "giving" him free time, I was "taking" something away from him. Something he felt defined him. Once I could turn it around in my head, and see it from a different perspective, it became clear. Maybe my personal struggle was more about finding my place in the world, and then I didn't know when to quit? Or perhaps I was so deep into my own feelings and ideas, that I failed to watch and listen? Or maybe it took me that frigging long to grow up. Yeah ... maybe that.

Love, K

                                                            

Streaming 3.0

The Wire (series)

In the Heights (Musical)

Virgin River (new series season dropped)

Detectorist (series)

Lady in the Van (movie)

The Last We Spoke (movie)

In Bruges (movie)

All is Lost (movie)

The Road to Perdition (movie)

Ted Lasso (series)

Modern Love (series)

CODA (movie)

The Morning Show (series)

Schmigadoon (series)

Greyhound (movie)

Corman (series)

DCI Banks (series)

Dickinson (series)

Come from Away (musical)

Guilt (mini series)

New of the World (movie)

Palmer (movie)

Guilt (mini series)

Bombshell Blondes (movie)

Hacks (series)

On the Rocks (movie)

The Starling (movie)

Only Murders in the Building (series)

Wonder Years 2021 (series)

Great British Baking Show new (series)

Captain Fantastic (movie)

Mr. Roosevelt (movie)

(more to come...)

Morning Made

 All it took was an online comment from a bud, about the habit of licking the rim of their mug, while drinking the daily brew, to usher my Mum into my head this morning. It usually happened when one of us, in Mom's vicinity, would take a swig and an "ahhh" would sigh out of our mouths. 

"You used to do that when I was breast feeding you. Always wondered if you were copying your father's first sip of the day."

And then she'd share about her theories of being able to tell if other people were breastfed as infants, all because of the way they'd place their tongue, when they drank out of a vessel. 

Thanks, D. That made my morning. Love, K

September is the Ninth Month

 

Like a Scented Candle

There I was, in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, when I spied the container of new hair product on the counter. And, since curious is my middle name, I wondered how it smelled--because you never know if a hair product's scent will be pleasing or nudge an old memory, or disappoint. Yes, color me curious. 

I unscrewed the wide lid from the wide mouth and tried to lift an edge of the paper seal. And in true K fashion, I decided to go ahead and remove the entire paper seal, only to get the pomade on both the counter and my hands. And, I ask you, would you want to waste that dollop? Not I. No sir-ee! "Let's give this cream a try right now, because tomorrow is hair washing day." 

Not the best decision--one I will try not to repeat in the future ... hopefully. (Are you listening, nighttime K?) The new product, smells like many a scented candle I've burnt over the years thanks to gifts from students. Kind of cinnamony and something else ... maybe apple? And, boy howdy, was it powerful! I tucked that scented candle head of mine into my sleep cap and hoped I could ignore the smell and slip off to sleep. 

It wasn't easy to ignore and keep myself from hopping out from under the covers to go shampoo my head, but I stayed and slept. N thought it smelled good, fine, "I like it", so there's that. And that's important, when you cohabitate, in my opinion. I might need to wash that sleep cap though ...

Love, K

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

"Looks like you have a decision to make."

We mull them over and over.

"Did you make a pro and con list?"

We sort, we listen, we struggle ...

We make one.

We wonder, wonder, wonder--was it the right one?

How would we know?

We'll never know.

There aren't any replays, redos

Just life. 

Life moving along in a straight line,

while we get caught up 

in the curves, switchbacks and the godawful knots.

An Ante into the Chatter Pot

Recently, I've had the opportunity to remember a moment in my young married life. A moment I'm not proud of, but I wonder if it's something most folks bump their proverbial heads against a time or two in their lives. 

It's all about those gatherings with friends, when we start to share tidbits from our married lives. Which soon turn into trading the currency of whose partner has the strangest habits. Because, isn't that what it is when someone says something about their partner that elicits laughter? An ante in the chatter pot, to show you too are part of this new group. 

But later, we start to understand the effect this is having on our relationships (hopefully before the damage is too great). Because, when you take a close look, it's about respect. Respect for the person you've partnered with ... for possibly, the rest of your life. Without respect, there can be no trust and without trust, the connection or love will whither. 

I mean ... how would YOU feel to learn your partner was dissing you with their friends? Yeah, not great. Not great at all.

Love, K

Warm Memory

Last night, while reading my current novel, the author was describing the physique of one of the main characters, a professional ballerina. She, the author, talked about the stark angles of the ballerina's body-- her knobby joints, her gaunt, chiseled face and neck. And, boom, there she was, Darlene Ledgette, a long time childhood buddy of my older sisters. 

When she'd stop by to visit, I can remember the warm feeling she'd exude, encompassing all in her vicinity. It was like sitting in the gentle warmth of the sun, on a coolish spring day. Yeah, like that. That's it. That's the memory. 

Love, K

Get ON Your Feet

Reading and Reading and Reading

Usually, I read one book at a time. How about you?

I can remember being amazed when a friend talked about reading several books at the same time, many moons ago. I couldn't imagine being able to simultaneously hold more than one book in my head. The idea of it seemed impossible to me. But since then, I've a small handful of times when I've accomplished that task. A very small handful. 

Currently, I'm reading a novel by Gail Godwin and a nonfiction book entitled, "What Happened to You?". And, also currently, I'm placing bets on whether I can actually finish the nonfiction book. Guess I'm not very supportive of letting myself veer off the path of long time habits. 

How you doing? Love, K💓

Die She Must ...

 

"You Are Loved"

 

Radio Years

Early on, there was a radio in the family homestead kitchen. Loudly featured, on those rare mornings when Dad made pancakes, as he liked to tune into the local station that played jaunty polkas on Sunday mornings. Not something this teenager enjoyed--unless making my grouchy ridiculing remarks count as entertainment. Poor Dad, trying his best to bring back my pre-adolescent smiles and ending up grouchy himself.

Sometime around my intermediate elementary years, I was gifted a transistor radio. So many hours, I spent with that single ear piece stuck into my pillow ear, listening to the songs on "62 KGW". I holed up in my bedroom often--that's a normal thing, right? 

Later, I was either gifted a small, portable radio or bought it myself with babysitting money. I took that radio everywhere I went: to the river, the park and the front yard. Eventually, scrolling through stations, I discovered audio for CBS or NBC and Dr. Demento. Listening to Dr. Demento was a revelation--what else was out there waiting to be found.

Later on, when Dad had good steady work, they sprang for a stereo set, that resided in the living room. Mom, kept her favorite easy listening station on during the day. And there I was with my grouchy ridiculing remarks, "Are they singing a Beatles song? Why don't they write their own songs, instead of ruining ours?", and on and on I went. You'd think they would've been thrilled to have me holed up in my room.

N and I, have gone through a few boombox type radios, that we kept in the kitchen. That's when we discovered Prairie Home Companion and eventually the rest of the public radio line up. About eleven years ago, I stumbled upon an article about internet radios. That's when we discovered Squeezebox. It's the best radio experience I've ever had--clear reception, excellent sound. 

We did eventually spring for a google appliance in the kitchen. The sound is fairly close to the Squeezebox and it can display cooking videos or video phone calls. But we keep the Squeezeboxes, even if they're not quite as reliable as they were in the beginning. Good listening is hard to find.

Some Words from Carolyn Hax

The quote below is from Carolyn Hax's column yesterday. We all could do better, a lot better, at what she says:

"There's also the bigger issue of a finger-pointing culture, which I wish would just die:

If you're sick, then it's your fault for being irresponsible.

If you're poor, then it's your fault for being lazy or choosing the wrong line of work.

If your kids screw up, then you're a bad parent.

If you're lonely, then you must not treat people well.

Not only is this a fundamental breakdown of compassion, but it's also rooted in magical thinking — that if you just do all the right things, then everything will turn out right for you. That's not how life works.

We can do some things to help ourselves, protect ourselves, advance ourselves — but lightning still strikes when it wants to. Institutions and environments have their say. And we all make mistakes, but the price per mistake is often randomly assigned and rarely, if ever, the same from one person to the next.

It's such a tempting emotional habit to adopt, though, of seeing misfortune and then finding ways to tell ourselves why that couldn't possibly happen to us — or worse, why our superior selves and superior choices have lifted us above the possibility of such a fate.

We’d be warmer people and have a better-functioning society if we had the courage to look at misfortune and immediately connect to how that could happen to us — and be less self-congratulatory about why it didn’t. That’s how a society learns to act collectively toward a common good, instead of hoarding and yelling and culture-warring."--Carolyn Hax July 2021

"Got Sunshine in My Pocket"

 

Nine Days Late

 

Interesting Week

 On Monday, I stepped out of the shower, to discover approximately 40 flies (not drain flies) on the bathroom floor--looking like they were stumbling out of a bar into the daylight. They seemed to continue coming out of wherever they were coming from for the next couple of hours. Then it stopped. The next morning, there were more, though (thankfully) only half as many as the day before. 

We still have no clue how they got into the house, but we do have theories. Perhaps some living creature got into our attic and perished during the extreme heat, and maybe the flies that hatched from the maggots came through our bathroom fan? Hard to say, but I'm glad it seems to be over. 

And I'm trying preemie diapers on Hope dog. At first it was difficult to keep them on her skinny little bum--she's still a little Houdini at 17 years old. Cue, "Find the Diaper" game music. 

This week, I've done some fine tuning and discovered that a sheet clip works as a nice way to clip diaper to her halter. Which meant, I could remove the archipelago of small rugs, I've been using as crude, unreliable, urine catchers, and shampoo the beegeebers out of the carpet. Felt like winning to me, though who knows what Hope thinks.

But, though the week isn't over, the cherry on top, was getting a great haircut out on the deck. That was a sweet first. Love, K

Broken

When I was in elementary school, about once a year, a classmate would appear with a cast on either an arm or leg. Such a huge event! A broken arm! A broken leg! How did it happen? Did it hurt? Can I sign your cast? There were just enough of these injuries, for us to learn and forget the tricks of using a marker on uneven plaster.

Such a mysterious thing, these broken bones. Fairly certain, that my understanding of this mysterious and hidden injury, was that this injury might be similar (had they been around back then) to a Lego People snapping off a joint. No blood, no swollen, bruised tissue, just ... "snap". {paste, paste, paste}

Oh and then there was the inexplicable envy. Good grief! What kind of small barbarians were we? Or ... perhaps we were just normal. All that attention, with a class of curious faces turned to you, must've felt like the warmth from the sun. And all you had to do was fall out of a tree or ? ? 

You first. Love, K

Excellent Spokesperson--He Will Go Far imo

Bohemian Rhapsody via 1976 DC cover band Six Pence

Senor Wences

 

The Soles of my Feet

 A couple of years back, I began to wake up during the night, thanks to a weird, hurty, itching, tingly, feeling. I looked it up and came up with neuropathy. Which didn't stop me from putting lotion or cortisone cream on them, before bed. The lotion/cream, brought relief. Which led me to wonder whether this really was neuropathy.

After awhile, I began to notice that the cortisone helped the most. Which led me to wonder ... were my sweaty sandals to blame? Was this a fungus? I didn't want to try any of the anti-fungal prescription medication, after reading about the numerous, serious, side effects. So, off I went to check out home remedies.

The first one, I decided to try, was tea tree oil. It has a number of uses it excels at--like bug bites. But the scent can be off putting and long lasting. It helped, but I didn't use it as often as needed. I'm guessing it was the smell. The second one, was hydrogen peroxide. A "full strength" thirty minute soak, for seven days in a row, made a huge difference. Keep in mind, if you continue to wear the same shoes--you'll need to repeat the seven day treatment.

And so, here I am wondering--is it a fungus? Or is it something else, that is remedied by Hydrogen peroxide? I don't know, but I do know that my feet are doing fine now. Be aware of the need to keep your feet dry and well tended. And look forward to the day, you'll be able to walk into Costco and visit a podiatrist.

Love, K

Lyle Lyle Crocodile (narrated by Tony Randall)

 

Boundaries with Brene Brown

 

Mas Que Nada

 

Bark, George

 

Current Status

Abridging

Shrinking

Receding

Waning

Condensing

Ebbing

Easing

Dwindling

Downscaling

Ratcheting down

Abbreviating

Curtailing

Whittling

Trimming

Modulating

Petering out

"I Got Life, Mother ..."

 

Bonnie's House

This morning, as I made breakfast for one (N's fasting), I messed up my over easy eggs--spectacularly. I turned them a handful of seconds too soon and that's when they folded their white wings over their yolky faces. And when I attempted to scoop them onto my saucer, their fraught golden yellow yolks, split and spilled.  The end result, was about as close as I'll get to accidentally making "egg in a cup with soldiers". Not to worry, yolky saucer! Toast will come to the rescue! Nom nom nom

Then BANG! An old dusty memory popped up. There I was in Bonnie's house. I must've spent the night. Was I eight or nine? I'm not clear on the details. I remember a cluttered place, filled with family, love and joy and a dog named Rowdy. AND Bonnie made us eggs for breakfast. She had a method that required no turning, no breaking of those yolks. She used bacon fat to cook the eggs and then she spooned and spooned sizzling bacon fat/grease over the top of the eggs to finish the cooking. And this runt thought it was magic.

What happened to us, Bonnie? I don't have a clue. Hope you're doing well and still enjoying those eggs. Love, K

Still Streaming After All These Months ...

 And more streaming history:

Red Oaks series

Women Talking Dirty 

Hope Gap

Mozart in the Jungle series

Casual series

Blinding of Isaac

Seberg

Staged series

Z: The Beginning of Everything (could not finish) series

Manchester By the Sea

Them series

Billions

Flannery

Game Face series

Wild Mountain Thyme

Rudderless

Madame

Cowboys

Start Up (didn't finish) series

This Way Up

This Beautiful Fantastic

Finding Alaska series

Love Sarah

Magic in the Moonlight

The Student and Mr Henri

Apple Tree Yard series

Breeders series

Private Lives

Kominsky Method (new season)

Finding Alaska

Lady in White

The Florida Project

I'm Thinking of Ending Things (after watching this, we did too)

Breeders

The Translator

The Mirror Has Two Facees

Sweet Tooth

Agatha and the Midnight Murders

Lupin

A Bit of Musing on Human Behavior

Over the years, I've heard that alone time is important for our mental health. I don't remember all of the many reasons why. For me, being alone is all about taking the time for musing, reflecting and thinking. Sorting through all the open files? 

In my own case, the entire living space must be void of humans. Otherwise, part of my brain is holding them along with their wants and needs--changing the alone time to something less. The more people occupying the living space, the more brain power it takes for me to hold them all in the forefront of my mind. 

I don't think about this often, but last night, as I drifted off to sleep, I began to think about how I struggled with being alone, as a teen, while also surrounded by others. The thought stream began, when I wished I could go back and tell teen-me, to embrace those moments instead of feeling lost and alone. 

And that's when I realized, that those moments in the school hallways and the cafeteria, were similar to how it feels when others are in the house, but not engaged with me. So many hours, I spent alone as a child, but no one else was in the house. And that matters. Perhaps, this pull I/we feel from others in our vicinity, is a sign of the need we have for community. <shrugs> Love, K

Songs Sung Young

 Our small town, didn't have a music teacher for elementary students. Instead, about once a week, starting in fifth grade, our teacher would tell us all to pull out our song books. And that, yes that, was the highlight of the entire week. 

We sang our little hearts out throughout (not only when it was time to sing Goober Peas). And then there were several other songs that were sung only on field trips. I have no idea why, but that's when we sang: Katalina Matalina, The Princess Pat, I Met a Bear and a few others. And sweet Eddie B, was usually the leader. Nicely done, EB. Love, K

Songs sung most often:

Shenandoah

Land of the Silver Birch

Roll On Columbia

Streets of Laredo

This Land is Your Land

Columbia the Gem of the Ocean

My Mother Said Not to Put Beans in My Ears

Goober Peas

Oh Susannah

The Erie Canal

Sweet Betsy from Pike

Camptown Races

Down in the Valley

Red River Valley

Home on the Range

I've Been Working on the Railroad

John Henry

When the Saints Come Marching In

On Top of Old Smokey

More Hairy Shares

It's been awhile, since I wrote about what I'm using on my hair. Mainly, because there haven't been many changes, until now. I was getting frustrated (again) over hair being difficult after a cut, and went to check out a company I've noticed in many reviews. I hadn't bought any of their products, because after reading the reviews, I backed away. It's not often you see equal amounts of love AND loathing over hair goo. LOL 

Currently, I'm still leaving about a tablespoon of conditioner in my hair after shampooing. But instead of adding a small dab of Fructis Garnier's "Sleek and Shine" to the mix, I've begun using (an even smaller dab of) Miss Jessie's "Leave In Condish", over the past two to three weeks. 

The results are mostly great--though it hasn't completely reduced the couple of flyaway strands by my face. I'm fairly certain that if I used more, those hairs would be more in control, but when I add more, the texture of my hair becomes ... unpleasant--like it has a modeling compound in it. Blergh. So, if you give it a try, go easy. Overall, it's worth a try, though I did cringe at the cost of shipping one sample. Love, K

Planet Money: Hot Cheetos Updated

Such a great story  

PBS Newshour: Covid Lessons from Australia

Watching this, I was nearly overcome with grief over how Drumpf failed our country's covid response. 

We could of had what Australia has . . .

Pondering Manipulation

One of the many things that FUXNews offers their listeners: manipulation. And I can't wrap my head around folks who either don't care or don't see it or feel it happening to their brains right in front of their eyes. The steady drip, drip, drip--can erode rock and sway opinions. I believe it's called "brain washing".

Over the years, our family stayed in our share of motel rooms, with crappy TV offerings, particularly in our early years. And what "news" channel can you usually count on being a part of the hotel cable package? It was always FUX, with no other news channel offered. 

Even their local news station folks, tailor their segments to nudge feelings and opinions. There's usually a shaming story about the poor and people of color, a story to make you fearful about your neighbors and something sensational--mostly from other cities, because sensational must be found to entertain and keep their audience returning.

Are some of us born with a BS meter in our heads and others not? I've always thought of myself as a bit of a skeptic, but even that can land you in quicksand, if you think someone is hiding the truth. Because there's always a webpage to be found that offers exactly what you thought/hoped. 

Which reminds me of, a long since passed, friend of my parents, who would always get upset by something he'd read in the newspaper. No matter how my parents tried to convince him that "Letters to the Editor", were opinions and not fact, it never stuck. As far as he was concerned, anything printed in a newspaper was fact. 

Be smart, not simply entertained. Love, K

"Is the spring coming?"

 

Sufjan Steven's Meditation V - Convocations

 

The Merry Merry Month

 

"Fight With Love" ~ Money Mark

 The song:

The interview:

Impaired

Recently, I had a conversation with a fellow hearing aid wearer. I was both reassured and disappointed to hear that we're similar in how we limit our time spent with soft talkers or mumblers. <sigh> Because (damn it), it's tiring of asking people over and over and over, to speak up and enunciate--even with our hearing aids.

It seems so simple, from our point of view, to talk at a slightly lower pitch with spaces between the words. I did it, as a middle schooler, when my father lost a good share of his hearing. I may have been overly proud about that accomplishment, but I had a good view of how frustrating it could be for him (over and over and over again).

It's important to note: WE WANT TO HEAR YOU. We're not doing this to antagonize or humiliate or for pleasure. Believe me, there's nothing pleasurable about sitting with people, who are conversing and enjoying themselves and only being able to hear half of the words. It's a lonely, isolating feeling. I can handle it for a certain period of time, and then, exhausted and sad, I'll just sit back and watch and try not to look at my phone.

Something I might be thinking about again, now that it's getting a bit closer to being able to get back out and about. Thanks for "listening". 

Love, K

"What Does Your Garbage Say?"

 

Bonding With Fiction

I have little doubt I've been bonding with television characters over the entire course of my television viewing life. As an example: Bill Bixby, will always be in my head, along with Ray Walston, thanks to watching, My Favorite Martian, as a young child. 

You'd think with all of our options, the bonding wouldn't happen in the 2020's. But there it is--every stinking time we finish streaming a series. N's mildly amused, though I'm glad he's happy to discuss these thoughts with me. It's not that I want more episodes, I just want to savor or perhaps give tribute to the writers/actors/directors/producers/financiers who have brought the joy.

Do you have characters, you've collected from television shows or books or movies, who still reside in your head after decades have passed? Did those characters resonate a feeling deep within your bones? Or just feel familiar and likeable? Yes, I truly want to know. Love, K

Gaia's Art

I'd forgotten a bird feeder's plastic cover in our cherry tree, for a handful of years. Today, I spotted it, while looking at the cherry blossom remainders. 

And now I want to clean it, put it back onto its branch and wait (another handful of years) for Mother Nature's art to appear again. She's awesome, isn't she?

Oh, and the cherry blossum remainders? Here ya go . . .

 

MA-NURE

This year's compost has an ... equine odor that's tough to miss. The dogs are pleased and I'm sure the flora will be, too. But manure will always remind me of Seinfeld: 

"George Costanza:

Oh. It's just horse manure. Horse manure's not that bad. I don't even mind the word 'manure.' You know, it's, it's 'newer,' which is good. And a 'ma' in front of it. MA-NURE. When you consider the other choices, 'manure' is actually pretty refreshing."

Blue Eyed Boy Gone Too Soon

 Your beautiful boy

Still lives in my head.

Running free

Across the blacktop.

Easy going

Towheaded

Sharp eyed

Quick smile.

Though

You keep watch

Over all of his years

I tend his fifth.

~kgm April 2021

And Another Family Memento . . . (they know who they are)

 

As the Wheel ... Stops Turning

Sometime during the late eighties, before the bicycles involved were left ruined, when (tragically) we hit and killed a doe on Diamond Lake Highway, our small clan was on one of our many camping trips to Diamond Lake. The girls and I, had taken the lake trail for a bike ride to the resort. Once we had accomplished whatever we had set out to do (mail postcards?), we turned our bikes around and began pedaling our way back to our campsite. 

About a third of the way back, the rear wheel on the old Schwinn I was riding (purchased from Auntie Helen) froze up and refused to rotate on its axle. I checked for an easy/obvious fix, but couldn't figure out what had caused things to seize up.

I scratched my head and tried to keep the girls calm and near, when an idea popped into my head. I was wearing my belly bag and remembered a small spool of Glide floss was inside. Would it be possible to use that floss, to create a "sling" I could loop around my head and arm, to lift up that back wheel enough for me to wheel it back to the campsite? Can't hurt to try.

A path, usually traveled via bicycle, can seem to take forever when on foot and carrying an awkward load. And I knew that Norm would soon be driving past on the nearby road, returning from taking a shower at the resort. So, a hopeful gaze at the road, as I made my way back to the campground. And then ... there he went, without a glance towards the lake trail.

Like many creative ideas, this one had its issues. One of which is the ability of that thin floss to cut into things--cheese, clay, skin . . .  And so, instead of helping me get that bike back to the campsite, that floss became a good story. Glad I stumbled upon it. Oh and, just so YOU know, too much WD-40 can loosen bike parts enough, they'll shift. Love, K

"Do You Have ... Oatmilk?"

 

Oh Cherry

 

Rabbit Holes?

 Okay, not a great rabbit hole example, but I think it does earn the mini-hole award ... in my opinion. After watching the last, latest serie's episode of the evening, a song played that sent us searching.

"I think that's Kenny Rogers, when he was with The First Edition", mused N.

"No way! Kenny Rogers was in the First Edition?!", I reacted.

And off we went to our phones/encyclopedias . . .

I scored the first found youtube vid. Yep, there he was, with his long purdy hair, in The First Edition. And then he does the song intro ... where he says, "here's a song I sang with The Association", and begins singing with The First Edition. 

Then it starts anew:

"No way! Kenny Rogers was in The Association AND The First Edition?!", I interjected.

And off we went . . . one video and article after another. Twas a good moment. Truly.

Love, K

"April, come she will ... "